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1Author:  Jones J. B. (John Beauchamp) 1810-1866Add
 Title:  The Winkles, or, The merry monomaniacs  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Babbleton was an ancient village near the city of Philadelphia. It had a wharf where the steamboats landed, and a depot where the locomotives whistled. Hence, although the principal mansions were situated on commodious lots, and in many instances separated from each other by broad yards and close fences, it is not to be inferred there was ever a monotonous deficiency of noise and excitement in the place. It had its proud and its miserable, its vanities and its humiliations, its bank and its bakers, its millionaires and its milliners; and was not unfrequently the scene of some of those entertaining comedies of life, which have been considered in all enlightened countries worthy of preservation in veracious and impartial history. Such a record we have attempted to produce; and although the direct manner of narration adopted may offend the taste of the fastidious critic, yet the less acutely discerning reader may possibly deem himself compensated for the labor of perusal, by the reliable assurance of the anthenticity of the story, and the interest attending the occurrences flitting before his mental vision. “My Dear Aunt:—It becomes my melancholy duty to announce a sad calamity—an unexpected suicide—which must affect you deeply. This morning poor Jocko was found suspended from the eve of the portico, and quite dead. That he did it himself, must be evident from the fact that no human being would be likely to climb down to the edge of the roof. It seems that he had driven a large nail into the wood through the last link of his chain, and then sprang over, either dislocuting. his neck, or producing suffocation. I could not hear his struggles, from the distant chamber I occupied, or you should not have been called upon to lament his untimely end. Poor Jocko! As the weather is very warm, I will have his body taken down and packed in ice. It will keep, dear aunt, until I receive your instructions, in regard to the disposition you would have made of it. Every thing shall be done according to your orders. You need not hasten your return to the city. I am quite comfortable here, and the house is kept very quiet from morning till night. My love to mother, sister, uncle, all. “If I see so plainly the imprudence of such disgraceful matches in others, you may suppose I shall be careful to avoid falling into the like silly practices myself. It is true I intend to marry. My nuptials will be celebrated some time during the present year. But the man of my choice will be a gentleman of distinction—a genius of celebrity. You know him, Walter—Mr. Pollen, the poet. If he is poor—if he has been sometimes, as you informed me, without a shirt—that is no disgrace. How was it with Chatterton, Defoe, and even Milton himself? And what lady in the world would not have been honored by being the wife of a Chatterton, a Defoe, a Milton? Shame upon the ladies who permitted them to languish in poverty! I will set an example for the wealthy ladies to follow hereafter. Genius is the very highest kind of aristocracy, because it cannot be conferred by mortal man, nor taken away even by the detracting tongue of women. Farewell. Present my adieus to your mother and Lucy. We will not meet again, unless it be accidentally, and then it is probable there will be no recognition on my part, and I desire there shall be none on yours. You may say to Mr. Lowe that a visit from him would be agreeable to me I believe him to be a gentleman, and would have no objections to his society, if he could answer one or two questions satisfactorily. You may say to him that although I am resolved to marry, I don't expect to feel what the silly girls call a romantic passion for any man. I don't believe in any such nonsense. I want a partner at whist as much as any thing else. “My Dear Niece:—I send my Edith for you, and I desire that you will return with her, by the evening mail. She is discreet, and no one knows her in Babbleton. By accompanying her, your persecutor will not be able to trace you to your asylum. Wear a thick veil, so that he may not recognize your features when you go to the cars. You may safely confide in Edith. She has been my confidant for many years, as your mother knows. She was personally acquainted with the Great Unknown—Sir Walter—and is familiar with the plots and stratagems of villains. She reads for me every night, and has a romantic and literary disposition. Since I received your dear pathetic letter, I have been going over the `Children of the Abbey' again, and find my eyes continually suffused with the miseries of poor Amanda. My dear child! You remind me of her so much, that I am painfully impatient to clasp you to my heart! Do not delay a moment. My love to sister Edith. Tell her not to insist on my Edith having any refreshments, for she never takes any. “Dear Sir: Excuse my bad writing, for you know I write with my left hand, and hold the paper down with my right stump. I saw Col. Oakdale to-day, and he said you would be home to-night, therefore I write. “Here is news from Babbleton,” said Lucy, and narrated in my dear mother's merry vein. Listen, aunt:—“Griselda still keeps my poor brother a close prisoner, while she dashes about in her coach and four. But she has cut all her poor acquaintances, and of course I am blotted out of her books. She passes without calling, and without knowing how heartily I laugh at the ridiculous figure she makes. But she patronized our minister, Mr. Amble, and that is a charitable expenditure, because the money will certainly reach the poor of the parish. Mr. A. you know, has either nine or thirteen (I forget which) children of his