A / # •* 'LIBRARY ,,., OF T HE UNIVERSITY Of ILLINOIS ses Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2009 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/lightsshadowsofa01mitf LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF AMERICAN LIFE. EDITED BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL I. LONDON HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY ,INGT 1832 NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 4 A J STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. OTTER-BAG, THE ONEIDA CHIEF. <*» Of twenty-eight Indian tribes that inhabited South J Carolina, in 1670, when it began to be settled by the whites, twenty-six had entirely disappeared in 1785, when the history of the State was pub- lished. Three years after that, the only town of the Catawbas, the only tribe of Indians left in South Carolina, contained but four hundred and * fifty inhabitants, of which number, about one hundred and fifty were fighting men ; and in 1802, they could scarcely number sixty men in the list of their warriors, or two hundred persons in their whole nation. Yet the Catawbas, who were able to muster one thousand warriors, when the pale men first appeared in that part of North America, VOL. I. B 2 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. are but one of these twenty-eight powerful tribes, and South Carolina is but one of the twenty-four United States, every one of which has grown up in a like way, out of the burial-place of nations, to overshadow the heritage of the red man for ever. So, too, in the North ; for when the fathers of New England arrived in that part of America, they found it in the possession of a great variety of people — the woods were alive with red men. But nation after nation disappeared from their path, and in 1792, there were but eighteen hun- dred and fifty left of the Pequods, the Narragan- setts, the Pawkunnawkuts, the Massachusetts, and the Pawtuckets, all of whom were included within the boundaries of a single state, though one hun- dred and seventy years before, these very tribes alone were able to bring into the field eighteen thousand warriors. " But there does not seem to be any principle of natural law," — says an American writer,* who would appear to feel that the red men are depart- ing too rapidly from the face of that earth, which their fathers had dominion over, ages and ages ago — " any principle of natural law by which savage tribes can claim full right to the whole of the widest region which they wander over in the * Edward Everett. OTTER-BAG. 3 chase, and to the perpetual exclusion of civilized settlers. If, then, they have not a full right, what right have they ? and to how much territory have they any right?" Suffer the red man to reply as I have heard him reply, to argument such as this. " We have no rights left. How should we have? You are mightier than we. What is not ours is yours ; you are the lawgivers and you are the judges. We have no right now to a single foot of earth nor a single drop of water — if — if it be as you say ; if our right be not a full right to the uninhabited country, over which our fathers pursued their prey. Our fathers did not hunt the creatures of God for pleasure, as the white men do ; they went no further than they were obliged to go, for the support of life according to their mode of life. Why, then, is not their right to so much earth as they hunted over, a natural right, so much earth being neces- sary to them, so much territory being required for their subsistence ? You may be happy in your way with less territory than we require; but is that a reason for depriving us of what we require? If it be true, then, why may not some other peo- ple who require less territory than you to support life, come to you and say, ' Here ! we are more powerful than you ; take the tools with which we dig up the earth, change your mode of life, adopt b2 4 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. our ways, eat rice and fish, and live on the water, and be happy ;' and how could you refuse ? They only take what they regard as your superfluity ; and you take what you regard as our superfluity. You require us to eat bread, to give up our gods, our religion, our mode of life, and to cultivate the earth as you do, because you say more people might be supported by the same earth, if we would. What if the Chinese were able to argue with you, as you argue with us? More'people might be supported by the earth which you oc- cupy, if you would but be reasonable, and give up your gods, and your meat, and live as the Chi- nese do. " But we are savages, and the white people, who are wiser than we are, have a law, by which, if a white man goes ashore upon a new part of the earth, and gives it a name, and buries a bottle, and hoists a flag over it, his tribe have what the savages who dwell in it, and have pursued their prey over it, age after age, have not, according to such law ; that is, a full right ."" Centuries and centuries ago, North America must have been more populous by far than it is now ; the tumuli that are ploughed up every year in the Western wilderness, are to be regarded as proof. They are like a chain of military works now, link after link, overshadowed by large trees OTTER-BAG. that have grown up out of the wreck of other large trees. Or it may be that they are burial- places ; it may be that they are the outworks of a great empire — the path of her battles — the route of her march from sea to sea — the places where she halted in her career from the rude north to the warm south, from the rough Atlantic to the smooth Pacific, from the high parts of our earth, " Where the stars and the hills are together at night," away to the green level, where she disappeared for ever. But in either case they prove, that, ages ago, the very solitudes were peopled from shore to shore. What a field for inquiry ! The white man of our day, weary of the life that men lead in fellow- ship, plunges into the awful woods of that coun- try where the chief nations of Europe might be concealed from each other ; and hoping to find a spot of earth never visited by mortal man before, journies away week after week, and month after month, pitches upon a spot, prepares to be happy, sets fire to the trees, gets ready the plough or the spade with a notion that he is about to see what was buried there on the morning of the first day, and lo ! when it cleaves the earth, it turns up the vestiges of a mighty people, the skeleton of a race that is no more. If he go further, it is the same, 6 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. At every step, he treads upon the proof that a nation has preceded him. Wherever the soil is reached by the sunshine, or the wind, or the rain, wherever it is laid open to the sky, flowers and herbage start up that appear to belong to another world. There may be no such ruins in America as are found in Europe, or in Asia, or in Africa ; but other ruins there are of a prodigious magnitude — the ruins of a mighty people. There may be no places of pilgrimage in America, unless it be some lonely battle-ground, already forgotten by the neighbourhood, overgrown with a new forest, and overshadowed with a perpetual deep darkness, or covered far and wide with a sea of weltering herbage — the frightful vegetation of death ; no places that have been sanctified by song and story, age after age, with beautiful tradition or with fierce poetry, save here and there a small spot of earth shut in by the great hills, or fortified by the ever- lasting rocks, where the red man withstood the white man, while the noise and the flash of the terrible weapons with which the latter shot fire into the hearts of the former, appeared to the savage to be that very noise and brightness which he had seen set fire to the woods about his path, tear up the earth under his feet, and shatter the very sky over his head ; or some other shadowy OTTER-BAG. 7 quiet place, or smooth hill-top where the men of the revolution made war upon their fathers and brothers — upon the most powerful nation of the earth, while her ships covered the sea, and her armies were on the march in every quarter of the globe. There may be no piles of barbarian archi- tecture, each a wilderness of turrets, towers, and battlements, rocking to the sea-breeze, or over- shadowing the high places of power in America ; no half-buried city, like the pillared and sculp- tured treasuries of art which encumber the earth and choke up the rivers of the old world, or come and go with the tide — appear and disappear, day after day, along the sea-shore of states that have perished for ever, cities buried by the volcano or the earthquake, overthrown by the savage, swept over by the sea, or swallowed up by the sand of the desert — yet crowded with strange beauty, and full of glorious wreck ; no prodigies of the mist — of that beautiful dim vapour, the twilight of an- other world, the atmosphere of tradition, through which the bannered places, the rocky fortresses, and the haughty piles of Europe loom with a most unearthly grandeur. But if there are no such things in America, there are things which are to be found nowhere else on earth now — the live wreck of a prodigious empire that has departed from before our face within the memory of man ; % STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. of the British, and given the war-hoop, was get- ting behind a tree, when a shot struck him in the hip, on the side next the four men who were of his party, and disabled him. The four escaped, the advance fell back upon the rear, and the rear, not being able to form in the wood, broke and ap- proached the scene of action by twos and by threes while the others were trying to withdraw. The first man that arrived was Barbour, the mortal enemy of Otter-Bag. He had been so from the first hour Otter-Bag entered our camp — it would not be easy to say why — peradventure the great bodily power of the Oneida Chief was against him. But so it was — Barbour, who disliked every thing in the shape of an Indian, hated poor Otter- Bag with a hatred that no language can express. He had frequently sworn to be the death of him, and now, having come upon him while he was fixed in the snow, deserted of all the world, and exposed to a fire on every side, he set up a ferocious cry, rode at the traitor, as he called him, and was just on the point of cutting him down — the poor fellow disdaining to utter a word, or to lift a finger — when Rudolph appeared on the top of a high bank just over the spot, fired at Barbour, who was only saved by the rearing of the horse he rode, leaped into the snow, as I have told you — a leap that I would not have taken for all the riches OTTElt-BAG. 63 of our earth — and, after engaging the enemy, led us off, with the body of Otter-Bag in a litter.'" " My dear major," said I, " may I tell the story on paper P' 1 " Yes/' " May I give your name for it ?" " You may ; I was a private then." " Shall I say that I give it word for word, from the mouth of major — major who, sir, if you please?" " Major Dick Smith." " Smith ! not one of the Smiths you spoke of ?" " Yes — I am the fourth boy of that family. 1 ' " Richard Smith, Esquire, &c. &c, a Major in the Revolutionary Army, 1 ' said I, as I wrote the name on a piece of paper. " Richard Smith, Esquire ! poh, poh — poh, poh, poh ! Dick Smith, if you please ; Major Dick Smith of Saratoga, if you wish people to under- stand you here. Poh, poh ! — Richard Smith, Es- quire, &c. &c, who the devil would suppose you meant old Major Dick Smith, by such a rigma- role ?" " But your brothers were Yankees P 11 " Very true, 11 shaking his head with a sorrowful air. " And your father ?" " Yes — poor fellow! — " G4 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. ie How happens it, pray, that you are not a Yankee F" " By God's providence, to be sure ; I might have been, though mother was no native, and I was born a good way to the south of Yankee-land, which, being bred in the south, I was brought up in mortal fear of."" " But you speak very pure Yankee." « I ?— God forbid— " " But you do--" " Ah ! sir, if I do, I caught it by associating with my poor brothers, who had a fearful twang in their speech . v " Poor Otter-Bag ! I have a curiosity to know more of that savage. 1 ' " I dare say you have ; but who is there to tell you more than I have told you ? — Nobody on earth, I dare say." " What a noble picture might be made of the death scene !" " Very true, very true — the stern savage sit- ting up in a pile of cloth which had frozen to the snow — bleeding to death, stiff with cold, and almost broken-hearted under the insult which he had no longer the power to punish — for had he been well, he would have buried a tomahawk in the forehead of the man that called him a traitor ; inflexible as ever, haughty as ever, while he told OTTER-BAG. 65 his story by fits and starts, in his own simple, strong way, delighted as a child whenever he was able to find a word, which by the help of his look might be understood. His bad English was un- speakably affecting to me, but very intelligible when illustrated by his keen eye, and the helpless, weary motion of his head. His right arm was death-struck, and he could only move his right hand a little — a very little — as it lay powerless on the snow. He was perfectly unmoved, sir — as quiet as if nothing out of the way had occurred, till he had occasion to say that he had been called a traitor. But then, sir, his dark face changed with a terrible expression, his forehead quaked, he shook all over, and he fell backward, gnashing his teeth as if he had been stabbed in his sleep, or hamstrung by treachery. 6 Call that man a trai- tor,' said our captain, as they lifted the poor fel- low up, and placed him upon the litter, ' I should be sorry to hear a live man say as much before me.' " ' Would you, though ?' muttered a fellow by the name of Purdy, who kept rather aloof. ' He's got his belly-full now, I guess, an 1 1 'm glad on *t for one V " ' Joe Purdy,' said the captain in his quiet way, turning very pale. " We knew what was coming. We saw mischief at work, and we began to heave at the litter, and 66 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. claw off as fast as we could ; but as for Purely, though he stood by a horse with one foot in the stirrup, and one hand to the mane ready for a spring, as if he did not feel very safe, he looked as if he was determined to say his say, whatever should come of it. " c Look you, my lad — give me that pistol, Jerry Smith, 1 said our captain, after pausing for breath. ' Is it loaded? 1 " < Ay, ay, sir, 1 said brother Jerry, cocking it, ' ay, ay, sir, loaded, primed, an 1 cocked, an 1 as true as a die, 1 handing it over with a carelessness that made me shudder — he knew well enough what it was wanted for. " ' Now look you, my lad,' continued our little stiff captain, ' you have had a narrow escape to- day ; if you would like a few more-*— stand out of the way there, Goff! — stand out of the way, Gibbs ! — you have only to speak another such a word as that. As for you, my brave boy,' speak- ing to brother Jeremiah, i I do not much wonder at your taking up the cause ; for you know what kind o 1 stuff Otter-Bag is made of. 1 " 6 That I do, sir, 1 said our Jerry. " 6 And I only wish that you and your five stout brothers, ay, or the whole nine of you, father and all, had been there when the cowardly troop set upon this faithful creature. 1 OTTER- BAG. 67 " ' I wish to God we had, sir, father and all !' cried our Jerry, and a low murmur arose on every side of us. " ' Be quiet there ! you deserve what I say ; those who set upon the Chief were cowards, and all who were afraid to take his part were cowards. Ah ! — this way, every man of you ! No loitering there V He spoke to the troopers who kept away from the dying savage. ' You had better take my advice, and be very quiet, all of you ; I shaVt speak twice." 1 " ' No, faith, I'll warrant you that,'' whispered old Zebby Gage, afterwards Captain Zebby Gage. ' No, no ! for between you and me, Dick Smith, it was a great marcy he spoke at all ; he ginerally chips the meat off you, afore he says a word.' " ' Fire and fury !' cried Enoch Smith — our Enoch — who did not arrive till the row was over, ' t*o think of such behaviour to a fellow who has been with us for a whole year, and stuck to us all the while without pay, jest for the love he had for men of true courage — Purdy ! Joe Purdy ! you'll find no boy's play here V going up to Purdy, who, being fairly in the saddle, appeared as if he had still a word or two for the captain. ' You'll not be easy before you have got a keepsake of your own, I see, a shot in the side, or a slash over the head, or a — ' 68 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. " ' You be d— d I 1 " ' Beware — he is looking this way, Joe, his eye is on you, and his fore-finger is upon the trigger — , " But the fool did not appear to observe it ; and he escaped by the merest luck in the world — for just then, the litter shook, and Otter-Bag stretched himself out with a shiver, a slight sob, and a rude, convulsive agitation, which ceased all of a sudden, before we could well see what was the matter. " Our captain observed it, as he rode along by our side, and the pistol dropped out of his hand when he saw the face of the dead savage, and he turned away with a look which made me tremble for those who had escaped a few minutes before — you are off, I see !" I took up my hat. I was not in the humour to hear the whole of the story repeated — with vari- ations. " Your very good health," said the major. " Your very good health," said I — And here we parted. 69 THE FRENCH VILLAGE. Ox the borders of the Mississippi may be seen the remains of an old French village, which once boasted a numerous population of as happy and as thoughtless souls, as ever danced to a violin. If content is wealth, as philosophers would fain per- suade us, they were opulent ; but they would have been reckoned miserably poor by those who esti- mate worldly riches by the more popular standard. Their houses were scattered in disorder, like the tents of a wandering tribe, along the margin of a deep bayou, and not far from its confluence with the river, between which and the town was a strip of rich alluvion, covered with a gigantic growth of forest trees. Beyond the bayou was a swamp, which during the summer heats was nearly dry, but in the rainy season presented a vast lake of several miles in extent. The whole of this morass 70 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. was thickly set with cypress whose interwoven branches, and close foliage, excluded the sun, and rendered this as gloomy a spot as the most melan- choly poet ever dreamt of. And yet it was not tenantless — and there were seasons, when its dark recesses were enlivened by notes peculiar to itself. Here the young Indian, not yet entrusted to wield the tomahawk, might be seen paddling his light canoe among the tall weeds, darting his arrows at the paroquets, that chattered among the boughs, and screaming and laughing with delight, as he stripped their gaudy plumage. Here myriads of musquitoes filled the air with an incessant hum, and thousands of frogs attuned their voices in har- monious concert, as if endeavouring to rival the sprightly fiddles of their neighbours ; and the owl, peeping out from the hollow of a blasted tree, screeched forth his wailing note, as if moved by the terrific energy of grief. From this gloomy spot, clouds of miasm rolled over the village, spreading volumes of bile and fever abroad upon the land ; and sometimes countless multitudes of musquitoes, issuing from the humid desert, assailed the devoted village with inconceivable fury, threatening to draw from its inhabitants every drop of French blood, which yet circulated in their veins. But these evils by no means dis- mayed, or even interrupted the gaiety, of this THE FRENCH TILLAGE. 71 happy people. When the musquitoes came, the monsieurs lighted their pipes, and kept up, not only a brisk fire, but a dense smoke, against the assailants; and when the fever threatened, the priest, who was also the doctor, flourished his lancet, the fiddler flourished his bow, and the happy villagers flourished their heels, and sang, and laughed, and fairly cheated death, disease, and the doctor, of patient and of prey. Beyond the town, on the other side, was an ex- tensive prairie — a vast unbroken plain of rich green, embellished with innumerable flowers of every tint, and whose beautiful surface presented no other variety than here and there a huge mound — the venerable monument of departed ages, or a solitary tree of stunted growth, shattered by the blast, and pining alone in the gay desert. The prospect was bounded by a range of tail blufi% which overlooked the prairie, covered at some points with groves of timber, and at others exhibit- ing their naked sides, or high, bald peaks, to the eye of the beholder. Herds of deer might be seen here at sun-rise, slyly retiring to their coverts, after rioting away the night on the rich pasturage. Here the lowing kine lived, if not in clover, at least in something equally nutritious; and here might be seen immense droves of French ponies, roaming untamed, the common stock of the village, 72 STORTES OF AMERICAN LIFE. ready to be reduced to servitude, by any lady or gentleman who chose to take the trouble. With their Indian neighbours, the inhabitants had maintained a cordial intercourse, which had never yet been interrupted by a single act of ag- gression on either side. It is worthy of remark, that the French have invariably been more suc- cessful in securing the confidence and affection of the Indian tribes than any other nation. Others have had leagues with them, which, for a time, have been faithfully observed; but the French alone have won them to the familiar intercourse of social life, lived with them in the mutual inter- change of kindness ; and by treating them as friends and equals, gained their entire confidence. This result, which has been attributed to the sa- gacious policy of their government, is perhaps more owing to the conciliatory manners of that amiable people, and the absence among them of that insatiable avarice, that boundless ambition, that reckless prodigality of human life, that un- principled disregard of public and solemn leagues, which, in the conquests of b the British and the Spaniards, have marked their footsteps with misery, and blood, and desolation. This little colony was composed partly of emi- grants from France, and partly of natives — not Indians — but bona fide French, born in America ; THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 73 but preserving their language, their manners, and their agility in dancing, although several genera- tions had passed away since their first settlement. Here they lived perfectly happy, and well they might, for they enjoyed to the full extent, those three blessings on which our declaration of inde- pendence has laid so much stress — life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Their lives, it is true, were sometimes threatened by the miasm aforesaid ; but this was soon ascertained to be an imaginary danger. For whether it was owing to their temper- ance, or their cheerfulness, or their activity, or to their being acclimated, or to the want of attraction between French people and fever, or to all these to- gether ; certain it is, that they were blest with a degree of health, only enjoyed by the most favour- ed nations. As to liberty, the wild Indian scarcely possessed more ; for although the ( grand monarque 1 had not more loyal subjects in his wide domains, he had never condescended to honour them with a single act of oppression, unless the occasional visits of the commandant could be so called; who some- times, when levying supplies, called upon the vil- lage for its portion, which they always contributed with many protestations of gratitude for the ho- nour conferred on them. And as for happiness, they pursued nothing else. Inverting the usual order, to enjoy life was their daily business, to VOL. I. E 74 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. provide for its wants an occasional labour, sweet- ened by its brief continuance, and its abundant fruit. They had a large tract of land around the village, which was called the " common field," be- cause it belonged to the community. Most of this was allowed to remain in open pasturage; but spots of it were cultivated by any who chose to en- close them ; and such enclosure gave a firm title to the individual so long as the occupancy lasted, but no longer. They were not an agricultural people, further than the rearing of a few escu- lents for the table made them such ; relying chiefly on their large herds, and on the produce of the chase for support. With the Indians they drove an amicable, though not an extensive, trade, for furs and peltry; giving them in ex- change, merchandize and trinkets, which they pro- cured from their countrymen at St. Louis. To the latter place, they annually carried their skins, bringing back a fresh supply of goods for barter, together with such articles as their own wants re- quired ; not forgetting a large portion of finery for the ladies, a plentiful supply of rosin and cat- gut for the fiddler, and liberal presents for his re- verence, the priest. If this village had no other recommendation, it is endeared to my recollection, as the birth-place and residence of Monsieur Baptiste Menou, who THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 75 was one of its principal inhabitants, when I first visited it. He was a bachelor of forty, a tall, lank, hard featured personage, as straight as a ramrod, and almost as thin, with stiff, black hair, sunken cheeks, and a complexion, a tinge darker than that of the Aborigines. His person was remarkably erect, his countenance grave, his gait deliberate; and when to all this be added an enormous pair of sable whiskers, it will be admitted that Monsieur Baptiste was no insignificant person. He had many estimable qualities of mind and body which endeared him to his friends, whose respect was in- creased by the fact of his having been a soldier and a traveller. In his youth he had followed the French commandant in two campaigns ; and not a comrade in the ranks was better dressed, or cleaner shaved on parade than Baptiste, who fought be- sides with the characteristic bravery of the nation to which he owed his lineage. He acknowledged, however, that war was not as pleasant a business as is generally supposed. Accustomed to a life totally free from constraint, the discipline of the camp ill accorded with his desultory habits. He complained of being obliged to eat, and drink, and sleep, at the call of the drum. Burnishing a gun, and brushing a coat, and polishing shoes, were duties beneath a gentleman, and after all, Baptiste saw but little honour in tracking the wily Indians e 2 76 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. through endless swamps. Besides, he began to have some scruples, as to the propriety of cutting the throats of the respectable gentry whom he had been in the habit of considering as the original and lawful possessors of the soil. He, therefore, pro- posed to resign, and was surprised when his com- mander informed him, that he was enlisted for a term, which was not yet expired. He bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and submitted to his fate. He had too much honour to desert, and was too loyal, and too polite, to murmur ; but he, forth- with, made a solemn vow to his patron saint, never again to get into a scrape, from which he could not retreat whenever it suited his convenience. It was thought that he owed his celibacy in some measure to this vow. He had since accompanied the friendly Indians on several hunting expeditions towards the sources cf the Mississippi, and had made a trading voyage to New Orleans. Thus accomplished, he had been more than once called upon by the commandant to act as a guide, or an interpreter ; honours which failed not to elicit suit- able marks of respect from his fellow villagers ; but which had not inflated the honest heart cf Baptiste with any unbecoming pride ; on the con- trary, there was not a more modest man in the village. In his habits he was the most regular of men. THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 77 He might be seen at any hour of the day, either sauntering through the village, or seated in front of his own door, smoking a large pipe, formed of a piece of buck-horn, curiously hollowed out, and lined with tin ; to which was affixed a short stem of cane from the neighbouring swamp. This pipe was his inseparable companion ; and he evinced towards it a constancy which would have immor- talized his name, had it been displayed in a better cause. When he walked abroad it was to stroll leisurely from door to door, chatting familiarly with his neighbours, patting the white haired chil- dren on the head, and continuing his lounge, until he had peregrinated the village. His gravity was not a " mysterious carriage of the body to conceal the defects of the mind," but a constitutional se- riousness of aspect, which covered as happy and as humane a spirit, as ever existed. It was sim- ply a want of sympathy between his muscles, and his brains ; the former utterly refusing to express any agreeable sensation, which might happily titilate the organs of the latter. Honest Baptiste loved a joke, and uttered many, and good ones ; but his rigid features refused to smile even at his own wit — a circumstance which I am the more particular in mentioning, as it is not common. He had an orphan niece whom he had reared from childhood to maturity, — a lovely girl, of whose 78 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. beautiful complexion, a poet might say, that its roses were cushioned upon ermine. A sweeter flower bloomed not upon the prairie, than Gabrielle Menou. But as she was never afflicted with weak nerves, fever, or consumption, and had but one avowed lover, whom she treated with uniform kindness, and married with the consent of all par- ties, she has no claim to be considered as the heroine of this history. That station will be cheer- fully awarded by every sensible reader to the more important personage who will be presently intro- duced. Across the street, immediately opposite to Mons. Baptiste, lived Mademoiselle Jeanette Duval, a lady who resembled him in some respects, but in many others was his very antipode. Like him, she was cheerful and happy, and single — but unlike him, she was brisk, and fat, and plump. Monsieur was the very pink of gravity ; and Mademoiselle was blessed with a goodly portion thereof, — but hers was specific gravity. Her hair was dark, but her heart was light, and her eyes, though black, were as brilliant a pair of orbs as ever beamed upon the dreary solitude of a bachelor's heart. Jeanette's heels were as light as her heart, and her tongue as active as her heels, so that notwith- standing her rotundity, she was as brisk a French woman, as ever frisked through the mazes of a THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 79 cotillon. To sum her perfections, her complexion was of a darker olive than the genial sun of France confers on her brunettes, and her skin was as smooth and shining, as polished mahogany. Her whole household consisted of herself, and a female negro servant. A spacious garden, which sur- rounded her house, a pony, and a herd of cattle, constituted, in addition to her personal charms, all the wealth of this amiable spinster. But with these she was rich, as they supplied her table without adding much to her cares. Her quadru- peds, according to the example set by their supe- riors, pursued their own happiness without let or molestation, wherever they could find it — waxing fat or lean, as nature was more or less bountiful in supplying their wants ; and when they strayed too far, or when her agricultural labours became too arduous for the feminine strength of herself, and her sable assistant, every Monsieur of the village was proud of an occasion to serve Mam , selle. And well they might be, for she was the most notable lady in the village, the life of every party, the soul of every frolic. She participated in every festive meeting, and every sad solemnity. Not a neighbour could get up a dance, or get down a dose of bark, without her assistance. If the ball grew dull, Mam'selle bounced on the floor, and infused new spirit into the weary dancers. If the 80 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. conversation flagged, Jeanette, who occupied a kind of neutral ground, between the young and the old, the married and the single, chatted with all, and loosened all tongues. If the girls wished to stroll in the woods, or romp on the prairie, Mam'selle was taken along to keep off the wolves and the young men; and in respect to the latter, she faithfully performed her office, by attracting them around her own person. Then she was the best neighbour, and the kindest soul ! She made the richest soup, the clearest coffee, and the neat- est pastry in the village ; and in virtue of her con- fectionary, was the prime favourite of all the chil- dren. Her hospitality was not confined to her own domicil ; but found its way, in the shape of sundry savoury viands, to every table in the vi- cinity. In the sick chamber she was the most as- siduous nurse ; her step was the lightest, and her voice the most cheerful — so that the priest must inevitably have become jealous of her skill, had it not been for divers plates of rich soup, and bottles of cordial with which she conciliated his favour, and purchased absolution for these and other of- fences. Baptiste and Jeanette were the best of neigh- bours. He always rose at the dawn, and after lighting his pipe, sallied forth into the open air, where Jeanette usually made her appearance at THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 81 the same time ; for there was an emulation of long standing between them, which should be the ear- liest riser. " Bon jour ! ManVselle Jeanette," was his daily salutation. " Ah ! bon jour ! bon jour ! Mons. Menou," was her daily reply. Then as as he gradually approximated the little paling, which surrounded her door, he hoped Mam'selle was well this morning; and she reite- rated the kind enquiry, but with increased em- phasis. Then Monsieur enquired after Mam'selle's pony, and Mam'selle's cow, and her garden, and every thing appertaining to her, real, personal and mixed ; and she displayed a corresponding interest in all concerns of her kind neighbour. — These dis- cussions were mutually beneficial. If Mam'selle's cattle ailed, or if her pony was guilty of any im- propriety, who so able to advise her as Mons. Bap- tiste ; and if his plants drooped, or his poultry died, who so skilful in such matters as Manfselle Jeanette. Sometimes Baptiste forgot his pipe, in the superior interest of the " tete-a-tete," ' and must needs step in to light it at Jeanette's fire, which caused the gos- sips of the village to say, that he purposely let his pipe go out, in order that he might himself go in. But he denied this ; and, indeed, before offering to enter the dwelling of Mam'selle on such occasions, e5 82 STOEIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. he usually solicited permission to light his pipe at Jeanette' s sparkling eyes, a compliment at which, although it had been repeated some scores of times, Mam'selle never failed to laugh and curtsy, with great good humour and good breeding. It cannot be supposed, that a bachelor of so much discernment, could long remain insensible to the galaxy of charms which centered in the person of Mam'selle Jeanette ; and accordingly, it was currently reported that a courtship of some ten years standing had been slyly conducted on his part, and as cunningly eluded on hers. It was not averred that Baptiste had actually gone the fearful length of offering his hand ; or that Jeanette had been so imprudent as to discourage, far less reject, a lover of such respectable pretensions. But there was thought to exist a strong hankering on the part of the gentleman, which the lady had managed so skilfully as to keep his mind in a kind of equi- librium, like that of the patient animal between the two bundles of hay — so that he would sometimes halt in the street, midway between the two cot- tages, and cast furtive glances, first at the one, and then at the other, as if weighing the balance of comfort ; while the increased volume of smoke which issued from his mouth, seemed to argue that the fire of his love had other fuel than tobacco, and was literally consuming the inward man. The THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 83 wary spinster was always on the alert on such oc- casions, manoeuvring like a skilful general accord- ing to circumstances. If honest Baptiste, after such a consultation, turned on his heel, and retired to his former cautious position at his own door, Mam'selle rallied all her attractions, and by a sudden demonstration, drew him again into the field ; but if he marched with an embarrassed air towards her gate, she retired into her castle, or kept shy, and by able evolutions, avoided every thing which might bring matters to an issue. Thus the courtship continued longer than the siege of Troy ; and Jeanette maintained her freedom, while Baptiste, with a magnanimity superior to that of Agamemnon, kept his temper, and smoked his pipe in good humour with Jeanette and all the world. Such was the situation of affairs, when I first visited this village, about the time of the cession of Louisiana to the United States. The news of that event had just reached this sequestered spot, and was but indifferently relished. Independently of the national attachment, which all men feel, and the French so justly, the inhabitants of this region had reason to prefer to all others the government which had afforded them protection, without con- straining their freedom, or subjecting them to any burthens; and with the kindest feelings towards 84 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. the Americans, they would willingly have dis- pensed with any nearer connexion, than that which already existed. They, however, said little on the subject ; and that little was expressive of their cheerful acquiescence in the honour done them by the American people, in buying the country, which the Emperor had done them the honour to sell. It was on the first day of the carnival, that I arrived in the village, about sunset, seeking shelter only for the night, and intending to proceed on my journey in the morning. The notes of the vio- lin, and the groups of gaily-attired people who thronged the street, attracted my attention, and induced me to inquire the occasion of this merri- ment. My host informed me that a " King-balF was to be given at the house of a neighbour, add- ing the agreeable intimation, that strangers were always expected to attend without invitation. Young and ardent, little persuasion was required to induce me to change my dress, and hasten to the scene of festivity. The moment I entered the room, I felt that I was welcome. Not a single look of surprise, not a glance of more than ordi- nary attention, denoted me as a stranger, or an unexpected guest. The gentlemen nearest the door, bowed as they opened a passage for me through the crowd, in which for a time I mingled, THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 85 apparently unnoticed. At length, a young gentle- man adorned with a large nosegay, approached me, invited me to join the dancers, and after in- quiring my name, introduced me to several females, among whom I had no difficulty in selecting a graceful partner. I was passionately fond of dancing ; so that readily imbibing the joyous spirit of those around me, I advanced rapidly in their estimation. The native ease and elegance of the females, reared in the wilderness, and unhacknied in the forms of society, surprised and delighted me, as much as the amiable frankness of all classes. — By and by, the dancing ceased ; and four young ladies of exquisite beauty, who had appeared dur- ing the evening to assume more consequence than the others, stood alone on the floor. For a mo- ment, their arch glances wandered over the com- pany who stood silently around ; when one of them advancing to a young gentleman, led him into the circle, and taking a large bouquet from her own bosom, pinned it upon the left breast of his coat, and pronounced him " king !" The gentleman kissed his fair elector, and led her to a seat. Two others were selected almost at the same moment. The fourth lady hesitated for an instant, then ad- vancing to the spot where I stood, presented me her hand, led me forward, and placed the symbol on my breast, before I could recover from the sur- 86 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. prise into which the incident had thrown me. I regained my presence of mind, however, in time to salute my lovely consort; and never did king enjoy with more delight, the first fruits of his ele- vation—for the beautiful Gabrielle, with whom I had just danced, and who had so unexpectedly raised me, as it were, to the purple, was the freshest and fairest flower in this gay assemblage. This ceremony was soon explained to me. On the first day of the carnival, four self-appointed kings, having selected their queens, give a ball, at their own proper costs, to the whole village. In the course of that evening, the queens select, in the manner described, the kings for the ensuing day, who choose their queens, in turn, by pre- senting the nosegay and the kiss. This is repeated every evening in the week ; — the kings for the time being, giving the ball at their own expense ; and all the inhabitants attending without invitation. On the morning after each ball, the kings of the preceding evening make small presents to their late queens ; and their temporary alliance is dis- solved. Thus commenced my acquaintance with Gabrielle Menou, who, if she cost me a few sleep- less nights, amply repaid me in the many happy hours, for which I was indebted to her friendship. I remained several weeks at this hospitable vil- lage. Few evenings passed without a dance, at THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 87 which all were assembled, young and old; the mothers vying in agility with their daughters; and the old men setting examples of gallantry to the young. I accompanied their young men to the Indian towns, and was hospitably entertained. I followed them to the chace ; and witnessed the fall of many a noble buck. In their light canoes, I glided over the turbid waters of the Mississippi, or through the labyrinths of the morass, in pursuit of water fowl. I visited the mounds, where the bones of thousands of warriors were mouldering, over- grown with prairie violets, and thousands of name- less flowers. I saw the mocasin snake basking in the sun, the elk feeding on the prairie; and re- turned to mingle in the amusements of a circle, where, if there was not Parisian elegance, there was more than Parisian cordiality. Several years passed away before I again visited this country. The jurisdiction of the American government was now extended over this immense region, and its beneficial effects were beginning to be widely disseminated. The roads were crowded with the teams, and herds, and families of emi- grants, hastening to the land of promise. Steam boats navigated every stream, the axe was heard in every forest, and the plough broke the sod whose verdure had covered the prairie for ages. It was sunset when I reached the margin of the 88 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. prairie, on which the village is situated. My horse, wearied with a long day's travel, sprung forward with new vigour, when his hoof struck the smooth, firm road, which led across the plain. It was a narrow path, winding among the tall grass, now tinged with the mellow hues of autumn. I gazed with delight over the beautiful surface. The mounds, and the solitary trees, were there, just as I had left them, and they were familiar to my eye as the objects of yesterday. It was eight miles across the prairie, and I had not passed half the distance, when night set in. I strained my eyes to catch a glimpse of the village, but two large mounds, and a clump of trees, which inter- vened, defeated my purpose. I thought of Ga- brielle, and Jeanette, and Baptist, and the priest — the fiddles, dances, and French ponies ; and fan- cied every minute an hour, and every foot a mile, which separated me from scenes and persons so deeply impressed on my imagination. At length, I passed the mounds, and beheld the lights twinkling in the village, now about two miles off, like a brilliant constellation in the ho- rizon. The lights seemed very numerous — I thought they moved ; and at last discovered, that they were rapidly passing about. " What can be going on in the village ?" thought I — then a strain of music met my ear—" they are going to THE FEENCH VILLAGE. 