own, and they must be provided for. I suppose it is because I could render no assistance, that he has not called on me lately—not, I believe, since my house was sold. Perhaps he did not hear I was the purchaser * * * Still I think Roland is love mad. But his passion is two-fold. He has laid regular siege to Virginia Oakdale, who is my guest, and opens his batteries once or twice every week, and then disappears most mysteriously. I presume he occupies his blue carriage on the alternate days. Virginia never refuses to see him; but the spirited girl laughs at his pretensions, and banters him in such a moeking manner that he must soon despair of making any progress. Why do you not treat him in the same way? Or why do you not marry him, and then have your revenge? It is so absurd to see men of fortune running after the girls, and vainly teasing them for a smile. Marry them, and they will run the other way. Walter is still at Washington, and has not yet received his appointment. I believe he has ceased writing to Virginia. What does it mean? More tomfoolery? Lowe has been absent some time—and I suppose you have seen him. Remember! * * * We had an exciting scene in the street the other day. Sergeant Blore, when stumping on his way to see me, was seized by Mrs. Edwards. She demanded his money—and he cried murder! He tripped her up with his wooden leg and made his escape. But it seems he sprained her ankle, and she has since threatened to bring “an haction” against him for “hassault” and battery! You see how husbands are served! Bill Dizzle gallants Patty O'Pan to church every Sunday. I wrote you how Patty mortally affronted the Arums and Crudles. She kept up till Bill and Susan beat a retreat. It has been a mystery to me how the impudent hussy obtained the means to perpetrate such an annoyance. Some of her finery must have cost a great deal of money, and no one ever supposed Lowe possessed a superabundance of it. By the way, I forgot to mention that Bell Arum has written home a precious budget of news, which her mother, as usual, has published to all her acquaintances. She says she saw you examining the register, and that you were in the habit of wandering about alone and unprotected. She says Mr. Lowe is likewise in the city; and if her ma would put that and that together, she would know as much as the writer, no doubt! And she says they have an invitation to the aristocratic Mrs. Laurel's parties, and that some of the British nobility of the highest rank are expected over this winter. But (she says) if L. W. and Mr. L. are to be met there, she is determined to expose them. “My impudent nephew Walter, who will persist in writing me, notwithstanding I have cast him off for sanctioning his uncle's marriage with that vulgar bonnet-maker (I forget her name), informs me that Mr. Pollen, the silly poet who abandoned my hospitality to borrow a few dirty dollars of the milliner, is now working himself to death in New York to earn a scanty living, which he might have had for nothing by remaining here and behaving himself. He is a fool—just like other poets who have genius, and therefore he ought not to be permitted to kill himself. Enclosed I send a check for a trifling sum payable to bearer, which, perhaps, with delicate management you may induce him to make use of for his own benefit. Perhaps he needs some new shirts. I have seen him twice without any—and I believe he has one of Walter's yet. Speaking of checks and of Walter, I gave my cast-off nephew one when he was on his way to that Babylonian rendezvous of demagogues, which, for some reason—or rather for the want of reason—he did not use. I suppose he gave it to some fool or other poorer than himself. But the cashier of the bank did not pay the money. There needed Walter's name on it, he said, written with his own hand, as it was drawn to his order, or something of the sort, which I did not understand, and did not choose to inquire about. Walter says Lucy is with you. Tell her I have five letters from Ralph Roland begging me to intercede for him. I believe him a knave—but if he writes me again I shall also believe him in earnest, and that the rascal is absolutely in love. It would be a better match than her uncle's, which she attended. “It must be for me,” said Walter. “Put it on the table. I will look at it when I have searched my pockets once more.” Not finding the check, he opened the letter and read as follows: “Misther Walther Wankle, Sir — I have sane Misthress Famble and mi busnes is faxd. She seed you at super and sez she wants to no you. She ses she liks yer lukes, and wud like to sarve you but ses Misther Famble is beging for a nother man. Don't be onasy she kin do mor in a dozzin husbins. Pleases anser this and lave at the barr for your obeydant sarvint “Would you deign to read the news here, if I promise not to be tedious? Well, I promise. The mortgage on our house and grounds has been paid. Will you facilitate me on that? You must not ask where the money came from, for that is a secret upon which to exercise your faculty of guessing. But that is not all. Colonel Oakdale's debt to Roland has been paid. That must be news for you. You would never guess who loaned him the money, and I will tell you, so that you may pour out your gratitude to him should your relations with the family of the senator—we have just heard of his election by the Legislature—ever become more intimate than they have been hitherto. It was John Dowly, whom every one supposed to be in indigent circumstances. Blessings on my old beau. Walter never slept more soundly, or enjoyed more pleasant dreams, than he did in prison. And he had an excellent appetite for breakfast, which was damaged, however, by the contents of the letters and papers brought in by his keeper.
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