89 dance," said I, striking my spurs into my jaded nag, " and I shall see all my friends together/" But as I drew near, a volume of sounds burst upon me, such as defied all conjecture. Fiddles, flutes, and tambourines, drums, cow-horns, tin trumpets, and kettles, mingled their discordant notes with a strange accompaniment of laughter, shouts, and singing. This singular concert pro- ceeded from a mob of men and boys, who paraded through the streets, preceded by one who blew an immense tin horn, and ever and anon shouted, " Cha-ri-va-ry ! Charivary l" to which the mob responded " Charivary I 11 I now recollected to have heard of a custom which prevails among the American French, of serenading at the marriage of a widow or widower, with such a concert as I now witnessed ; and I rode towards the crowd, who had halted before a well-known door, to ascertain who were the happy parties. M Charivary !" shouted the leader. " Pour qui ?" said another voice. " Pour Mons. Baptiste Menou, il est marie ! " " Avec qui !" " Avec Mam'selle Jeanette Duval — Chari- vary !" u Charivary P shouted the whole company, and a torrent of music poured from the full band — tin kettles, cow-horns, and all. 90 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. The door of the little cabin, whose hospitable threshold I had so often crossed, now opened, and Baptiste made his appearance — the identical, lank, sallow, erect personage, with whom I had parted several years before, with the same pipe in his mouth. His visage was as long, and as melan- choly as ever ; except that there was a slight tinge of triumph in its expression, and a bashful casting down of the eye ; reminding one of a conqueror, proud but modest in his glory. He gazed with an embarrassed air at the serenaders, bowed re- peatedly, as if conscious that he was the hero of the night — and then exclaimed, " For what you make this charivary ?" " Charivary!" shouted the mob; and the tin trumpets gave an exquisite flourish. " Gentlemen !" expostulated the bridegroom, " for why you make this charivary for me ? I have never been marry before — and Mam'selle Jeanette has never been marry before !" Roll went the drum! — cow-horns, kettles, tin trumpets, and fiddles poured forth volumes of sound, and the mob shouted in unison. " Gentlemen ! pardonnez moi — " supplicated the distressed Baptiste. " If I understan dis cus- tom, which have long prevail vid us, it is vat I say — ven a gentilman, who has been marry before, shall marry de second time — or ven a lady have de THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 91 misfortune to loose her husban, and be so happy to marry some odder gentilman, den we make de cliarivary — but 'tis not so wid Mam'selle Duval and me. Upon my honour we have never been marry before dis time !" " Why, Baptiste," said one, " you certainly have been married, and have a daughter grown." u Oh, excuse me, sir ! Madame St. Marie is my niece ; I have never been so happy to be marry, until Mam'selle Duval have do me dis honneur." " Well, well ! it's all one. If you have not been married, you ought to have been, long ago : — and might have been, if you had said the word." u Ah, gentilmen, you mistake." " No, no ! there's no mistake about it. Mam'- selle Jeanette would have had you ten years ago, if you had asked her." " You flatter too much," said Baptiste, shrug- ging his shoulders; — and finding there was no means of avoiding the charivary, he with great good humour accepted the serenade, and, accord- ing to custom, invited the whole party into his house. I retired to my former quarters, at the house of an old settler — a little, shrivelled, facetious Frenchman, whom I found in his red flannel night- 92 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. cap, smoking his pipe, and seated, like Jupiter, in the midst of clouds of his own creating. " Merry doings in the village !" said I, after we had shaken hands. " Eh, bien ! Mons. Baptiste is marry to Mam'selle Jeanette." " I see the boys are making merry on the oc- casion." " Ah, Sacre ! de dem boy ! they have play hell to-night." " Indeed ! how so ?" " For make dis charivary— -d at is how so, my friend. Dis come for have d' Americain govern- ment to rule de countrie. Parbleu ! they make charivary for de old maid, and de old bachelor !"" I now found, that some of the new settlers, who had witnessed this ludicrous ceremony, without exactly understanding its application, had been foremost in promoting the present irregular exhibi- tion, in conjunction with a few degenerate French, whose ancient love of fun outstripped their vene- ration for their usages. The old inhabitants, al- though they joined in the laugh, were nevertheless not a little scandalized at the innovation. Indeed they had good reason to be alarmed ; for their ancient customs, like their mud-walled cottages, were crumbling to ruins around them, and every day destroyed some vestige of former years. THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 93 Upon enquiry, I found that many causes of dis- content had combined to embitter the lot of my simple-hearted friends. Their ancient allies, the Indians, had sold their hunting grounds, and their removal deprived the village of its only branch of commerce. Surveyors were busily employed in measuring off the whole country, with the avowed intention on the part of the government, of con- verting into private property those beautiful re- gions, which had heretofore been free to all who trod the soil, or breathed the air. Portions of it were already thus occupied. Farms and villages were spreading over the country with alarming rapidity, deforming the face of nature, and scaring the elk and the buffalo from their long frequented ranges. Yankees and Kentuckians were pouring in, bringing with them the selfish distinctions and destructive spirit of society. Settlements were planted in the immediate vicinity of the village ; and the ancient heritage of the ponies was in- vaded by the ignoble beasts of the interlopers. Certain pregnant indications of civil degeneration were alive in the land. A county had been esta- blished, with a judge, a clerk, and a sheriff; a court-house and jail were about to be built; two lawyers had already made a lodgment at the county-seat ; and a number of justices of the peace, and constables, were dispersed throughout 94 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. a small neighbourhood of not more than fifty miles in extent. A brace of physicians had floated in with the stream of population, and several other persons of the same cloth were seen passing about, brandishing their lancets in the most hostile man- ner. The French argued very reasonably from all these premises, that a people who brought their own doctors expected to be sick ; and that those who commenced operations, in a new coun- try, by providing so many engines, and officers of justice, must certainly intend to be very wicked and litigious. But when the new comers went the fearful length of enrolling them in the militia ; when the sheriff, arrayed in all the terrors of his office, rode into the village, and summoned them to attend the court as jurors; when they heard the judge enumerate to the grand jury the long list of offences which fell within their cognizance, these good folks shook their heads, and declared that this was no longer a country for them. From that time the village began to depopu- late. — Some of its inhabitants followed the foot- steps of the Indians, and continue to this day to trade between them and the whites, forming a kind of link between civilized and savage men. A larger portion, headed by the priest, floated down the Mississippi, to seek congenial society among the sugar plantations of their countrymen THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 95 in the South. They found a pleasant spot, on the margin of a large bayou, whose placid stream was enlivened by droves of alligators, sporting their innocent gambols on its surface. Swamps, ex- tending in every direction, protected them from further intrusion. Here a new village arose, and a young generation of French was born, as happy and as careless as that which is passing away. Baptiste alone adhered to the soil of his fathers, and Jeanette in obedience to her marriage vow, cleaved to Baptiste. He sometimes talked of fol- lowing his clan, but when the hour came, he could never summon fortitude to pull up his stakes. He had passed so many happy years of single blessedness in his own cabin, and had been so long accustomed to view that of Jeanette, with a wist- ful eye, that they had become necessary to his happiness. Like other idle bachelors, he had had his day-dreams, pointing to future enjoyment. He had been for years planning the junction of his domains with those of his fair neighbour ; had arranged how the fences were to intersect, the fields to be enlarged, and the whole to be managed by the thrifty economy of his partner. All these plans were now about to be realized; and he wisely concluded, that he could smoke his pipe, and talk to Jeanette, as comfortably here as else- where ; and as he had not danced for many years, ?)C) STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. and Jeanette was growing rather too corpulent for that exercise, he reasoned that even the depriva- tion of the fiddles, and king balls, could be borne. Jeanette loved comfort too ; but having besides a sharp eye for the main chance, was governed by a deeper policy. By a prudent appropriation of her own savings, and those of her husband, she pur- chased from the emigrants many of the fairest acres in the village, and thus secured an ample property. A large log house has since been erected in the space between the cottages of Baptiste and Jeanette, which form wings to the main building, and are carefully preserved in remembrance of old times. All the neighbouring houses have fallen down ; and a few heaps of rubbish, surrounded by corn fields, show where they stood. All is changed, except the two proprietors, who live here in ease and plenty, exhibiting in their old age, the same amiable character which, in early life, won for them the respect and love of their neighbours, and of each other. THE COUNTRY COUSIN. He is a man, and men Have imperfections ; it behooves Me pardon nature then. The Patient Countess. L' homme honore la vertu, Dieu la recompense. The dark empire of superstition has passed away. This is the age of facts and evidence, experience and demonstration, the enlightened age, par ex- cellence. Ghosts, apparitions, banshees, phocas, cluricaunes, fairies, and " good people, 1 "' are now departed spirits. The fairies, the friends of poets and story-tellers, the patrons, champions, and good geniuses of children, no longer keep their merry revels on the greensward by the glow- worm's lamp; they are gone, exhaled like the dews that glittered on last summer's leaves. The VOL. I. F 98 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. " dainty spirits" that knew " to swim, to dive into the fire, to ride on the curled clouds, to put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes," have no longer a being save in poetry. Like the Peri of the Persian mythology, they forfeit their immortality when they pass the bounds of their paradise — that paradise th^ poet's imagination. Though in the full meridian of our " enlight- ened day," we look back with something like regret to the imaginative era of darkness, when spirits, embodied in every form that fear or fancy could invent, thronged the paths of human life, broke its monotony, and coloured its dull surface with the bright hues and deep shadows of magic light. We almost envy the twilight of our Indian predecessors, whose quickening faith, like the an- cient philosophy, infused vitality into external nature, imparting a portion of the Infinite Spirit to mountain, valley, stream, and flower ; that faith that gave discourse and reason to trees, and stones, and running brooks. Strange that in the progress of light, mind should surrender its do- minion to matter ! that the metaphysics of nature should yield to the physical sciences! that the materialism of the mineralogist, the botanist, the geologist, should prevail over the spirituality of the savage ! But so it is. The suggestions of superstition, so universal in man's natural state of THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 99 ignorance, are silenced by the clear, cold demon- strations of knowledge. Who now ventures to tell a fairy tale beyond the purlieus of the nur- sery ? Who would hope to raise a ghost above the subterranean region of the kitchen? The murdered lie as quietly in their graves as if they had been dismissed to their rest anointed and an- nealed ; and even Love's martyrs, the most perse- vering of all night-walkers, no more revisit" the glimpses of the moon. And yet there seems to be a deep foundation in nature for a belief in mysterious visitations, in our unknown and incom- prehensible connexion with spiritual beings. The mighty mind of Johnson was duped by the ghost of Cock-Lane, and seized, as he himself confesses, on every tale of the re-appearance of the dead to support his religious faith ! What are we to infer from the horoscope of the hero of " Guy Mannering, 1 " 1 what from the " Lady of Avenel," and all the strange prophecies fulfilled of Sir Walter Scott, but that the wild and fantastic su- perstitions of his native land, that " meet nurse of a poetic child," still control his imagination ? Even Napoleon, who feared no power embodied in flesh and blood, bowed like an Oriental slave before the dark, mysterious despot, Destiny. We have made this long introduction to a ghost story it was once our good fortune, to hear well f2 100 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. told, to persuade our readers that we have drunk deep enough of the spirit of the age, to laugh, when we are in the presence of the honoured public, at the superstition and credulity of others, though we may still cherish some relic of it in our secret soul. Somewhere between twenty and thirty years ago — there is, alas ! a period when accurate dates be- come a sort of memento mori—we, or rather I — for, like a late popular writer, we detest that re- viewer in the abstract, the " cold, and critical, 1 ' and pompous we — / was on a visit to a friend of my parents who resided in New York, Mrs. Re- ginald Tudor. She was an Englishwoman by birth, but had long been a resident in this country, and, though of a noble family, and educated with aristocratic prejudices, she was, in all acts of kind- ness, condescension, and humanity, a Christian ; and is not Christianity the foundation, the essence of republicanism ? Her instincts were aristocratic, or those principles of conduct that are so early in- culcated and acted on that they become as impul- sive and powerful as instincts ; but when a deed of kindness was to be done, she obeyed the levelling law of the religion of universal equality. As Mrs. Reginald Tudor, the lady of polite society, she was versed and strict in all artificial distinctions and nice observances ; but as a Christian, friend, THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 101 and benefactress, no fiery revolutionist ever so well illustrated the generous doctrine of equality ; for hers was the perfect standard of rectitude, and every one who needed the tender charities of life from her, was her " brother and her sfster." For- give her then, gentle reader, a slight contempt of republican manners, and a little pride in her titled ancestry and noble English relatives. Like most old people, Mrs. Tudor talked often of the past, and of the friends of her youth. Her grandfather, whose pet she had been sixty years since, was her favourite topic. Her stories began with " My dear grandfather, Lord Moreland " — " Lord Moreland " was the invariable sequence. But this was an innocent vanity, and should not cast a shade over my honoured friend's memory The only evil attending this foible, so ill adapted to our country, was, that it had infected her grand- daughter, my friend Isabel Williamson. Isabel, at the period of which I write, was a beautiful girl of eighteen, an only child, and as such cherished and caressed, but not spoiled by her parents and grandmother. Nothing could spoil so frank and generous a disposition, so noble- minded a creature. But Isabel was touched with the family taint of pride. She had a feeling very closely bordering on contempt for every thing American ; and, though born in the city of New 102 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. York, though her mother and her maternal ances- tors were American, she always called herself English, preferred all English usages, however ill- suited to our state of society, had some pretty affectations #f Anglican phraseology, imported her dresses, hats, shoes, from England, employed En- glish teachers, and preferred English beaux. At the time I was with her, her parents were away from home on a long absence, and during my visit her cousin, Lucy Atwell arrived in town from " the West." " The West," a designation that has removed with our emigrants to Missouri, then meant one of the middle district counties of the State of New York. Lucy came, consigned for life, to Isabel's parents. She was a meek, timid, country girl, of about seventeen, made an orphan by sudden bereavement, and by an accu- mulation of misfortunes left pennyless. This was an irresistible appeal to Isabel's heart. " Grand- mamma," she said to Mrs. Tudor, " we must pro- vide for poor Lucy." " Certainly, Isabel, I was sure you would say so." " I have been thinking," resumed Isabel," " that Mrs. Arnott's would be such a good place for Lucy to board." " My dear Isabel, we must keep her with us " " Grandmamma!" THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 103 " Why not, my child ?" Isabel well knew the " why not," operative on her mind, but she did not care to tell it, and she offered the most plausible reasons that occurred to her. " You know, ma'am, it must be so unplea- sant for a person to live as a dependent in the fa- mily of relatives. " " That depends, Isabel, on the tempers of the parties. If you are not wanting in kindness and consideration, I am sure, from little Lucy^ sweet face, she will not fail in gratitude and content- ment ; at any rate she must stay with us." " Do you not think, 1 ' said Isabel to me when we were alone together, "that grandmamma is getting childish ? She was so decided, so obstinate to-day, about Lucy." The following day I perceived that Isabel suf- fered a series of mortifications on her cousin's ac- count. In the first place nothing could be more decidedly countryfied^ not to say vulgar, for I can- not bear to apply that word even for once to one so pretty, gentle, and essentially refined as Lucy —nothing could be more countryjied, more ill made, and unbecoming than our little rustic's dress. The date of our story was long before the artful looms of Europe had prepared every variety of texture, and brought the light silk and delicate bartge level to the means of the most humble pur- 104 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. chaser. It was the age of cotton, cambrics, and bombazettes, and our country cousin was dress- ed in a stiff, glazed, black cotton cambric, with a vandyke of the same, a crimped leno frill, and white knit yarn stockings. It was then the fashion to dress the hair low, with braids and bands after the classic models ; Lucy's was drawn up like a tower on the top of her head, and walled in by a horn comb. Isabel spent too much money, time, and thought on her dress not to pride her- self on its style, and never was there a more striking contrast than the two cousins presented, when they were both seated together in the par- lour. Isabel, arrayed in high fashion and taste, with her toy work-basket filled with the elegant implements of elegant work, and Lucy? in the costume we have described, diligently knitting a full sized, substantial cotton stocking. But in spite of this homely vulgarity, there was something of nature's aristocracy in her graceful and delicate outline, in her " serious eye, r) and thoughtful, fair young brow, and I felt hurt and mortified for my dear friend Isabel, when I perceived a little flutter and fidgetiness about her at every rap at the street door, indicating too plainly her dread of having her cousin seen by her fashionable acquaintance. Isabel was not sufficiently a woman of the world, and she had too much good feeling to disembarrass THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 105 herself of this concern, as a true woman of ton does, by the current jokes on country cousins. It was a day of trial to Isabel. The heavens were serene, the air balmy, and the walking fine ; and it seemed as if all our acquaintances, and es- pecially those who for very delicacy were afraid of the rough visitation of the winds, had selected this day to pour in upon us. Mrs. Tudor was at her usual station on a corner of the sofa, and, puncti- lious in the formal politeness of the day, she most precisely introduced every visitor to " Miss Lucy Atwell — Miss Williamson's cousin ;" and each time, Lucy, according to her notion of good manners, laid aside her knitting-work, rose and dropped her little dot of a courtesy ; and, though Isabel affect- ed to laugh and talk in her usual careless style, I could perceive in her face, as in a mirror, her consciousness of poor Lucy's every word and motion. Isabel's Anglo-tastes had led her to avoid every Americanism, word or phrase ; and the " con- cludes," " calculates," and " guesses," which were in all poor Lucy's replies to the few questions addressed to her, grated harsh discord on her cousin's ear. It is difficult to recall, after time and matured sense have released us from the galling fetters that are imposed by the false notions and artificial distinctions of fashionable society, it is f 5 106 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. difficult to recall the feelings that, like the emo- tions of a troubled dream, were then as real to us, as they now are illusory and ridiculous. It now seems to me incredible that my friend Isabel, the noble woman whom I have since seen wrestling with fearful calamities, and enduring calmly and sweetly the darkest night of adversity, should at eighteen have wasted tears, and a flood of them, on the mortifications I have recorded. But so it was. They were, however, shed in private, and known only to myself and to her grandmother, with whom she again expostulated on the subject of Lucy's removal to some other home. Mrs. Tudor was mild, but firm in her first decision. In the evening, at the usual hour for retiring, the good old lady invited us to her apartment. This was her frequent custom, and a great pleasure to us, for there is always something in the sociality of one^ own room, far more unbending, intimate, and endearing, than in the parlour intercourse. Mrs. Tudor left her stateliness, her only infirmity, below stairs, and in her own apartment was the true grandmother, easy, communicative, and loving. It was late, I believe near the witching time of night, when we, Isabel, Lucy, and myself, drew our low chairs around Mrs. Tudor's matronly rocking-chair. The oil in the lamp was expended, THE COUNTRY COUSIN 107 a stick of wood was burning, as all wood burns after twelve o'clock, fitfully, and the bright, change- ful flame threw such strange distorted figures on the wall, that braver spirits than ours might have been frightened at a shadow. Our conver- sation turned, I don't know how, but it then seemed naturally enough, on ghost stories. Mrs. Tudor was the benefactress of the rising genera- tion ; her mind was stored with strange and for- gotten events ; she had treasures of marvellous appearances, which had no record but in her memory. After relating various anecdotes till we were all in a state of considerable excitement, till Isabel had forgotten her coldness, and Lucy her timidity, Mrs. Tudor said ; " There is one ghost story that I have never told, not even to you, Isabel, for whose insatiable curiosity I have pro- duced every other treasure from my storehouse. This is connected with many sacred recollections ; it deeply affected my imagination at the time, and related to persons in whom I had some interest. There are many preliminary circumstances before I can come at the supernatural incident — it is late — shall I tell it to-night ?" " Oh yes !" was the unanimous voice, and Mrs. Tudor proceeded. " When I lived in London, I had an intimate friend, who was, like myself, a widow, with an 108 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. only son. Mrs. M 'Arthur — that was her name — had set her heart on having; her son fix himself in the calm quiet of home and domestic life, such as suited her matured and feminine tastes, but was not at all adapted to a young man of unchecked ambition and ardent passions. M 'Arthur's mind was early steeped in the military spirit of tales and songs of chivalry, and as soon as he was old enough to think of a profession, he avowed his will — the will, and the wish of a widow's only son is fate — to be a soldier. My friend opposed him at first, but he who was never denied any thing, was not long opposed in his most impetuous pas- sion, and his poor mother, fearing all things and hoping nothing, procured a captaincy for him, and soon after had her heart almost broken by his being ordered on the American service. Your father, Isabel, came to this country at the same time, and was ever after intimately associated with M f Arthur, and from him I have received the par- ticulars that I shall relate to you. " Captain M'Arthur was appointed to command a detachment that was sent to wrest the possession of a small town from the Americans. The male inhabitants, notwithstanding the confusion of a surprise, made a valorous resistance, but, overcome by numbers and discipline, all who could fly, fled to support the banner of their country in a more THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 109 fortunate field, and defend her where defence would be available.'" " Ah !" said Isabel, whose partialities were always in the English ranks, " the Yankees often practised that better part of valour — discretion." " Not till its bolder part was useless," retorted the gentle Lucy. " The fray is past, fair champions," said I, " do not interrupt the story." " No, girls," continued Mrs. Tudor, " my story has little to do with the war, though a good deal with the passions it engendered. Captain M 'Arthur had gallantly achieved his object. He obtained undisputed possession of the town, but in effecting this, he received a dangerous wound, and was carried, bleeding and insensible, to the best house the place afforded, situate at the entrance of the town, and belonging to one Amos Blunt, a bold yeoman, who had been first and last to fight in defence of his home, and who, as he caught from a distant hill a last look of the roof that sheltered his two lovely and now defenceless daughters, swore eternal hatred to the English. Fatally and cruelly did he keep his vow. " To return to M 'Arthur. The sad chances of the battle had made his life to depend on those very daughters of the yeoman, Emma and Anna Blunt. Unskilful surgical treatment aggravated 110 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. his wound ; a violent fever ensued, and for many weeks the gay and gallant young officer was as dependent as an infant on the tender vigilance of feminine care. " The two sisters, as I have heard, were alike in nothing but their devoted affection to each other ; even their looks were as dissimilar as distinct races, as unlike, Isabel, as you and your cousin Lucy. You might, indeed, if I remember their pictures accurately, stand for their living portraits, so fair, so like a snowdrop, or rather, so like that meek representative of all spiritual purity and womanly tenderness, the Madonna, so like my sweet Lucy was Emma — yes, just so sensitive and blushing at her own praises, even from the lips of an old woman ; and you, my dear Isabel — but you cannot so well bear flattery. It is enough to say, that Anna had a brow of lofty daring, a quick, glanc- ing, laughter-loving eye, a rich damask on her cheek that expressed the quick kindling and burn- ing of her feelings; lips that a Grecian artist would have chiselled to utter the laws of love, rather than its prayers ; in short, a face and shape that a painter would have chosen for a Semiramis, a Zenobia, or a Clotilda." " Grandmamma !" exclaimed Isabel, " are you describing two daughters of a farmer F" " Even, so, Isabel ; and truly you must remeni- THE COUNTRY COUSIN. Ill ber, my dear," what Isabel was prone to forget, " nature has no aristocratic moulds ; the peasant is born with as fine limbs and beautiful features as his lord. Besides, you must know, these girls had not impaired their natural beauty by household drudgery. Their father was wealthy ; they were his only children, and motherless from extreme childhood, their stern father, stern to every thing but them, had lavished his wealth to procure for them whatever advantages of education the country then afforded. " You must allow, that when the romantic M'Arthur awoke from his long delirium, and beheld these beautiful forms flitting around his pillow, he was in more danger than he had been from their father's sword. In the flush of health and unbroken spirits, Anna would have been most attractive to him ; but in the gentleness, the patient watchings, the soft, low toned voice, the uniform tranquillity of Emma, there was something so suited to the nurse and leech, so adapted to the abated spirit of the invalid, that his susceptible heart was touched, and, in the progress of a slow convalescence, entirely captivated, and honestly surrendered. "It was not in human nature, certainly not in Emma's tender nature, not to return the fondness of the most interesting man she had ever seen. 112 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. She did return it, with a strength and depth of devotion, that I believe, my dear girls, men seldom, if ever, feel. " The rash, impetuous lover proposed an imme- diate marriage. His intentions were strictly ho- nourable; never had he, by one thought of sin, offended against the purity of Emma ; and for her sake he was willing to forget his noble birth, the wishes of his far-off, widowed, but, alas ! proud mother, the duties of his official station, propriety, expediency, the world, for love. But Emma was of another temper. She could have surrendered every other happiness in life to be M 'Arthur's wife, she could have died for him, but she would not de- viate one point from the straight line of filial duty. She would not hear M'Arthur's vows, acknowledge him as a lover, nor think of him as a husband, till she had her fathers sanction. This was strange to the indulged youth, who had never regarded any sanction but that of his own inclinations, and he felt himself thwarted by her determination, and half offended by the absolute necessity of waiting till the consent of her father could be obtained. However, there was no alternative. He addressed an earnest letter to Amos Blunt ; Emma added a modest, but decided postscript ; and a trusty Ame- rican boy was hired to convey it a distance of little less than a hundred miles, where Blunt was sta- THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 113 tioned. In the then condition of the country, this was a long and uncertain journey, and during the weary weeks of waiting, M 'Arthur lost all patience. In this tedious interim the fearful Emma truly an- ticipated the result of their appeal to her father, and, with maidenly modesty withdrew herself from every demonstration of her lover's tenderness. He called this preciseness and coldness, and his pride, even more than his love, was offended. " While Emma, with the resolution of a martyr, secluded herself in her own apartment, M 'Arthur, still confined to the house, was also limited to the society of Anna. The vigour of his spirit returned with his improving health, and then he found that her gay and reckless spirit harmonized far better with his natural temper, than the timid disposition of her sister. " Anna's beauty was more brilliant, her conver- sation more lively and taking, and — have I pre- pared you for it, my dear girls? — when the pa- rental fiat arrived, the peremptory, unchangeable no, it was received by him with indifference, I am afraid with a secret satisfaction. Poor Emma ! the cold, precise Emma, fainted in her sister's arms ; and for many successive days she seemed hovering between life and death. To disobey, or evade, or attempt to soften her father's will, was to her im- possible ; but to endure it, appeared equally im- 114? STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. possible. She must suffer, might die, but would submit. " At first she dreaded the remonstrances of her lover, then she expected them, and expressed this expectation to Anna, first in broken sentences and then in more significant looks ; but Anna made no reply to her words, or questioning glances. She loved Emma better than any thing but — M f Arthur. She hung over her with devoted tenderness, and, I doubt not, with a self-reproach she could not stifle. " By slow degrees Emma recovered her self- controul, and, armed with all the fortitude she could gather or assume, she prepared to meet her lover's gaze — that gaze was altered, the lover her lover no longer. How sure and rapid is the intel- ligence of true affection ! A short, slight observa- tion proved to her that M 'Arthur's love was trans- ferred—transferred to her sister. The infidelity of the two beings she most loved on earth, almost broke her heart ; but, as the most touching of wri- ters has said of the sweetest manifestation of cha- racter, the ( temper of Emma was like an iEolian harp, whose sounds die away in the tempest, and are heard again in every gentle breeze.' She said nothing, she looked nothing ; she was much alone, and her troubled spirit found rest, where it is only to be found in every modification of human misery, THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 115 in those high communings that are on the spiritual mount, far above the atmosphere of mortal passions. Anna felt the rebuke of Emma's silence and down- cast eye far more than she would the gentlest even of reproaches— an involuntary look. She accused herself, she wept, she fell at her sisters feet, she offered to abjure her lover for ever. Emma folded her in her arms, and it was long before either could speak or listen ; but when Emma could utter her resolves gently, softly, tenderly, as th#y were spoken, it was evident they were unalterable. s That bond, Anna, is severed for ever ; we are sisters, our God has united us by this tie, our sin alone can destroy or weaken it ; it has been rudely jarred, but it is not harmed — is it, Anna ?' Anna only replied by a more fervent embrace, a freer burst of tears. Emma was long silent ; but when she at last spoke, no one would have detected, in the tones of her voice, a more passionate feeling than sisterly ten- derness. " During their interview, Anna confessed that the inconstant, but really ardent, and I must say really honourable lover — " " Oh ! say nothing in his favour ! say nothing in his favour !" interrupted, in one voice, the indig- nant young auditors. " Ah I my dear girls," replied Mrs. Tudor, " we learn, as we go on in life, to look far more in sor- 116 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. row than in anger, on the transgressions of our fel- low beings ; we know better how to estimate hu- man infirmity and the power of temptation ; but I have no time to moralize. I will only beg you to remember, when you have still more cause for in- dignation against poor M 'Arthur, that he was then scarce twenty-two, that he was spoiled by fortune, by admiring friends, and by that chief spoiler, a doating, widowed mother ; and, lest you should be too harsh, let me tell you, that he has since re- deemed, by a virtuous life, the follies, the sins of his youth. " Where was I ? Oh ! on the point of telling you that Anna confessed M 'Arthur had urged an immediate marriage, without a reference to her father, which, he maintained, experience had taught them would be useless. 6 The military events of the day," 1 he said, ' indicated that the British forces would soon be withdrawn from town, and his last letters from his commanding officer intimated that he would then probably be transferred to the southern army.'' " He intreated, with all the vehemence of love, that Anna would give him a right to claim her, as his wife, when the disastrous wars should be over. Anna had half consented to sacrifice her filial duty. Against this Emma remonstrated most earnestly. She conjured her sister not to provoke the wrath of THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 117 Heaven, so sure speedily to overtake filial disobe- dience. She saw M' Arthur ; and, with the unfal- tering, and almost irresistible voice of determined virtue, intreated him not to tempt her sister to this departure from filial duty. " ' But of what use," asked M 'Arthur, ' will be an appeal to your father, when his old prejudices will be all justified by' — his voice sunk to an almost inaudible tone — ' by the demerit that none but an angel would forgive?' " Emma hesitated for a few moments, and then said, with decision, ' I will go to him myself.' " ' You, Emma ! You cannot, you shall not ; there are a thousand dangers V " ' There are none that need to deter me. I will go. My father, though terrible to his enemies and stern to the world, never denied me any thing that I asked myself from him. I am sure I ican make such representations that he will give me his con- sent. I will hear nothing more from you ; no, I will not hear your thanks till I get back ; provide a proper guard to attend me as far as your lines extend, I shall have nothing to fear after I get among our own people. 1 " M'Arthur would have poured out his admi- ration and gratitude ; but Emma fled from it all, and hastily prepared herself for her romantic expe- dition. A small detachment of the regular army, 118 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. arid a large body of militia, to which her father was attached, had approached within fifty miles of town ; but for a young girl to traverse this distance in the unsettled state of the country, re- quired all the spirit that a noble purpose inspires, and all the courage of heaven-born innocence. Poor Emma endured manifold fears, and encountered some dangers ; but this detail I reserve for some other time. At the expiration of the third day she arrived safely at the American quarters. " When her father's first surprise and joy at seeing her were over, she communicated, with her own sweet grace and earnestness, the purpose of her journey. No words can ever describe her father's rage. I would not repeat to you, if I could, his horrible language. He commanded her, on pain of his everlasting displeasure, never again to mention the name of M 'Arthur. He looked upon his daughters as bewitched by a spell of the arch enemy. He said M 'Arthur's conduct was just what he should have expected from an English scoundrel, from any, or all of the mis- creants. Every breath that Emma dared to utter, swelled the torrent of his rage. He swore to avenge her wrongs, to avenge his polluted home ; and, finally, he concluded by pronouncing curses, loud and deep, and, as poor Emma thought, in- terminable, on Anna, if she did not immediately THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 119 break off all connexion with M' Arthur, and ab- jure him for ever. " Emma trembled and wept. She knew how unrelenting was her father's determination, and her whole anxiety now was to save her sister from these terrible curses, as fearful to the duteous Emma as the wrath of heaven. She set out on her return without any delay. A variety of cir- cumstances protracted her journey. When she arrived at the point where M'Arthur's guard was to meet her, no guard was there, and her progress was arrested by an American officer, a friend of her father's, who absolutely forbade her proceed- ing. The British, he said, were daily contracting their lines. There were almost hourly skirmishes between small detachments of soldiers, and nothing could be more perilous than for a young woman to traverse even the short distance that remained to her home. She was conducted to a comfortable lodging in a kind family, but no kindness or se- curity could tranquillize her troubled and anxious mind. She knew too well the impetuous temper of M'Arthur to hope he would have patience to await her return, and she feared that her light- hearted, reckless, sanguine sister, would, trusting implicitly to her success, yield to the importuni- ties of her lover. For three weeks she was com- pelled to endure these apprehensions ; to endure 120 ST01UES OF AMERICAN LIFE. the thought that she was freighted with those curses that were to fall on her sister's head like the withering vengeance of Heaven. " At last she was permitted to proceed, and she arrived at town, without the slightest mo- lestation or accident. As soon as she entered it, she saw that the aspect of things was entirely changed. The military array that had given to the quiet scene a temporary life and bustle, had vanished. The street was as quiet as a sab- bath morning. A few well known faces ap- peared peeping from the doors and windows. Emma did not stop to ask any explanation ; she did not even see their welcoming nods and smiles ; and though an old man, the walking chro- nicle of the town, quickened his pace towards her, as if he would be the first to communicate what tidings there were, she hurried her horse onward. Her home was on the outskirts of the town. When she reached it, her servant girl met her at the gate, and broke forth in exclamation of — Emma knew not what. She cast one wild glance around the parlour ; screamed Anna's name, and flew to her apartment. The one fear that she had gone with M 'Arthur, prevailed over every other. She opened her chamber door; she was there, buried in her shawl, and weeping aloud. At the sight of Emma she uttered an exclamation of surprise and joy, THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 121 and dying away in bitter grief, ' Oh ! Emma, my sister, he is gone ! my husband is gone !' * Your husband P cried Emma ; and it was long, long, my dear girls, before she uttered another word. It was as she had apprehended. M 'Arthur had been impatient of her delay, and had persuaded Anna to a private marriage, only one week after Emma had left them. Emma did not reproach her sister ; she would not have added a feather's weight to the inevitable consequences of her rashness. Those consequences it was now her anxious care to avert She only communicated to Anna so much of her father's reply as expressed his firm negative. This was fearful enough to Anna ; but as her marriage had been strictly private, she hoped to keep it from his knowledge, and Emma, to shield her sister, prepared herself, for the first time in her life, for evasion and concealment. " There was now no obstacle to her father's re- turn. He came home the next day ; and his wrath against the enemy grew at every trace of their footsteps. He suspected nothing, but he was for some time less kind and frank to his daughters than formerly. He never alluded to their guest by words ; but, when any thing having the most distant relation to his residence with them occurred, he would contract his brow, become suddenly pale, bite his lips, and indicate, in ways too obvious to VOL. I. g 122 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. his gentle daughters, that his hatred burnt as fiercely as ever. " Sally, the servant, made her appearance be- fore him one day in a holiday suit, with a gay locket dangling from her neck. 6 Ah ! Sally, 1 said Blunt, ' where did you get that pretty finery in these hard times ?' " The girl knew her master's infirmity, and she saw the colour mount to her young ladies 1 cheeks, and she stammered out, as if she had stolen it, 4 Captain M 'Arthur gave it to me, Sir.' Blunt tore it from her neck, and crushed it under his foot. " Some weeks after this startling demonstration of his unabated hatred, and several months after M 'Arthur's departure, a little crippled boy, who lived on an adjoining farm, came into Blunt' s par- lour with a pretty flute sticking in his hat-band. 6 Ah ! Jerry, my boy, 1 said the old man friendlily, for, like the lion, he was tender to all small and defenceless creatures — 6 Ah ! Jerry, that is the little flute that makes such pleasant music for us in these moonlight evenings, and that piped such a merry welcome to us the day we came home ; is it ? — let's see it, Jerry. 1 Jerry gave it to him. Emma and Anna trembled. ' Oh I 1 said Jerry, ' if you could only have heard the captain play it, Sir ; he gave it to me for finding Miss Anna's ring. 1 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 123 " The poor boy's flute was instantly crackling in the flames; and a fiery, suspicious, questioning glance darted at Anna. It fell on the ring — the fatal wedding ring. Oh ! my dear girls, I can- not describe the scene that followed. All Blunt' s honest feelings were wounded, all his fierce passions excited. Emma, fearless for herself, wept and in- terceded for her sister ; but her voice could no more be heard than the wail of an infant amidst the raging of the ocean. Anna was cast out from his door, commanded never again to enter his pre- sence ; every name of dishonour was heaped upon her ; and while she lay on his door step, fainting in her sister's arms — for Emma, in spite of his commands, supported her, the last sounds she heard were her father's curses. " Emma watched over Anna's fate with more than a sister's love. She procured a humble, but decent lodging for her ; and expended her youth and strength in secretly working to obtain a pittance for her support. Blunt had peremptorily forbid- den her ever to impart one shilling of his substance to his discarded child. Obedience to this com- mand was the hardest of all Emma's trials ; but she held fast her integrity, and was compelled to see daily delicacies that she loathed, and to live in over- flowing plenty, without daring to give a crumb that fell from her father's table to her poor sister. g2 124 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. " Three months after Anna was driven from her father's house, she gave birth to a child, a boy ; and, as if to fill up the measure of her sorrows, he was born blind. The poor, suffering, crushed mother, wore away her life in watching over her stricken boy, in sorrow for the past, and despair for the future. Five weary years were passed, without one word of intelligence from her husband. Newspapers were then rare, and few found their way to town, and in those few Emma, who diligently inquired, could never ascertain that any mention was made of M c Arthur. He might have perished in battle ; might have returned to Eng- land, or, worse than all, might have forgotten his wife. Time had no tendency to soften the heart of Amos Blunt ; time only cut in deeper the first decisions of his iron will. His property, though necessarily impaired by the war, was still far su- perior to his neighbours' ; Emma was to inherit it all ; and Emma, the dutiful and still lovely Emma, was sought by many an earnest suitor. But she was alike deaf to all. She had no heart for any thing but duty to her father and love to her sister, and the tenderest affection for the little blind boy. For them she toiled, and with the inexhaustible ingenuity of affection, she devised for him every pleasure of which his darkened childhood was sus- ceptible. She contrived toys to delight his ear; THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 125 she sang for him for hours together. Every body in the country round loved Miss Emma ; and the little rangers of flood and field brought her wild fruit and sweet flowers for her favourite. "The child seemed to be infected with his mother's melancholy. He would lie on the floor for hours in most unnatural inactivity ; but when he heard Emma's step, his feet danced, his hands were out- stretched, his lips were raised, every limb, every feature welcomed her ; all but that sparkling gem, that most brightly and piercingly speaks the feel- ings of the soul. Emma would take him from his drooping mother's side, and try, by exercise and the free enjoyment of the genial air, to win the colour to his cheek, but alas ! in vain. " Finally, my dear girls, that power, at whose touch the sternest bend, laid his crushing hand on Blunt. A slow, but mortal disease seized him ; he knew he must die. He had long before made his will, and given every thing to Emma, but on con- dition that she never should transfer one penny of his property in any form to her sister. If she vio- lated this condition, his estate was to be divided into one hundred dollar annuities, to be given to such survivors of the war as had served in the re- volutionary army from the beginning of the con- test ; and could give sufficient testimony of their having killed each ten Englishmen. 126 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. "Among Emma's most constant and heartily de- voted lovers was one Harry Lee. He was the fa- vourite of her father. He had fought, and had triumphed beside him ; and to give Emma to Harry before he died, was the father's most earnest wish. On this subject he became every day more and more importunate. At first, Emma, who really felt a strong friendship for Lee, only said, 6 Father, Harry knows I cannot love him.'' " ' What does that signify ?' the old man would reply ; ' Harry knows you say that, to be sure ; but he is willing to take you without it ; a dutiful child will make a dutiful wife; and I tell Harry, love is but a jack-o'-lantern business/ " When this conversation was renewed in every form that could express that this was Blunt's strongest and almost only earthly wish, it occurred to Emma it was possible that, by a sacrifice of her feelings in this affair, she might induce her father to relent towards Anna. This was the hardest sacrifice a woman could make — but she was a noble creature." "Oh! grandmamma,' 1 exclaimed Isabel, " too, too noble — I cannot believe you are telling us a true story — I cannot believe that any woman so wronged as Emma, would have made such exer- tions, such sacrifices." " I believe it," said Lucy Atwell, her face kind- THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 127 ling with an expression of fervent feeling, " I know there has been one woman capable of any virtue — my mother,'" she added, dropping her face on Mrs. Tudor's lap. We were all affected at this involuntary tribute to her mother, for whom she was still in deep mourning, and it was some moments before Mrs. Tudor proceeded, and then in a faltering voice ; " It is, in spite of your unbelief, Isabel, ' an o'er true tale. 1 Emma prepared herself for a scene, and then, her face beaming with her celestial spirit, and her voice sustained by firm resolve, she told her father she would comply with his wishes, that she would marry Harry Lee, if he would provide by will for her sister, and revoke those terrible curses that had already blasted her innocent off- spring with blindness, and were consuming her life. The old man heard her without interruption, and without reply ; a deadly paleness overspread his countenance, large drops of sweat rolled from his face, his breathing was like one suffocating, and it seemed that the terrible conflict of unex- pressed feeling must snap the worn thread of life. Emma was dreadfully alarmed; she dared not then urge him further but used every means to tranquillize and revive him. " For two days these convulsive agitations con- tinued, more or less violent. He spoke not one 128 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. word to Emma, he did not even look at her ; but still there was something in the gentle touch of his hand as he received the cordials she gave, that kept her hope alive — but just alive, for the physi- cian had pronounced him dying. He revived, as is usual before the last struggle, and, looking Emma, for the first time since she had spoken on the forbidden topic, full in the face, he bade her bring him a certain sealed packet from his desk. She obeyed. It was his will. With his trembling hands he tore it to fragments, and said, as he did so, ' The lav/ will do right to you — both,' Emma fell on her knees ; 6 Oh ! dear father P she cried, ' say you forgive her.'' " ' I can't, Emma ; but I have — I have prayed God to forgive her ; now, my good child, pray for your father. 1 Emma began that sacred petition, that blessed essence of all prayer, 6 Our Father ,' and her parent, in a low, dying whisper, repeated the words after her. When she came to the clause y forgive us our trespasses as we : — 6 Stop,"* he cried, in his own energetic voice, for then he, for the first time, understood the full import of those words, f stop ! that I may not say.' At this moment Anna, the poor, disobedient, discarded, suffering child, rushed with her boy in her arms to the bedside. She knelt by Emma, she stretched out her hands, and her lips trembled with the prayer THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 129 she could not utter. Pale, emaciated, her form attenuated, her eye sunken — was this the bright, blooming, gay Anna? To her father's eye she looked heaven-stricken, and indeed accursed. He groaned from his inmost soul. 6 Oh ! I do for- give, but,' as he closed his eyes, ' I never will forget;' and thus divided between the obdurate passions of earth, and the victorious spirit of Heaven, he expired." Mrs. Tudor paused ; her auditors were silent, appalled by the history of passions too stern to have come within the scope of their young expe- rience, or even their imaginations. Isabel was the first to resume her interest in the progress of the story, and to revert to M 'Arthur, who, in his character of an English officer, had peculiar claims in her eyes. " Grandmamma," she said, " I hope we have got over the dreadful part of the story, the worst of it ; Anna must die, that I see — poor, poor girl ! I am sure she suffered more than she sinned — and I foresee how it will end, M 'Arthur will return, find his wife dead, and marry Emma." " But," said Lucy, " that was impossible, you know, after her promise to marry Harry Lee." " Oh ! he was a generous fellow ; I dare say he gave that up, and it would be a different case, you know, after poor Anna died. Ah ! I know how it will g5 130 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. all be. Grandmamma began by saying it was a ghost story, and the only one she ever heard which she fully believed. ' Alas ! poor ghost P we did all forget thee. Anna's ghost appeared to Emma, and bade her marry M 'Arthur, or perhaps the old man's — Oh ! I should hate to see him come back." " Well, my dear Isabel, if you are not more interested in your own speculations than in my story, I will proceed ; and, in the first place, I assure you the old man's spirit never revisited the earth. I am a little astonished that you should, for a moment, think M'Arthur worthy of the saintly Emma ; but, since you have such a predi- lection for him, I will let you know your instinct does not entirely err. He did afterwards become all that I — that — that his mother ever hoped of him." " He was, as he had expected to be, trans- ferred to the army of the south. The ardour of his attachment to his wife was unabated for a long- time ; but he received no communications from her and his own letters and remittances never reached her. After the lapse of two years the impression made by his short intercourse with Anna, in some measure faded. He distinguished himself in his military career, was loaded with favours by his commanding officer, he associated exclusively witli the high-born, gay, and, I fear, in too many cases, THE COUNTRY COUSIN.' 131 unprincipled young men of the army, and his own natural pride and self-indulgence were fostered ; and, it must be told, he looked back on his hum- ble alliance with mortification and deep regret. He never communicated it to a human being. At last came that monitor, so friendly, so necessary to human virtue, that messenger of Heaven — sick- ness. For months he was confined and wasting away under the effects of the fever of the southern climate, and it was not till about the period of the peace that he had health and strength to execute a resolution he had formed and cherished in his soli- tude. " A few weeks after Amos Blunt's death, M' Ar- thur, mounted on a fine, but way-worn steed, reined him up at an inn, a few miles distant from town. It was late, on a mild star-lit evening. Two or three men were sitting in the porch of the inn. His intention was to make some inquiries in relation to his wife's family, but he could not utter them. He merely asked, ' How far is it to town ?' ' Five miles and better. 1 He did summon courage to add, 6 How far to Amos Blunt's ? he lives, I think, a little on this side of the town 'f 6 Yes ; it is four miles to Amos Blunfs, to where he did live ; the old man is dead, but you '11 find some of the family there.' " M 'Arthur turned his horse's head abruptly, 132 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. and spurred him on, afraid to hear another word ; and he hurried him forward, or slackened his pace, as his hopes or fears prevailed. His mind was overshadowed with dark apprehensions ; the lapse of years had given a new colouring to life, the pangs of awakened conscience a new aspect to his past career. He now looked with something bor- dering on contempt, on his boyish, impetuous, and inconstant passion, and with deep anguish on his rash marriage and criminal neglect. He felt that he deserved the judgments of Heaven • he believed he was going to receive them. " His road gradually wound up a mountain. The feeble starlight was shut out by the towering pines, the lighter beeches, and the straggling dwarf oaks, that, with all their summer's growth of foli- age, overhung the path. The woods were alive with the autumn insects, whose monotonous notes, associated as they are with the first fading and de- cay of nature, are always sad. To M 'Arthur they seemed creatures of evil omen, and a whip-poor- will, who had lingered behind his tribe, for it was now September, and was perched on a blasted and riven oak, repeating his piercing plaint, was a bird of evil augury to his disturbed imagination. What sweet intimations these f wood notes wild' would have conveyed to the sense of a returning happy and hopeful lover ! and how true it is that the mind THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 133 does not receive, but gives its impressions to the outward world ! When M 'Arthur attained the summit of the mountain, the wide amphitheatre in which town lay, was outspread before him. The waning moon had just risen above the horizon, but was veiled by a mass of dense clouds, their sil- vered edges just giving the intimation of her sweet presence. Above the moon there was a singular illumination of the atmosphere, resembling a column of golden mist, now streaming up like the most brilliant northern lights, and then fading and melt- ing away in the clear depths of ether. The phe- nomenon was beautiful, but it was singular, and, to M 'Arthur, it appeared unnatural and porten- tous ; so apt is man, even in his misery, to magnify himself, and so quick is his conscience to interpret and apply the manifestations of nature in the glo- rious heavens, as if they were a ' hand-writing on the wall.' " Every variety of evil that could have hap- pened to his wife, by turns offered itself to M 'Arthur's imagination; but the fear that she might be dead, that she had passed the barrier whence the voice of forgiveness and love never comes, was stronger than any other. As he pro- ceeded, the moon rose triumphantly above the clouds, and lent him her clear and steady light. He passed a rustic bridge, a sudden turn in the 134 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. road, and mounted a little knoll that brought him in full view of Blunfs house. There it stood, just as he had left it, an irregular and spacious building, with its wealth of outhouses and its court yard, sparingly dotted with a few lilacs. Not a single ' little beam' of cheering, hope-in- spiring light streamed from any of its windows ; all was dark and sullen. " Before M 'Arthur reached the house, he had to pass a spot associated with his tenderest recol- lections, and now with his saddest fears. It was a smooth green area of about forty yards in breadth, level to the road-side, but elsewhere enclosed by a steep rocky bank, thickly set with maples, beech, and lime trees. Two old and magnificent elms shel- tered this little sanctuary from the road. Amos Blunt, rough as he was, blind and deaf to all the beauties and appeals of nature, had, at some soft moment, had his heart touched by the genius of this sacred spot, and there he had said he would bury his dead. There M 'Arthur had often been with the two sisters, there their mother had been laid when they were infants; the sight of her grave inspired them with tenderness unmingled with gloom, and there they had often talked with him of death, as young persons, my dear girls, talk of it, to whom it is a matter of sentiment, not of experience. THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 135 u M'Arthur felt a coldness and shivering come over him, as he approached the little wicket gate, where he knew he could see distinctly every mound of earth. ' I will not look that way,' he said to himself, * I cannot bear to learn my fate here.' But he could not command his eye. It turned by irresistible instinct, and was fixed. He saw a figure approaching a grave, that, dim as the light was, appeared newly made. The figure had the height and movement of his wife. It was enve- loped in a winding-sheet, and having reached the grave, laid down beside it, and rested its head on it. M 'Arthur's fears now all vanished, for they had sprung, not from cowardice, but affection. He was not superstitious, all the habits of his mind and his life were opposed to superstition ; and his first impression was, that he was tricked by his sickly fancy; that his gloomy portents, the lateness of the hour, the associations of the place, and his coward conscience had conjured up the apparition before him. He dismounted from his horse, turned his eyes from the figure to assure himself, by each familiar and sensible appearance, of the reality of the scene, and then, resolved not to be the sport of idle fancies, again turned to- wards the grave. " The figure was still extended there. He ap- proached so near as to discern the features. It 136 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. was no illusion of his disordered imagination — the death-stricken cheek lay on the glittering and broken sods. It was the form of his wife, such as she was at parting, save the mortal paleness, and the signet sage that sad thought had stamped on her brow. Her face wore the peace and serenity of death, without its sternness ; her eyelashes rested on her cheek as if the lids had fallen natu- rally in sleep. There was nothing of the rigidity of death about the figure ; even the winding-sheet in which it was enfolded, had nothing of the pre- cision of the drapery of death, but was wrapped about the form with a careless grace. One arm was thrown over the grave, as if encircling some loved object with a consciousness of possession and security, and on the finger gleamed the wedding ring! M 'Arthur at first gazed at the apparition with a critical eye. Incredulity was roused, and reason questioned, and revolted from being duped by a mere phantasm of the brain ; but as he gazed, as he marked each well remembered fea- ture, his incredulity was overcome, his reason as- sented to the conviction of his senses, and yield- ing himself to the power of this awful visitation from the dead, he prostrated himself on the earth, and breathed a prayer he could not utter, that heaven would vouchsafe to interpret the purpose of this spectral apparition to his senses. Again THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 137 he lifted his head and looked at that silent, im- movable figure. In the eagerness of excited feel- ings, he drew nearer to it, he knelt beside it, he bent over it, and gazed till the awe and shrinking from a preternatural appearance gave place to a gush of tenderness and bitter grief and broken ejaculation to the spirit of his wife. " At the sound of his impassioned voice, the figure became instinct with life, the blood mounted to her lips and cheeks, and Anna, his living Anna, stood before him. Her eye glanced wildly around, then fell on the new made grave, then fixed on her husband, and, uttering a shriek, expressive of her alarmed and uncertain feelings, she sunk uncon- scious in his arms. She was living — he might hear the accents of forgiveness and love from her lips, and, nerved by this blessed assurance, he bore her in his arms to her father's house. Emma first awakened by his footsteps, was at the door. " I need not, my dear girls, detain you with any unnecessary particulars. The grave, as you have no doubt conjectured, was the little blind boy^. He had been interred there the preced- ing day; and his poor mother, exhausted by many nights' watchings, had, in a deep sleep, risen, wrapped the sheet over her night dress, and, led by her feverish dreams, had gone to the 138 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. grave over which her imagination and affections hovered." We were all silent for a few moments, partly absorbed in the pleasure of finding the story turn out better for the happiness of all concerned than we had expected, and partly — I must confess it — disappointed that it was, after all, no ghost story. Isabel, as usual, was first to speak. " And M* Arthur, grandmamma," said she, " was M'Ar- thur always afterwards faithful and kind ?" " Always, my dear Isabel. He took his wife to England, where she was honourably received by his mother, and she has since been ever tenderly cherished. 11 " And Emma," asked Lucy, " the sweet, ex- celling, sacrificing Emma, of course she married as she promised." " Yes, my dear girl, she did so ; and in her growing affection for her excellent husband, she found, what is not always the consequence of a first and romantic passion, a stable and tranquil happiness." " But," asked Isabel, " what did Anna — what could she do, to testify her gratitude to that angelic sister?" " There are feelings, Isabel, for which there is no adequate expression, but Anna manifested in THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 139 every mode their relative condition permitted her, love and gratitude ; and Emma was satisfied, for when a sudden reverse of fortune befell her, and was followed by a mortal sickness, she bequeathed her only daughter to her sister, in the reposing confidence that she would share an equal care, an almost equal love with her own child.'' Isabel looked eagerly in Mrs. Tudor's face — she started up, " Grandmamma !" she exclaimed, " it is so — I know it is. You have been telling us of our mothers " It was plain enough that she had guessed rightly. She turned to Lucy and folded her in her arms. I saw in Isabel's glowing face, and fine up-raised eye, the quick succeeding thoughts that were afterwards embodied in sisterly affection and kindness to Lucy ; and Lucy's saintly face shone with a holy triumph such as the virtue of a parent may inspire. The reason why these circumstances had never before been related to the daughters was obvious ; the reason why Mrs. Tudor had now disclosed them, and deferred the expose, by using assumed names, was equally apparent, and fully approved by its permanent happy influence. Isabel, with the generosity of a noble nature, assumed her mother's debt ; and the only vestige I perceived of the worldliness that tinged her first 140 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. intercourse with Lucy, was in the elaborate care with which she lavished all the elegant refinements of fashion on the native graces of the Country Cousin. THE SICK MAN CURED. "O cookery! cookery! that kills more than weapons, guns, wars, or poisons, and would destroy all, but that physic helps to make away some." Anthony Brewer. Ye who flatter yourselves that indolence and luxury are compatible with the enjoyment of vigour of health, and hilarity of spirits, that the acquisition of the means of happiness, is to behappy, and that the habitual pampering of the senses, is not for ever paid for by the depression of the im- mortal soul, listen to my story ^ and be wise. I am the son of a respectable gentleman, who made a good figure in the revolutionary war, and i assessed a competent estate in one of the adjacent counties. His name will be found in the old Committees of Safety. He ranked as a colonel in the continental army, and acted as a deputy commissary general, in the year 1779. In this latter situation he committed the most enormous follies ; for finding the good people, his neigh- 142 STOEIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. bours, would not exchange their goods for money that was good for nothing — they were wiser than the present race, notwithstanding the march of mind — he pledged his own responsibility for the supplies, without which, the army at Peeks Kill would have suffered greatly. He was warmly thanked in letters from distinguished persons in the old congress, for people are apt to be grateful in time of danger ; but when at the conclusion of the struggle he presented his accounts, the danger being over, the accounting officers refused to allow a credit for the debts he had incurred on his own responsibility. My father returned home a ruined and broken-hearted man. His old neighbours pitied him, but they could not lose their money. They justly considered, that charity begins at home, and that there was no moral principle, obliging them to starve themselves and their chil- dren, for the sake of other people. I do not blame them. They divided my fathers property between them, and finding there was nothing left, they forgave him the rest of his debts. The con- tractors and commissaries of the day, with great appearance of reason, called him a fool, for ruining himself in a station where every other man manag- ed to grow rich. The old farmers, his neighbours, some of whom are still alive, have often told me that he deserved well of his country; but his THE SICK MAN CURED. 143 name has been smothered under the load of great, good, and patriotic people, that have since sprung up in these times, that try men's soles. My father might have petitioned congress, and died, like poor Amy Dardin and her horse, before the members had finished making their speeches. But he was a cold, proud man, who often went without his dues, because he would not ask for them. He accordingly sat down with his little family around him, steeped in poverty; consoled himself with reading books, and studying the stars, and waited in gloomy inactivity for the time, when a great pocket-book full of continental money, and a few thousand dollars in continental certificates, should become worth something. The continental money, as every body knows, never recovered itself; the certificates were afterwards funded at their full value. But previous to this, my father had, under the strong pressure of necessity, sold them for almost nothing, to a worthy friend of his, who afterwards turned out one of the most eloquent advocates of the Funding System. Heavens ! how did he talk of the sufferings and privations of the patriots of the Revolution ! He certainly owed them a good turn, for he got enough by them to build a palace, and purchase half the Genesee country. At the period of our ruin, I was about ten years 144 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. old, I think, and until that time, I had been brought up as the children of wealthy country gentlemen generally are. I had some of the feel- ings, and a portion of the manners, of a gentle- man's son, which I hope I still retain, although, to say the truth, the latter part of my education was deplorable enough. My father, from the period in which he felt himself dishonoured by the rejection of his accounts, retired within him- self, and seemed benumbed in Tieart and spirits. He passed his whole time in reading the few books that he could come at ; and his temper became im- perturbable, except at such times as he was dis- turbed, and forced to remove from his seat. He would then exhibit symptoms of internal discom- posure, make for the nearest chair, sit himself down, and resume his studies. Half the time he would have forgotten his dinner, had my mother not waked him from his reverie. To be sure, our dinner was hardly worth eating ; but to the best of my recollection, I never enjoyed a better appe- tite, or had so little of the indigestion. We were often on the very verge of want, and had it not been for the exertions of my excellent mother, who, thank God, is still living, and at least ten years younger than I am — aided by the good offices of a sister, well married in the city, we had sometimes actually wanted the necessaries of life. It was not THE SICK MAN CURED. 145 then so much the fashion for genteel people to go begging. But it is astonishing what the presiding genius of a sensible, prudent, industrious mother can do ; what miracles, indeed, she can achieve, in keeping herself, her husband, and her children decent, at least. My mother did all this, and more ; she sent me to school ; and it is not the least of my sources of honest pride, that my edu- cation, such as it was, cost the public nothing. Women, notwithstanding what cynics may say, are born for something better than wasting time and spending money ; and I hereby apprise the reader, that if ever I am guilty of a sarcasm against woman, it is only when I am labouring under the horrors of indigestion. Till the age of sixteen, I never saw the city ; to me it was the region of distant wonders, in- effable splendours, wise men, and beautiful women. I reverenced a New-Yorker, as I now do a person who has been to Paris or Rome ; and I shall never forget my extreme admiration of a fine lady, the daughter of a little tailor, who lived near us. She was an apprentice to a milliner, and came out during the prevalence of the yellow fever, with three band boxes, and a pocket-handkerchief full of finery. The world of romance ; the region of airy nothings ; of creatures that come and go at will, before the youthful fancy, was now just open- vol. i. ir J 46 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. ing before me in long perspective. I was with- out employment, for if my mother had a weak- ness, it was one which I verily believe belongs even to the female angels. She could not forget old times, nor bear the idea that her only son should learn a trade, or follow any useful occu- pation. Deprived thus of the resources of active em- ployment, I spent my time either in reading, or roam- ing at random and unpurposed, through the beau- tiful romantic scenes which surrounded our poor, yet pleasant abode. My mind was a complete con- trast to my body — the latter was indolence itself ; the former a perfect erratic vagrant. I was eter- nally thinking, and doing nothing. The least spark awakened in my mind visions of the future — for that was all to me — and lighted my path through long perspectives of shadowy happiness. Sometimes I was a soldier, winning my way to the highest heaven of military glory; sometimes a poet, the admiration of the fair ; and sometimes I possessed what then seemed to me the sure means of perfect happiness — ten thousand a-year. For days and weeks, and months, and years, I hardly spoke an unnecessary word — I lived in a world of my own, and millions of thoughts, wishes, fears, and hopes; millions of impulses and impressions arose in my mind, and died away, without ever THE SICK MAN CURED. 147 receiving a being through the medium of my tongue or my pen. The first born of the passions is love ; and love is of earlier, as well as more vigorous growth, in solitude. I was always in love with some one ; for love was indispensable to my visionary existence. It ended, however, as it began, in abstract dreams, and amatory reveries. It is now my pride, to know that no woman was ever yet the wiser for my preference. My affection never manifested itself in any other way, than by increasing shyness. I never voluntarily came near a young woman at any time; but when I was in love, I always ran away. I would as soon have met a spirit, as the object of my affections. I was moreover much given to jealousy and pique; always persuading myself, against truth and reason, that the love of which I was myself so conscious, must of necessity be understood by her, from whom I was at such pains to keep it secret. The history of my amours with imaginary mistresses, and mistresses that never imagined my love, is curious ; I may one day give it to the world. But my present object is different. I will therefore only say, that I grew up to the age of seventeen or eighteen, a sheer abstract man — a being of thought, rather than action; a dweller in a world of my own curious and ridiculous composition ; living neither h 2 148 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. in the past or the present, but in the vast space before me. My companions were shadows of my own creation ; my enjoyments were the production of these shadows. Yet, for all this, I became neither mad, nor an idiot. It seemed as if I was all this time preparing myself for realities ; and that my sojournings in the world of fancy, im- perceptibly initiated me into the material world. I cannot otherwise account for my early success in life, nor the miracle of escaping its shoals and quicksands. At the age of seventeen or eighteen, I forget which, I was sent for by an uncle who had mar- ried my mother's sister, and who was a merchant of some note. At one step, I passed from the ideal to the material world. There is but one greater step, and that is from the material world to the world of spirits. My uncle was an honest, liberal, cross, gouty old Irish gentleman, with plenty of relations in Ireland whom he would not acknowledge, though they proved that they sprung from the same family tree. He was an inordinate tory ; a member of the Belvidere Club, and a mighty fish-eater at Becky's. When I first went to live with him, he was getting rather old and infirm. His hair was as white as snow ; his face as rosy as the sun in a mist ; his body robust to all appearance, and had it not been for his " d d THE SICK MAN CURED. 149 legs," as he was pleased to say, he would have been as good a man as he was twenty years ago. There is certainly a great change in the world, within the last half-century. People lived at least as well as they do now, and only got the gout — now they get indigestion. Can any learned phy- sician tell me the reason of this emigration of the old enemy, from the great toe to the stomach ? The old gentleman had a heart big enough to hold all the world, except the French, the demo- crats, and the multiplicity of cousins, and second cousins, who claimed kindred there, and had not their claims allowed. He had, in truth, a most intolerable contempt for poor relations. I believe he would have served his wife's family the same way, but the truth is, my aunt was — but it is a great secret — she could make him do just as she pleased, for she w r as the best-natured creature in the world, and none but a brute can resist a kind-hearted woman. Being a relation, I was treated with a seat at the dinner-table. The old gentleman was reckoned one of the best livers in town, and here it was, I believe, that I laid the corner-stone of my miseries. At home, there had been no temptation to gluttony — here there was a sad succession of allurements, such as human nature seldom can resist, even when experience has demonstrated their ill consequences, and 150 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. Death sits shaking his dart over every successive delicacy. People talk of the mischiefs of drinking ; invent remedies and preventives, and institute societies, as if eating was not ten times more pernicious. There are a hundred die of eating to one that dies of drinking. But gluttony is the vice of gentlemen, and gentlemanly vices require neither remedies, preventives, nor societies. It is not necessary to my purpose that I should make a book out of my apprenticeship, as Goethe has ; nor am I writing the history of my uncle, else I might tell some fine Stories of his life, actions, and end. His latter years were spent as usual, in paying the penalty of former indulgences, and a complication of disorders carried him off in a green old age. In three months from the time of his death, half the county of Kil- kenny claimed kindred with him. There were so many different claimants, that nobody but the law- yers could settle the matter. After three or four years, a decision was finally had in favour of a young man, who, on taking possession, had the mortification to discover that nothing was left. The law had become my uncle's heir. It is an ex- cellent thing to have plenty of laws and courts of law; but then one can have too much of a good thing and pay too much for it, Tournefort, in his tra- vels to the East, says, " An Italian once told me at THE SICK MAN CURED. 151 Constantinople, that we should be very happy in Europe, if we could appeal from our courts to the divan ; ' for,' added he, ' one might go to Con- stantinople, and all over Turkey too if there were occasion, before one suit could be finally decided in Europe. 1 A Turk, 1 ' continues M. Tournefort, " pleading before the parliament of Provence, against a merchant of Marseilles, who had led him a dance for many years from court to court, made a very merry reply to one of his friends, who de- sired to know the state of his affairs. ' Why they are wonderfully altered,' says he : ' when I first arrived here, I had a roll of pistoles as long as my arm, and my pleadings were comprised in a single sheet ; but at present I have a writing above six times as long as my arm, and my roll of pistoles is but half an inch. ,r> I wish the lawgivers, the judges, and more especially the lawyers, would recollect that time is money, and that to waste both the time and the money of suitors, is a double op- pression. A man might better get the bastinado promptly, though wrongfully sometimes, than wait seven years for his rights, as in some Christian countries. The death of my uncle was a lucky affair for me, as by it I lost the mischievous allurements of his table, and was thrown upon my own resources for a livelihood. Hard days make soft nights ; and 152 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. I soon found that the necessity of exertion, and the occasional difficulties in procuring a dinner, soon reinstated me in the possession of the only inherit- ance I received from my father, a hale constitution. It was my good fortune, as the world would call it, to meet with a young man of capital, who wanted a partner skilled in the business my uncle had fol- lowed. We accordingly entered into partnership, and our business proved exceedingly profitable. In a few years, I had more money than I required for my wants, and with the necessity of exertion ceased the inclination. When a man has been toiling for years to get rich, and dreaming all the while that riches will add to his enjoyments, he must try and realize his dreams, after his exertions have been crowned with success. I had proposed to myself a life of ease and luxury, as the reward of all my labours. Accordingly, finding myself sufficiently wealthy, I retired from the firm as an active part- ner, continuing, however, my name to the con- nexion, and receiving a share of the profits, in re- turn for the use of my capital. I am now my own master, said I, as I shook the dust of the counting-house from my feet. I can do as I please, and go where I please. Now a man that has but one thing to do, and one place to go to, can never be in the predicament of the animal between two bundles of hay ; nor puzzled THE SICK MAN CURED. 153 to death in the midst of conflicting temptations. At first, I thought of going to Europe ; but before I could make up my mind, the packet had sailed, and before another was ready I had altered my mind. Next, I decided for the Springs ; then for the Branch ; then for Sehooley's mountain, and then, in succession, for every other " resort of beauty and fashion," in these United States. In conclusion I went to none of them. I made but two excursions : one to the Fireplace, to catch trout, where I caught an ague ; and the other to Sing Sing, to see the new state prison, where I missed the ague and caught a bilious fever. Thus the summer passed away, and I may say I did no- thing but eat. That is an enjoyment, in which both ease and luxury are combined, and my indisposition had left behind a most voracious appetite. Towards the latter end of autumn, I began to feel, I can scarcely tell how. I slept all the evening, and lay awake all the night ; or if I fell asleep, always dreamed I was suffocating between two feather beds. I was plagued worse than poor Pharaoh. I had aches of all sorts : stiff necks, pains in the shoulders, sides, back, loins, head, breast ; in short, there never was a man so capriciously used by cer- tain inexplicable, unaccountable infirmities as I was. I dare say I had often felt the same pains h5 154 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. before, without thinking of them, because I was too busy to mind trifles ; for it is a truth which my ±. experience has since verified, that the most ordinary evils of life are intolerable, without the stimulus of some active pursuit, to draw us from their per- petual contemplation. What was very singular, I never lost my appetite all this time, but ate more plentifully than ever. Indeed eating was almost the only amusement I had, ever since I became a man of pleasure ; and it was only while eating, that I lost the sense of those innumerable pains that tormented me at other times. I went to a physician, who gave me directions as to the various modes of treatment in these cases. " You are troubled with indigestion ," said he, " and you must either eat less, take more exercise, take physic, or be sick. v> As to eating less, that was out of the question. What is the use of being rich, unless a man can eat as much as he likes ? as to ex- ercise, what is the use of being rich, if a man can't be as lazy as he pleases ? The alternative lay be- tween being sick or taking physic, and I chose the latter. The physician shook his head and smiled ; but it is not the doctor's business to discourage the taking of physic, and he prescribed accordingly. I took medicines, I ate more than ever, and what quite discouraged me, I grew worse and worse. I THE SICK MAN CURED. 155 sent for the doctor again. " You have tried physic in vain ; suppose you try exercise on horseback," said he. I bought a horse, cantered away every morning like a hero, and ate more than ever ; for what was the use of exercise except to give one impunity in eating ? I never worked half so hard when I was an apprentice, and not worth a groat, as I did now that I was a gentleman of ease and luxury. It was necessary, the doctor said, that the horse should be a hard trotter ; and accordingly I bought one that trotted so hard, that he actually broke the paving stones in Broadway, and struck fire at every step. O, reader ! gentle reader, if thou art of Christian bowels, pity me ! I was dislocated in every joint, and sometimes envied St. Barnabas his gridiron. But I will confess that the remedy proved not a little efficacious, and it is my firm opinion, that had I persevered, I should have been cured in time, had I not taken up a mistaken notion, that a man who took a great deal of exercise, might safely eat a great deal. Accordingly, I ate by the mile, and every mile I rode furnished an apology for a far- ther indulgence of appetite. The exercise and the eating being thus balanced, I remained just where I was before. I sent for the physician again. " You have tried medicine and exercise, suppose you try a regimen. 156 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. Continue the exercise ; eat somewhat less ; confine yourself to plain food, plainly dressed ; abstain from rich sauces, all sorts of spices, pastes, confec- tionaries, and puddings, particularly plumb pud- dings, and generally, every kind of luxury; and drink only a glass or two of wine." " Why, zounds ! doctor, I might as well be a poor man at once ! Why, what is the use of being rich, if I can't eat and drink, and do just as I like ? Be- sides, I am particularly fond of sauces, spices, and plumb puddings." " Why, so you may do as you like," replied he, smiling. " You have your choice between indi- gestion and all these good things." The doctor left me to take my choice; and after great and manifold doubts, resolutions and retrac- tions, I decided on trying the effects of this most nauseating remedy. I practised the most rigid self-denial ; tasted a little of tlvs, a very little of that, a morsel of the other, and ate moderately of every thing on the table; cheating myself occa- sionally by tasting slyly a bit of confectionary, or a slice of plumb pudding. Now and then, indeed, when I felt better than usual, I indulged more freely, as indeed I had a right to do ; for what is the use of starving at one time, except to enable oneself to indulge at another? The physician came one day to dine with me at my boarding THE SICK MAN CURED. 157 house, the most famous eating place in the whole city, and the most capital establishment for the disorder which afflicted me. He came, he said, on purpose to see how I followed his prescription. I was extremely abstinent that day, only eating a mouthful of every thing, now and then. The doctor, I observed, played a glorious knife and fork, and seemed to be particularly fond of rich sauces, spices, paste, and plumb pudding. " Well, doctor ," said I, after the rest of the company had retired, " am not I a hero — a perfect anchorite ?" " My dear sir," said he, " I took the trouble to count every mouthful. You have eaten twice as much as an ordinary labourer, and tasted of every thing on the table." " But only tasted, doctor; while you — you — gave me a most edifying example. Faith, you displayed a most bitter antipathy to pies, cus- tards, rich sauces, and most especially, plumb pudding." " My dear Ambler," said the doctor, " you are to follow my prescriptions, not my example. But by the way, that was delightful wine, that last bottle — Bingham, or Marston, hey ?" I took the hint, and sent for another bottle, which we discussed equally between us, glass for 158 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. glass. I felt so well, I sent for another, and we discussed that too. " My dear fellow," said the doctor, who by this time saw double, " my dear friend, mind, don't forget my prescription ; no sauces, no spices, no paste, no plumb pudding, and above all, no wine. Adieu. I am going to a consultation."" That night I suffered martyrdom ; night-mare, dreams, and visions of horror. A grinning villain came, and seizing me by the toe, exclaimed, " I am Gout ; I come to avenge the innocent calves who have suffered in forced-meat balls, and mock turtle, for your gratifi cation. " Another blear-eyed, sneering rogue, gave me a box on the ear, that stung through every nerve, crying out, " I am Catarrh, come to take satisfaction for the wine you drank yesterday ;" while a third, more hideous than the other two, a miserable, cadaverous, long- faced fiend, came up, touching me into a thousand various pains, and crying in a hollow, despairing voice, " I am Indigestion ; come to punish you for the gluttony of yesterday."" I awoke next morning in all the horrors of the last-mentioned fiend, which lasted several days, during which time I made divers excellent resolutions, forswear- ing wine, particularly old wine, most devoutly. This time, however, I had one consolation. The THE SICK MAN CURED. 159 doctor and not I was to blame. It was he that led me into excesses for which I was now paying the penalty. I felt quite indignant. " I'll let him know," said I, " that I am my own master ; and not to be forced to drink against my inclina- tion." So I discharged the doctor who set me such a bad example; and called in three more, being pretty well assured that I should now hear all sides of the question. Professional men sel- dom or ever agree perfectly in opinion, because that would indicate that neither has an opinion of his own. They retired into my dressing-room, forgetting to shut the door. Doctors in consulta- tion should always make sure to shut the door. " He wants excitement," said Doctor Calomel, a thunderbolt of science ; " there is — that is to say, the bile has got the better of the blood*, and the phlegm has overpowered the atrabile — they are struggling like fury for the upper hand. We must give him a dose of calomel." " Not at all," quoth Doctor Jalap ; whose great excellence consisted in the number of capital letters he carried at the tail of his name, insomuch that he was called the Professor of A. B. C. — " not at all — the salt, sulphur, and mercury which Paracel- sus affirms constitute the matter of all animal bodies, are in a state of disorganization. We must therefore give him two doses of calomel." 160 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. What a pieee of work is man ! — thought I — " salt, sulphur, and mercury !" " The body being an hydraulic engine," quoth Doctor Rhubarb, who valued himself on his theory, " the body being an hydraulic engine, our reme- dies must be founded on the laws of magnitude and motion ; we must therefore give him three doses of calomel in succession ; the first to increase the mag- nitude of the stomach, the others, to cause motion." "Pish," quoth Doctor Calomel, " what nonsense is this, about salt, sulphur, and mercury : Paracel- sus was a fool." " 'Sdeath," cried Doctor Jalap, he always swore by his old friend ; " 'sdeath ! sir, if you come to that, sir, what nonsense is this, about bile, and phlegm, and atrabile; and you, sir," turning to Doctor Rhubarb, " with your hydraulic machine, you might as well call a man a forcing pump at once. Hippocrates was a great blockhead, and knew nothing of chemistry ; and so was Meade, Borelli, and the rest of the hydraulic machines." The debate was getting hot, when Doctor Jalap, who was a man of great skill and experience in his profession, interposed the olive branch. " Gentlemen," said the doctor, nothing weak- ens the influence of the profession, and destroys the confidence of the public in medicine, so much as the opposite opinions of physicians. Where is THE SICK MAN CURED. 161 the use of quarrelling about the disease, when we all agree in the remedy ?" So they ordered the calomel. But it would not do, though I continued my system of abstinence, and only barely tasted a little of every thing ; at the same time compro- mising matters with my conscience, by drinking twelve half glasses of wine, instead of six whole ones. The doctors, on the whole, did me more harm than good. Their different opinions had conjured up a hundred chimeras in my fancy, and inflicted on me a host of new complaints I never felt before. Sometimes the conflicts of the bile and the phlegm, turned every thing topsy-turvy ; anon the salt, sulphur, and mercury, fell together by the ears ; and, lastly, the hydraulic machine got terribly out of order. It was no joke then, though now I can look back upon these horrors, as on a sea of ills, that I have safely passed over. My spirits began to sink ; for I considered that I had now tried all remedies, and that my case was hopeless. The fear of death, swelled into a gi- gantic and disproportioned magnitude of evil, came upon me. I never heard of a person dying of a disease, let it be what it would, that I did not make that the bugbear of my imagination, and feel all the symptoms appropriate to it. Thus I had by turns, all the diseases under the sun ; sometimes 162 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. separately, sometimes all together. The sound of a church bell, conjured up the most gloomy asso- ciations, and the sight of a churchyard withered every feeling of hilarity in my bosom. In short, there were moments of my life, when I could fully comprehend the paradox of a human being seeking death, as a relief from its perpetual appre- hension, as the bird flies into the maw of the ser- pent, from the mere fascination of terror. It is one of the most melancholy features of the disease under which I laboured, that it creates a most disproportioned apprehension of death; a vague and horrible exaggeration, if possible, ten times worse than the reality. In most other dis- orders the pain of the body supersedes that of the mind; in this, the mind predominates over the body, and the sense of apprehension of the future, swallows up the present entirely. This was the case with me; and often have I welcomed an acute fit of rheumatism, or cholic, as a present cure for anticipated evils. I had another enemy to con- tend with, and that was the want of sympathy. People laughed at my complaints, when they saw me eat my meals with so good an appetite ; for the world seldom gives a man credit for ailing any thing, when he can eat his allowance; nor is it easy to persuade the vulgar that there is such a disease as appetite. Besides, a man who is always THE SICK MAN CURED. 163 complaining, and never seeming to grow worse, is enough to tire the patience of Job, much more of such friends as Job and most afflicted people are blessed with. My mind was in a perpetual state of fluctuation. One day I threw all my phials, and boxes, and doses into the street, determined to take no more physic ; and the next, perhaps, sent for some more, and renewed my potions. I had lost, by this time, all confidence in physicians, but still continued to believe in physic. For a while, white mustard seed was a treasure to me ; and such was my firm reliance on its won- derful virtues, that I actually indulged myself in a few extra glasses, and a few extra luxuries on the credit of its prospective operation. I read all the guides to health, and all the Lectures of Mr. Abernethy. In short, I took every means but the only proper ones, to effect a cure. I proportioned my eating and other indulgences, to my faith in the workings of my favourite panacea. When I took a dose of physic, I considered myself as fairly entitled to take a small liberty the day after ; and when I rode or walked farther than usual, I made the old wine, and the sauces, and plumb pudding pay for it. It was thus that I managed to keep myself in a perfect equilibrium, and like another Penelope, undid in the afternoon the work of the morning. I found, after all, no- I6i STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. thing did me so much good as laughing; but, alas ! what was there for me to laugh at in this world? The summer of my second year of ease and luxury, I was advised to go to the Springs, where all the doctors send those patients who get out of patience at not being cured in a reasonable time. Here I found several companions in affliction, and was mightily comforted to learn that some of them had been in their present state almost a score of years, without ever dying at all. We talked over our infirmities, and I found there was a wonderful family resemblance in them all, for not one of us could give a tolerable account of his symptoms. One was bilious, another rheumatic, a third was nervous, and a fourth was all these put together. " Why don't you take exercise in the open air ?" said I, to this last martyr, one day. " I catch cold, and that brings on my rheuma- tism. ,, " In the house then ?" " It makes me nervous." " Why don't you sit still ?" "It makes me bilious." I thank my stars, thought I, here is a man to grow happy upon; he is worse off than myself. He became my favourite companion ; and no one can tell how much better I felt in his society. THE SICK MAX CURED. 165 We formed a select coterie, and managed to sit next each other at meals, where we discussed the subject of digestion. We were all blessed with excellent appetites, and particularly fond of the things that did not agree with us. " Really, Mr. Butterfield, you are eating the very worst thing on the table." " I know it, my dear sir, but I am so fond of It." " My good friend, Mr. Creamwell, how can you taste that hot bread?" " My dear sir, don't you see I only eat the crust." " Let me advise you not to try that green corn, Mr. Ambler. It is the worst thing in the world for bilious people." " I know it, my dear Abstract, but I always take good care to chew, before I swallow it." Thus we went on, discussing and eating, and I particularly noticed that every one ate what he preferred, because the fact was, he was so particu- larly fond of that particular dish, he could not help indulging in it sometimes. However, we talked a great deal on the subject of diet, and not a man of us but believed himself a pattern of ab- stinence. I continued my custom of riding every fair day, and occasionally met a fat lady fagging along on a little fat pony, with a fat servant be- 166 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. hind her. One day when it was excessively hot, I could not help asking her how she could think of riding out in the broiling sun. " O, sir, the doctors order it." I happened to see her at dinner that day, and did not wonder at it. I passed my time rather pleasantly here with my companions in misfortune. We i exchanged notes ; compared our infirmities, and gave a full and true history of their rise, progress, and pre- sent state, always leaving out the eating. By de- grees I became versed in the history of each. One was a literary man, and a poet. He set out in life, with the necessity of economy and exer- tion, and practised a laborious profession for some years, when by great good fortune, he made a lucky speculation, that enabled him to lead a life of ease and luxury. He devoted him- self to the muses, and gained enough of reputa- tion, as he said, to make him indifferent to a thing which he perceived came and went by chance or fashion. However, he did not make this disco- very until after several of his works had been con- demned to oblivion. Not having the stimulative of necessity, and without the habit of being busy about nothing, than which none can be more essential to a life of ease and luxury, he gradually sunk into indifference and lassitude. He finally THE SICK MAN CURED. 167 took to eating, and for want of some other object, came at last to consider his dinner as the most important affair of life. By degrees, he lost his spirits and health, and came to the Springs to recover them. " I ought to be happy," said he, " for I have an ample sufficiency of money, and as for fame, I look to posterity -for that." The next person of our coterie, was a man who in like manner had begun the world, a hardy, yet honest adventurer. By dint of unwearied perse- verance and the exertion of his excellent faculties, he had risen, step by step, on the ladder of the world, until at the age of fifty, he was in posses- sion of a fair estate, and an unsullied name. But he was sorely disappointed to find that what he had been all his life seeking, was in fact a shadow. This is the common error of sanguine tempers: they first exaggerate the object of their pursuit, and then quarrel with it because it does not realize their expectations. " I have all I ever proposed to myself in pursuing the means of happiness," said he ; " and for aught I can remember, I was happier in what I sought, than in what I found. I will retire from these vain pursuits and pass the rest of my life in ease and luxury." Accordingly he settled himself down, and having nothing else to think of in the morning, his time hung heavy on 168 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. him till dinner. Of consequence, he began to long for dinner time ; and of course, dinner became an object of great consequence. It was an era, in the four and twenty hours, and you may rely on it, gentle reader, it was properly solemnized. There are no people that eat so much as the idle. The savage, basking in the sun all day with his pipe, eats thrice as much, when he can get it, as the industrious labourer. The necessary conse- quences of high feeding, connected with inaction of body and mind, made their appearance in good time, and my friend was pronounced bilious. Having in the course of three years consult- ed twenty-five doctors ; taken a half bushel of white mustard ; fifty kegs of Jamison's bilious crackers, and swallowed six hundred doses of various kinds in vain, (for he still continued to have a glorious appetite,) he at last came to the Springs, where- 1 had the happiness to meet him. " I am indifferent to the world, 11 said he, after finishing the sketch ; " I am indifferent to the world and all it contains.'" " Then why do you take such pains to live?" 1 " I don't know," said he, with a melancholy smile : " I sometimes think Providence implanted in our hearts the fear of death, in order to enable us to endure the ills of life, without fleeing to the grave for a refuge. 11 THE SICK MAN CURED. 169 Another of my new friends was brought up to politics, a profession rather overstocked at present. I will not enter into particulars, but merely state that after scuffling at meetings; declaiming at polls ; clinging to the skirts of great men ; fag- ging at their errands ; doing for them what they were ashamed of doing for themselves ; and sacri- ficing all private, social, and domestic duties to his party principles, he at length attained an honourable public station, which, being permanent, he flattered himself would secure him an indepen- dency for life. He accordingly discontinued his active exertions, and confined himself to the labo- rious idleness and desperate monotony of his office, which although it did not furnish employment, enforced the necessity of constant attendance. He grew lazy, idle, and luxurious. The morning was too long for his occupations, and the usual conse- quences ensued ; he waited for his dinner, and made his dinner pay for it. In this way he con- tinued, increasing in riches and complaining of his health ; passing through the various stages of indigestion, from the doctor to the horse ; from the horse to the white mustard, the blue pills, and Abernethy ; to every thing, in short, but the right one. A sudden summerset of party, in which all his friends turned their coats but him- self, brought him in jeopardy of office. They all VOL. I. i 170 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. insisted he had deserted his party, when the fact was, his party had deserted him, as he solemnly assured me. Be this as it may, as his appoint- ment was for life, and they could not get rid of the incumbent, they got at him in another way ; they abolished the office, a cunning invention of modern politicians. Having nothing to keep him in town, he came to the Springs to nurse his in- digestion, and rail at the ingratitude of republics. There is but one more of the party to be men- tioned. He was the gentleman of all work, and whose diseases were so provokingly contrasted, that what was good for one, was bad for the other. Being one day interrogated on the subject, he be- gan:— " I was born in the lap of — " here he yawned pathetically, " and I shall die in the arms of — "" here he gave another great yawn, " but really gentlemen, I feel so nervous, and bilious, and rheumatic this morning — I am sure the wind is easterly — pray excuse me — some other time." So saying, he yawned once more, and went to see which way the wind blew. My readers, if they are such readers as alone I address myself to, in looking back to the progress of whatever wisdom and experience, time and opportunity may have bestowed on them, will have observed that a particular branch of know- THE SICK MAN CURED. 171 ledge, or a special conviction of the understand- ing, will often baffle our pursuit for a long while. We grope in the dark — we lose ourselves — and lose sight of the object of our pursuit— yet still we are gaining upon it unknown and imperceptibly to ourselves. The light is hidden, though just at hand, and finally, all at once bursts upon us, illu- minates the mind, and brings with it the full, perfect perception. Thus was it with me. I had read all the most approved books, to come at the mvstery of a man being always sick, and always hungry ; and I had taken all the steps, save one, which they recommended, either as cures or pal- liatives. I was still in the dark, but I was ap- proaching the light. The history of my com- plaining friends, at once put me upon the right path. I saw in them what I could not see in my- self. On comparing their auto-biographies — odious clumsy word ! — I could not but perceive a family likeness in all. They had commenced the world with active, ardent pursuits before them, and were all too busy as well as too poor in their youth, to become gluttons; and again they had each, with- out exception, attained, at mid age, the means of enjoying a life of luxury and ease. They had ar- rived at stations, in which they could enjoy both, without the necessity of exertion, either of body i 2 172 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. or mind, and they did enjoy them. But they wanted something still — they wanted a hobby- horse, a stimulant of some kind or other, sufficient- ly ardent to carry their minds along without drag- ging on the ground, and wearing them out with the labour of nothingness. They were in the situation of a pair of fat pampered horses, belong- ing to a friend of mine, a great mathematician, who though he kept a carriage, never rode in it. Of course they got plump, clumsy, and unhealthy; and never were used without either falling lame, or tumbling on their knees. My friend cast about for a remedy, and at length hit upon one worthy of a philosopher. He invented a machine, which being fastened to the axle tree of his carriage, made an excellent corn-mill, and sent his horses out every day to take an airing, and grind their own corn. The friction of the machine created a wholesome necessity for exertion in the horses, which in a little time became perfectly service- able, active, and sprightly. My companions in misery only wanted to be under the necessity of grinding their own corn, and like the horses of my friend, the mathematician, to combine the pleasure of eating, with the labour of earning a meal. Next to this necessity for exertion, is a hobby ; a pursuit of some kind or other, something to THE SICK MAN CURED. 173 awake the sleeping mind, if it be only to get up and play puss in a corner. I know a worthy gen- tleman, who has kept off ennui and its twin sister, the bile, by a habit of going every day round all the docks, counting the vessels, and reading the names on the stern. He came nigh being drowned the other day, in leaning over the edge of a wharf, to find out the name of a beautiful new ship. Another distances the foul fiend, which is as lazy as a pampered house dog, by walking up one street and down another, examining all the new houses that are building, counting the number of rooms, closets, and pantries, and noting divers other particulars. He can describe the marble man- tel-pieces of every new house in town. But in my opinion, the wisest of all my friends, was a wealthy idler, who was fast sinking into the embraces of the besetting fiend of the age. He all at once bethought himself of altering his dinner hour, and afterwards went about telling it to all his friends. Let not the dingy moralists, who send out their decrees for the acquisition of happiness, from the depths of darkness, and know no more of the world than a ground mole, turn up their noses at these my especial friends. Did they know what they ought to know, before they set themselves up as teachers; did they only know that when men have made their fortunes by indus- 174 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. try and economy, when they have paid their debt J to society in useful and honourable pursuits, there comes a time when the bow must be unstrung, when amusements, or at least light occupations become indispensable, and trifles assume the im- portance, because they exercise the influence of weighty circumstances on our happiness. It is then that he who can find out an innocent mode of living, and innocent sources of amusement, which interfere with no one's happiness, and con- tribute to his own; which keep his mind from preying on itself, and his body healthy, is better entitled to the honours of philosophy than inex- perienced people are aware. What would have been the effect of the new light which had thus broke in upon me, whether habit would have yielded to conviction, or whe- ther, as is generally the case with old offenders, I should have continued to act against my better reason, I know not. Happily, as I now know, I was not left to decide for myself; fortune took the affair in her own hands. I one morning re- ceived a letter apprising me of the failure of our house, and the probable ruin it would bring upon myself. That very day I set out for the city, with a vigour and activity beyond all praise, and pro- ceeded directly on without stopping by the way, or once thinking of my digestion. THE SICK MAN CURED. 175 " Adieu," said the poet, as I took leave of him, " never trust to the present age, but look to pos- terity for your reward." " Farewell, 11 said the despiser of this world, " take care of your health, and never eat sau- sages. 1 ' " Good bye,* 1 said the politician, " beware of the ingratitude of republics. 1 ' " Day, day, Mr. Ambler, 11 said the nervous gen- tleman, " can you tell me which way the wind blows ? I wish you all hap — V here he was beset by a yawn which lasted till I was in my carriage, and on the way to the city. Arriving in town, I plunged into a sea of troubles. The younger partner of our house, being in a hurry to grow rich, had encouraged a habit of speculating, which unfortunately for us all, produced a pernicious habit of gambling in schemes of vast magnitude. Having thrown doublets two or three times in succession, he did not, like a wise calculator, conclude that his luck must be nearly exhausted, and retire from the game with his winnings. He doubled again, and lost all. I will not fatigue my readers with the details of a bankruptcy of this kind. It will be sufficient to say, that I took the business directly in hand ; nearly deranged my head in arranging my affairs, and, by dint of extraordinary industry, 176 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. and I will say extraordinary integrity, managed to do what only three men before me in similar cir- cumstances had ever done in this city, since the landing of Hendrick Hudson. I paid the debts of the firm to the last farthing, leaving myself nothing but a good name, a good conscience, and a large farm in the very centre of the Highlands. I worked every day in the business like a hero, and took no care what I should eat, or what I should drink. My mind was fully occupied, and I was perpetually running about, or examining into my affairs at the count- ing house. I went to pay off my last and greatest debt, to my last creditor, a hard featured, hard working, gigantic Scotsman, who had the reputation of being a most inflexible dealer. When all was settled, he said — " Mr. Ambler, of course you mean to begin business again. Remember that my credit, aye, sir, my purse, is at your service. You have gained my confidence." " I thank you, Mr. Hardup," replied I, " warm- ly, sincerely ; for I know you are sincere in your offers. But I mean to retire into the country with what I have saved from the wreck of my fortune. I am tired of business, and too poor to be idle. I have a farm in the mountains, which, I thank God, THE SICK MAN CURED. 1?7 is mine ; for my creditors are all paid. You, sir, are the last."" " Very well, very well," replied Mr. Hardup, stumping about as was his custom, " but is your farm stocked, and all that ?" I was obliged to answer in the negative. It was almost in a state of nature. Mr. Hardup said nothing more, and I bade him farewell with a feeling of indignation at his idle inquiries. The next day I received the following note, enclosing a check for a sum which I shall not mention : — " Sir — You must have something to stock your farm. Pay the enclosed when you are able. I shall come and see you one of these days, when you are settled. Send me neither receipt nor thanks for the money. There is more where that came from. You have gained my confidence, I repeat again ; and no man ever gained, without I hope being better for it, sooner or later. " Your friend and servant, Alexander Hardup."" " P. S. — Get up early in the morning, see to matters yourself ; and never buy any thing dear except a good name. A. H." A worthy man was this Mr. Hardup ; and I i5 178 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. shall never, while I live, again judge of any body by the expression of the face, or the common report of the world. It was in the spring of the year 1818, that I bade adieu to the city, and went to take possession of my farm, where I arrived, just when the sun was gilding the mountain tops with his retreating rays, as he sunk behind the equally high hills on the opposite side of the river. The scene, indeed, was beautiful to look at, but by no means en- couraging to a man who was going to sit down here, and labour for a livelihood. I was received by an old man and his wife, who had occupied my farm a long time, at a very moderate rent, which they never paid. The aspect of the house was melancholy. Broken windows, broken chairs, and a broken table. But there was plenty of fresh air, and I slept that night on a straw bed, and studied astronomy through the holes in the roof. The dead silence, too, that reigned in this lonely retreat, contrasted with the ceaseless racket of the town, to which I had been so long accus- tomed, had a mournful effect on my spirits, and disposed my mind to gloomy thoughts of the future. The fatigue of my journey, however, at last overpowered me, and I fell asleep with the certainty of waking next morning with some terri- ble malady, arising from my exposed situation. THE SICK MAN CURED. 179 It is a singular fact, that I slept that night more sweetly than I had done ever since I determined upon the enjoyment of a life of luxury and ease ; and what is equally singular, I waked early in the morning, without either a sore throat, a swelled face, or a rheumatic headache. I am certain of this, for I felt my throat, shook my head to hear if it cracked, and looked in a bit of glass, to see if my face retained its true proportions. I confess, I was rather disappointed. & But never mind," thought I, " I shall certainly pay for it to-morrow." The morrow came, however, and I was again disappointed. I was sure it would come the next day. But wonderful as it may seem, I thought I felt better than when I had slept in a feather bed, and a close room warmed with sea coal. I began to be encouraged, and by degrees became reconciled to the enormity of sleeping on a straw bed, in a room where the air was playing about in zephyrs, without catching cold. My reader, if he chance to be in the enjoyment of ease and luxury, will shrink with horror from my dinners, which consisted of a piece of salt pork and potatoes for the first course, and some bread and butter, or bread and milk, for the dessert. At first, I was certain the pork would produce indigestion ; but I suppose as there was nothing particularly inviting 180 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. in it, I did not eat enough to do me any harm, for I certainly felt as light as a feather after my meals, and, instead of dozing away an hour in a chair, was ready for exercise at a minute's warning. The old couple welcomed me to my " nice place," and were exceedingly eloquent in praise of my nice, comfortable house, the nice pork, the bread and butter and the milk, all equally " nice." By degrees I began to be infected with their un- affected content, and sometimes actually caught myself enjoying the scanty comforts before me. I did not reason on the matter, and cudgel myself into an unwilling submission to necessity : but I benefited by the example of the honest old couple, without reasoning at all about it. Reason and precept are a sort of pedagogues, that, at best, but bring about a grumbling acquiescence ; but ex- ample comes in the shape of a gentle guide, him- self pursuing the right way, and not commanding us to follow, but beckoning us on with smiles. I confess, when I looked around on my demesne, I despaired of ever bringing it into order, beauty, or productiveness. I knew not the magic of labour and perseverance ; nor did I dream that the fields around me, which seemed only fruitful in rocks and stones, could ever be made to ^ave in golden grain, or green meadows. The only spot of all my extensive estate that seemed susceptible of im- THE SICK MAN CURED. 181 provement, was about twenty acres that lay directly before my door, between two shelving rocky moun- tains, and through which ran a little brook of clear spring water. But even this was so sprinkled with rocks which had rolled down from the neigh- Iwuring hills, that it was sufficiently discouraging to a man who had for several years worn spatter- dashes, because he shrunk from pulling on his boots. I spent a month nearly in pondering on what I should first undertake, and ended in despairing to undertake any thing. One day I was leaning over the bars, at the entrance to my house, when a tall raw-boned figure, with hardly an ounce of flesh to his complement, came riding along, on a horse as hardy and raw- boned as himself. He stopt at the bars, and bade ine good morning. In justice to myself, I must say, that though proud enough in all conscience, I am not one of those churls, who, because they have a better coat to their backs, which, by the way, often belongs to the tailor, think themselves entitled to receive the honest salute of an honest man, with coldness or contempt. Beshrew such arrant blockheads, they call this vulgar inso- lence, when, in fact, it is the impulse of nature whispering to the inmost man, that there is nothing in outward circumstances, or the difference of wealth or dress, which places one being so high 182 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. above another, that he must not speak to him, when they happen to meet or be thrown together. Even when I was enjoying a life of luxury and ease, and possessed of great wealth, it was a plea- sure to me to talk with these honest fellows in linsey wolsey ; and I will here bear this testimony, that I have gained from them more practical knowledge, heard more plain good sense, and caught more valuable hints for the government and enjoyment of life, than I ever did from all the phi- losophers I ever conversed with, or all the books I ever read. " Good morning, good morning," said the tall man on the tall horse ; and " good morning, good morning," replied I, repeating my salutation twice, not to be outdone in courtesy. " I believe you don't know me," said he, after a short pause, which, short as it was, proved the longest he ever afterwards made in his conversa- tions with me. " I believe you don't know me ; my name is Lightly, and I am your next neigh- bour over the mountain yonder." " And my name is Ambler," said I ; "and I am heartily glad to have you for a neighbour. Won't you alight ?" " Why, I don't care if I do ; it was partly my business to come and have a talk with you." Mr. Lightly accordingly dismounted, and fasten- THE SICK MAN CURED. 183 ing his horse under a tree, to protect him from the sun, which was waxing hot, followed me into the house. After taking something, he looked about, first at one mountain, then at another, and at length began, " A rough country this you Ve got into, Mr. Ambler ?" " Very,' 1 replied I ; "so rough, that I am afraid I shall never make any part of it smooth." " No r said Mr. Lightly, " why not P " Look at the trees." " You must cut them down." " Look at the rocks." " You must grub them up, they'll make excel- lent stone walls." " Doubtless, if I had the people who piled Ossa on Pelion to assist me." Mr. Lightly had never read the history of the great rebellion of the Giants, and rather stared at me. " But," added I, M do you really think I can make any thing out of these mountains ?" " Do I ?" said he ; " only come over and see me to-morrow, and I will give you proof of it ; but no, now I think of it, not to-morrow, the day after. I am going to walk to Poughkeepsie to- morrow, and sha'nt't be back till sun-down." " Poughkeepsie !" cried I, " and back again in one day : why 'tis sixty miles ; you mean you'll be back the evening after to-morrow." 184 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. " No, I don't: I mean to-morrow evening, God willing ; but my days are much longer than your's."" !' I should think so : you mean to make the sun stand still, like Joshua." " No, I don't ; though my name is Joshua. I mean to be up at the first crowing of an old cock, that never sleeps after three in the morning, in summer." " But you 've got a horse ; why don't you ride? 1 ' " O, that would take me two days ; and I can't well spare the time. I never ride when I 'm in a hurry." So saying, Mr. Lightly, after taking my pro- mise to come over the day after to-morrow, took his departure, leaving me to ponder on the vast improbability of a man walking to Poughkeepsie, and back again in one day. If he does, thought I, I shall begin to believe in the seven-league boots. The next morning but one, accordingly, my old man guided me by a winding path, to the summit of the mountain, and pointing to a comfortable- looking house, surrounded by a large barn, and other out-houses, standing in the midst of green meadows and cultivated fields, told me that was the place to which I was going. As I paused awhile to contemplate the little rural landscape, I could not help wishing that it had pleased Providence to cast my lot where the rocks were so scarce, and the THE SICK MAN CURED. 185 meadows so green. Lightly saw me at the top of the hill, and making some half a dozen long strides with his long legs, met me more than half way up the mountain side. " Good morning, good morning," said he, re- peating it twice; for I soon found he was very fond of talking, and often repeated the same thing to keep himself going. I returned his salutation, adding, " I see you have got back." " O yes ; but not quite so soon as I calculated. I went about four miles out of my way, to bring home my old woman's yarn from the manufactory, and it was almost dark before I got home." During this brief dialogue, he had shot a-head of me two or three times. " You are no great walker, I see ;" said Mr. Lightly. " Why no ; I don't think I could walk sixty- eight miles a day, in the month of June, without being a little tired." " There's nothing like trying," said he. " I don't think I shall try," thought I. My new friend, Mr. Lightly, kept me with him all day, showing me what he had done in the course of eight or ten years, and describing his farm as it was when he first purchased it, for little or nothing. We came to a beautiful meadow, 186 STORIES OF AMFEICAN LIFE. which I could not help admiring, and wishing I had such a one on my farm. " You have a much finer one ;" said Lightly. " Where ? I never saw it." " Directly before your door." " That ! why it is paved with rocks." " Well, and so was this." " What has become of them all ?" " There they are," pointing to the wall which surrounded the meadow. The wall seemed a work of the Cyclops, or the builders of the pyramids, for it was literally rocks piled on rocks, as if by magic spell. I enquired how he got these rocks one upon the other, as I did not see any machinery. " We had no machines but such as these ;" hold- ing out his hard, bony hands, and baring part of his arms, that were nothing but twisted sinews. "But you did not dig these rocks out of the ground, and pile them up here yourself, surely ?" " No, no ; not quite that either. I have six boys, who assisted me. You shall see them ; they will be home from work presently." " Fine boys' work ! faith, I should like to see them." H Yonder they come," said Mr. Lightly. I followed the direction of his eye, and beheld coming down the hill, afar off, what I took for six THE SICK MAN CURED. 187 giants, striding onward with intent to devour us at one meal. As they advanced towards me, my ap- prehension subsided, for I saw in their open coun- tenances, and clear blue eyes, indubitable tokens of harmlessness and good nature. I never saw such men before ; and here in the mountains, out of the sphere of those artificial distinctions which, level, in some measure, all physical disparities, I could not help feeling a sort of qualm of inferiority. In the crowded city, and amid the conflicts of civi- lized society, the mind predominates ; but here my business was to cut down trees, and remove rocks ; and the man best qualified for these, was the great man for my money. After seeing these " boys," I did not so much wonder at the miracles they had achieved. The whole farm, in fact, exhibited proofs of the wonders which may be wrought by a few strong arms, animated and impelled by as many stout hearts. " You see what we have done," said Lightly ; u why can't you do the same ?" " My good sir, I am neither a giant myself, nor have I any sons that are giants." " Well, well," said he, " I will tell you what was partly my reason — what was partly my reason, for asking you over to see me. My youngest boy — step out, Ahasuerus— my youngest boy is just married ; and as our hive is pretty full, it is neces- 188 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. sary that he should swarm out with his wife, who is a good, hearty, industrious girl, that will be ex- cellent help for your old woman. You can't get on at first, without some hard work ; and you will not be able to work yourself for some time very hard ; you will want such a boy as mine, to break the way a little smooth for you." I caught at the proposal instantly ; we were not long coming to terms, and in three days the new married couple, the boy and the girl, were esta- blished at my house. " She don't know any thing about housekeep- ing," said my old woman. " You shall teach her," said I ; and she went about her work perfectly content. *f 6 He is a mere boy," quoth my old man ; " what can he know of farming." " He will learn it of you," said I ; and the old man felt as proud as a peacock. My Polyphemus with two eyes, set to work without delay, under the direction of my old man, who talked a great deal, and did nothing; and who, after having given his opinion, was content to follow that of the other. I was busy too, look- ing on ; running about, doing little or nothing ; but taking an interest, and sympathising with the lusty labours of the young giant, Ahasuerus, to such a degree, that I have often actually fallen into a vio- THE SICK MAN CURED. 189 lent perspiration, at seeing him lifting up a large stone. Thus I got a great deal of the benefit of hard work, without actually fatiguing myself. By degrees, I came to work a little myself; and when I did not work, I gave my advice, and saw the others work. One day — it was the crisis of my life — one day Ahasuerus and the old man were attempting to raise a rock out of the ground by means of a lever, but their weight was not suffi- cient. They tried several times, but in vain; where- at the spirit came upon me, and seizing the far end of the lever, I hung upon it with all my might, kicking most manfully all the while. The rock yielded to our united exertions, and rolled out of the ground. It was my victory. " We should not have got it out without you," said Ahasuerus. " It was all your doing," quoth the old man. But, to tell the honest truth, I quaked in the midst of my triumph, lest this unheard-of exertion might have injured a blood vessel, or strained some of the vital parts. That night I thought, some how or other, I felt rather faintish and lan- guid. But it may be I was only a little sleepy ; for I fell asleep in five minutes, and did not wake till sunrise. It was some time before I could per- suade myself I was quite well ; but being unable fairly to detect any thing to the contrary, I arose 190 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. and walked forth into the freshness of the morn- ing, and my spirit laughed in concert with the sprightly insects and chirping birds. After this I became bolder and bolder, until finally, animated by the example of the great Ahasuerus, I one day laid hold of a rock, and rolled it fairly out of its bed. I was astonished at this feat ; I had no idea that I could make the least exertion, without suffering for it severely in some way or other. I never could do it before, and what is the reason I can do it now ? thought I : I certainly used to feel very faint, on occasion of sometimes drawing a hard cork out of a bottle. My new monitor, experience, whispered me, that this was nothing but apprehension, which, when it becomes a habit, and gains a certain mastery over the mind, produces a sensation allied to faintness. It embarrasses the pulsation, and that occasions a feeling of swooning. The mental causes the physical sensation. I was never so happy in my whole life, as when I received this lesson of expe- rience. I was no longer afraid of dying off hand, of the exertion of drawing a cork. Thus we went on during the summer. The salt pork relished wonderfully ; the bread and milk became a delicious dessert ; and the rocks daily vanished from the meadow, like magic. The au- tumn now approached, and I bethought myself THE SICK MAN CURED. 191 how I should get through the winter, with so many broken panes, and so many sky lights in the roof of my house. There was neither carpenter nor glazier in ten miles ; and I was at a loss what to do. I spoke to Ahasuerus the Great about it. " If you will get me a few shingles and nails, and some glass and putty, I will do it myself," said he. " If you can do it, so can I," said I ; for I began to be a little jealous of Ahasuerus. Accordingly, I procured the materials, and mounting on the roof, went to work zealously. It was a devil of a business ; but I got through at last. It did not look very well, to be sure; but it kept out the rain, the snow, and the keen air. Encouraged at my unaccountable ingenuity as a carpenter, I commenced glazier 5 and broke six panes of glass off hand. With the seventh, however, I suc- ceeded ; and well it was that I did so, for I had determined this should be the last, and its failure would have for ever satisfied me, that none but a man who had learned the trade of a glazier, could pat in a pane of glass. As it was, I passed from the extreme of depression and vexation to that of exaltation and vanity. " How easy is it to get on in this world, and with what small means we may attain to all the necessary comforts of life !" cried I ; " men make themselves slaves to ward off evils that are ima- 192 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. ginary ; and sweat through a life of toil, to be- come at last dependent on others, for what they can do just as well themselves. What is the use of plaguing myself with these eternal labours ? I will be idle and happy." " Remember the poet at Saratoga/' " Remember the philosopher." " Remember the politician.*" u Remember the man of nerves," whispered memory in my ear, " and remember thyself — re- member Indigestion." I fled from my conclusion as fast as I could run, and worked that day harder than ever. Winter came, and having a vast forest of wood, some of which was decaying, and the remainder had reached its full maturity, I determined to have it cut down and sold, to pay my debt to my old Scotsman. With the assistance of one or two others, Ahasuerus performed wonders in the woods, as he had done among the rocks. I forget how many cords they sent to market, but it produced enough to pay my old friend, and then I stood upon the proudest eminence an unambi- tious man can attain ; I owed no man a penny, and I could live without running in debt. This is a great and solid happiness, not sufficiently appre- ciated at this time. People that know no better, are apt to think that winter in the country is one THE SICK MAN CURED. 193 long series of dead uniformity ; and that there is no enjoyment away from the fire-side. But they are widely mistaken ; nature every where presents a succession of varieties, and those of winter are not the least beautiful. The short days of Decem- ber and January are, perhaps, the most gloomy ; but have this advantage, that they are short, and followed by good long nights, in which it is a lux- ury to nestle in a warm bed, hear the wind whistle, or the light fleeces of snow patting against the win- dows, and fall asleep thinking how much better off we are, than millions of our fellow- creatures. When the earth lies barren, the herbage destroyed, and the forests, stript of their leafy honours, stand bare to the winds, even then nature is not alto- gether desolate in these lonely mountains. The homely brown of the woods is dotted here and there by clusters of evergreens, that appear only the more beautiful from the barrenness that sur- rounds them ; and even the gravity of the old grey- beard rocks is often enlivened with spots of green moss, that relieve their sober aspect. There is music too in the wintry solitudes : for in the pure clear air, every sound is musical. The lowing of the cattle, the barking of the dog and the squirrel, the drumming of the partridge, the echoes of the fowler's gun, the woodman's axe, whose strokes are by and bye followed by the loud crash of the VOL. I. K r 194 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. falling tree, all breaking in succession, and some- times mingling in chorus on the beautiful and buoyant air, bear with them a lonely, yet touching charm, which, to a contented mind in a healthy frame, affords the means of real, substantial enjoy- ment. Anon nature puts on her robe of spotless white, the true livery of youth, beauty, and innocence ; and then what an intense, ineffable lustre invests her all around, and everywhere. The impurities, the blemishes, and the deformities of the earth, are all hidden under the snowy veil ; the roughness becomes smooth and glassy; the stagnant pools, exhaling in summer disease and death, are robbed of their poisons ; the bogs all invisible, and the very swamps salubrious. All is clear, pure, unsul- lied, and still ; the pale image of innocent beauty clothed for a while in the trappings of the tomb. All is soothing, but nothing lively : all grave and solemn, yet nothing melancholy. But the night is, if possible, still more holy and beautiful ; when the brightness of the moonbeams, sporting on the glittering surface of the snow, creates a sort of female day, softer, and more soothing, yet almost equally bright. Not an insect chirps or buzzes in the ear ; there is nothing of life stirring in nature's veins ; her pulses are still. A thousand glittering stars, invisible at other times, come forth, as if to THE SICK MAN CURED. 195 view the scene stretched out below them, or watch with sparkling eyes, the course of their bright queen athwart the heavens. Then come the lengthening days, which at first steal on imperceptibly, with steps noiseless and slow, silently unlocking the chains of winter, and setting nature free so easily, that we do not hear the turning of the key. At first the trickling of the waters from the roof, and the falling of the icicles, apprize us of the advance of the sun, to resume his glowing sceptre. Anon the little sunny southern exposures begin to spot the vast white winding-sheet with brown ; and here and there, though very rarely, along the margin of some living spring, the tender grass begins to peep forth. Every day the empire of the sun extends by slow degrees. The brooks begin again to murmur and glisten, marking their courses by the increased verdure of the grass, and willows, on their margins ; and by imperceptible degrees, the few brown leaves that clung all winter to the sap- less branches, are pushed from Iheir hold by the swelling buds, and fall whispering to the earth, to mingle with her crumbling atoms. It is thus with all the works of nature and with man. The young buds push off the old dry leaves ; the very rocks are mutable ; all feel the universal law of change, and man the most of all. k 2 196 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. I did not spend my winter idly, but went out every day to see my wood-cutters. In order to give some interest to my walks, I purchased a gun, procured a brace of fox hounds, and in time became a mighty hunter ^P^V No man of sentiment has ever heard the " deep- mouthed hound," as the poet, with singular feli- city calls him, saluting the clear frosty morning, with sonorous and far sounding challenges, without feeling its inspiration, in the silence of the moun- tains. I found their society, and that of my gun, delightful, though truth obliges me to confess, that I seldom got any thing but exercise and a keen appetite in my sporting rambles. Almost the first extensive excursion I made, being intent in following the hounds, I unluckily fell through the ice into a small pond, which the melting of the first snows had formed in a little valley. I got completely wet from head to foot; and I was some miles from home. The whole way I suf- fered the horrible anticipation of diseases without number; rheumatism, consumption, catarrh, sore throat, inflammation of the chest, and a hundred others. In short, I gave myself up for gone ; and was in such a hurry to get home and settle my affairs, that I arrived there in a perfect glow. I lost no time in changing my dress, and it being now evening, went directly to bed, expecting next THE SICK MAN CURED. 197 morning to find myself as stiff as a poker. At first I fell into a profuse perspiration, and then into a sound sleep, which lasted till morning. I can hardly believe it myself, at this moment ; I awoke as well as 'ever I was in my life, and never felt any ill effects from my accident. After this, I defied the whole college of physicians, nay, all the col- leges put together. I considered myself another Achilles, invulnerable even at the heel, and now cared no more for the weather than a grizzly bear, or a seeker of the north west passage. Thus passed my first winter. In the spring I paid my debt to Hardup with the product of my wood. In the summer he came to see me. " I would not come before, for fear you would think it was to dun you," said he. He has repeated his visit every summer, for the last seven years, and assures me every time, that were he not Hardup, he would be Ambler. It would be tedious, neither is it necessary to the moral of my story, to detail the progress I made, and the wonders achieved by Ahasuerus, from the period in which I first took possession of my estate, to that in which I am now writing. Great as they were, they bear no compa- rison with those I have undergone. My farm is now a little Eden, among the high hills, whose rugged aspects only add richness and beauty to the cultivated fields. I have saved enough to add 198 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. two wings to my old house, and to put it in good repair, besides building a barn and other out- houses. Every year I execute some little improve- ments, just to keep up the excitement of novelty, and prevent me from thinking too much about my- self. Every fair day in spring, summer, and au- tumn, it is my custom to climb a part of the moun- tain, which overlooks my little domain, and affords a full view of its green or golden enclosures. It lies at the head of a long narrow vale, skirted on either side, by rough, rocky, steep mountains, clothed with vast forests of every growth. My house is on a little round knoll, just on the edge of the meadow I spoke of at my first arrival here, and which now has not a single stone above its surface. The clear spring brook which meanders through it, and is full of trout, forms the head of a little river, which gathering, as it proceeds onward, the tribute of the hills, waxes larger as it goes, and appears, at different points far down the valley, coursing its bright way to the Hudson. On either side of the valley, among rocks and woods, is some- times seen a cultivated field or two, with a house, and a few cattle ; but, with this exception, there is a perfect and beautiful contrast between the bosom and the sides of the valley. The former is all soft- ness, verdure and fertility, the latter all stately forests, or naked sublimity. In a clear day, and a THE SICK MAN CURED. 199 | north west wind, I can see the junction of the little stream, — of which, as being the proprietor of its parent spring, I consider myself the father, — with the majestic Hudson. I wish the reader, that is if he is a clever man, or what is still better, a clever and pretty lady, would come and see my farm next summer. I have paid but one visit to the city, and that was to my old friend Hardup, who is become very fond of me ever since he conferred a benefit. While I was one day strolling along the Battery, I ex- changed one of those glances, which bespeak a doubtful recognition, with a portly, rosy-cheeked man, I was sure I had seen before. On these occa- sions, I generally make the first advances. " I think I have seen you before, sir," said I ; " but really I can 't tell exactly where. 1 ' "I am in the same predicament, 11 replied he, smiling ; " your face is familiar, though I can 't re- call your name. 11 " My name is Ambler. 11 " Good heavens ! is it possible ?" and though glad to see me, he seemed quite astonished ; " my name is Abstract I 11 I almost fell backwards over one of the benches ; it was my friend, the man of nerves, as hale and hearty, as if he never had any nerves in his life. " I '11 not believe it," said I ; " why what has happened to you ?" 200 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. "OTra married," he replied, " and have enough to do besides attending to my nerves ; but you — you are metamorphosed too ; what has come over you ? are you too, married ?" " No : I'm a bachelor still," said I; "so you see there are two opposite ways to the same thing." Having exchanged our addresses, we parted the best friends in the world. " You had better get a wife," cried he. " I mean to do so," I replied, "as soon as I can af- ford the revenues of a city, to keep her in pin-money." " Pooh ! if you can 't keep her in pin-money, you can keep her in order," answered he of the nerves, and strutted away, with the air of a man who was either master at home, or so dexterously led cap- tive, as not to suspect it. I begin to grow weary of talking about myself ; and as I have observed, that listeners and readers generally get tired before speakers and authors, I will here conclude my story. Its moral is com- pleted, and I hope cannot be mistaken. I com- mitted to paper the result of my experience, not for the purpose of ridiculing the infirmities of my fellow creatures, or laughing at the miseries of hu- man life. I wished, if possible, to persuade them that a large portion of the cares of this world, from which we are so anxious to escape, are nothing more than blessings in disguise, and thus to dimi- nish that inordinate love of riches, which is founded THE SICK MAN CURED. 201 on the silly presumption that they are the sources of all happiness. It is under the dominion of this mistaken idea, that money becomes indeed the root of all evil, by being sought with an insatiable ap- petite, that swallows up all our feelings of brother- hood, and causes men to prey upon each other like the wild beasts of the forest ; nay, more — for even their instinct teaches them to spare their own spe- cies. Were mankind aware of the total inability of wealth to confer content, or to make ease and leisure delightful, they would perchance seek it with less avidity, and fewer sacrifices of that inte- grity, which is a far more essential ingredient in human happiness, than the gold for which it is so often sacrificed. My history may also afford a use- ful example to those whose situations entail on them the necessity of labour and economy, by teaching them the impossibility of reconciling a life of luxury and ease, with the enjoyment of jocund spirits, lusty health, and rational happiness. " But what has become of your indigestion all this time ?" the reader will ask. Faith, I had forgot that entirely ! k5 MR.DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS A TALE, MORAL AND CHIROGRAPHICAL. Introductory Thoughts on Hand-Writing. When a person has nothing which is actually new or interesting to say on a subject, it is a question which very naturally suggests itself to the reader, why he writes about it at all ? I, therefore, suppose this question directed to myself, and reply with perfect honesty, that, in making such remarks as occur to me on the subject of chirography, I am fulfilling a promise, and also writing a preface to a story which I have to tell. I have had reasons for meditating much on the mystery of hand- writ- ings, though my reflections have resulted in no new discoveries ; and I have neither solved any of the paradoxes, nor come to a definitive conclusion on any of the doubtful points with which the subject is pregnant. The first difficulty which was sug- MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. gested to my mind about it, occurred in early childhood. I could not discover how the rapping me over the knuckles with a long, round, lignum- vitae ruler, until those articulations were disco- loured and lame, was to assist me in using my fingers with ease and grace, in copying the pithy scraps of morality which were set before me. My master, however, seemed to think it was good for me. The poor man took a world of pains, and gave me a great many to very little purpose. He was very fond of quoting to me a passage from Horace, in an English version he had picked up somewhere, of the fidelity of which I have since had my doubts. " In wisdom and sound knowledge to excel, Is the chief cause and source of writing well. The manuscripts of Socrates were writ So fairly, because he had so much wit." I certainly never became a proficient in chirogra- phyl I have, however, in the course of my life, been consoled for my own imperfections on this score, by observing scholars, statesmen, and gen- tlemen at large, who passed very well in the world, and obtained professorships, outfits, and salaries, and the entree into polite society, whose signs ma- nual were hieroglyphics, which Champollion him- self would give up in despair. Their whole mani- putation, (as the learned would say,) with pen, ink, 204 • STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. and paper, produced a result so wholly undeci- pherable, that, instead of its " painting thought, and speaking to the eyes,'" if their secretaries, or correspondents had not known what they wanted to say, or to have said for them, the persons inte- rested in their despatches might as well have been in the innocent situation of John Lump and Looney Mactwolter, when they had " mixed the billy- duckses." I have known lawyers and doctors, whose auto- graphic outpourings the solicitor and apothecary alone understood by professional instinct ; and yet the bills in chancery of the former, fairly engrossed, produced suits which are not yet decided ; and the prescriptions of the latter found their way into their patient's system, and caused a great effect. There is one thing, however, on which I have made up my mind decidedly ; which is, that a per- son who writes so detestable a hand that he cannot read himself, acts in an improper manner, and abuses the gift which Cadmus was good enough to introduce into Europe. The character of my own writing seems some- what amended, since time has laid his frosty hand upon my head, and cramped the joints of my fingers. It is less capricious in the variety of directions in which the letters run, and less luxu- riant in gratuitous additions to their tops and bot- MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 205 toms, and natural terminations. They look more like a platoon of regular troops, and less like a mi- litia training ; more like an arrangement produced by the agency of human intellect, and less like the scratches made by the brute creation in the surface of the soil : so that I get along without any mate- rial difficulty, and have indeed been sometimes complimented on the elegance of my writing. # One thing, which has always been unaccount- able to me, is, the nice acquaintance some persons acquire with the signatures of particular indivi- duals, so that they can detect a forgery at first sight, however well it may be executed, and can swear to the spuriousness of the sophisticated wri- ting. Neither, for the life of me, can I understand the wisdom of the rule of evidence, which makes the question important, whether a witness has ever seen the person write, about whose autography he is interrogated. I am sure it would puzzle the twelve judges of England to explain, why ouf having seen a man write, should enable usNtS g l fc - tinguish the character of his hand, any more than * Our printer was certainly in no very complimentary mood when he first saw our author's manuscript. He said it was all pie; though, to our eyes, it more resembled hasty-pudding. He said it would ruin his boys for ever to set it up, and almost cried for pity, as he looked at his amiable disciples, and thought of the piece of work before him. — Pub. 206 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE we should be enabled to identify his clothes, by having seen him put them on. That the intellectual and moral character of a person may be ascertained from his hand-writing, is a theory which many are fond of believing in. It seems, certainly, a more plausible one than those of chiromancy, or phrenology; but beyond a cer- tain extent, I think it can be shown to be as vision- ary as either. Up to a certain point, however, it may be far more rational. The sex of the writer may be conjectured with more infallibility than any other attribute. " The bridegroom's letters stand in row above, Tapering, yet straight, like pine-trees in his grove; While free and fine the bride's appear below, As light and slender as her jasmines grow." Still you cannot always tell, from the appearance of the manuscript, whether a lady or a gentleman has held the pen. I had a female relative, who was a strong, stout-built woman, to be sure ; but she wrote a hand so formidably masculine, that the only suitor who ever made her an offer, was terrified out of his negociation by the first billet-doux he had the honour of receiving from her. He was a slender and delicately-made man, and wrote a fine Italian hand. Next to the sex, the age of a writer may be guessed at with most certainty, from the chirograph. MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 207 If the gods had made me poetical, I would para- phrase the seven ages of Shakespeare (omitting, of course, the infant in his nurse's arms) with refer- ence to this theme : but I must " leave it to some fitter minstrel." There are, however, more excep- tions to this, than to the former proposition. Some people write a puerile hand all their lives ; and the gravest maxims, the profoundest thoughts, the most abstruse reasonings, have sometimes been originally embodied in signs as fantastical, as the scrawl made in sport by a child. On the other hand, men of regular temperament, and methodical habits of business, will acquire a formed and de- liberate character in their hand-writing, which is often not impaired until extreme age. The nation, profession, and other accidental properties of a person, may also, perhaps, be dis- covered, in a majority of instances, from his chiro- graph. But it is obvious that there is no mystery in this, which philosophy need be invoked to eluci- date. Mr. Owen's doctrine of circumstances will explain it very satisfactorily. I am only disposed to deny that the bent of natural inclination, or the predominance or deficiency of any intellectual quality, can be ascertained by this test. I have never met with any one who possessed the art of divination in this way ; nor, as the theory cannot be proved by any process of reasoning from first 208 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. principles, can it be supported by a fair examina- tion of any miscellaneous collection of autographs. Imagination may carry us a great way, and suggest resemblances of its own creation, between the cha- racters of men known in history, and fac-similes of their autographs. But, divesting ourselves of its influence, let us look at the signatures to the death-warrant of Charles I., or the declaration of American independence ; which instruments I do not bring into juxta-position irreverently, but be- cause every one has seen them ; and I believe it will be impossible, without the aid of fancy, from re- corded facts in the lives of those who subscribed these documents, compared with the peculiarities of their signs-manual, to found an honest induction in support of this hypothesis. Some conceited people try to write as badly as they can, because they have heard and believe, that it is a proof of genius. While all will admit that this notion is very absurd, it is still generally believed that men of genius do write in a very obscure, infirm, or eccentric character ; and we are told of a thousand familiar instances, such as Byron, and Chalmers, and JefFery, and Buo- naparte — a goodly assortment in the same lot ! One thing is very certain, that those who write a great deal for the press, will soon write very badly, without its being necessary to MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 209 ascribe that circumstance to intellectual organi- zation. Buonaparte had no time, when dictating to six clerks at once, or signing treaties on horseback, to cultivate a clear running hand. Distinguished as lie was above other men, in his fame and in his fortunes, I believe we may also concede to him the honour of having written the worst possible hand decipherable by human ingenuity. And when we find from the fac-similes of some of his early despatches, how abominably he spelt, as well as wrote, we are led to infer, that a defective educa- tion, and an eagle-eyed ambition, which soon began to gaze too steadily at the sun, to regard the motes in the atmosphere, will sufficiently account for a matter of such small importance to so great a man, without resorting to " metaphysical aid," to account for his bad writing. The hand-writing of an individual is not as much connected with the machinery of his mind, as is the effect of any other personal habit. Neat people do not always write neatly ,• and some very slovenly persons, whom I have known, were dis- tinguished for a remarkably elegant formation of their letters. Affectation, on the contrary, being out of nature, will always betray itself in this par- ticular, as in every other. 210 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. I am disposed also to treat as a fond chimera, a notion I have often heard expressed, that there is a natural gentility appertaining to the chirographs of nature's aristocracy ; supposing such a phrase to be proper. Every thing else about a gentle- man's letter will furnish better hints as to his breeding and quality, than the character of his hand- writing. Set a well-taught boot-black and a gentleman down to copy the same sentence, on pieces of paper of like shape and texture, and few of your conjurors in autographs will be able to guess from the specimens, which is the gentleman, and which is the boot-black. But to leave this drouthy and prosing disqui- sition, I am minded to illustrate both the evils and advantages of bad or illegible writing, by incidents which have occurred, or are easily supposeable, in real life. My poor old master, against whose memory I cherish no malice, notwithstanding his frequent fustigation of my youthful knuckles, when he despaired of my profiting either by the unction of his precepts, or the sore application of his ruler, endeavoured to frighten me into amendment by examples. He composed for my use a digested chronicle of casualties, which had befallen those who perpetrated unseemly scrawls ; and, after the manner of Swift, entitled his tract, " God's re- MJl. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 211 venge against Cocography. 1 ' I have long since lost the precious gift; but I have not forgotten all the legends it contained. The tale is old ; of the English gentleman who had procured for his friend a situation in the ser- vice of the East India Company, and was put to unprofitable expense by misreading an epistle, in which the latter endeavoured to express his grati- tude. " Having," said the absentee, " been thus placed in a post where I am sure of a regular salary, and have it in my power, while I enjoy health, to lay up something every year to provide for the future, I am not unmindful of my bene- factor, and mean soon to send you an equivalent" Such a rascally hand did this grateful Indian write, that the gentleman thought he meant soon to send him an elephant. He erected a large out- house for the unweildy pet; but never got any tiling to put in it, except a little pot of sweet- meats, and an additional bundle of compliments. Few who read the newspapers have not seen an anecdote of an amateur of queer animals, who sent an order to Africa for two monkeys. The word two, as he wrote it, so much resembled the figures 100, that his liberal and single-minded agent was somewhat perplexed in executing this commission, which compelled him to make war on the whole nation. And great was the naturalist's surprise 212 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. and perplexity, when he received a letter, inform- ing him, in mercantile phraseology, that eighty monkeys had been shipped, as per copy of the bill of lading enclosed, and that his correspondent hoped to be able to execute the rest of the order in time for the next vessel. Many, too, must have read a story which ap- peared in the English newspapers, a few months since, of the distressful predicament into which a poor fisherman's wife was thrown, by the receipt of a letter from her husband, who had been absent from home, with several of his brethren, beyond the ordinary time. The honest man stated, in piscatorial phrase, the causes of his detention, and what luck he had met with in his fishing. But the conclusion of his bulletin, as spelled by his loving amphibious helpmate, was as follows — " I am no more P 1 The poor woman ga-zed awhile on this fatal official intelligence of her husband's demise, and then on her eleven now fatherless in- fants ; and then she burst into a paroxysm of clamorous sorrow, which drew around her the consorts of seventeen other fishermen, who had departed in company with the deceased man. None of them could read, but they caught from the widow's broken lamentations, the contents of the supernatural postscript, and taking it for granted that they had all been served in the same manner MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 213 by the treacherous element, they all lifted up their voices, and the corners of their aprons, and made an ululation worthy of so many forsaken mermaids. In the words of the poet, they made " igh water in the sea," on whose margin they stood ; when one of the overseers of the poor, who came to the spot, alarmed by the rumour that the parish was like to be burdened with eighteen new widows, and an hundred and odd parcel orphans, snatched the letter from the weeping Thetis, and silenced the grief of the company, by making out its conclusion correctly, which was, " / add no more" There is a memorable passage in our annals, which must be familiar to those who have read the old chronicles and records of our early colonial history. I allude to the consternation into which the General Court of the Massachusetts and their associated settlements were thrown, when their clerk read Jto them a letter from a worthy divine, purporting, that he addressed them, not as magis- trates, but as a set of Indian devils. The horror- stricken official paused in his prelection, aghast, as was the clerk in England, for whose proper Psalm a wag had substituted " Chevy Chase," when he came to the words " woful hunting." He looked at the manuscript again, and after a thorough examination exclaimed, " Yea, it is Indian devils." 214 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. A burst of indignation from the grave Sanhedrim, long, loud, and deep, followed this declaration. They would all have better brooked to have been called by the name of Baptists, Papists, or any other pestilent heretics, than to be branded as the very heathen whom they had themselves never scrupled to compliment, by calling them children of Belzebub. If I remember aright, the venerable Cotton Mather notes, in his biographies of the eminent divines of his day, that the innocent offender was, in this instance, roughly handled by the secular arm of justice, for insulting the digni- taries both of Church and State, before he had an opportunity of convincing his brother dignitaries, that the offensive epithet, Indian devils, was a pure mistake in their manner of reading his epistle, inasmuch as he meant to employ the more harmless phrase, Individuals. The apology was accepted ; though I observe that the latter word is, at pre- sent, deemed impolite, if not actionable, in Ken- tucky, and is as provoking to a citizen of that State, as it was to dame Quickly to be called a woman, and a thing to thank God on, by Sir John Falstaff. I knew a gentleman who would have been very well pleased to have received a lucrative appoint- ment, in a certain state of the Union ; because his patrimony was nought, and his professional profits, ME. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 215 to speak mathematically, were less. His joy was unbounded, therefore, on reading a letter from a very great man, who wrote a very little, and a very bad hand, responsive to his application for the post which he coveted. He deciphered enough of the letter to make out that many were soliciting the station for which he had applied, and that his testimonials had been received. But the conclud- ing sentence was, that from the favourable augury of which the young ambition of the aspirant ran at once, in imagination, to the top of its ladder. Though last not least — were the cabalistic words, by the virtue of which he founded many Spanish castles ; destined, alas ! like those of Arabian en- chantment, to vanish or fly away at the spell of a more powerful magician, or the loss of the talis- man which summoned the genii to erect them. He might have launched into dangerous prodigality on the strength of his anticipated promotion, if a friend had not succeeded in convincing him that the flourish with which the great man had ter- minated his honourable scrawl, if it was not a verse from the Koran, in the Arabic character, must have been meant for that very insignificant and unfruitful expression, — " Yours, in haste" No executive sunshine ever beamed on him. But being of a philosophic turn of mind, he de- voted much of his time, for some years after his 5216 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. disappointment, to an analysis of the precise mean- ing of these three unlucky words, and read all the writers on our language, from the Diversions of Purley to the last wonderful discoveries on the subject made in this country. I suppose that he has passed his time pleasantly in these researches, but not, I should think, very profitably ; for the only result of all his reading which I ever heard him utter was, that " yours, in haste," is a most unphilosophical, ungrammatical, and nonsensical expression, involving a confusion of time, place, and circumstance. He said it was a sorites of bulls, a metaphysical absurdity, a moral insult to good sense and good feeling ; and that he never would continue a correspondence with any person who had used it in addressing him. It is very easy to conceive what sad consequences may result in affairs of love and matrimony, from careless scribbling, by which ideas may be sug- gested directly the reverse of those intended to be expressed by the writer. In insinuating the deli- cate question orally, much ambiguity may be al- lowed for on the score of embarrassment ; and it has always been understood that the lady^s answer, like a certain character in algebra, which combines the positive and negative signs, must be inter- preted by accompanying circumstances; or rather that it is like the adverb of answer in some of the MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 217 dead languages, which is both yea and nay, and requires an inclination of the head, or the expres- sion of the countenance, to make it intelligible. Lawyers say, too, that it is difficult, in many cases, to prove a verbal promise of marriage. But equivocal writing has not the advantage of being illustrated by tone, glance, feature, or attitude, and may lead to very dangerous consequences. In that department of the post-office of which Cupid is master, the mails should contain only perfumed and gilt-edged billets, like the corres- pondence of Julie and St. Preux, as conducted by their inspired amanuensis. I have written a nar- rative of the evils which befell one of the best of men from an accidental obscurity in his manuscript, to which I merely meant these remarks as an in- troduction I perceive they have run to a greater extent than I had anticipated. For this reason, but more particularly because I would not encou- rage fraud or deception in any form or under any pretext, I will not even hint at the possible ad- vantages which may flow from bad or ambiguous hand- writings. I can conceive no instance in which sound morality will tolerate the commission of such a thing with malice aforethought, or from sheer carelessness ; unless it be where the ingenuity of the writer is taxed for common-place complimen- VOL. I. l 218 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. tary flourishes, or at the conclusion of an epistle. It is sometimes a very perplexing thing to make a proper obeisance at the end of a letter, when we are at a little loss about etiquette, or fear to be too formal or too familiar, too cold or too tender. Whether an imitation of the Chinese, or the San- scrit characters may be employed with propriety in any such dilemma, is a case of conscience which I will not undertake to decide. I must refer the reader to an excellent work by Mrs. Opie, with a most fashionable name; and, if such an evasion is not classed by her among the peccadil- loes which she has denounced, it may be safely resorted to by the most scrupulous precisian. On his paternal acres, near the village of New- Rochelle, and within twenty miles of the city of New York, at a short distance from Long Island Sound, lived, and still lives, my excellent old friend Adam Adrian Viellecour. He is, as his name and residence at once announce to all who have any skill in our local antiquities, a descendant of those brave and pious Huguenots, the Puritans of France, who emigrated to New York during the reign of Louis XIV. The New Rochelle colonists, like most of the other New York descendants of the Huguenots, have married and intermarried first with their Dutch, and afterwards with their English neigh- MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 219 hours, until their language and most of their national peculiarities have disappeared. Their very names have taken an English sound ; some of them have, indeed, actually transmigrated into regular English and Dutch appellations, by one odd orthographical metempsychosis or other. Thus the minstrel name of Queroult has been Anglified into C arrow ; and the matter-of-fact Dutch sound- ing cognomen of Haasbroock preserves the only traces of the chivalric aristocracy of the high- born Asbroques of St. Remy. Still the nice ob- server may detect the blood of the old French Calvinists in their progeny, by a certain mobility of feature, liveliness of expression, restlessness, vehemence, and rapidity of gesticulation, — and often, also, by their buoyant and mercurial cheer- fulness, and the sharp foreign accent which marks their laugh. Some few, too, of those of gentle blood and higher education, still preserve traditions of the fondness with which their grandsires used to speak of notre chere patrie ; and affectionately or proudly cling to the names and armorial bearings of their families ; preserving a little the language of their fathers, half Anglicised and half antiquated, as they spoke it ; with some of the domestic habits, and much of the ceremonious politeness of the old school of French manners ; the whole ennobled l2 220 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. by not a few traces of that high spirit of mixed religious and chivalric feeling which graced the old Huguenot character. Even such a one is the excellent Mr. De Vielle- cour, — kind hearted, liberal, cheerful — of the most sensitive honour, and the most exact and punctili- ous courtesy. Alas ! that so kind and so noble a heart should have been almost broken by a basket of quinces, and a flourish of penmanship at the end of a K ! He was born somewhere about the year 1760, and had received his early education, and learned the rudiments of religion and politeness, under the good M. Carle, the pastor of the French church in New York. He had afterwards studied his Latin on Long Island, according to the most ap- proved methods of Eton and Westminster, under the learned Dr. Cutling, of Horation and vapula- tive memory. The revolution, in which he was too young to take any active part, broke up all his plans of study and projects of professional and commercial pursuits. On the death of his father, soon after the peace, he inherited a decent competence, upon which he lived contentedly in single blessedness. How this happened to a man so polite, so tender- hearted, and so fond of female society, I do not exactly know. My aunt has indeed given me MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 221 occasional broken and mysterious hints, of his de- voted attachment in early youth to a lady, like himself, of French descent, who was then at the celebrated boarding-school of Mademoiselle Blanche Priot, in the city of New York ; how vows were exchanged, and true faith plighted before heaven. But the lady was a Catholic — sincere, fervent, and devoted. The lover could not be false to the creed for which his ancestors had bled on the walls of Rochelle ; and had been hunted like wild beasts through the mountains of Cevennes, by the dra- goons of Louvois. I never could make out the rest of the story ; but the lady is now abbess of a convent of Sisters of Charity, somewhere in Lower Canada ; and the lover is still a bachelor at New Rochelle. There did he live when I first knew him, in all the comfort which a bachelor country gen- tleman can enjoy. Nothing could be more trim, or in better order than his little farm, orchard, and garden ; and though French in most of his tastes and habits, the precise neatness of his house gave sufficient evidence that his maternal Dutch blood had the complete mastery in regard to all house- hold matters. His habitual temperance, gaiety of disposition, and innocence of life, had been rewarded with a healthy and vigorous old age. His light and slender figure was unbent by years ; his step firm 222 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. and active ; and the smooth, boyish ruddiness of his cheek, and the quick sparkle of his black eye, contrasted oddly enough with his grey hairs, sharp features, and wrinkled brow; while the brisk vi- vacity of his manner formed just as whimsical incongruity with the elaborate formality of his politeness. Over the mantel-piece of his common dining- room, (his salle-a-manger, as he loved to call it,) hung the arms of the Viellecours, from the herald's office at Toulouse ; resplendent in all the pomp of red, blue, black, and gold blazonry. Beneath this was habitually suspended an antique sword, of formidable length, and admirable workmanship. It claimed to be a rapier of the age of Francis I. ; and its curiously- worked and embossed basket-hilt, and other ornaments of the sheath, were worthy of the hand of Cellini himself. This sword had been borne on the thigh of many a gallant soldier of the Viellecour family ; and there was moreover a tradition, (for which, however, I cannot vouch,) that it was the identical weapon with which the Protestant amazon, Margot de Lacy, defended the ramparts of Montelimart, on the breach, killed Count Ludovic with her own hands, and repulsed the besiegers ; leaving her right arm on the spot where she had acquired so much glory. His little library contained several reliques, MR. DE VIELLECOUIt AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 223 brought from his chere patrie, by his grandfather, le Sieur Santerre de Viellecour. There stood, armed in its massive and embossed boards, and brazen clasps, the old family Bible ; a book, of which even those famous bible-collectors, Earl Spencer and the Duke of Sussex, might envy him the possession. It was a noble, large-paper copy of Stephens's first edition of Calvin's French Bible ; containing that beautiful preface, in which the great reformer, throwing off his scholastic dignity with his Latin, pours out his whole soul, and speaks the true language of the heart, in vigorous and racy old French. Then there was a grand, worm-eaten folio of Boileau, with the spirited en- gravings of Picart. There too stood the source of all his woe — the " Art d'ecrire par M. Villemain, maitre ecrivain jure ,•" a superb system of pen- manship, by the writing-master of " Monseigneur le Grand Dauphin." Therein were to be seen samples of the hands of Romaine, and Ronde, and Batarde, and Coulee ; and there too was un- folded the analysis of all letters, into pleins, and delices, and liasons: and there cadeauoc, and Traits deplume, and paraphes, which might have defied even the late Emperor Alexander, that prince of all chirographical flourishers, to have imitated. This book from his boyhood had been the sub- ject of the study and admiration of our hero; it 224 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. was " his youth's employment and his age's charm." He used to maintain, that all the English and Yankee systems of penmanship, from Dilworth to Jackson and Hewett, were stolen from that of his author. Or. this theme, he would discourse by the hour most fluently and eloquently ; and the fruits of his theory he displayed in a stately, elaborate, flourished old French hand, which would have done honour to the great Villemain himself; al- though, to an English eye, his S's, and his Y's, and his K's, defied all deciphering. In that old book-case, too, stood the stoutest quartos of Duhamal, and the Maison Rustiqne, those great treasures of antiquated georgics. Their precepts carried with them an authority ; and their language had a charm for him, which made him look with utter contempt upon Curtis, and Mawe, and M'Mahon, and Forsyth, and Cobbett, and the whole tribe of modern English didactic gar- deners. Nor did this knowledge end in mere spe- culation. Its fruits also were visible, in the mellow hangings of many an acre of peach orchard, pear orchard, and apple orchard ; to say nothing of his well-stocked basse-cour, regulated by the precepts of the Maison Rustique, or of divers variegated little parterres of flowers and box, on the model of those of old Versailles, as pictured in the same volumes. MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 225 But his hobby of hobbies was his quince or- chard. From some caprice, or as my aunt used to hint, from some cherished associations of pure youthful vows, whispered by moonlight under the lowly shade of a spreading quince-tree, in a garden in Wall Street, out of the sight of Mam'selle Blanche Piot, he had acquired an affection for this crabbed, astringent, and ungainly fruit, which a German metaphysical novelist would have con- verted into a natural idiosyncrasy. Mr. Vielle- cour had studied the history of the quince, and its habits and uses, from its first wild growth on the rocky banks of its native Danube, to its state of golden perfection on the sunny Tagus. He had collected its varieties from all quarters ; and had even, (a new promotion for this unassuming fruit,) grafted it upon every stock with which its relation to the great family of pears could authorise it to claim an alliance.* His success was equal to his merits. His quinces were the wonder of the whole " East River side" of the country ; and their fame had been spread * Botanists well know how long it was undecided among the lights of the science, whether a quince was an apple or a pear; and whether apples are pears, or pears apples: but, I believe, according to the latest and most approved classifi- cation, they are all comprehended under the great genus of Pyrus, or pears. L 5 226 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. far and wide, by many an annual offering to his city friends, sometimes presented to good house- keepers, upon whose skill in confectionary he could rely, to do justice to his quinces in their native beauty; while to humbler friends and brother bachelors, they were sent in marmalades and con- fitures, of divers names and various confection; and in liqueurs of the most delicate flavour and recondite chemistry. How frail are the hopes of man ! From those beloved quinces — from that fair, flourished hand- writing, sprung the sorrows which bowed down thine age, and drove thee to wander forth — but I must not anticipate my story. There was another family of quinces, of a dif- ferent kind, which had been transplanted into his vicinity, about a year before the perplexities en- sued which I have undertaken to narrate. In or near this same township of New Rochelle, about a mile from Mr. Veillecour's dwelling, a family of Yankees was found ; as many Yankees there be every where, both from Connecticut, Rhode Island, and the Bay State ; with others of low degree, from Martha's Vineyard, Block Island, Sagada- hoc, and all along shore. It is a way they have, the universal Yankee nation, of being every where; and, in truth, they may generally be said to be the salt of the earth. But this small detachment MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 227 proved a great inconvenience and mortification to my worthy friend, as I shall presently have occa- sion to show. What induced the Pecks to leave Bridgeport, and " improve" a farm at New Rochelle, after the death of old Epenetus Peck, I am not Yankee enough to guess. I have heard of a slander suit, which Zephaniah Cobb talked of bringing against old Mrs. Peck, if she did not " clear out" of the " Borough." But this may be scandal; as the vicinity is famous for its domestic manufacture of that article, of which I believe, most attornies think the encouragement a part of the great " American system." However this may be, it is certain that the widow Peck, her daughter Miss Peck, a young lady of a most uncertain age, and her nephew, Plutarch Peck, kept house together, and took boarders at the place I have designated. The de- funct Epenetus, after many years of ingenious, but unsuccessful enterprise, in all arts, trades, and occupations, regular and irregular, towards the end of a life whose experience had made him knowing in all the ways of man, had received, from certain monied corporatons, some honorary, gratuitous, pecuniary complimentSj for his disin- terested services in the purlieus of certain legis- lative assemblies. This sum he had invested in 228 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. stock, in the names of his consort, and the first pledge of her affection, the fair Abishag; soon after which he died insolvent. Plutarch's father was lost at sea. Plutarch said of himself, that he " had been to college : v and he unquestionably had been at the Norwalk Academy. He was studying law, teaching school, and keeping ac- counts for a Dutch grocer, besides editing one of the county papers, entitled the " Cataract of Freedom," and, at leisure intervals, superintend- ing the agricultural and pecuniary interests of the family. He was an aspiring young man ; and be- trayed a tendency to cut a dash, wherever he thought an opportunity offered. Of him I need say no more at present. Nor is it my purpose to enter into any details of the character and private history of old aunt Peck, as Plutarch used to call her. They are uninteresting, and the family is litigious. Of Abishag or Miss Peck, last pre- sented to my mind, and now painted at full length upon the retina of my mental eye, it may be essential to mention a few mental characteristics. In respect of matrimony, and rumours of matri- mony, she strongly resembled the illustrious Eli- zabeth of England ; and deserved as little as that " imperial votress," the imputation of passing- through life, " In maiden meditation, fancy free." MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 229 She had remained, as I have hinted, for an un- ascertainable time, mistress of herself, unincum- bered with a husband. Whether she really thought the poet wrong, who says, that " earthly happier is the rose distilled," &c. may admit of a doubt. She had long had a fondness, nay, it may be termed a rage, for making people believe (and herself, too, among the rest) that she was con- stantly solicited to become a bride. In sober truth, shrewd, sagacious, and matter-of-fact as she was in all things else, touching this affair of mar- riage she was subject to strange hallucinations. Her imagination was (if we may speak poetically) redolent of matrimony. The idealhusbands which filled her mind, were indeed not exactly such as haply may sometimes flit across the day-dreams of youthful beauty, brave, and young, and hand- some — all glowing with the purple light of love, and breathing truth and fervent constancy. Hers were sober and comfortable visions of snujj esta- blishments, sprucely painted two-story houses, with well-papered parlours and nice kitchens — huge stores of household linen — men-servants and maid-servants — one-horse chaises, or trim Jersey- built waggons, and, by way of necessary appen- dage, some respectable helpmate, with a good thriving business, or a round and regularly paid salary. Thus it happened, that from time to time, 230 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. the whole neighbourhood was informed, of what she more than half believed herself, that offers had been made for her hand, — now by a medical doctor of Mamaroneck — now by a reverend pro- fessor at New-Haven — now by a rich widower apothecary in the Bowery — now by an old Dutch dominie on the North River — and now by young Mr. Rubric, fresh from the Episcopal Seminary at New York, whose first clerical bands her own fin- gers had hemmed. The said reverend and me- dical doctors, the dominie, the apothecary, and young Mr, Rubric, meanwhile, remaining not only innocent of all amorous intention, but utterly ig- norant of all rumours thereof. Of her personal charms it is best not to say much. Could she have been preserved for ever, as she had been for so many years, she would have supplied the desideratum of a standard of long measure, and saved a learned secretary of state, professors of colleges, and revisers of laws, many a long report, as she was perfectly straight, and exactly five feet eleven inches and eleven lines high, when unhosed, unbuskined, and unbonneted. Time had not rubbed off nor rounded the acute angularity of her features, or the distinct rigidity of her articulation. There was an irresistibly ex- tortionate air in her countenance, when she wanted to get all the facts out of every body ; and it ex- MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 231 hibited an arithmetical precision, when she was in a contemplative mood, which showed that she had added up her ideas, and carried nine. Her de- funct papa, among his innumerable avocations, had been an agent for selling Pomeroy's Universal Patent Catholicon. From him she inherited a great taste for quackery ; or, as her mama called it, a genius for medicine ; and she preferred giving away, not only her recipes, but her nostrums, to letting her hand get out of practice. Gentle reader ! If these outlines are coarse, they are graphic. If the portrait is vulgar, the original is one of God's creatures, and none of mine. I know, and I love, nay, where it is unaf- fected, I adore, the fastidiousness of this exquisite age. But if we are to paint only beautiful forms, I wish the Harrisburgh Convention would con- trive some protection against time and the ele- ments, and the perpetuation of those ugly family likenesses, which do so play the mischief with the line of beauty. It would have been strange if these Pecks had lived for a year within a mile of the residence of my estimable friend, without patching, or, as I may more correctly say, scratching an acquaint- ance with him. There certainly was no chemical affinity between the parties ; but the oil and the vinegar met, if they did not coalesce. The Pecks 232 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. were related to the family of Lawyer Bull, in whose black-eyed daughter Betsy, Mr. Viellecour had always shown an interest from her infancy ; either because something about her put him in mind of others whom he had loved, or because it gave him pleasure, to watch the developement of grace and proportion, even in a bouncing rustic beauty. This, by the way, together with a new years gift to her of a gilt Telemaque and Bliss's Talisman, was enough to lead some wise women to conjecture aloud, that he meant to make bounc- ing Betsy Bull his wife, and to pronounce him an old fool for thinking of so disproportionate a match. It was, also, very convenient for these Pecks to borrow seeds, salads, sprouts, and shoots from Mr. Viellecour; and Plutarch was anxious to prevail on him to teach him French ; but this task, the old gentleman, with all his good nature and urbanity, absolutely and unequivocally re- fused to undertake. In return, the Pecks always stopt to enquire after his health ; and Plutarch would save him the trouble of going to the post- office for his newspapers, which he took home first to read himself; and, after having poured forth their contents on the county, in the " Cataract of Freedom," he would then return them to their owner, mangled by his editorial shears, and look- ing like some inexplicable pattern for a lady's MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 233 nocturnal head-gear — always, however, relating to their owner the remarkable passages which he had cut out. It chanced that in the autumn of 182-, Mr. Viellecour was attacked with a fit of the rheuma- tism, from having injudiciously exposed himself to the night air, in his anxiety for the health of a favourite myrtle, which was menaced by the indi- cations of an unexpected black frost. This fact was soon known to the inquisitive and lengthy Abishag, who had a specific for that infliction, equally infallible for man and horse. She had tried it on both ; as well as on a certain other animal, which a Kentucky editor of Linnaeus would probably classify as a little of both, with a mixture of the buffalo. I allude to a certain non- descript Canada-Gallicised Irishman, who had been at board with Mrs. Peck for some weeks. And here it becomes necessary to mention such authentic particulars of his life and habits, as have hitherto transpired. It belongs to a genus of which every one knows more or less, who has seen or heard anything of the phenomena, which, for the edification of mon- ster-hunters and monster-gazers, have arisen, cul- minated, and set, or more often " shot madly from their spheres,'' 1 in the horizon of New York so- ciety, for the last twenty years. Of this genus 234 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. there are several species, though the nature of each kind soon passeth away, and " goeth out" of fashion and of remembrance. Yet, in their brief career, they have charmed female hearts, and turned wise brokers' heads. Such is the power of foreign tongues and foreign titles, foreign jewels and foreign jokes, foreign fashions and foreign fiddling. There is your heroic humbug, as your Waterloo General ; your scientific humbug, such as you may meet at the suppers of the Literary and Philosophical Society, or the soirees of some Maecenas ; your patriotic humbug, who " has left his country for his country^ good," and such you may see everywhere. There is your medical and your musical humbug ; your ecclesiastical hum- bug, your pedagogical humbug, your proselyte humbug, and your new-community humbug ; your phrenological humbug, your cuisinier hum- bug, your travelled humbug, and your savage humbug. Last, though not least, there is the real, pure, natural, unlicked, unlettered, unequi- vocal, unadorned, unadulterated, unsophisticated, unaccommodated humbug ; or, as Lear says, " the real thing itself," — " a poor, bare, forked animal," who, without education, knowledge, or manners ; without tongues or travels, jewels or juggles, fashions or falsetto, grace or grammar, will make his way by the mere dint of sheer and monstrous MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 235 lying — lying which has neither the merit of in- vention or consistency ; and is so essentially grotesque, that it seems easier to believe it at once, than to believe that it has ever been believed. But to return to Terence Mountjoy. He was an individual of the species last described. When he came to old Mrs. Peck to take board, he had on a Canada foraging cap, and a blue military frock, which had once been well befrogged and embroidered, fastened with hooks and eyes, with a well-worn and greasy standing collar, in front of which was displayed a dirty ruffle, with a diamond breast pin glitterring among its soiled implications. His neck was disguised in a black Wellington stock. His nether man was invested in a pair of buckskin breeches ; to which integuments he was so partial, that he never changed them during his residence at the widow's. This might have arisen from the military habits he acquired in the Swiss cavalry. But Miss Peck, whose curiosity, as well as her duty as a blanchisseuse, led her occasion- ally to overhaul his wardrobe, could never dis- cover that there was any other garment provided for the protection of his inferior person. She also remarked some peculiarities about the marks of his linen, which resembled erasures and various read- ings. This he satisfactorily explained to Abishag, by stating that he had been obliged to rip out the 236 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. crests and armorial bearings of his family, in order to preserve his incognito. She also observed no- thing in the shape of a waistcoat among his finery; a deficiency which, if it existed, was supplied, or concealed, by his tight-bodied frock. I have said enough about Terence's apparel, but may add, that he occasionally exchanged his fur cap for a chapeau-bras, which looked as if it had seen hard duty, in the service of some Hessian general. This prepossessing wight informed Mrs. Peck and Co. on his arrival, that he was a nobleman incog., which he begged them not to mention, as it was a secret. He said he was a grand cross of the holy iron Roman canon of Austria ; in proof of which he exhibited a dirty orange tawny coloured ribbon, with a whitish border, to which was attached a watch key in the shape of a harp. He was, he said, a Frenchman, though born in Ireland ; and was no less a person than the Duke of Marseilles ; had been possessed of immense estates in Nor- mandy, where he owned a chateau of white mar- ble, as long as the state prison. But, on the re- turn of the Bourbons, his estates were confiscated, and he fled to Ireland to the protection of his uncle, the Archbishop of Munster, in whose palace he was concealed for some time, until his residence was betrayed to the new French ministry, by the elector of Denmark ; and an officer of the inquisi- MR. DE VIELLECOUIt AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. tion was sent to demand his person from the English government. In this extremity he was obliged to accept the hospitable invitation of his old military friend, the governor of Botany Bay. Under his auspices he sojourned for a time in tranquillity ; but he soon became weary of the monotony of that pastoral district — felt the want of literary and " illegant " society, and grew tired of eating nothing but kangaroos. Avoiding the sorrows of parting, and the ceremonious politeness of his excellency and suite, he took private passage for Canada, where he had friends in high places. An office of great importance was about to be conferred upon him there, when an unfortunate affair of honour, with an aid-de-camp of the lord lieutenant, compelled him to make a precipitate flight from the vice-regal court. He was daily expecting remittances from his French estates, which were to arrive at New York in a seventy- four ; and meanwhile he wished to remain in rural and unostentatious retirement. Such was the account given of himself by Te- rence, at divers times and with divers variations. If any one should wonder that Mrs. Peck and her daughter, who were no fools, gave it credit, let them remember that equally gross stuff has been swallowed by people, who pass for intelligent, when enforced by imperturbable impudence, and 238 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. illustrated by a rag, a ribbon, or five dollars worth of paste jewels. When weeks passed on, and neither the seventy-four nor the remittances were heard of, and when the grand cross fell sick with the rheumatism, the reverend Doctor Peck, a brother-in-law of the old lady, and who had just arrived on a visit at her house, strongly advised her to make him raise the wind by hypothecating his diamonds, or else avoid the premises. But he found an advocate not only in Abishag, who wanted to make a thorough experiment on his system, with her specific, but in Plutarch, to whom he was teaching French ; a language which Duke Terence had picked up enough of at Montreal and Quebec, to speak with unhesitating fluency, in a nondescript patois pronunciation, and a genteel negligence of grammar; and^ moreover, could write upon occasion, in an orthography, which, if it was not that of Voltaire, or of the Academy, had the superior merit of perfect originality. Under his instructions, the " ambitious juvenile "" soon felt himself sufficiently accomplished in the Parisian dialect, to venture to say to Mr. Vielle- cour, when he carried him his aunt's nostrum, — Je ways appronder party francy be ang too I The last of this gibberish sounded so much like — and be hanged to you, that my respectable friend thought it an expression of anger, for his having MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HTS NEIGHBOURS. 239 refused to initiate Plutarch into the language of love, diplomacy, tactics, and fashion. But, with his usual politeness, he wished him success in his studies, and accepted the prescription. I have now, perhaps somewhat tediously, fur- nished the intelligent reader with a key to the en- suing correspondence, which I can assure him is genuine. I have taken no liberties with either the style or orthography of any of the letters, except in supplying the necessary words, when a torn seal, or worn-out fold has occasioned a lacwne in the MSS. Whether the disease was slight, or the remedy efficient, or the cure had been really achieved by patience and flannel, Mr. Viellecour found himself so much better in a few weeks, that his politeness led him to express his thanks to his benefactress, and to accompany his letter with a present of quinces ; both of which were despatched by a ser- vant. The former ran thus : — " Belcour Grove, December 26, 182 — . u Fair Lady ! " I pray your forgiveness for not having before thrown myself at your feet. I had flattered myself that I should have had the felicity of kissing your fair hands on Christmas eve. But I was engaged with my builder, Mr. Plumline, who waited on me 240 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. with plans and contracts for the new kitchen, and the two additional bed-rooms to my mansion. " I have sent you by the bearer a basket of yel- low Portugal pear quinces, true court-pendus. He will also inform you of the happy and blessed effects of the medicine which you so amiably and kindly sent me ; which happy result I ascribe, un- der Providence, as much to the charm of the long and taper fingers which compounded and prepared it, and to the benevolent spirit which presided over its administration, as to its intrinsic virtues. Be pleased to receive, with your wonted condescension, this golden fruit ; and I earnestly pray you there- with to accept my hearty thanks. " With the tenderest regard, " I have the honour to be, Madam, " Your most devoted friend and servant, " Adam Adrian De VIELLECOUR. , ' " P. S. This fruit, I hope, is of good quality, as it is of choice stock. Autumn has mellowed its juices, but not, I trust, lessened its flavour; yet, I hope, that next year's fruit will surpass this by far, if Vertumnus and Pomona will smile on their poor and devoted worshipper." Having discharged his conscience of this debt of gratitude, the old gentleman felt himself comfort- able and satisfied, except that he waited with a MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 241 little restless anxiety for the arrival of some arti- cles which he had written for to town, and which he intended to bestow, as holiday presents, on Betsy Bull, his god-daughter Emily, and some other youthful favourites. Plutarch Peck had set off' some days before on an electioneering expedition. One of the candidates, returned to the lower branch of the legislature at the general election for the count) 7 , having died, a special election was ordered by the governor's proclamation to supply the va- cancy. This was a relief to Mr. Viellecour, who had rarely known a day pass for a long time with- out having his meditations interrupted by the smirking, priggish physiognomy, and nasal twang of this Caleb Quotem of the neighbourhood. He was, therefore, at his ease ; and his soul, like that of the rich man in the parable, might be said to be merry within him ; when, on the second morning after writing his epistle, his old black servant entered with an air of astonishment, and a package of letters, which seemed the contents of a whole mail, announ- cing, in faltering accents, that Mr. Peck's boy John was in the hall, and would wait for an answer. I shall not pay the reader so poor a compliment as not to leave to his imagination the effect which a perusal of these documents, awkward in shape, and volumi- nous in contents, produced on him they were written to, as he deciphered and pondered over them, for VOL. I. m 242 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. two long hours in dreary surprise and confusion, while John was " waiting for an answer." Nor, after what has been above detailed concerning Mr. P.'s penmanship, and the matrimonial delusions of the amiable and singular Abishag, will any expla- nation be wanted of the manner in which the old gentleman's cordial return of " hearty thanks," became transformed in the eyes of the fond fair and her kindred, into a fervent tender of " heart and hand." The first he opened was from the fair Miss Peck herself. " New Rochelle, December 28th. " DEAR SIR, " Your's of the 24th came duly to hand. The quinces were in good order. Though rather late for this year's sweetmeats, I hope to turn them to account. I am glad to hear that the medicine had, under heaven, so agreeable an effect. You may discontinue taking it more than five times a day, after a week. Touching your proposals for my heart and hand, I have agreed, on consideration, and advising with our people, to accept thereof. I fervently trust, we may enjoy long and prosperous years, in all that makes the marriage state happy; my best endeavours whereunto shall not be want- ing. My revered uncle, the Reverend Epaphro- MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 243 ditus Peck, D.D., with whose entire approbation I have taken this awful step, being, as you know, on a visit to my mama, and being obliged to at- tend the opening of the Monongahela College, where he is professor (of the ancient and modern languages, geography, history, mineralogy, com- position, political economy, and elocution. )* On the 15th of next month, it will be most pleasing to the family to have the ceremony performed by him during his stay. Ma has no objections ; and can have every thing ready against that time. Aunt Biddy, uncle Cyrenus, and their people, will be here from Stonington, in season, for certain. My dear nephew, the Honourable Plutarch Peck, who, I think, would be a suitable man for one of your attendants, must be at the Assembly there, up to Albany, the very first day of session ; which also is another very powerful reason for not suffering any delay in this business of our's. " Your sincere friend and well-wisher, " Abishag P. Peck." P. S. — Do not go to any unnecessary expense about the wedding suit. The olive-coloured coat * The words in brackets are interlined in the Rev. Mr. Peck's own hand-writing; who seems also to have occa- sionally corrected the spelling of some long words. m2 244 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. you wore, when we heard uncle Epaphroditus preach that powerful sermon from Jeremiads La- mentations, two sabbaths ago, will do very well, with a new velvet collar. Perhaps you might get the old metal buttons covered, if they are any ways rusty, which I did not observe. 46 2. Ma has sent by cousin Jehosophat, as he goes through Danbury, to invite the judge, and the general, and the doctor. " 3. Uncle Josiah, and the judge, and the gene- ral, and the doctor, and their folks, can tarry at your house on the night of the solemn occasion. If you are short of beds, Colonel Guion will lend you some. " 4. Ma does not like dancing, as it would not do, while my revered uncle, E. Peck, (D. D. &c.) is abiding under her roof. We can, however, have a supper. I know that oysters will be quite a treat to the judge, and the general, and the doctor, as they live such a ways back from shore. Perhaps, if you watch the waggons, you can get some good ones cheap, over to Colonel Guion's. " 5. I like your notion about the two new bed- rooms ; but wings on both sides would answer better. One will do, however, at present. An ex- tension of the family may render another necessary. But this business can be delayed until after the ME. DE VIELLECOUIt AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 245 solemn ceremony. In the mean time, I don't want you to meddle with the new kitchen. We can fix it better when I come. " 6. Of course you will have to go to York, to make some arrangements. When you go to buy the ring, (the string within is my measure,) call on cousin Diodalus, who deals more reasonably than the Broadway jewellers, No. 417 J; Chatham Street. We must stick by our kin. If you can conve- niently, give him a lift up in your waggon, it would be rather genteel to ask him to be present on the solemn occasion." The next epistolary discharge was much shorter; it was from the matron, the venerable old Mrs. Jerusha Peck : — " Dear Son-in-law, " I don't know as I have any objections in par- ticular to letting you marry our Abishag. As far as I know, always having bore a good cha- racter, and being a suitable match in age and disposition, as I am glad to hear your rheuma- tism is better — therefore, being moreover blessed in your worldly affairs, and a likely man, as brother Epaphroditus is here, and going away soon, I give my consent; willing that your wed- 246 STOltlES OF AMERICAN LIFE. ding should take place to-morrow week, at our house. " I remain, your loving friend, " Jerusha Peck." The reverend doctor made up by his ver- bosity for his sisters brevity. Here follows his epistle : — " Dear Sir, " Notwithstanding that you approximate to a septuagenarian antiquity, and are therefore, by divers olympiads, my senior in longevity, the fidu- cial relation of my position to the Pecks, Browns, and Smiths, as also to our collateral and maternal connexions, the Devotions, the Curtises, the Han- dys, the Peabodys, the Stones, the Bulls, and the Blossoms, in conjunction with the profound interest I feel in the destiny of my consobrinal niece, Abi- shag Peabody Peck, justify me in approaching you in a tone, first, of expostulation and secondly, of congratulation. " 1. I propose, therefore, first to advise with you plainly, on the portentous and awful nature of the matrimonial contract ; on which subject, though you have arrived so near that epocha, which the Scriptures indicate as the extreme goal of mortal MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 247 existence, you can have little practical experience ; as I am told, you have, up to this date, declined taking unto yourself a helpmate, and procrasti- nated a tender of your person to the other sex, until the female race might have exclaimed with the divine Tully — Quousque tandem, Catalina, patientia abntere nostra? — which may be face- tiously rendered, How long, O thou Cataline of an Adam, wilt thou abuse our patience ? " As that great man, the late President Styles, my particular friend, said to me on my first mar- riage, ' Brother Epaphroditus, though thou hast seemed a misogynist, we find that thou art not a misogamist ;' meaning, that though during my probationary tutorship, I had, nevertheless, borne in mind to fulfil the duties of a good Christian, and a good citizen ; so nephew Adam, as I may jocularly call thee, anticipatorially, I may rest my argument on the single authority of the great apostle to the Gentiles, who says, c He that mar- rieth, doeth well;' and say unto thee, 6 In marry- ing, thou hast done well ; but in taking this tender lamb of my fold, thou hast done better. Yea, many have done well, but thou hast exceeded them all.' Great is her experience in domestic economy. For eight lustres, or forty years, commencing with the ninth anniversary of her nativity, that is to say, from her ninth year, has she been diurnally occu- 248 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. pied, first, with the concerns of her paternal, and afterwards of her maternal household. I have, during that period, known of her household prac- tices. In housekeeping, cooking, and all things, she has conducted herself with great acceptance. Her temper is not at all ugly ; I have never known her cross more than a week at a time. She will be a fortune to any man. Like Joel, she hath brought forth butter in a lordly dish ; and made a prey of divers colours of needle-work, on both sides. Like the wise woman of old, she maketh fine linen, and selleth it to the merchant ; she girdeth her loins with strength ; therefore the husband will be known in the gates, and will sit among the elders of the land. Unto her may not be applied that witty saying of the heathen ethnic — Varium et mutabile semper foemina ; whereof Dr. Styles used to say, that it was bad grammar ; and that, moreover, the sentiment was erroneous. It is a providential coin- cidence, that as Abishag descends from the verita- ble Puritan flock, who established the true faith on the iron-bound coast of New England ; so you are an offshoot from the godly stock of the Protestant upholders of the faith in France ; though of which of the three parts of French Gaul, I know not ; since Julius Caesar, that great writer and distin- guished general, says — Omnis Gallia in tres partes est divisa. I presume, that you are not unapprised MR. DE VEILLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 249 that your claims have superseded all consideration of the arma virumque of a certain Hibernian Popish Ishmaelite. My niece Abishag had also been se- riously thought of by our President, on my recom- mendation. He is only your senior by a few years; and is not only a D.D. from the Burlington Uni- versity, but an L.L.D. from Dartmouth. "2. I therefore proceed to my second head : but as the portion of paper usually allotted to such exercises is nearly exhausted, we are necessitated, dear Adam, to limit ourselves to a felicitation and congratulation, on the joyful prospects open- ing themselves before you. As you look into the visto of futurity, you have a rod and a staff for your declining years; and instead of descending into the tomb a solitary pilgrim, your monument will be bedewed with the tears of all those respectable families, the Pecks, Smiths, Browns, Curtises, Stones, Devotions, Peabodys, Handys, Bulls, and Blossoms — to all of whom, I doubt not, while your existence is mercifully prolonged, your house will literally prove a house of refuge ; the nakedness of whose poor connexions you will, doubtless, clothe ; and, to all whose orphans you will be a father. Vale, carissime Adame. " Your friend and uncle, " Efaphroditus X. Peck." m > r > 250 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. " Postscriptum. — Abishag having thoughtfully shown me her letter, I must request you to note what she touches on about my nephew Diodatus. Many of her other suggestions are precious, as in- dicating her economical and prudent views of things. I shall remain, according to her request, to officiate at the solemnity. " E. X. P." The flourishing hand of Plutarch next caught our hero's eye, and with trembling fingers he open- ed his despatch. " Sawpitts, December 27th. " My dear Old Add, " I am glad to hear that aunt Abishag has brought her hogs to so good a market. I suppose you know that the canvassers rejected six hundred votes ; and I have got my certificate. So I shall take my seat as one of the members from this county ; and you may depend upon me, my old fellow, for any odd jobs at Albany. Though you have never turned out at our trainings, I guess I can get you breveted a major. At your time of life, I think it would be only respectable for poor old aunt Abishag's husband to have some title ; and that will answer as well as any. I have no MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 251 objections to accept your invitation to stay to the wedding, though I shall lose three whole days of the session ; and there, you see, is nine dollars gone. By the by, I happen to want some loose change. I would thank you to let me have a trifle, say 475 dollars. If you have not got it about you, please scribble your name on the back of the enclosed paper, and I can get it done. I shall be home to-morrow. " Your's in haste, " Plutarch Peck. 1 "' " P. S. — By the way, you may as well back the paper, and send what loose cash you may have besides. Cousin John will give you a receipt. You can't be alarmed about the security, as my life is insured in the Life and Fire ; and though this is the first time I have got into the Assembly, I warrant you 111 be in Congress, and get made a judge too, before you are seventy, and that's not long, you know." The last letter in John's budget, was most por- tentous in outward size and shape, and appeared to have been sealed with shoemaker's wax, bearing the impress of that brazen-faced goddess of liberty, whose effigy is delineated on the copper coin of this empire. The character of the hand-writing 252 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. is utterly indescribable. It was addressed thus, and such were its contents: — " To Mr. Esquire, A. A. Vealcour, " Shay looi, upon his tares in New Rochel. " Sir, " To come to the pint, without making any daytoor, and, as we military men say, to make a riglar day ploy ay at once, soor le shorn, you're no better than a neegur, and therefore I ask you for the satisfaction of a gintleman. Tho" born an exile from my native land, and expatryated from the French pierage, of which I am a hereditterry member, though born at Cork, where my honored father and mother were accidentally ingaged in bizness, in Monmouth Ally. Having by my valeur received the order of le grand cannon de fare, from his Imparial and Royal Majesty, the Em- peror of Whortemburg ; and having during my timporary incognito in America, while teaching the French and the other polite languages of Europe, met with ginral approbation, and got cer- tificates from the most distangay and scientifique pursonages, as well as from my friend, Father O'Larkin, of Muntryall ; also from the principle of the Manhattan Academy. " Regarding you, Mr. Vealcoor, as a man com e foh, and also a beau gar soon, which, if we were MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 253 both married to Mamzelle Peck, neither of us could be, without her being the widder of one or both of us, you will do me sensible plaisir to meet me soor le shorn cC onoor. Make the time, place, and weepons agreeable to yourself. If I had known of the raisons for writeing this billydoo, before I had found out the cause of them, I should not insist upon this roundcounter taking place, airly to-morrow, back of the old church that has been pulled down. Having lost my pistles, when my trunk, with all the family plates and jooels in it, was drownded in Hell-gate last summer, as also the tightil deeds of my French estates, by raison of wich I am keeped out of my patrymoney, and hindered from appairing like a gintleman of the beaumont. Accordingly it will be very agreeable, and it will be a favor meriting my eturnel gratty- tude, if you will be polite enufF to bring pistles, frinds, and doctors for 2. " As I despise all insinuyations about my pur- senal attachment to old Miss Peck, being bottum- med on her paltry three thousand 7 hundred in the Aigle Bank, to show my generosity and soopa- reyority to all such marcynerry motives, I volun- terryly offer to sacrifise to you my own free will and tender inclinations, and 27 hundred dollars, gratus. This will be affected, by our not fighting at all. Only you pay me a thousand dollars, and 254 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. you may marry the old lady, and everything will be deranged a la marble. As I am obleeged to be off from this place an hour before I will receive your ansir, and am gone to-morrow to my estates, I expect your response, toody sweet, by the gar son, to reach me here. " In the mean time, I have the honor to remain, my dear friend, " With the hiest consideration, " Your most obedient sarvent, Terance Mountjoy, " Grand + of the big Iron cannon of Whurtemburg." " P. S. — When we have deranged no pateet zaffareS) which will have been to the satisfaction of us all two, as I know you are too much of a gintleman to fob me off with the dirty paper that's going here, and will doubtless pay me off in York notes, for wich I can git the shiners, you may command my sarvices, to assist at your bridal rights. If the poor old neegur, Jack Davenport, is too sick with his roomytiz to fiddle upon the joyful occasion, I shall have no objection to make some music myself. It shall prevent any suspicion of either of us being shot, when I will be seen there. And thus we will both draw ourselves out of this afFare, very Iltigantl)'.'" MR. DE VIELLECOUIi AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 255 While, in perplexed amazement, Mr. Viellecour was deciphering the scrawl of his singular rival, a package, and other articles were laid on his table, which had arrived by the stage; as was also a letter, directed in a lack-a-daisical hand, and sealed with yellow wax, with a dying Cupid for a device. The parcels and band-boxes contained the bon- bons, knick-knacks, and dresses, about the arrival of which he had been inquiring every ten minutes, but a few hours before, with rather a fidgety im- patience. But alas ! in his present frame of mind, the milk of his nature had lost its sweetness ; and, with unusual testiness he swept from before him, at one buffet, the whole assortment of confection- ary, literary, and millinery ware. Casting his eyes, however, on the superscription of the letter, a gleam of placid benevolence stole on his troubled features. " Poor Adele !" he exclaimed, instinc- tively putting his hand in his pocket, " what does she want now ?" But, before opening Adele's letter, it becomes imperiously necessary to tell who and what she was. Adele Eloise Huggins had been " left an orphan at an early age," in the vicinity of New- Rochelle. Her parents were of French extrac- tion ; but, by what process of etymological corrup- tion her family name had become Huggins, or what it may originally have been, it is now impos- 256 STOUIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. sible to conjecture. Twenty odd years before, Mr. Viellecour and a few other benevolent spirits, had sent her to school, when she was twelve years old, to learn every thing, even the elementary principles of reading, writing, arithmetic, and plain sewing. With more kindness than wisdom, they placed her under the care of a lady who had set up a new boarding-school at a few miles dis- tance, where she learnt to embroider, to make arti- ficial flowers, and to read Charlotte Smith's novels, and Mrs. RadclifFe's romances. After edifying by this course of instruction for three years, it was distressing to Mr. Viellecour, to find that she could neither spell correctly, nor cipher to any purpose. Her specimens of penmanship were truly horrible to any lover of regularity and neat- ness ; but to those of her patron, whose notions on the subject of her chirography we have mentioned, the sight of them was absolutely an all-unutterable torture ; and when, with a view of ascertaining her progress in geography, he asked her where Paris was, she announced, without hesitation, that it was the capital of Rhode Island. She was instant- ly taken from school, and consigned to the tutelage of a lady who presided over a millinery shop in William Street, then the fashionable promenade of the New York fair. Not without many tears did Miss Huggins enter upon this unromantic course MB. I>E VlELLECOUIt AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 257 of instruction. But time, who dries up rivers, dried up her tears ; and she found soon that she really had a liking for the business. Still, however, her early novel reading had impregnated her imagina- tion with a thorough habit of castle-building and reverie ; and the ample circulating library of the late Mr. Carilat continued to feed her appetite for ideal tit-bits, and forbidden fruit. Like Miss Feck, though with far more romantic imaginations, the idea of matrimony was ever prominent in her waking dreams. By the force of this hallucination, she transformed every straggling male customer, who wanted to cheapen a pair of white gloves or a watch-ribbon, into a Romeo or an Altamont. Time passed on; and her time with Mrs. Vandyke ex- pired. Mr. Viellecour then enabled her to set up a little establishment for herself ; and though she managed her business in rather a crazy manner, and had no high reputation for taking care of her apprentices, or for punctuality in performing her promises to her customers, she had contrived, with the aid of her patrons, to live, and to live single, in the upper part of Pearl Street, near its inter- section with Chatham, to the time when the occur- rences I am recording took place. The visions of her youthful fancy, pretty and pastoral, had vanished and were forgotten. Those of her earlier womanhood, of a more ambitious 258 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. character, had faded gradually ; though ever and anon they came thronging upon her in more ex- traordinary combinations, and with greater inten- sity. It was at half-past eleven o'clock, on a Saturday night, after her shop was shut up and her pupils dismissed, that she sat pensively read- ing, for the thirteenth time, a poetical contribution of her own to the " Weekly Museum,' 1 signed " Ella," and entitled " Moonlight on the Battery," which had that day seen the light in print. Per- haps it had lost its interest on the last repetition ; or perhaps her mind was bewildered with thick- coming overflowings of the heart and imagination ; or perhaps she was a little heavy with incipient somnolency. But she slowly laid down the pre- cious periodical, and filled a small tea-cup from a flask which stood near. I have no doubt the liquid was palatable, as it was quince liqueur, made under Mr. Viellecour's own directions, from the produce of his own orchard. When he gave it to her, he recommended it as an occasional cordial ; adding, that it was quite strong. But at this moment, from the sublimed state of her intel- lectual system, she was led, by some mysterious impulse, again and again to replenish and exhaust her little chalice. And though the fluid was such as might have been poured by Hebe into the celes- tial cups, and quaffed by the Olympian senate, it MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 259 began to send up a misty vapour into the cloudy tabernacles of the wits of Miss Huggins. There, while the ghosts of former phantasies flocked around her sensorium, and the pride of authorship and the associations of moonshine and water, and the additional super-eiFervescences of fancy, and the tendency to somnium, and the fumes of the liqueur, were blending, overturning, confounding, and whirling about these apparitions, she fell into a crisis, such as the magnetic initiates call a coma. Such, I think, at least, may be the best philoso- phical solution of her case ; but at any rate, " A change came o'er the spirit of her dream." It suddenly occurred to her with the irresistible force of truth, when breaking on the mind as a sun bursts into a dungeon, that, like Lady Ara- bella in " The Victim of Duty, or the Delicate Distress," she must sacrifice her mature charms, her splendid visions, her exquisite sensibility, her taste, her accomplishments, her health, nay, even life itself, upon the altar of gratitude ! It flashed upon her in this paroxysm of inspiration, that all the tenderness shown to her by her early patron, his liberality in advancing her in life, his occasional visits to inquire so earnestly about her health, his recommending her to the custom of all his friends, his sending her a ticket for the Bachelor's ball, — were all tokens, strong as proofs from holy writ, 260 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. that he had cherished for her, even from her in- fancy, a deep seated, fervent, delicate, silent, cor- roding, and consuming passion, which was slowly drying up the fountains of his existence. The retiring modesty of his character, and his refined perception of the indelicacy of suffering her to suppose that he founded any claims to her personal affections on the past obligations he had laid her under, sufficiently accounted for his never having ventured to lisp the tender secret of his heart. The associations suggested by the liqueur, no doubt strengthened this conviction. With a brief, though painful struggle, she bade adieu to her visions of youthful heroes, of demi- gods, and of kings; nay even of a middle aged admiral, or ambassador, or president of a bank ; and generously resolved to screw her inclinations '•to the sticking point," and bend her stubborn wishes to the stern mandates of duty. Such had been the state of her mind for more than a week, when a strange rumour reached her ear, the consequence of which was the following letter. " New York, February 27th, 182— " False and Perfiduous, yet still too fassenating man ! " What beckoning ghost along the moon-light shade, invites my steps and points to yonder MS. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 261 glade ? Can it, O my aggonizing bosom, can it be true, what I hear about you and old Miss Peck ? Alas ! my palpitating heart informs me that it is ! Besides, Squire Purdy told me of it yesterday, when he stopped in the Marry nack stage, to get his daughter's new pink satin hat, trimmed with marrybows, and edged with blond. But what have I to do with marrybows now ? What means this tumult in a whestle's veins, where very amusing melancholly rains ? What did you mean the last time you scorted me to Castle Garden, by saying you should like to walk so every night ? and asking me if I would not like to go see the Honey-moon of Shakespear ? Mrs. Todd, and all her young ladies said it was a fixed thing ; and when you sent that last barl of apples and quince licquor, which is sour enough for vinegar, all our end of Pearl Street was sniggering to see me get it out of the stage ; while I was overwhelmed with delicate embarrassment, and my face sufused with roseate blushes. Oh ! ever beauteus, ever friend- ly, tell, is it in heaven a crime to love so very well ? But I know what I will do, I will commit sooicide, I will jump into Peck-slip, off the furthest end of the dock ! No friend's complaints, no kind dom- mestick tear shall please my ghost, nor grace mv watery beer. By maremaids hands my dying eyes were closed, by maremaids hands my decent limbs 262 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. composed ! Yes, I will throw myself into the east river, dressed genteely in the . last Parris fashion, so that my friends may not be ashamed of me ; in my Gro de Napp O de Neel dress ; cor- sage made high and easy, with a little fulness in back and front, set in the band round the waste, with a oval rose coloured pufs, gradually decreas- ing to a pint, forming a tasteful stummacher a la Russ; sleeves on gee-goes, confined at the wrist with black velvet bracelets ; the skurt ornamented with a deep flounce, with small skollups at the edge pinked, and a rule O above, and a drapery beneath, spread out at top and bottom like a fan, drawn together in the center, and confined by a rowlet ; and 111 have pantaletts a la Turk, trim- med with bobbinet round the ankles, caught under the foot with a silver corded band. Yes. And 111 put on a beautiful vandyked muzlin collaret, tyed round my throat, and falling gracefully over my left shoulder, with a lavender colored gauze ribbon on one side, and rose color on the other. And my hair shall be tastefully arranged a la 7iaigh, in cannon curls, surmounted by a beautiful tokay 6* white gauze, with silver ends falling gracefully over the right shoulder, to coryspond. I shall therefore ware no vail, but I'll have horse- skin gloves, and shoes of white satting, pure as my sole, and tender as my heart, and act a MR. DE VIELLECOUIt AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 263 Roman's or some tragick part. How on earth will you feel when you hear of my being a fair penitent, and coming to sich a watery end ? Yes, and besides this quarter's rent, you'll have to pay the next one too. For all I am dead that won't be no discharge to your security for the rent. The landlord knows his rites too, I can tell you ; and that will be good for you. It will be all in vain for you, after I am drownded, and sat upon by the coroner's jury, to put on half mourning, and in sable weeds appear ; grieve for an hour may be, and morn for half a year ; and bare about the mockery of woe to moon-light dances and to cattle show. I know you will be going about to the Museum, and Specktacklum, and all about in fashionable society. But don't lay that flatring eyentment to your sole. My disembodied shade shall flitter round, in the mirky hours of night among the trembling moon-beams, and like Alon- zer the brave, and the fair Imogeene, when the worms they crauled out, and the worms they crauled in, my dripping spectur will come to your wedding and set by your side, will tacks you with perfiddy, falsehood, and pride, and bare you away to the grave ! ! ! Oh you, you abominable man ! Squire Purdy says, your Byshy squints both ways. I know she's lame, for I seen her wauking to catch up the stage. And O ! mon Jew ! how she's 26 i STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. freckled ! And, besides all this, I'll sew you for britch of promise right away, unless you let this job alone. Youre a wicked man. But a broken- hearted maiden prays that Highman may not shute his shaft, nor Cupid hold a candle at your nuptual celebration. Perhaps you may shed a hypercritical tear when you read the verses which Rolla will make in the elegiack stanzas on my precocious death, in the next Museum. " Your fair and fond friend, " Adelle Eloise Muggins." " My tears have made my effusion ineligible. — Can it be true what I hear, that your bride, the mean creature is so shabby as to be fixing up her nasty old things for the wedding herself, instead of employing a genteel miliner and doing the thing handsomely. If she's so stingy already, what will she come too when she is married ? Some one else wouldn't serve you so. Doubt that the stars are fire, doubt truth to be a lyre, but don't doubt that I love." The system of education has been much im- proved since Miss Huggins acquired the rudiments of her style and orthography. It is obvious to every intelligent reader that her habits of mind and her daily avocations did not tend to her im- provement in either of those particulars. And, MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. %65 without pausing to philosophise on the subject, I mention it as a fact in the history of the human mind, that the mere habit of reading produces no change in their spelling, punctuation, or gram- matical arrangement of words, upon those who have acquired a vicious system of their own in these matters. They write, as compositors set up their types, by the ear : their eye catches a whole word, but not its constituent elementary signs of sound. I could make a profound and in- genious speculation on this subject ; but I must return to Mr. Viellecour, whom I left reading Miss Huggins's letter. He had not deciphered the postscript when old Sampson brought into the room another cartel ; but observing the agitated air of his master, he paused in distress and uncertainty. The old gen- tleman, however, with a lack-lustre eye, held forth his hand to receive the despatch, which proved to be from Barnabas Bull, Esq. or Lawyer Bull, as he was more familiarly called by his neighbours. Thus it ran : — " Sir. " The course you have thought proper to take in breaking off your engagements with my daugh- ter, Elizabeth Ann Bull, which were so well under- stood in the family, and by all the neighbours, vol. I. N 266 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. and of which I have ample proof, renders it neces- sary for me to adopt measures of an unpleasant nature. I have no doubt a New York jury, be- fore whom I mean to carry the issue for trial, on the ground of prejudice existing here, will give 5,000 dollars damages, as a small atonement for the feelings of an insulted father, and a much injured girl — to wit, the aforesaid Elizabeth Ann Bull. " By way, however, of giving you a locus peni- tentice, by which I mean a chance of compromis- ing the suit, I have told the constable who has the writ, not to serve it until half an hour after the receipt of this letter, during which time you may consider what course you will take to do me jus- tice. " Your obedient servant, " B. Bull." " P. S. Should you incline to break off with Miss Peck, I will defend your action for you. No jury in the world will give that foolish old woman more than sixpence." After reading this last courteous epistle, the poor old gentleman sat for some minutes with a fixed and vacant gaze, such as had never before clouded the vivacity of his countenance. In his trance, the images of Abishag, Terence, Mrs. MR. DE VIELLECOUIt AXD HIS NEIGHBOURS. 267 Peck, Epaphroditus, Plutarch, Miss Huggins, Miss Betsy, and Lawyer Bull, whirled round his brain in dizzy succession. The awkward web of embarrassment in which he had become innocently entangled, — his acute sensibility, which shrunk from even the shadow of ridicule, — his horror of notoriety under such strange circumstances, were all overwhelming him, and plunged his judgment into a chaos of inextricable confusion ; in which all pecuniary or personal considerations, the appeal of Terence to the pistol, and of Lawyer Bull to the jury, were alike forgotten. This warfare of his thoughts was interrupted by a sound, shrill and startling as was " The blast of that dread horn, On Fontarabiaa echoes borne;" but not like that portentous clarion, did it an- nounce the death of heroes, " How Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer, At Roncesvalles died f but it proclaimed that the Boston mail-stage was approaching, and that a change of horses must be ready at the inn. By a very natural association, the image of his great-grandfather, Jean Pierre Gaspard Adrian Santerre de Viellecour, flying 268 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. with his wife and children, his big Bible, and curiously mounted silver-hilted sword, from the persecution of the bloody Louis le Grand, the scarlet woman and the beast, was presented to the imagination of our hero. He arose with precipi- tation ; took down the time-honoured rapier from its customary place beneath the Viellecour arms, then pointing to a trunk in which he had a few days before packed up an assortment of clothes, when he was meditating a New-Year's visit to some old friends in Philadelphia, he very solemnly and laconically ordered Sampson to carry it after him to the inn, and take care of the house till his return. He then invested his person in his blue roquelaire, lined with red velvet, and fastened with silver clasps, the gift of no less a person than the diplomatic ex-bishop of Autun ; who, during his temporary exile in this country, had kindly conde- scended to make Mr. Viellecour's house his coun- try-seat, and to aceept some trifling loans of a few hundreds, in requital of which, he left him this parting legacy. Beneath this garment, so precious from its associations, its proprietor adjusted his spiritual and temporal weapons ; after which, he walked with a determined gait, not unworthy of his ancestry, into the hall : the venerable Sampson followed him in silence, with corresponding dig- nity and gravity of demeanour. But their march MR. DE VEILLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 269 was soon obstructed by John Peck, whose patience was waxing rather impatient while waiting for his " answer," although his cousin Plutarch had as- sured him he would receive at least half a dollar from the old gentleman for his mission. As John had received nothing from Plutarch, in the way of outfit, he clung pertinaciously to the idea of salary; and confronting Mr. Viellecour, in a dogged and loutish, but fixed attitude, and with drawling but impudent accents, he interrupted the procession. " Old squire," said John, " I guess you Ve been a nation long time a writing that 'ere answer for aunt Bisbag. And you 'ant forgot that 'ere four shilling, that cousin Plutarch said you was to have gin me, you know, have you ?" The old gentleman brushed by the varlet rather roughly, muttering something about drowning puppies in a horse-pond ; which the literal and faithful Sampson, as it will appear, interpreted into a command. The master and man proceeded to the stage- office, where the former, without saying a word, placed himself in the coach which was standing before the door. The vehicle had arrived without any passengers. He had, therefore, ample room wherein to adjust himself and his properties, on the back-seat. With his formidable sword on one 270 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. side, and his gigantic Bible on the other, and the trunk beneath his feet, he might have sat to Dunlap for the personification of Christian resig- nation. He nodded a melancholy farewell to Sampson ; the driver threw away his heel-tap in the most approved style, mounted the box, ga- thered his reins, cracked his whip, and off went the mail- stage. A dozen by-standers began at the same time to interrogate Sampson, who stood like an Egyptian statue of attention, (if any such there be, of which I have strong doubts,) following with his eye the fast disappearing conveyance — as to where his master was going, what made him in such a hurry, what he was going to do, when he was coming back, and when he was to be married to old Miss Peck, &c. &c. &c. Sampson, after due deliberation, replied that Mr. Viellecour was gone in the stage to York, about his own business. And, having uttered this oracular response, he returned with more speed than he usually thought it decent to exhibit, to his master's house. There, on the threshold still stood John Peck, who was deter- mined not to lose his promised perquisite, and had now become angry and unceremonious. " See here, nigger," he cried out as Sampson was mount- ing the steps, " I want that 'ere answer right MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 271 away ; and that 'ere half dollar. I guess they 'm chiefly done dinner to humm, and what's the use of my waiting here so?" The latter part of this appeal seemed to touch Sampson's feelings ; for he very deliberately took hold of the urchin, and slinging him over his shoulder, marched off with him as coolly and seri- ously as he had done with the trunk, though John was a much more obstreperous article in the way of baggage. But John fared like many forlorn newspaper poets of the present day, who are always dying of consumption, or complaining of malice and persecution, in very distressful metre, which nobody reads, and which nobody ought to read. For before his expostulations had attracted the attention of the public, Sampson had trans- ported him to the margin of a small lake, the perfume of which was not quite of " Araby the blest," at no great distance, into the centre of which (the thin coat of ice that had covered it, having been thawed by the rays of a bright and warm day) he projected his person with as great cere- mony as was consistent with despatch. The only articulate sounds which he uttered, by way of funeral service or illustration, were, " Dere now, mister,' 1 accompanied with an equivocal grunt. It was not until the early spring had again put forth its germs of promise, that any tidings were 272 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. heard of Mr. Viellecour. Meantime his news- papers and letters were regularly called for at the post-office by Sampson. The former were heaped on each other, until the pile almost touched the ceiling. The latter ranged along the mantel, were rapidly assuming that brown, melancholy air of antiquity, which belongs to a long unopened letter. The windows of the house were shut, except for about half an hour at noon-day, when they were opened and again closed, with regular and mysterious precision. A thin column of smoke stole up from the chimney of Sampson's comfortable quarters in the kitchen. A host of inquiries were made after their absent neighbour, for a few weeks, by impertinent and curious people ; not a few, too, by old friends. Sampson turned on his heels from the former, with a growl. To the latter, he answered with a sigh, that his master was absent, and he could not tell when he would return. It was a bright clear day in January, when the sun was slightly thawing the snow on the Haerlem Bridge, and burnishing with its rays the smooth and level white expanse of Haerlem plain and Morisania, that a party of honest Westchester farmers, returning from town, had stopped at the toll-house, on the Westchester side of that great thoroughfare, and were there talking of what they MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 273 called politics. They discoursed about Mr. Adams, Mr. Crawford, General Jackson, Governor Clin- ton, Mr. Clay, and Plutarch Peck. Not that they thought of the latter as a candidate for the Presidency; but they marvelled much how he would get along at Albany. Some surmised that he would soon break down. One old gentleman, who had won a bet on his election, insisted that he was a smart fellow, and would take care of himself. The Danbury stage, returning from New York, drove up at this juncture. All the passengers got out to warm themselves, save one, who seemed anxious not to invite observation. This, however, was impossible. " Why, holloa ! Plutarch ! is that you ? Where are you going ? What has brought you from Albany ?" were the inquiries levelled at the traveller from half a dozen quarters. Plutarch, being thus necessyated, as he would have called it, to disembogue from the stage, gave a long, involved, complaining, digressive, and unintelligible account of himself; the amount of which we can state in a few words. He had been returned to the Assembly, by the rejection of four or five hundred votes for another candi- date, on the ground that the name of the latter had been spelt on the ballots with two R.'s in- stead of one. This gentleman, however, resolutely claimed his seat. The Committee of Elections in- n5 274 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. stantly and unanimously decided in his favour; and the vote of the House forthwith dislodged the unfortunate Plutarch, without giving him a single opportunity to immortalize himself. It happened, however, that on the first day of the session, he was enabled to utter the beginning of a sentence, which would probably have had no end, if it had not been cut short, as it was, by the Speaker. On the presentation of some peti- tions, which Plutarch thought had a bearing on his favourite subject, the election by the people of public notaries, inspectors of beef and pork, sole- leather, and slaves and heading, he got on his legs. " When," said he, " Mr. Speaker, we con- sider the march of intellect in these United, and, as I may say, confederated States, and how the genius of liberty soars in the vast expanse, stretching her eagle plumes from the Pacific Ocean to Long Island Sound, gazing with eyes of fire upon the ruins of empires' 1 just at which point of aerial elevation, the Speaker brought down the metaphorical flight of the genius, and that of the aspiring orator together, by informing the latter that he should be happy to hear him when in order, but that there was now no question before the House. While Plutarch was entangling himself and his hearers, in the perplexed labyrinth of his expla- Mil. T)E VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 275 nation, a pung drove up to the toll-gate, from which alighted no less a person than that vigilant and distinguished officer, (as he is justly styled by the reporters of the proceedings of the New York Sessions,) Mr. Jacob Hays, accompanied by his trusty Achates. They were escorting, with their usual marks of attention and courtesy, a gentleman in a Canada fur cap, black stock, blue frock, with frogs and embroidery, buckskin breeches, and a dirty frill, in which the diamond breast-pin was no longer conspicuous. This re- spectable person no sooner recognized Plutarch, than he appealed to him to testify that he was a nobleman incog., and a disguised gentleman, and that he could talk French. This he did with great volubility, and at the top of his lungs; but it produced no other effect on the high constable, than to make him regard the sheepish looking ex-member with a peculiarly acute and comprehensive side-glance; by which he seemed to imprint at once, on the iron tablets of his memory, every characteristic feature of the chop-fallen ci-devant Assembly-man. Plutarch, who saw how Terence's affairs stood, was glad of an opportunity to escape, by throwing himself into the back seat of the stage, which was now going off. His quondam French master, how- ever, did not let him go, without asking him to 276 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. treat him at least to a drop of the cretur ; and on his paying no attention to this request, told him he was no gentleman at all, "but only jist a neegur ; and that he might go home to his beg- garly family, and he would find they had cleared out ; for the Aigle Bank was bursted, and the Cataract of Freedom was stopped ; and the ould women were crazy."" Before I dismiss Terence — whose taste for large castles was soon gratified, by his being sent to ex- ercise his architectural genius in assisting to erect the Sing Sing state prison — a word or two more about him may be necessary. The intelligent reader may have gleaned, from his own account of himself, the probable facts in his history. To France he had never been, but Botany Bay he had certainly visited. I know not how he had left Australasia, or whither he wended from thence ; but shortly before the time of this narra- tive, he had been in the service of a gallant officer, from the green isle of chivalry, and love, and song, whose regiment was stationed in Canada. I love the Irish character, and the Irish melodies ; and I love the Irish whiskey, when well compounded with lemons, sugar, and hot water, on a winter's night. Let not the good, and the brave, and the beautiful, to whom the harp and the shamrock are dear, look on me with unfriendly eyes, if my story Mil. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 277 has compelled me to advert to the failings of one of their countrymen. Terence was afflicted with a fondness for irregular appropriation. Such fur- tive propensities are said to be natural weaknesses in some individuals, and even to run in families ; operating irresistibly on their subject, and com- pelling them to abstract clandestinely the personal property of others. In the days of superstition, demoniac possession would have been assigned as the cause of this tendency. In our days, the phrenologist ascribes it to a preternatural deve- lopement of the organ of acquisitiveness ; as he most certainly does any mal-addresse, (such as poor Terence's,) in its direction and application, to an equally imperfect developement of the organ of secretiveness. But I shall not trouble the reader with the philosophy of the case ; and must content myself with stating the fact, that Terence was given to stealing. While at Quebec, in the service of a high-minded colonel, whose hard-earned laurels and private virtues, might well, in an esti- mation of natural character, counterbalance the infirmities of an hundred such specimens as his valet, our nobleman incog, picked up by the ear a quantity of miscellaneous French, together with some crude notions of rank, title, high life, and foreign manners ; and one day, when his constituti- onal malady came strongly upon him, he picked up 278 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. his master's valise, and his diamond breast pin, which was lying on the toilet. With these goods in his custody, he travelled into the " States, 1 ' where he spent some time, in the course of which he took occasion to commit some new depredations in the city of New York ; as appeared when he was brought to the police-office, to be examined on the charge of stealing the breast-pin, the value of which had induced his master to pursue him. He had thus the honour of being claimed by two governments, as a special subject of judicial and executive attention; and to present, in his own beautiful person, one of the most debated and de- bateable questions of international law. But the colonel being contented with the restitution of his jewels, the state of New York was left to deal with Terence : and in what wise he was dealt with, I have already suggested. Peace be to his labours in the hammering of Westchester marble, for the construction of his own cell ; wherein requiescat in pace ! And now I hurry to a close. When Plutarch got home, he found that Terence's intelligence was not much exaggerated. The " Cataract of Free- dom " was no longer issued ; and the printer had run away, leaving Plutarch alone, to face certain angry creditors. Mrs. Peck and her daughter had resolved to migrate, under the auspices of the MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 279 Reverend Professor, to the West ; whereupon the disbanded assembly -man, knowing that his creditors would soon be reinforced by his New York hatter, boot-maker, and especially his tailor, who on the credit of his legislative dignity, had fitted him out for Albany, with stylish cloak, and surtout, and frock, and a full suit of customary black, and a large assortment of white, red, and blue waistcoats and under waistcoats of his own choice ; not for- getting, moreover, his too confiding cousin Dioda- tus's claim upon him for a gold breast-pin, and a new Geneva gold watch — saw no other course be- fore him, than to prevail upon the family to take him along with them to the University. Thither, then, they marched with bag and bag- gage, scrip and scrippage. I know not what has become of Plutarch since. But I do know that Miss Peck contrived to marry the President of the college ; and I sincerely hope, as I know him to be a worthy gentleman, that he is satisfied with the arrangement. It was on a fine spring morning, when the sun, bright and cheerful, seemed to shed a smile over the face of the responsively laughing earth, from which the snows had vanished, while the herbage in many spots was assuming its verdant hue, that the win- dows of Mr. Viellecour's house were observed, by the admiring neighbours, to be open, as was the 280 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. hall door, in which Sampson stood, in his Sunday suit, showing his teeth with an air of joyous satis- faction. Moreover, the well-known favourite myrtle, and the orange trees, and the tall, double oleander, and the fragrant geraniums, had been brought forth from their winter quarters, and were now displayed in their usual vernal station upon the south piazza, inhaling the fresh breeze, and rejoicing in the open sunshine. The mystery was not long unsolved. Their master had returned the night before, and resumed possession of his much-loved mansion, with all its cherished appur- tenances. His eye was as bright, his cheek was as ruddy, his demeanour as affable as ever. Where he had been, he never saw fit to disclose ; and as the topic seemed an unpleasant one, I never took the liberty of asking him. There have been ru- mours that he was seen that winter in the gallery of the House of Representatives, at Washington — at the new theatre in Cincinnati, Ohio — and at an ordination at Bennington Vermont; but I verily believe they were all apochryphal. On the day after his return, while he was still engaged in examining all his ancient and loved repositories, and mentally preparing for an horti- cultural campaign, the door of his parlour slowly opened, and a young gentleman entered, with rather a timid air, leading by the hand a female MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 281 companion, whose features were hidden by a modest white veil. Mr. Viellecour knew the lad at once, as his godson, Eugene R , for whom he had always felt a great regard, for his father's sake and for his own ; and who had lately left West Point, having received a lieutenant's commission. Who the lady was, he did not know ; until she withdrew the drapery from her blushing face, and discovered to his view the " dancing air and laughing eyes " of Betsy Bull. My tale has grown too long to admit of my describing scenes. I must content myself with facts. Eugene and Betsy, it appeared by their story, had had a good understanding together as to the state of their several affections, from the time the former paid Mr. Viellecour a visit, more than a year before. Lawyer Bull, they thought, and thought wisely, would not consent to their union, under existing circumstances. So they ran away to Connecticut, and got married in Green- field, (doubtless attracted to that spot by the fame of one of the most eloquent clergymen of the age,) and now they wished to avail themselves of their kind-hearted friend's good offices, to be re- conciled to Betsy's papa. Their supplication was not ineffectual ; for Mr. Viellecour undertook the business, and so dealt with old Bull, that he gave his daughter and son-in-law his blessing; and 282 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. when he dies, as he must do some day or other, I suppose he will give them his property, as he has no other children. This match, to the best of my knowledge, has proved a very good one; though, as a general principle, filial disobedience entails on the trans- gressor many calamities : and stolen marriages are rarely happy. Betsy's two babies are as pretty children as I ever saw in my life ; and the eldest has been named Adrian Viellecour. He will, I have no doubt, profit by his baptismal appel- lation. As I have made very free use of the names of certain individuals in this story, let me, with my 'parting bow, beg their pardon if they are offended, and do them all the services in my power. I would most earnestly and respectfully recom- mend to the ladies, that truly excellent milliner Miss Huggins, who has given up romancing, and, in consequence of so doing, now occupies a large and splendid establishment, on the very Rialto of fashion, where the fair, the gay, and the young, " most do congregate." I would, also, point out to the attention of the gentlemen, the honest and liberal Diodatus Peck, as a superior watch-maker and jeweller, in every respect worthy of their patronage. MR. DE VIELLECOUR AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 283 To all parents who wish to give their children a cheap, and liberal education, I would suggest that the college, the president of which married Miss Peck, and in which the Reverend E . X. Peck is professor, offers a great many inducements to the guardians of youth. The air is salubrious. The mutton is cheap and abundant. On this, and on fine fresh milk, the students are principally fed. It appears, by the printed advertisement of the insti- tution, that all sciences are taught ; the whole circle being accurately divided among nine professorships, the chairs of two of which are at present ably filled by the venerable president ; and those of the other seven as ably, by the learned and reverend Dr. Peck. The terms are low, and the neighbourhood is quiet and moral. I am, moreover, strongly tempted to recommend to the same public a personage, not the least heroic or important, though the least conspicuous of those of my tale. I mean the accomplished and unfor- tunate tailor, who had equipped Plutarch Peck for his legislative compaign. Whoever had seen Plu- tarch before and after the said equipment, would have been practically convinced that the old pro- verb of manners make the man, was all wrong, and that not manners, but the tailor makes the man. What an air of gentility and ease, and what grace did this admirable artist shed over the ungainly 284 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. presence and awkward presentation of our friend Plutarch ! But I must refrain I fear, even to hint at his name, lest the mention of it might inflict upon him a swarm of customers like unto Plutarch himself — statesmen and men of genius all ; and thus intercept a great man in his progress towards that fame and fortune which, I trust, await his high deserts. He is, indeed, an artist and a gen- tleman — but, alas ! he is also A liberal youth, whose speculative skill, Is hasty credit, and a distant bill; Artist and wit, who scorns all vulgar trade, Exults to trust, and blushes to be paid. THE ESMERALDA. The brilliant exploit on which the following story is found- ed, was performed in the early part of the revolution in Peru. San Martin, after freeing Chili from the Spanish yoke, had pushed his army to the very gates of Lima; and with the co- operation of Lord Cochrane by sea, took possession of the ancient capital of Peru, soon after the occurrences here de- tailed. It was on a bright and sunny summer evening, that a curious cavalcade was seen issuing from the gate of Lima, and taking the road to Callao. It was composed of the " liberty men"* of the American frigate Macedonian, then lying in the harbour. A crowd of Peruvian boys followed it, and the very sentinels forgot their military gravity, and indulged in the irrepressible laughter which it excited. First came some half dozen sailors, arm in arm, whom a tiny midshipman in vain strove to keep in order. Then followed some dozen mules, each carrying two drunken sailors, slung like panniers, amid- * Sailors on shore with leave. 286 , STORIES 0* AMERICAN LIFE. ships, and guided by a stout Peruvian lad, seated en croupe. Two or three midshipmen, with some twenty steady fellows of the crew, brought up the rear. The pinioned tars had no idea of the pro- priety of their mode of conveyance, and vented all their tipsy rage on the " after-guard," as they styled the driver. But once on shore during a three years'* cruise, the sailors had gone from the extreme of temperance and abstinence, to the ex- treme of excess ; and having spent their last dollar, were now literally carried back to their vessel. Those in front, as they passed the soldiers, cocked their eyes, thrust their tongues into their cheeks, and throwing out their legs horizontally, performed the mock military to perfection : then bursting into a roar of laughter at their own wit, trod on each other's heels, kicked each other's shins, shouted " heads up, ye lubbers,"' 1 and set order at complete defiance. The living panniers were less noisy, and groaned and hiccuped their discontent at being " triced up" to such heavy sailers, as they termed the mules ; kicked the sides of the animals, aimed ineffectual blows at the " after-guard," and ran desperate risk of life, as some restive beast, throwing his heels in the air, threatened to dislodge them. The rear, exhilarated, but not tipsy, with just enough aboard to show off the sailor to perfection, cracked their jokes, trolled their songs, practised their manual fun upon the drunkards, and moved THE ESMERALDA. 287 most merrily along. By dint of driving and swear- ing, the procession was urged over the seven miles from Lima to the sea, and reached Callao just as the sun flashed his last rays upon the Chilian brig, which was cruising, hull down, in the offing. The wharf or quay, alongside of which the frigate's boats were lying in readiness to receive the " liberty men," was crowded with people. Sailors, soldiers, guarda-costas, Indians, and idlers of all descrip- tions, were collected there. The clattering of the oars of newly arrived boats, the roll and splash of those leaving the landing, the voice of command, the English and American* " God damn," the Spa- nish " Caramba," the French " Sacre," and the Dutch " Der teufel," were all heard, were all min- gled in the general clamour and hurry at the close of day. These sounds were dying away as the Americans approached the quay ; and by the time that the " liberty men" were tumbled aboard the two cutters and pinnace, nobody remained to wit- ness their departure but a few guarda-costas^ whose duty detained them along the shore. It was a beautiful and tranquil bay, across which * After considerable hesitation, and with much regret, I have found it necessary to admit a few of the oaths which occurred but too frequently in these stories. They were too essential to a complete picture of American manners and lite- rature, to be altogether omitted. But many of their writers are quite free from the blemish ; and the habit is, I trust, wearing away. — Note by the Editor. 288 STOltlES OF AMERICAN LIFE. the Macedonian's boats now pulled. On the right lay the castles of Callao, the long line of ramparts serried with the bayonets of the Spanish soldiers. On the left, anchored head and stern, were the fri- gates Macedonian and Esmeralda ; the latter a new ship, fully armed, provisioned, manned, and equip- ped for a six months'* cruise ; and a little farther out lay the British frigate Hyperion ; all three within half gun-shot of the castles. Within the men-of-war the merchantmen were securely moored. A few black whale ships dotted the bay; and far off, in the shadow of the island of San Lorenzo, lay the patriot blockading squadron of Lord Cochrane. The stern sheets of the pinnace were occupied by two midshipmen. At home, by his own fire- side on the Roanoke, the youngest would have been called a boy ; but here in the Pacific, the officer of a yankee frigate, it would have been sword and pistol work to have rated him any thing but a man. There was an air too of command about him, which sustained his pretensions to the character ; and the sailors at the oars regarded him with that respect- ful kindness and ready obedience that showed he was a favourite among the crew. In place of a chapeau brasf, like that worn by his companion, the large straw sombrero of the Peruvians lay be- side him, while a black handkerchief twisted around his head, shielded it from the damp air which al- ready began to float over the water. " In the THE ESMERALDA. 289 name of sense, Hal," said his companion, taking up the sombrero, and measuring its immense brim against the sky, " where did you get this upper rigging ? and what boot did you give in exchanging a chapeau ?" " It is too long a yarn to spin now," said the Virginian, evidently willing to avoid the subject; " put the broad brim down, and mind the yoke ropes. Here we are athwart the hawse of a merchantman." The sudden shock which threw the oars out of the rowlocks, created a confusion on board the pinnace, which effectually interrupted the conversation. The hail from the merchantman was answered. The commands "back water;" " steady;" " pull y'er starboard oars;" ci altoge- ther now ;" " give way boys," followed in quick succession; and the pinnace shot by the obstacle which had momentarily checked its progress. All the vessels which the boat had hitherto passed, had hailed it at the usual distance, and it was now di- rectlv under the bows of the Esmeralda. " Strange that the Spanish frigate does not hail," said the Virginian. " So fine a ship should have a livelier watch on board. A sleepy dog that, whose bayonet I see just abaft the mainmast." " They're deep in a frolic," replied his companion ; " I met a crowd of Spanish gentlemen going on board to dine, as I came ashore this morning, and the guarda-costa at the landing told me that they had not returned at VOL. I. O 290 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. sun-down. " " The more fools they," answered the other, " to blow it out,with Cochrane at two gun- shots of them.'' " He is not the man to interrupt them," was the reply; " he lies so idly under the island that his men will soon not know brace from buntline." " I don't know," continued the Vir- ginian ; " his vessels showed their teeth pretty plainly as we made the land here, and his flag ship walked across our fore foot in as gallant a style as I have seen this many a day." " Nothing but show," said the other. " The commodore did not think so, however, or else all the hands would have beat to quarters, the ship cleared for action, bulk heads down, decks sanded, and matches smoking. No, no. Cochrane will be alongside of the Esmeralda yet, and that before long. It may be superstition, Will, but for a commodore's broad pennant I would not sling my hammock to-night to the best battens on board of her. In my eye she looks like a doomed ship. Her sails bent, her guns run out, and yet so still. Not a living soul to speak to us from her deck ; no sound about her but the rippling of the tide against her hawse." The farther remarks of the Virginian were inter- rupted by the loud hail from the Macedonian. It was promptly answered, and in a short time the sailors and their officers stood upon the deck of the frigate. THE ESMERALDA. 291 The bustle occasioned by the arrival of the boats was soon over. The sailors betook themselves to the forecastle, and became listeners to an intermi- nable love-song, which a sentimental blue jacket was droning forth to his companions. The officers, after reporting themselves on the quarter-deck, either turned in for the night, or joined the differ- ent groups that were lounging about the after-part of the ship. Seated on the breech of a gun, with his sombrero on his knee, and surrounded by a crowd of reefers, was the Virginian. The Peruvian hat had already been tried on the heads of all around, and made the subject of sailor jests; and assuming all the dignity of one who was aware of the interest attached to his story, its owner com- menced his account of the manner in which he ob- tained it, and the cause of his wearing it. " You see, reefers, the purser and I having come to a reckoning, I determined to have a regular blow out in Lima : not a tipsy spree, you understand, but something to recall the Roanoke and old Vir- ginia. So off I started in the cutter ; and having reached the shore, I hired the horse of a guarda- costa, to carry me to town, and engaged its master to serve me as a guide. I took the sheep skins, and he trudged it on foot. It was sunset when we left the wharf, and before we had proceeded half way the mist came rolling over from the sea, and o2 29^ STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. concealed from our view even the trees which lined the sides of the road. We were the only travel- lers. Some loaded mules passed us, but, with the exception of these, we were the solitary occupants of the king's highway. I possessed Spanish suf- ficient to maintain a broken conversation with the guarda-costa, and we chatted cosily enough, until we heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs upon the road behind us. In another moment, a horseman, nobly mounted, but dressed in the poncho and som- brero of the country, dashed by us at full speed. He came and he was gone. Here and away. Light- ning could scarcely have been quicker. But still, as on he galloped, I was struck with his appear- ance. I noticed that he rode with civilized stir- rups, and not the wooden shoes of the Peruvians. I thought too, that he had holsters ; and I would swear to the long, straight sword which clinked against the stirrup iron. Small time for an obser- vation, you say. Well, so it was ; but time enough for all. The guarda-costa saw every thing that I did. • Bravo V he said, as the stranger, unmoved in his saddle, bore the wide leap which his startled horse made in passing. ' Bueno Cabullero ! That fellow sits well, Signor.' * Like a hero,' replied I, equally pleased with the dexterity of the horse- man ; but before the words had passed my lips he had disappeared, and we again moved solitarily THE ESMERALDA. along. When we had proceeded about a mile far- ther, to our great surprise, the single horseman again dashed by us at his utmost speed. But this time he came in the direction of Lima, and rode so furiously as almost to capsize the guarda-costa. After passing us he turned at right angles to the road, and continued his way far to our left. He had scarcely vanished in the mist before a vidette of Spanish cavalry came on us, with almost equal speed. The officer commanding it reined his horse upon its haunches beside me, and asked impera- tively the direction taken by the single horseman, whose appearance and dress he described. I, how- ever, had no idea of turning informer, so I pre- tended not to understand him, and talked as fast in English as he did in Spanish. He cursed big and large, and then repeated his questions to the guarda- costa. I was afraid that all would be blown now, and was consoling myself by calculating the advan- tage the delay had given to the fugitive, when I heard my guide log a deliberate lie, in assuring the Spaniard that * Gab^lero 1 had pushed on to Cal- lao ; and in a moment more, the vidette were, as they supposed, pushing after him. We now con- tinued our way. The Peruvian chuckled, and did not pretend to conceal his satisfaction at having crossed the trail of the vidette. 6 Santa Maria ! how he rode ?' said the guarda-costa, as if thinking 294 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. aloud ; t and those cursed Spaniards to think to overtake him.'' ' You speak roughly of your friends,' said I. 'Friends!' repeated the man, in as fiendish a tone as I ever heard. He laid his hand upon the pummel of the saddle, threw back the broad brim of his straw hat, and rose many inches in height, as he darted his quick keen eyes full in my face, to read in the deep gloom the ex- presion of my countenance. For a moment he looked cautiously round, and then rapidly whispered. ' I, Signor, am a Peruvian, but not a free-born man. Who made me, who made the Incas slaves ? — the Spaniards.' The guarda-costa paused ; then, point- ing first in the direction of San Martin's camp, and then towards the Chilian fleet, he continued in the same energetic tone. ' No, Signor, there are our friends."' I scarcely recognised the stupid custom- house drudge in the man who now addressed me. His extended arm — his bold carriage — his upright figure, which loomed large in the evening mist, be- longed, I thought;, to another being. But the change was momentary. The soldier turned slowly away, and before I could reply he was again as when I hired him. " In the mean time we approached the city. The guarda-costa appeared to have struck upon a train of thought which was far from pleasing, for he strode rapidly along, and occasionally muttered THE ESMERALDA. 9Q5 discontented sounds, as thought came unwittingly to his tongue. I tried to catch his meaning, with- out success. His sullen answers prevented conver- sation, and we proceeded most unsociably, until challenged by the sentinel at the gate. ' Que viva? sounded hoarsely from beneath the old arch- way. 6 San Martin,' fiercely replied my guide. In a moment the musket of the Spanish soldier on guard rattled in his hands. I heard the sharp click as he cocked it. Another second and the guarda-costa had been a dead man. I sprung from my horse in time to strike up the levelled weapon, and shouted ' Viva le reyV in tones that brought the whole guard to the spot. My guide was more alarmed than I was. San Martin was uppermost in his thoughts, and the name of the patriot chief, at which the Limanians trembled, was pronounced, instead of the usual reply to the hail of the Spanish sentinel. We were now overhauled by the officers on duty ; and after some impertinent examination, I was damned as a North American, and suffered to proceed. My guide, however, was detained. This was unlucky enough. I knew nothing of Lima, and none of those, whom the bustle at the gate had col- lected, seemed at all disposed to assist me. Recol- lecting that Frank Lindesay's horse, in old Vir- ginia, and I rode it often enough to know, stopped at all the grog-shops, I threw the reins on the neck 296 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. of my steed, hoping that he would carry me to the place where his master usually put up. The ani- mal's intentions may have been good, but I soon saw that the crowd was determined to thwart them. To make a long story short, I was in the centre of a Lima mob, led on by a little contemptible look- ing rascal, who persuaded the people that I was the head spy of San Martin's army. At first I pretended not to understand what was said, but my valour at last got the better of my discretion, and I could not resist the temptation of putting my fist between the eyes of a villain who was grinning his impudence in my face. This brought things to a crisis : ' A la muerte ' was the cry, and the last thing I can recollect was a blow on the temple, which brought me to the ground. " How long I remained insensible, I cannot exactly say. When I recovered, I found that I had been laid at the door of a huge church ; un- der the idea, I suppose, that I was dead. I felt miserably stiff and cold, and for some minutes did not attempt to move ; at last, after one or two efforts, I got upon my feet, and ascertained that my limbs were unbroken, and that my doubloons were still at the bottom of my fob. Some Peru- vian gentleman had taken a fancy to my watch, and to a new chapeau, mounted for the occasion. He might have spared them, as they were bor- «* THE ESMERALDA. f 297 rowed articles. No matter, however, the watch never had any insides, and the hat must have suf- fered pretty severely in the scuffle. The first thing I did, on turning round, was to peep in at the door of the church, which stood conveniently ajar. As I peeped in, some one from the interior peeped out ; for I thrust my nose into the pale face of a tall, monkisk-looking person, who was about leaving the building. Both of us were sadly scared, and starting back, we stood staring at each other in the star-light, until, recovering the first from the panic produced by the unexpect- ed rencontre, I turned and ran with the best speed my stiff limbs would admit of. After going a con- siderable distance, I stopped to listen. No sounds came from the direction of the church ; but from the opposite quarter, I heard the steps and clatter- ing arms of a relief of soldiers. I stood by a low garden wall, and in a moment I was on the other side of it. The relief passed by, and the noise it made was soon lost in the turnings of the streets. I was now in a large and handsome garden. The smooth walks, the fountain which tossed its waters so coolly on the night, the broad grass-plats, the rows of flowers, the neatly trimmed hedges, amused me for some time ; and resolving to await here the return of light, I threw myself upon a garden bench, and summoned all the recollections of past o5 298 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. pleasures, to assist the slow progress of time. But time, notwithstanding took his own way and jogged most lazily on. I got up — I drank at the fountain — I walked about, and at last, attracted by the sound of music, set myself to discover whence it proceeded. After losing it, and recovering it se- veral times, I found myself under the verandah of the house to which the garden was attached, and which some lines of tall hedges had at first pre- vented me from seeing. Curiosity brought me to the house ; curiosity led me into the verandah ; and curiosity placed me snugly enough at the window of the very room in which the musician was. Of course I went on tiptoe, and scarcely daring to breathe, ventured to peep into the apartment ; in- tending, if all things permitted, to discover myself and ask for a night's lodging, and a hat of some sort or other. The room was a large one, lighted by a shaded lamp, which hung from the ceiling, and made every thing appear soft and moonshiny. Next to the window at which I sat, was the door leading to the verandah, directly opposite to which was another door, and in the right-hand wall a third, of a much smaller size, might have led to a sleeping apartment. A table covered with a crimson cloth stood in the centre, and upon a sofa beside it, and opposite to the small door, was reclin- ing the minstrel of the hour. The guitar which THE ESMERALDA. 299 had attracted me was lying on the table, and the lady who had touched it was reading what appear- ed to me to be a letter. Ill tell you what, reefers, she was worth looking at ; I could not see her eyes, but then her exquisite figure, and the pret- tiest little foot you ever beheld, seen to such ad- vantage on the dark covering of the sofa, and her jet black hair, and beautiful mouth, and high commanding forehead — she was a glorious craft, such as I have not seen since I left old Virginia. " Thinks I, she can't be hard-hearted enough to refuse me shelter ; and I was on the point of giving an introductory ' hem !' when, 'tap, tap, tap, 1 on the opposite door, announced a visitor. Not at all alarmed, the lady put away the letter, and answering the summons, introduced a tall, strapping fellow, dressed in the common apparel of a guarda-costa. Matters looked promising, I thought, for another adventure, and drawing myself a little farther from the window, I awaited it. The guarda-costa sat down without much ceremony, and had not uttered twenty words before I ascer- tained the whole secret of the matter, and heard some of the finest love speeches that were ever made to mortal woman, so far as my knowledge of Spanish enabled me to comprehend them." " Let us have them, Hal, do," said the listeners, 300 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. crouding even closer round the orator. He shook his head, and proceeded. " Such things always lose in the telling, and are, in fact, arrant nonsense to all but the parties in- terested. The Peruvian took off his straw hat, and showed a noble countenance, and a head of thick and curling hair. He threw the poncho over his shoulder, and I saw plainly enough, the uni- form of one of San Martin's officers ; another glance, and I became convinced that this was the stranger whose horsemanship had excited my ad- miration on my way from Callao. It was not very fair to be a listener, I allow ; but I considered the Peruvian as a friend, having seen him before, and curiosity to see a real love affair, after one or two twinges, overcame all scruples of conscience. From what I could gather, the lady was the daughter of a Spanish royalist, and the officer was a lover of unprecedented constancy. Duty to his country had made him join the patriots ; duty to her father had retained the lady in Lima, while her lover was conquering with San Martin and approaching the capital of Peru. Arrived at last in its neighbour- hood, and fearing for her safety if the place was entered by force, he had obtained admission to the town in disguise, appointed the present hour, in the letter which I had seen her reading, for an in- THE ESMERALDA. 301 terview, and now urged her rapid and immediate flight with him to Valparaiso, in a vessel lying in the harbour. She spoke of her father, his hatred of the patriot cause, and his consequent inveteracy against her lover ; she urged her duty, and the danger of flight. To all this my friend pleaded like a hero, as I have no doubt he is. He rose from the seat which he had occupied beside her, and paced the room with impatient steps ; and, at last, stopping before her with his back turned towards the smaller door, began to repeat his arguments for flight. Suddenly her eye became fixed, the colour fled from her face ; she looked as if she would have screamed, but could not. Her lover bent forward with anxious eagerness, and vainly solicited the cause of her visible alarm. I saw it, and one moment more found me involved in diffi- culty and adventure. While the impetuous lover was detailing his plans, the smaller door had been pushed gently open, and a person, whom I can swear was the father, followedby two others, all well armed, entered the room, and sprung towards the Peruvian. I shrieked aloud, however, before they reached him, and he turned in time for defence. In a moment the broad straight sword was gleaming over the head of the companion of the old man, and would have descended fatally had it not struck against and extinguished the only light in the chain- 302 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. ber, that hanging from the ceiling. All was shrieking and screaming for amoment, when some one jumped from the open window, overturned me, and darted into the garden. I was now very seriously bruised, and, when lights were brought, was discovered lying in the verandah. But the Peruvian was gone, and the lady was no where to be found. The broken glass of the lamp, and an immense straw hat, were all that remained in evidence of the occurrence. " The old don swore at me until he was ex- hausted, and shut me up for the night in the cellar, as an accomplice of the Peruvian. In the morning, he carried me before a magistrate, who would have committed me to prison, had I not been recognized by a Spanish gentleman, who had seen me in the frigate. By his exertions I was re- leased ; and with the sombrero of the runaway lover to pay me for bruises and broken bones, I joined the liberty boys ; and here I am, spinning long yarns to a parcel of sleepy reefers." The attention of many of the listeners had, dur- ing the latter part of the Virginian story, been di- verted by the crowd which had collected on the quarter-deck, and were leaning over the larboard side of the ship; and the Virginian now joined a group of them himself, with the question, " Well, reefers, what's the go now ? Is this the first time THE ESMERALDA. 303 you have seen a whaler's boat towing his casks to the watering-place, after eight bells?" " Devilish big casks those the leading boat has in tow ;" said a sailor, who had ascended a few feet in the main shrouds. " Casks !" repeated a midshipman, dropping a night-glass at the same time into his left hand — " if those black-looking things are not boats filled with men, and coming on with a long and steady pull, this glass is not worth a rotten rope-yarn." Every eye was now exerted to its utmost powers of vision ; the glass was passed from hand to hand, and in a few minutes, all on deck were satisfied that a long line of barges, each crowded with men, was pulling up directly astern of the Macedonian. " The Scotchman is on the waters to-night," whispered the Virginian ; " what did I tell you in the boat ? — My life for it, Coch- rane is in the foremost barge; and see how he keeps us between him and the Esmeralda." His companion made no reply, but turned to look at the tall masts and taper spars of the Spanish frigate, and then again upon the advancing boats. By this time the word which had been passed below, had brought the whole ship's crew upon deck, every man of whom watched with almost breathless in- terest, the approach of the barges. The topmen stole silently aloft ; and most of the sailors and of- ficers instinctively placed themselves in the neigh- 304 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. bourhood of their respective posts. Not a wave was upon the waters ; and the night breeze, as it passed fore and aft the ship, was scarcely felt against the cheek. The Chilians came on with muffled oars ; and their long, steady strokes soon brought them under the stern of the Macedonian. So silently did they move, that, as they passed along- side, no sound of voice or oar could be distinguish- ed ; and, clad as they were in white, they seemed like a band of spirits, rather than mortal men, moving on the deep. No hail was given by the American ship. Officers, quarter-masters, sailors, were spell-bound with intense interest ; and the very sentinels seemed to forget their existence, as they gazed on the Chilians ; whose approach, un- discovered by the Spaniards, became every moment more doubtful. Already had they passed, and breaking off alternately to the larboard and star- board of the Esmeralda, clasped the fated vessel in their embrace. Instead of following in the line, the last of Cochrane's boats pulled under the cabin windows of the Macedonian, and held on to the rudder chains. The officer commanding begged, entreated, threatened his crew. They would not proceed. In sullen cowardice they concealed them- selves during the combat which followed. In vain did the officers of the Macedonian order them to let go, and urge them to avoid disgrace ; the chap- THE ESMEUALDA. 305 lain even joined his entreaties ; they made no an- swer, but kept their place, the only cowards of that eventful night. When the fight was over, they pulled silently to the Esmeralda ; and, pre- serving the secret of their baseness, participated in the honours of the occasion. In the mean time, one of the barges glided to a gun-boat, under the bows of the American. The clash of sabre upon steel, the words " silencio 6 muerte," a hum of voices, a dead stillness, and the gun-boat had changed masters. This broke the spell on board the Macedonian. A kedge was carried out, the gib hauled up, the chain slipped ; and as the head fell off from the wind, a cloud of canvas dropped from her spars, and solicited the breeze. Long ere these preparations were com- pleted, the Esmeralda was the scene of conflict. The first man who boarded from the main chains, after cutting down the sentinel at the gangway, was shot by the sentinel at the forecastle. Cochrane was the next, and in a few moments the deck was crowded with his followers. The Spaniards were sleeping on their arms ; and as they struggled from below, the contest became fierce and doubt- ful. There was one pause only, in which the as- sailants ceased to slay, as they watched with in- tense anxiety the effect of the wind upon the gib. Had the head fallen towards the shore, the Es- 306 STOK1ES OF AMERICAN LIFE. meralda must have been deserted and burnt by the Chilians; but fate decreed it otherwise, and there was one loud " hurra !" as the bows gently turned towards the island of San Lorenzo. The Chilian sailors on the spars, soon clothed the vessel with her canvas. From royals to courses, every sail was set ; and falling astern of the Macedonian, the Esmeralda followed her slowly from the shore. The fight continued while the vessel got under weigh; and " Jesu !" "Santa Maria!" " Ca- ramba !" joined with English oaths and exclama- tions, came loud through the din of battle. At one time the voice of Lord Cochrane was heard encouraging his men, and ordering more sail to be packed upon the spars. Then came a volley of fire arms, which drowned all sounds besides, and illuminating the deck, showed the rapid gleam of descending sabres. Then there would be a mo- mentary pause, as one party or the other gained a temporary advantage; and then again the wild uproar swelled with redoubled fury. At last the Chilians, collecting in a dense mass upon the quar- ter-deck, made a quick and fierce charge upon their opponents. It was met, and for an instant met successfully, but the strength of the Spaniards was broken ; and the next moment they were heard dropping into the sea, as their pursuers forced them over the bows. The spar-deck was now still, THE ESMERALDA. 307 but below all was confusion. A gun-brig, which had repelled its assailants, fired its single piece of artillery directly under the cabin windows of the Esmeralda ; and the indiscriminate slaughter of friend and foe was the consequence. This, how- ever, produced no effect upon the combatants ; and the victory on the gun-deck was still doubtful, when Cochrane, with his successful followers, rushed down the gangway, and quickly decided the fate 01 the Spaniards. The wave was their only refuge ; and springing from the ports, some gained the shore by swimming; others found their graves where they fell. The Virginian, and his companion in the cutter, had watched the progress of the fight from their station in the fore-top of the Macedonian ; and were still gazing on the deck of the Esmeralda, when a flash from the shore, the howl of a ball passing between the masts, and the dull report of a cannon, drew their attention to another quarter. Lights were seen hurrying along the ramparts of the fortress of Callao, and the sound of drums came faintly from them. Flash after flash suc- ceeded the first in quick succession ; until one con- tinued stream of fire gushed from the long line of batteries. To the eyes of the young men, every gun seemed intended especially for them. " What! not a spar gone yet ? and only one hole through 308 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. the main-topsail ?" — said the Virginian at last ; after coolly casting his eyes upwards upon the canvas of the ship. " It can't be so long, how- ever; the light duck scarcely draws, and the courses and topsails hang like lead. There goes the cross-jack-yard ;" he continued, as the crash of splintered wood was heard upon the quarter- deck. ■' The lanterns at the peak and gib-boom end, would have distinguished us from the Esme- ralda, if Cochrane had not hoisted them as soon as we did." " By heavens ! though, there goes his peak light ;" cried his companion, as a shot severed the rope. The lantern fell over into the sea, floated a moment, and was extinguished. A better aim, on the part of the Spanish gun- ners, or the gradual approach of the vessel within the range of some of the cannon of the fortress, made the situation of the ship more perilous than it had yet been ; and three or four balls almost grazed the heads of the fore-top men. Still both spar and sail were uninjured ; and the only effect of the shot was to hush the whispered conversa- tion which had been hitherto maintained. The silence was at last interrupted by an inter- jectional whistle from the Virginian, as a shot went through the sail immediately above him. " This firing will deaden the wind until canvas nor duck will hold it : and the Scotchman hangs on our THE ESMERALDA. 309 quarter, determined that if he sinks, so shall we." k< Don't whistle for the wind, Mister — " said an old sailor in a superstitious tone ; it never comes when it is called, and we want it too much to anger it." " That whistle brought it, though," cried the other. " The Esmeralda's courses draw, and our heavy sails begin to feel it ; we '11 walk yet, if the puff holds." The communication was accom- panied with a visible change in the spirits of the seamen, as the sail, after one or two heaves, swelled steadily before the wind. The progress of the vessel, however, was still slow, although the dan- ger every moment decreased, and it was upwards of an hour before the shot of the fortress fell short. Daylight by this time began to dawn, and showed the sullen batteries, surmounted by a heavy dun cloud, and frowning over a bay which they had so fruitlessly attempted to guard. The Macedonian cast anchor far beyond their reach, and the Esme- ralda, uninjured, and in gallant style, moved towards the island of San Lorenzo. During this eventful night, the captain of the American frigate had been detained in Lima, and at sunrise of the second day after the fight, the launch and gig were ordered down to Chorillos to meet him, and to receive on board such Americans as feared the consequences of remaining in the city, during the first moments of excitement which 310 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. would follow the intelligence of the capture of the Esmeralda. The gig was commanded by our friend the Virginian, and after a long and heavy pull, he found himself beneath the high and rugged cliffs of Chorillos. Here the boats remained with- out the surf, while the Indians, wading through it, brought the passengers on board. " All aboard," had been already cried, and the oars were in the rowlocks to return, when the appearance of a troop of San Martin's cavalry on shore, and their loud shouts and earnest beckonings, delayed their de- parture. As the sailors rested on their oars, an officer, who appeared to be the commander of the soldiers, came hurrying to the beach, bearing on his arms a female, whose horse he had been seen to guide, as his troops came full gallop on. He gave her to the huge Indian who offered his assist- ance, and followed him into the surf. A short and low conversation was held between San Martin's officer and the American commander. The former then returned to the shore, and the latter gave his rapid orders to proceed to Callao. By evening the party were again in their frigate, and a knot was soon seen to assemble round the young Virginian, as on the preceding evening. He seemed to be urging a doubtful point with peculiar energy. " How did I know them ? Why did Yit I see him plain enough in the room, and did 'nt I THE ESMERALDA. 311 hear his plan of getting her to Valparaiso ? The captain ordered me to the launch, but not before I saw her face. No, reefers, no ! True love got the weathergage of the old don, her father, in Lima, and kept it at Chorillos." THE TUTOR. Philip Bloxdel was universally allowed to be the best fellow in the class. He was one of those rare characters whose virtues are so transparent, that they cast no shadow on those behind. He excited no envy — no, not a breath ; and when he stood up in his modest way, and made a brilliant recitation, there was no coughing, nor exchanging of contemptuous looks, as there would sometimes be when a fine scholar read well. Every eye rest- ed on his bright red lips — for he was as handsome as a girl — and a goodnatured smile passed round the division, when the tutor, with an unusual em- phasis on the adverb, stopped him with, " Very well, Blondel ! very well !" I said he was handsome. Do not understand me that he was effeminate. If you had seen the strong, decided outline of the lower part of his face, the slight, but nervous curl of his under lip, THE TUTOR. 313 the masculine, but not too great prominence of his cheek bone, and, above all, the large, calm, collect- ed eye, that looked as if it could think, you would have felt yourself in the presence of a man. Blondel was a popular fellow, but he had not at all the character which one who knows college life would infer from the expression. In nine cases out of ten, a popular man is a man made up of negative qualities. He must be no scholar — for this would excite envy ; not talented — for even his idleness would outshine industry ; not economical — for then he must refuse his wardrobe and his purse to the extravagant; not sensitive — for he must stand quizzery ; not chivalrous — for then he must take sides with the weak ; not conscientious — for then he must discountenance the abandoned; not careful of his reputation or his habits, or choice of his company — for then he must avoid half his class, and keep only terms of courtesy with half the remainder. Blondel's was a just popularity ; and there is now and then a rare instance of it, where the character is so crowded with virtues, that there is no mark for hatred, and where supe- riority is borne so unassumingly, that, while you remember it, you forget that you are inferior. Philip was popular in society. But there the scale is different. It arose in that case from his peculiar talents, which enabled him to make every VOL. i. p 314 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. one appear to the best advantage; just as the adroit player at battledoor makes even an unskil- ful opponent play well. Conversation was, to him, like unsealing a fountain. It was perfectly na- tural and spontaneous, and the thoughts sprung in his well-ordered mind with a harmony and pro- portion which every one felt, though no one stopped to ask, why it was that he never was so cheated of time as when talking with Philip Blondel. His mind had that power of delicate and subtle asso- ciation, which is the great secret of conversational superiority. His general knowledge gave this natural talent play ; and in remembering the con- versation you had had with him, you wondered that you should have appeared so well yourself, and glided so easily from one subject to another. In the course of our senior year, Philip left us suddenly, and we learned to our surprise, that he had taken the place of tutor to a family in a re- tired village of New England. He had never been extravagant in expenditure, but we knew by many generous tokens that his allowance was one of the most liberal in college, and he was the last person for whom we had anticipated such a necessity. We knew nothing of his circumstances, as he came from a part of the country with which none of us were acquainted. There was, however, an indifference to minute circumstances, and an ele- THE TUTOR. 315 gance in the arrangement of his room, which the habits of narrow economy never produce. I do not mean that poverty influences materially the generous feelings. I speak only of that refined disinterestedness in the trifles of every-day inter- course amongst young men, which, in single in- stances, amounts to nothing, but which adds far more than some important virtues, to the comfort and happiness of society. It is not a virtue, for it is the spontaneous offspring of luxury ; but, insignificant as it is, it is the great distinction between good breeding and vulgarity, and has more to do with the pleasantness of a companion than traits which stand higher in the calendar of the virtues. We were sure, from BlondeFs whole bearing, that his early education had been liberal and even luxurious ; and as the change in his situation was probably owing to a reverse of fortune, an un- common sympathy was felt for him throughout college, and every body was lamenting that one, whose feelings were so high toned and sensitive, should be obliged to suffer the mortification of living in an inferior capacity. The sun was setting gloriously over the Housa- tonic, as Philip stopped at the gate of Mr. Blair, p2 316 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. the gentleman to whom his letter was directed. A rich mellow light poured up the broad avenue of elms, and the windows at its extremity looked set with panes of gold. It was just after a shower, and the wet leaves were glittering and shaking off their drops, and the mingled fragrance which every growing thing sends up after a rain, seemed as if it would intoxicate the senses. Philip thought he had never seen so beautiful an even- ing. He walked slowly on, with his .eyes fixed upon a crimson cloud, which hung just above the horizon, forgetting entirely the unpleasant feelings with which he had all day anticipated this very moment. " Beautiful P he exclaimed, as he stopped, with one foot on the step of the portico, to watch a deep purple tint that was just stealing over the cloud. " You may well say that, Mr. Blondel," said a voice like the tone of a rich instrument. A lady of a small and exquisitely proportioned figure stepped out from behind one of the pillars, and offered him her hand, with a face expressive of mingled pleasure and astonishment. " I am most happy to see you," she continued, as Philip stood, like a statue, gazing at her in per- fect silence, " but I confess my surprise.'" A blush of the deepest crimson passed over his THE TUTOR. 317 face as he handed her the open letter, introducing him as the expected tutor. " How is this, Mr. Blondel?" said she, in a tone of real concern, " have you been so unfor- tunate?" " Do not ask me for an explanation now," said Philip, with a strong effort at composure ; " leave me, and treat me as a stranger when we meet.'" She was about to reply, when a step was heard in the hall, and he rung the bell violently as she disappeared round the corner of the colonnade. The summer before, Blondel had met at the Springs the lady just introduced to the reader. She was then just passing from the girl to the woman, and was enough of either to have crazed Zenocrates — her person was small, and her face — I can't describe it. A painter would not make a tolerable picture of it — but if she smiled on you, you were undone. It was not often that she smiled upon any body, for she was the most bewitchingly proud creature under heaven, and, though she laughed constantly, her mirth was for her own precious amusement, and it was quite gracious enough to her admirers that they were permitted to hear it — delicious music that it was, and as for giving a reason for anything she chose to do, it was a condescension she never dreamed of. And then her pride — that beautiful 318 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. pride— which, resist it as you would, made you feel that her own sweet happiness was the most important thing under heaven; and her dignity, which you would never forget if it was put on for your edification, and which associated your idea of that quality for ever after with miniature pro- portions and a pouting lip ; and her motion, for which you would swear she had invisible wings; and her voice of all compass, from the readiest murmur of affection to the carol of her bewildering laugh, expressing equally the subtlest shade of thought, and the keenest reach of penetration — all these, and a world more that is prouder and lovelier, if you will take a lover's word for it, was expressed in these two sweet words, Alice Blair. I would not for the world say, that when Philip Blondel was introduced to the lady we have at- tempted to describe, she fell in love with him. I would not, if I dared, utter such treason against the icicle on " Dian's temple ;" but I will say — and you may draw your own conclusions, lady—- that when that gentleman had talked to her in his deepest tone, for one brief half hour, they were as well acquainted as if she had kept her books in his satchel from her cradle up ; and when the rose fell from her bosom, for which a hundred authentic dandies, then present, would have pawned THE TUTOR. 319 their copy of Neckclothiana, she suffered him to put it in his bosom unreproached — a condescen- sion, which, to those who were not eye witnesses, was perfectly incredible. " Alice, my dear," said Mr. Blair, as Philip entered the room the evening of his arrival, " this is Mr. Blondel — the gentleman who is to be your tutor. Mr. Blondel, my daughter — your future pupil, sir." Philip bowed low. " Mr. Skefton, let me make you acquainted with Mr. Blondel." The gentleman thus introduced was a priggish, city-bred looking man, of about thirty. He nodded carelessly to Philip without looking at him, and resumed his amusement of tormenting a small spa- niel who was jumping at his fingers. Mr. Blair made several ineffectual attempts to engage the tutor in conversation with his daughter, till, weary and exhausted of his topics, he said something of the lateness of the hour, and, whis- pering a word or two of gentle reproof in her ear for her want of sociability, received her kiss, and she retired. " My daughter is young, sir," said he to Philip, as he set down the candle in his room ; " but I trust you will find her a docile pupil. This re- serve will wear off upon acquaintance." 320 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. The order of duties was the next day settled, and tutor and pupil were soon deep in Tasso and philosophy. Mr. Blair was a well-bred man, of no particular character ; one of whom you could say anything without fear of contradiction. He was struck, at the first interview, with Philip^s superiority and gentlemanly address, and being a man of literary habits, he found the pleasure of his society grow- ing daily. His confidence increased as he disco- vered the sincerity and candour of his mind, and, with an eye to the intellectual improvement of his daughter, whose natural shyness, under the sin- gular circumstances of Philip's introduction to the house, he mistook for dislike, he gave a tacit encouragement to their intercourse, and frequently remonstrated with her upon her unreasonable aversion. It is not to be supposed but that a tete-a-ttte perusal of the Italian poet would now and then render this aversion less manifest ; and certain it was that some passages were read in an under tone, and with a heightened colour, which " he of the sword and pen" would have taken as a high compliment — making no account of sym- pathies. Conversation, too, in that language of beautiful diminutives and sweet adjectives of endearment — THE TUTOlt. 321 the indispensable pronoun coming in so musically, but with such a dangerous tenderness, and the long, liquid superlatives, which, before you are aware, by their very melody, beguile you into ex- pressions, which, in English, the same ear might never listen to, and the same lip would die sooner than repeat — no, no — I would not swear, when the twilight blurred the text of the " eagle-hearted bard" — I would not swear, without mental reser- vation, to the aversion we spoke of. And then the lesson in philosophy — dangerous, delicious philosophy ! — with its chapters upon the " Simple Affections," and " Immediate Emo- tions;" the delicate nature of its only evidence, and its appeal to the disciple's own heart for the truth of its principles ! — take a young man's word for it, old gentleman, there are no two things to be avoided for your sweet girls like poetry and philosophy. Never trust a tutor to teach them. It is like translating them into a new world, and leaving them alone with its Adam ; for poetry will make itself a world, and who so likely to be its angel as he who taught them the spell of its creation ? And philosophy — what one is there of the feverish themes which burn like a coal on the lips of woman, which may not be called philo- sophy ? Is it love ? There is a whole chapter upon it. Social Affections ? Chapter after chap- p5 322 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. ter — written, too, if Brown is the text-book, in very poetry ; and more like the twilight dreams of Alciphron in the garden of Epicurus than a cold and indifferent philosophy. They may reason upon stars if they will — talk of ascending exist- ences, and the mystery of immortal intimations — they may grow subtle upon perception and ideal- ism — but I tell you there is not a principle of them all which does not appeal to sympathies — and then — you can go on without me. There is a feeling of confidence in one who has opened fountains of thought for us; and grati- tude, the very element of love, springs strongly up towards one, by whom our intellectual virtue is refined and elevated. The position, too, is one which shows each to the best advantage, and the mutual impression is one of mind, not manner or person, though both may affect it. And then the minute circumstances — the dark hair falling by accident over the page on which your finger is resting ; the common seat ; the united attention ; the exchange of near looks and civilities necessa- rily familiar; the difficulties, excitements, tri- umphs! If I had a daughter— alas ! I have none — would I trust any man in such a relation — any man, Caliban even, to teach her feverish poetry and unlock the secrets of her heart with a key of philosophy ? No ! THE TUTOR. 323 Mr. Augustus Skefton was a cousin, of inde- finite removal, to Mr. Blair. He was a man of large fortune, who had come to the conclusion — the most sensible one of his whole life — that the world was a very indifferent mistress, and that he must look about him for a better. He had always known Alice Blair, but he never imagined, till she went into society, and the discovery was made for him by the world, that she was anything but an unfortunate female, whose face and figure threw her beyond matrimonial probability ; and, as he shrewdly suspected, from the hollowness within and his negative currency in the world, that he was a cypher, he never dreamed that his value could be increased by one who cut so small a figure. Of course, he had no thought of marrying her. She came to town, however, and, with what he considered an heroic peril of his ton, he con- sented to accompany her debut in a fashionable circle. To his profound astonishment, he saw that he had introduced a star of the first magnitude, and, for the first time in a vegetation of thirty years, Mr. Augustus Skefton found himself of consequence. He made an incontinent resolution on the spot, to permit her to love him — a conse- quence of his present condescension, which he had previously anticipated with no less indifference than certainty. 324 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. The unconscious Alice saw nothing in his man- ner more than a proper appreciation of herself, and a desire to be agreeable, and when he drove up to her father's door in his splendid barouche the following spring, and announced graciously his intention of drawing upon their hospitality for the summer months, she received him with a cordiality which he attributed to an ill disguised tenderness, and which he rewarded by giving her two fingers more to shake than was warranted by strict Brum- melism. Mr. Blair knew more of " symptoms,' 1 and less of Mr. Skefton, than his daughter. He knew that no common motive influenced his visit ; and know- ing him to be a man of good moral character, and believing him to be, in every other respect, a suit- able match, he had no objection to let things take their course, and, accordingly, treated Mr. Skef- ton with a sincere hospitality, which that gentle- man placed to the same account with his daugh- ter's cordial welcome. With these favourable indications, the town- cousin felt himself perfectly secure ; and, without troubling himself with what he deemed unneces- sary attentions to Miss Alice, he fished and rode, and amused his fancy with the sensation he should make with his young bride at the autumn parties, with a most enviable unconcern. As to any fears THE TUTOR. 325 of a tutor, who had no property in the stocks, and never had been a manager of the Bachelor's Ball — if the idea ever entered his head, the evident indifference of the lady banished it in a moment. A large party of ladies and gentlemen, in riding dresses, stood under the portico of Mr. Blair's house one August morning. Vehicles of all descriptions were drawn up before the door. " Mr. Skefton, will you drive Alice ?" said Mr. Blair, as he appeared, drawing on his gloves ; " perhaps, too, you can make room for Mr. Blon- del. Mr. Blondel, Mr. Skefton wishes the plea- sure of driving you. Allons ! gentlemen. Charm- ing day ! The sooner we get to the lake, now, the better. All in? Mr. Skefton, you lead — drive on, sir." And away went Mr. Skefton's beautiful bays with a rapidity which made even Philip, philosopher as he was, wish himself any- thing but a tutor. A sailing party upon a small lake in the neigh- bourhood had been proposed the day before, and a general invitation had been given to the families in the vicinity. About thirty ladies and gentle- men had assembled, accordingly, at Mr. Blair's. 326 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. The day was of a fine autumnal transparency, and everything promised enjoyment. Mr. Skefton was in his glory. He was proud of his horses, and, to do him justice, was a capital whip. It was the very atmosphere, too, for the only conversation he ever attempted. His fashion- able slang sounded better upon the box, and, be- tween the necessity of talking to his horses, and his fluency in the established nonsense of a party for mere animal enjoyment, he contrived to be lively, and even agreeable. The exhilarating air and the exciting motion had their effect upon Alice, and she rattled on in the gayest spirits, in reply to him. Mr. Augustus had never been so happy. His attentions grew profuse and pointed, and his language assumed a more confident and elevated tone. He condescend- ed to play the lover, and Philip's ordinary con- tempt changed into something very like jealousy. Mr. Skefton thought he had done quite enough in giving the tutor a seat, and talking to him was an excess of politeness which did not once occur to him. Alice did not speak to him, be- cause it is impossible to trifle with the heart in one's mouth, and he sat with his arms folded, swaying to the motion of the luxurious springs in moody silence. THE TUTOR. 327 The boat lay sleeping on the water, as they drove into the shade of a large tree near the land- ing, and a general exclamation of pleasure broke from every lip but Philip's. Mr. Skefton took the helm, and seated Alice beside him ; and the tutor, with what seemed a proper modesty in the eyes of the company, sat alone in the shade of the foresail, watching the curling of the ripple as the boat leaned away be- fore the wind, and shot out towards the middle of the lake. There was just breeze enough to fill the sails, and nutter the many coloured ribbons with which the boat had been decorated; and when Alice was called upon for a song, her voice floated away over the lake, as if the wind had found utterance, and was touching the waters to music. They were now under considerable way, and Mr. Blair proposed that they should steer for a near island, which, sheltered from the wind by a high hill upon the shore, lay like a fantastic cloud on the bosom of the lake — its trees and rocks all hanging below as distinctly pencilled as the reality. In a few minutes the boat slid alongside its fring- ed edges, and all leaping on shore, were soon lost to sight among its deep shadows. " Miss Blair ! Miss Blair !" shouted Mr. Skef- ton, as he left the boat with a petit-maitre care for 328 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. the integrity of his Day and Martin. Mr. Blair however, in compassion to the tutor, whose silence and abstraction from the rest of the party he at- tributed to modesty and neglect, had insisted upon Alice's taking his arm, and they were now walk- ing leisurely along a green path, which led round the island in a direction different from that which the rest of the party had taken. u And so you wo' n't tell me," said she, " what has come over you, and why you look as grave and sensible as a dictionary, when, by general consent, even mine, ' motley's the only wear ?' r " Am I so grave, Miss Blair ?" " f Are you so grave, Miss Blair T One would think I had not got my lesson to-day. Pray, sir, has the black ox trod on your toe since we parted ?" Philip tried to laugh, but he did not succeed. He bit his lip and was silent. " I am under orders to entertain you, Mr. Blondel ; and, if my poor brain can be made to gird this fairy isle, I shall certainly be obedient. So I begin with playing the leech. What ails you, sir?" " Miss Blair P he was going to remonstrate. " c Miss Blair !' Now, pity I'm a quack ! for whip me, if I know whether Miss Blair is a fever or an ague. How did you catch it, sir ?" THE TUTOR. 329 " Really, Miss Blair—" " Nay, I see you don't like my doctoring. I give over. And now 111 be sensible. It's a fine day, Mr. Blondel." " Very." " A pleasant lane, this, to walk in — if one's company were agreeable . ,1 " Does Mr. Skef ton stay long?" asked Philip, abruptly. " No one knows." " Indeed ! are you so ignorant ?" " And why does your wisdom ask that ques- tion ?" " I beg pardon ; but I thought there seemed to be quite an understanding between you this morning." Alice stopped. She was going to speak angrily ; but there was an expression in his eye of serious uneasiness which checked her. She resumed his arm. " You are incomprehensible to-day, Philip, and so much graver than usual, that I fear something has befallen you. You have heard bad news, perhaps, and my levity has wounded you ?" " I have had no letters," said Philip, coolly, striving with his rising tenderness. " No? Well, then, what ails you?" " Oh ! nothing — nothing. Don't trouble your- 330 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. self about me, Miss Blair ! It's not worth while to check your gay spirits for me." " Is it not, indeed ! I begin to agree with you, Mr. Blondel. It is not worth while to check my gay spirits for you. I hear some one coming. I excuse you, sir. r> " Willingly, no doubt," said Philip, pointing significantly to Mr. Skefton, who appeared toiling towards them through a tangle of briars, at a little distance. Alice stood looking after him a moment, and then, darting off rapidly in another direction, was soon out of sight and hearing. All were again embarked, and they were sailing merrily before the wind. Mr. Skefton's gaiety was unabated, and Alice astonished every one with her extravagant spirits. " You had better tack, and make for home," said Mr. Blair, as the sails began to slacken; " Alice, my dear, assist Mr. Skefton in passing the boom." She sprang lightly upon the seat, and had just passed the sail over her head, when the wind struck it, and she was overboard in an instant. Philip made a desperate leap astern from the forward deck, but she had kept her hold upon the boom ; THE TUTOR. 331 and before he rose to the surface, Mr. Skefton had coolly drawn it in, and lifted her into the boat. Philip came up at a little distance ; and, shaking the water from his thick hair, stared wildly about him. " Ah ! you may swim up, young man !" said Mr. Skefton ; " I have rescued Miss Blair." With a few vigorous strokes, make like the bounds of a lion, he laid his hand on the stern. " You'd better swim round to the other end of the boat," said the cit, pushing Philip's forehead with his fore finger, and pulling away the skirt of his coat ; " you are too wet to come in here." " Rise, sir !" cried Alice, in a tone of mingled contempt and authority, as she leaped like a grey- hound over him, and offered her hand to Philip ; " rise, and assist him, sir !" Mr. Skefton started, as if he had been struck with lightning, and plunging his arms up to the elbows in the water, dragged him into the boat. " Good e'en to you, sir knight {" said Miss Blair, galloping up on her beautiful gray, in a ro- mantic bridle-path of the woods. She sprang lightly from the saddle as she spoke, and tossing the reins on her horse's neck, clapped her hands three times. The spirited animal, throwing up her head with a 332 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. neigh of delight, sprang away home through the wood like a startled fawn. " So you won't offer your arm to an errant damsel !" Philip offered it instantly. " Thank you ! I looked for you in vain in the library; and, supposing you had walked out, I jumped upon Kate, whom you have petted till she watches all your motions; and with a loose rein she has brought me to you. Have I broken your dream ?" " Yes, most agreeably." " Thank you again ! Heigh ho ! I want to say a thousand things to you. When do you leave us?" " In a few days." " So soon ?" " My term has expired." " But are you going to play tutor for ever?" " I should be almost willing, if I could select my pupils." They walked on for some time in silence. " Mr. Blondel— Philip, I mean," said Alice, " I have not thanked you for your generous exertions yesterday." " Don't speak of them, Miss Blair. 1 ' " Miss Blair !" repeated she, looking at him re- proachfully. THE TUTOR. 333 " Alice, clear Alice," said Philip, correcting him- self earnestly ; and again he was silent. " I have played a strange part," he said at last, " perhaps a dishonourable one, in intruding myself beneath your father's roof. 11 M Was it not necessity, then?" asked his com- panion eagerly. " Oh ! no, no — I shame to say it — no. I loved you, Alice — " He stopped, for she put her hand to her side, and breathed painfully. A brook was rippling away through the sere leaves near them ; and he seated her upon a fallen tree, and supporting her on his arm, bathed her temples. " Excuse me for proceeding,"" he continued, " when, perhaps, you are too ill to listen ; but I leave you soon, and I may never have another op- portunity to say what I must say, if I would live." He paused, and collected himself with a strong effort. " I endeavoured when we parted to forget you. I was but a boy ; yet I appreciated you too justly, to suppose that I, even if I could win you, was capable of making you happy." He felt his hand pressed almost imperceptibly. 11 " It was vain, however, utterly vain ! I could as soon die, as forget even a word you had spoken. By and bye, a class-mate told me, that he was 334 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. coming to be your family tutor — and I bought the privilege — and came I" " Dear, dear Philip V murmured the sweet girl, dropping her head upon his bosom. " God bless you for that word !" said the lover ; and he leaned over her, and pressed his lips, for the first time, in an impassioned kiss upon her fore- head. "lam glad you have come, Alice," said Mr. Blair, as his daughter walked into the library the next morning, so earnestly engaged in pulling a rose to pieces, that she could not raise her eyes. " I was just about sending for you. Sit down. I wish to speak to you upon an important — blushes, ha ! You anticipate me ? Well, I see how it is ; he has been to me, to ask my permission ; and I told him — but no matter — I see it's needless to ask you, if you have any objection."" Alice threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him affectionately. " Well, well, don't smother me. I was going to tell you. He wants to be married on Monday, and to-day is Saturday ; and you must be publish- ed, you know. So take my pen— this confounded rheumatism in my fingers ! — take my pen, and write both your names; and I'll send them to the minister. THE TUTOR. 335 Alice sat down, and, with a trembling hand, wrote her own name, and Philip Blondel's, in the common formula, and handed it to her father, who folded it without reading, and gave it to the servant. The father was silent for a few minutes after the door closed. " This is rather sudden, my dear child," said he, as a tear forced itelf into his eye, and he turned over his papers hastily, to conceal his emotion; " it is rather sudden, I say — but he is able to take care of you now, as he ever will be; and, if I must part from you, why, I can bear it now better than if I were to think of it longer. God bless you, my child — God bless you!" and he covered his eyes with his hand, and motioned for her to leave him. Alice kept her room till the morning of the wed- ding ; and Mr. Blair and his proposed son-in-law, were too busy in making settlements, to have time even for church between Saturday and Monday. They were to meet in the library previous to going below. It was not quite the hour, and Philip was there alone. He stood in a recess, with his arms folded on his breast, his lips and cheeks 336 STORTES OF AMERICAN LIFE. perfectly colourless ; his eyes bloodshot, but calm ; and his lips motionless as marble. " I congratulate you, sir;" said the minister, Mr. Williams, entering and approaching him with a cordial smile. He did not hear him. " I congratulate you, sir;" repeated the minister. Philip started, and looked at him a moment. Comprehending him at last, " You have mistaken the person, sir, ,, said he ; and he motioned him off impatiently. The good man gazed at him with astonishment. " This is Mr. Philip Blondel, unless I mis- take?" " Mr. Augustus Skefton, the gentleman whom you are to marry, will be here presently, sir," said Philip ; pausing after every word, and turn- ing again from him. The minister took a paper from his pocket, and gave it to him. It was the publishment of Philip Blondel and Alice Blair, written in that lady's own hand. Philip staggered and leaned against the wall. At that moment the door opened. " Permit me to express my happiness," began Mr. Skefton, stopping the bride at the door, and offering his arm to enter. Alice looked surprised, bowed slightly, and was passing on. THE TUTOR. 337 " My daughter !" exclaimed Mr. Blair, in a tone of astonishment. She stopped, and he approached, and whispered in her ear. Alice started, and looked surprised. Mr. Skefton came up, and at- tempted to take her hand ; but she withdrew it with an offended air, and looked timidly at Philip. He was at her side in an instant. As she took his arm, the colour rushed into his face, and he clenched something in his right hand firmly. Mr. Skefton twirled his white gloves, and looked puzzled. " Mr. Blondel ! Alice !" said the father, in a tone of remonstrance, at the same time making an attempt to take his daughter from Philip. " Leave the lady, sir," said Mr. Skefton ; but he met Philip's eye, and checked the step he was about to take towards him. " Gentlemen ! Mr. Williams !" said the father, in an agitated voice, " will you leave us one mo- ment ? — My daughter, stay with me." They left the room. Philip paced the hall with a firm step, and an expression in his eye, from which Mr. Skefton recoiled involuntarily, as he passed the place where he stood. Not a word was spoken by either, till Mr. Blair made his appear- ance. " Mr. Skefton, 1 ' said he, addressing that gentle- man with a formal bow — " it pains me to inform VOL. I. Q, 338 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. you, that we have been labouring under an unac- countable mistake. My daughter has supposed herself engaged to Mr. Blondel, who is a gentle- man of fortune and family." " Hem ! indeed ! hem !" said Mr. Skefton, walk- ing towards the door. His barouche stood ready to bear off his bride to the city. He seized his hat, and, without an- other word, walked out of the house. " Give your honour joy!" said the coachman, looking back for the bride. " Go to the devil with your joy !" said his master, leaping into the barouche, and pulling down the curtain. " Drive on !" he shouted, in a voice al- most choked with passion. The astonished coachman gave the horses the reins. The moment they started, a swivel, which was placed on a neighbouring hill, was fired, the bells began to ring, and, at every turn he met the neighbours in carriages and on foot, coming to pay their compliments. As he drove through the vil- lage, the shoemaker, and the grocer, and the tailor came out and bowed, the children ran up and tossed in flowers ; and, as he passed the church, a troop of young men sallied out on horseback, and accompanied him a mile or two on his way, with every demonstration of joy. I shall never forget the evening when the Pre- THE TUTOR. 339 sident rapped on the desk after prayers, and, re- questing us to be seated, read, while a smile strug- gled for expression on his benevolent face, the expulsion of Philip Blondel, for having committed, contrary to the express law of the institution — matrimony ! «2 THE INDIAN HATER. In the course of a journey, which I lately took through Illinois, I stopped one day at a village for a few hours, and stepped into a store to purchase some trifling article of which I stood in need. Finding a number of persons there, and being not unwilling to while away a few minutes in conversa- tion, I leaned my back against the counter, and addressed myself to a well dressed farmer, who answered my inquiries respecting the country with intelligence and civility. While thus engaged, my attention was drawn to a person who stood near. He was a man who might have been about fifty years of age. His height did not exceed the ordinary stature, and his person was rather slender than otherwise ; but there was something in his air and features, which distinguished him from common men. The ex- pression of his countenance was keen and daring. THE INDIAN HATER. 341 His forehead was elevated, his cheek-bones high, his lips small and compressed — while long expo- sure to the climate had tanned his complexion to a deep olive. The same cause seemed to have hardened his skin and muscles, so as to give him the appearance of a living petref action. There was over all a settled gloom — a kind of forced composure, which indicated resignation, but not content. In his eye, there was something peculiar, yet it was difficult to tell in what that peculiarity consisted. It was a small grey orb, whose calm, bold, direct glance seemed to vouch, that it had not cowered with shame, or quailed in danger. There was blended in that eye a searching keen- ness, with a quiet vigilance — a watchful, sagacious, self-possession — so often observable in the physiog- nomy of those who are in the habit of expecting, meeting, and overcoming peril. His heavy eye- brows had once been black ; but time had touched them with his pencil. — He was dressed in a coarse, grey hunting shirt, girded round the waist with a broad, leathern belt, tightly drawn, in which rested a long knife, a weapon common to the west- ern hunter. Upon the whole, there was about this man an expression of grim and gloomy sternness, fixedness of purpose, and intense, but smothered passion, which stamped him as of no common mould : yet there were indications of openness and 342 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. honesty, which forbade distrust. His was not the unblushing front of hardy guilt, nor the lurking glance of underhanded viilany. A stranger would not have hesitated to confide in his faith or courage, but would have trembled at the idea of provoking his hostility. I had barely time to make these observations, when several Indians, who had strolled into the village, entered the store. The effect of their presence upon the backwoodsman, whom I have described, was instantaneous and violent. His eyes rolled wildly, as if he had been suddenly stung to madness, gleaming with a strange fierce- ness ; a supernatural lustre, like that which flashes from the eye-balls of the panther, when crouched in a dark covert, and ready to dart upon his prey. His hollow cheek was flushed — the muscles, that but a moment before seemed so rigid, became flexible, and moved convulsively. His hand, sliding quietly to the hilt of his large knife, as if by instinct, grasped it firmly ; and it was easy to perceive, that a single breath would be sufficient to blow up the smothered fire — But, except these indications, he remained motionless as a statue, gazing with a look of intense ferocity at the in- truders. The Indians halted when their eyes met his, and exchanged glances of intelligence with each other. Whether it was from instinct, or that THE INDIAN HATER. 343 they knew the man, or whether that sagacity, which is natural to their race, led them to read danger in his scowling visage, they seemed willing to avoid him, and retired — The backwoodsman made a motion as if to follow ; but several of the persons present, who had watched this silent scene with interest, gently withheld him, and after con- versing with him a few moments in an earnest,, but under tone, led him off in one direction, while the Indians rode away in another. Having understood from the farmer, with whom I had been talking, that he was about to return home, and that my route led through his neigh- bourhood, I cheerfully accepted the offer of his company, and we set out together. Our discourse very naturally fell upon the scene we had wit- nessed, and I expressed a curiosity to learn some- thing of the history and character of the man, whose image had impressed itself so forcibly upon my mind. " He is a strange, mysterious looking being," said I, " and I should think he must be better, or worse, than other men." " Samuel Monson is a very good neighbours- replied the farmer, cautiously. " You say that in a tone," rejoined I, " which seems to imply, that in some other respects he may not be so good ?" 344 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. " Well, as to that — I cannot say, of my own knowledge, that I know any harm of the man." " And what do other people say of him ?" The farmer hesitated, and then with a caution very common among people of this description, re- plied — " People often say more than they can prove. It's not good to be talking of one's neighbours. And Monson, as I said before, is a good neigh- bour." " But a bad man, as I understand you ?" " No — far from it : the man's well enough — ex- cept — "and here he lowered his tone, and looked cautiously around. " The folks do say he is rather too keen with his rifle." "How so; — does he shoot his neighbour's cat- tle?" " No, sir — Samuel Monson is as much above a mean action, as any other man.'' " What, then ; — is he quarrelsome ?" " Oh, bless you, no ! — There's not a peaceabler man in the settlement ; — but he used to be a great Indian fighter in the last war, and he got sort o haunt to the woods ! — and folks do say, he is still rather too keen on the track of a moccasin." " I do not exactly comprehend you, my dear sir. — The Indians are, I believe, now quiet, and at peace with us." THE INDIAN HATER. 345 " Why, yes, they are very peaceable. They never come near us, except now and then a little party comes in to trade." " They are civil, are they not ?" " Yes, Sir, quite agreeable — bating the killing of a hog once in a while — and that we don't vally — seeing that it is but just natural to the poor savage to shoot any thing that runs in the woods. ,, " In what way, then, does this Monson interfere with them ?" " I did not say, stranger, that Monson done it. No, no ; I wouldn't hurt no man's character ; but the fact and truth are about this. Now and then an Indian is missing ; and sometimes one is found dead in the range ; and folks will have their no- tions, and their talk, and their suspicions about it — and some talk hard of Monson. 1 "' " But why charge it upon him ?" * Why, if you must have it out, stranger, in this country we all know the bore of every man's rifle. — Monson's gun carries just eighty to the pound. — Now the bullet-holes in all these Indians that have been shot, are the same, and we know whose rifle they suit. Besides this, horse tracks have been seen on the trail of the moccasin. They were very particular tracks, and just suited the hoof of a cer- tain horse. Then a certain man was known to be lying out about that same time ; and when all these Q5 346 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. things are put together, it don't take a Philadel- phia lawyer to tell who done the deed. Then he sometimes goes off, and is gone for weeks, and peo- ple guess that he goes to their own hunting grounds to lie in wait for them. They do say, he can scent a red skin like a hound, and never lets a chance slip." " But is it possible, that in a civilized country, within the reach of our laws, a wretch is permitted to hunt down his fellow creatures like wild beasts ? To murder a defenceless Indian, who comes into our territory in good faith, believing us a Christian people ?'' " Why it is not exactly permitted ; we don't know for certain who does it, nor is it any parti- cular man's business to inquire more than another. Many of the settlers have had their kin murdered by the savages in early times ; and all who have been raised in the back woods, have been taught to fear and dislike them. Then Monson is an honest fellow, works hard, pays his debts, and is always willing to do a good turn, and it seems hard to break neighbourhood with him, for the matter of an Indian or so." u But the wickedness — the shame — the breach of law and hospitality !" " Well, so it is. — It is a sin ; and sorry would I be to have it on my conscience. But then some think an Indian or two, now and then, will never THE INDIAN HATER. 347 be missed ; others again hate to create an interrup- tion in the settlement ; others, who pretend to know the law, say that the general government has the care of the Indians ; and that our state laws won't kiver the case ; and withal Monson keeps his own counsel, and so among hands he escapes. After all, to come to the plain downright truth, Monson has good cause to hate them ; and many a man, that would not dip his own hand in the blood of an Indian, would as soon die as betray Monson ; for few of us could lay our hands on our hearts, and say that we would not do the same in his situa- tion." At thispoint of the conversation, we were joined by several horsemen, who were pursuing the same road with ourselves ; and my companion seeming unwill- ing to pursue the subject in their hearing, I was unable to learn from him what injury the Indian- hater had received, to provoke his sanguinary career of vengeance. Nor did another opportunity occur ; for we soon came to a point where the road diverged; and although my friendly companion, with the usual hospitality of the country, invited me to his house, I was obliged to decline the in- vitation, and we parted. I continued my journey into the North western part of Illinois, which was then just beginning to attract the attention of land purchasers, and con- 348 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. tained a few scattered settlements. Delighted with this beautiful country, and wishing to explore the lands lying between this tract and the Wabash, I determined, on my return, to strike directly across, through an uninhabited wilderness of about a hun- dred and fifty miles in extent. I hired an Indian guide, who was highly recommended to me, and set out under his protection. It is not easy to describe the sensations of a tra- veller, unaccustomed to such scenery, on first be- holding the vast prairies which I was about to ex- plore. Those which I had heretofore seen, were comparatively small. The points of woodland which break into them like so many capes or pro- montories, and the groves which are interspersed like islands, are, in these lesser prairies, always sufficiently near to be clearly defined to the eye, and to give the scene an interesting variety. We see a plain of several miles in extent, not perfectly level, but gently rolling or undulating, like the swelling of the ocean when nearly calm. The graceful curve of the surface is seldom broken, ex- cept when here and there the eye rests upon one of those huge mounds, which are so pleasing to the poet, and so perplexing to the antiquarian. The whole is overspread with grass and flowers, consti- tuting a rich and varied carpet, in which a ground of lively green is ornamented with a profusion of THE INDIAN HATER. 349 the gaudiest hues. Deep recesses in the edge of the timber, resemble the bays and inlets of a lake ; while occasionally a long vista, opening far back into the forest, suffers the eye to roam off, and refresh itself with the calm beauty of a distant per- spective. The traveller, as he rides along these smaller prairies, finds his eye continually attracted to the edges of the forest, and his imagination employed in tracing the beautiful outline, and in finding out resemblances between these wild scenes, and the most highly embellished productions of art. The fairest pleasure grounds, the noblest parks of Eu- ropean princes, where millions have been expended to captivate the fancy with Elysian scenes, are but mimic representations of the beau ties which are here spread by nature ; for here are clumps, and lawns, and avenues, and groves — the tangled thicket, and the solitary tree — and all the varieties of scenic at- traction — but on a scale so extensive, as to offer an endless succession of changes to the eye. There is an air of civilization here, that wins the heart — even here, where no human residence is seen, where no foot intrudes, and where not an axe has ever trespassed on the beautiful domain. So different is this feeling from any thing inspired by mountain, or woodland scenery, that the instant the traveller emerges from the forest into the prairie, he no 350 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. longer feels solitary. The consciousness that he is travelling alone, and in a wilderness, escapes him ; and he indulges the same pleasing sensations which are enjoyed by one who, having been lost among the labyrinths of a savage mountain, suddenly de- scends into rich and highly cultivated fields. The gay landscape charms him. He is surrounded by the refreshing sweetness, and graceful beauty of the rural scene ; and recognises at every step some well remembered spot, enlarged and beautified, and, as it were, retouched by nature's hand. The clusters of trees so fancifully arranged, seemed to have been disposed by the hand of taste, and so complete is the delusion, that it is difficult to dispel the belief, that each avenue leads to a village, and each grove conceals a splendid mansion. Widely different was the prospect exhibited in the more northern prairies. Vast in extent, the distant forest was barely discoverable in the shape- less outline of blue, faintly impressed on the horizon. Here and there a solitary tree, torn by the wind, stood alone like a dismantled mast in the ocean. As I followed my guide through this desolate region, my sensations were similar to those of the voyager, when his barque is launched into the ocean. Alone, in a wide waste, with my faithful pilot only, I was dependent on him for support, guidance, and protection. With little to THE INDIAN HATER. 351 diversify the path, and less to please the eye, a sense of dreariness crept over me — a desolation and withering of the spirit, as when the heart, left painfully alone, finds nothing to love, nothing to admire, nothing from which to reap instruction or amusement. But these are feelings, which, like the sea sickness of the young mariner, are soon dispelled. I began to find a pleasure in gazing over this immense, unbroken waste ; in watching the horizon in the vague hope of meeting a tra- veller, and in following the deer with my eyes, as they galloped off — their forms growing smaller and smaller, as they receded, until they faded gra- dually from the sight. — Sometimes I descried a dark spot at an immense distance, and pointed it out to my companion with a joy, like that of the seaman who discovers a distant sail in the speck which floats on the ocean. When such an object happened to be in the direction of our path, I watched it as it rose and enlarged upon the vision — supposing it one moment to be a man — and at another a buffalo ; until, after it had seemed to approach for hours, I found it to be a tree. Nor was I entirely destitute of company ; for my Pottowattomie guide proved to be both intelli- gent and good humoured, and although his stock of English was but slender, his conversational powers were by no means contemptible. His 352 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. topographical knowledge was extensive and accu- rate, so that he was able not only to choose the best route, but to point out to me all the localities. When we halted, he kindled a fire, spread my pallet, and formed a shelter to protect me from the weather. When we came to a stream which was too deep to ford, he framed a raft to cross me over with my baggage, while he mounted my horse and plunged into the water. Throughout the journey, his assiduities were as kind and un- remitting, as all his arrangements were sagacious and considerate. A higher motive, than the mere pecuniary reward which he expected for his ser- vices, governed his actions ; a genuine integrity of purpose, a native politeness and dignity of heart, raised him above the ordinary savage, and ren- dered him not only a respectable, but an interest- ing man. After travelling nearly five days without be- holding a human habitation, we arrived at the verge of a settlement on the Wabash. We passed along a rich bottom, covered with large trees, whose thick shade afforded a strong contrast to the scenes we had left behind us, and then ascending a gentle rise, stood on a high bluff bank of the Wabash. A more secluded and beautiful spot has seldom been seen. A small river, with a clear stream, rippling over a rocky bed, meandered THE INDIAN HATER. 353 round the point on which we stood, and then turning abruptly to the left, was lost among the trees. The opposite shore was low, thickly wooded, and beautifully rich in the variety of mellow hues painted by the autumn sun. The spot we occupied was a slip of table land, a little higher than the surrounding country. It had once been cleared for cultivation, but was now over- grown with hazle-bushes, vines, and briars, while a few tall, leafless trunks, once the proudest oaks of the forest, still adhered tenaciously to the soil. A heap of rubbish, intermingled with logs, half burnt and nearly rotten, showed the remains of what had once been a chimney — but all else had been destroyed by time or fire. One spot only, which had been beaten hard, was covered with a smooth, green sward, unmixed with brush ; and here we stood gazing at this desolate spot, and that beautiful stream. It was but a moment, and nei- ther of us had broken silence, when the report of a rifle was heard, and my guide, uttering a dismal yell, fell prostrate. Recovering his senses for an instant, he grasped his gun, partly raised his body, and cast upon me a look of reproach, which I shall never forget ; and then, as if satisfied by the concern and alarm of my countenance, and my prompt movement to assist him, he gave me one 354 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. hand, and pointing with the other towards the woods, exclaimed — " Bad — bad, white man ! — Take care ! " — and expired. I was so much surprised and shocked at this catastrophe, that I stood immovable, thoughtless of my own safety, mourning over the brave Indian, who lay weltering in his gore, when I was startled by a slight rustling in the bushes close behind me, and raising my eyes, I beheld Monson ! Advanc- ing without the least appearance of shame or fear, until he came to the corpse, and paying not the slightest attention to me, he stood and gazed sternly at the fallen warrior. " There's another of the cursed crew, 11 said he, at length, " gone to his last account ! — He is not the first, nor shall he be the last. — It's an old debt, but it shall be paid to the last drop." As he spoke, he gnashed his teeth, and his eyes gleamed with the malignity of gratified revenge. Then turning to me, and observing the deep ab- horrence with which I shrunk back, he said : — " May be, stranger, you don't like this sort of business ?" " Wretch — miscreant — murderer ! begone ! Approach me not, 1 ' I exclaimed, drawing a large pistol from my belt ; but, before I was aware, the backwoodsman, with a sudden spring, caught my THE INDIAN HATER. 355 arm, and wrested the weapon from me; and then remaining perfectly calm, while I was ready to burst with rage, he said : — " This is a poor shooting-iron for a man to have about him — it might do for young men to ' tote 1 in a settlement, but it is of no use in the woods — no more than a shot-gun." " Scoundrel !" said I, " you shall repent your violence " u Young man !" interrupted he, very coolly, " I am no scoundrel ; — you mistake — you do not know me." " Murderer !" repeated I, " for such I know you to be. — Think not this bloody deed shall go unpunished. My life is in your power, but I dread not your vengeance f While I was thus exhausting myself in the ex- pression of my rage and horror, the more politic Monson, having possessed himself of the Indian's gun, dropped it, together with my unlucky pistol, on the ground, and placing one foot on them, he proceeded deliberately to reload his rifle. " Don't be alarmed, young man, 1 ' said he, in reply to my last remark, " I shall not hurt a hair of your head. — You cannot provoke me to it. — I never harmed a Christian man to my know- ledge." * " See here !" he continued, as he finished load- 356 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. ing his piece — Then pointing to the ruins of the cabin, he proceeded in a hurried tone : — " This was my home. — Here I built a house with my own labour. — With the sweat of my brow I opened this clearing. — Here I lived with my wife, my children, and my mother We worked hard — lived well — and were happy. One night — it was in the fall — I had gathered my corn, the labour of the year was done, and I was sitting by the fire among the family, with the prospect of plenty and comfort around me, — when I heard a yell ! I never was a coward, but I knew that sound too well ; and when I looked round upon the women and the helpless babes that depended on me for protection, a cold chill ran over me, and my heart seemed to die. I ran to the door, and beheld my stacks in a blaze. I caught up my gun — but in a moment, a gang of yelling savages came pouring in at my door like so many howl- ing wolves. I fired, and one of them fell. — I caught up an axe, and rushed at them with such fury that I cleared the cabin. The monsters then set fire to the roof, and we saw the flames spread- ing around us. What could I do? Here was my poor old mother, and my wife, and my little children, unable to fight or fly. — I burst the door, and rushed madly out ; but they pushed me back. The blazing timbers came falling among us — my THE INDIAN HATER. 357 wife hung on my neck, and called on me to save her children — our pious mother prayed — while the savage wretches roared, and laughed, and mocked us. I grasped my axe, and rushed out again. I killed several of them ; — but they overpowered me, bound me, and led me to witness the ruin of all that was dear to me. All — all perished here in the flames before my eyes. — They perished in lingering torments. I saw their agonies — I heard their cries — they called on my name. — Oh, heaven ! can I ever forget it ?" Here he stopped, overcome with his emotions, and looked wildly around. — Tears came to his re- lief, but the man of sorrows brushed them away, and continued : — " They carried me off a prisoner. I was badly wounded, and so heart broken, that for three days I was helpless as a child. Then a desire of re- venge grew up in my heart, and I got strong. I gnawed the ropes they had bound me with, and escaped from them in the night. In the Indian war that followed, I joined every expedition — I was foremost in every fight; — but I could not quench my thirst for the blood of those monsters. I swore never to forgive them ; and when peace came, I continued to make war. 1 made it a rule to kill every red skin that came in my way ; 358 STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE. and so long as my limbs have strength, I shall continue to slay the savage. " Go !" he continued, " pursue your own way, and leave me to mine. If you have a parent that prays for you, a wife and children that love you, they will receive you with joy, and you will be happy. I am alone ; — there is none to mourn with me, no one to rejoice at my coming. When all that you cherish is torn from you in one moment, condemn me, if you can : but not till then. Go ! — That path will lead you to a house ; — there you will get a guide." END OF VOL. I. LONDON : IBOT&OV AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND. ^-V 1