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University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 (1)
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1Author:  Jones J. B. (John Beauchamp) 1810-1866Add
 Title:  The western merchant  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: I was born in one of the eastern cities, and was the sixth of eleven children, of poor parents. When I was about six years of age, my family emigrated to Kentucky, then considered the “far west.” At the end of six years, my father failed in business; and as he was now entirely too poor to provide for his large family, those that were deemed old enough sought employment to support themselves. Nor were they wholly unprepared for the exigency; for our honored parent, in more propitious times, had placed the proper estimate upon the importance of education, and from the time we were old enough to go to school, until the loss of his fortune, (and every dollar was honorably offered up to his creditors,) we had excellent preceptors. Being unluckily the sixth child, I was not so far advanced in the books as my seniors, when the disaster alluded to befell us—but as I had the advantage of my five juniors, there was no just cause of complaint. I had the rudiments of a good English education, and an insatiable passion for books, which they deemed quite sufficient for the very humble part it seemed I was destined to play in the great drama of life. “Dear Luke:—I cannot restrain myself any longer from writing to you. Your last letter, informing me of your good prospects, and of your intention to commence business for yourself at Hanover, was directed to me, and not in an envelope to a third person—so it fell into the hands of my guardian-uncle, and excited his wrath and indignation to a frightful extent. But the worst of it was that he did not tell me what it was all about, but kept the letter himself. Now, I am my own mistress, and have some fortune here in old Virginia in my own right. I might at any time 13 relieve myself of his supervision, and his eccentric solicitude. Yet as my uncles are the nearest of kin that I have, I hope to be able to avoid a rupture with them. But to my narration. A few days after your letter fell into his hands, he announced his intention to take me to Virginia, and leave me under the protection of his brother, my uncle Edgar Beaufort. Not being aware of the cause which induced this step on his part, I was delighted with the idea of going back to old Virginia, and so I readily agreed to his proposition, without paying any particular attention to his remarks about the opportunity the change would afford me of marrying some one of my own station, equal in birth and fortune. “Luke, if you come to see me, remember it is merely the careless passing visit of a friend. There is a Methodist meeting house near the — hotel, in which they are holding a protracted meeting. If you follow a merry little old woman (you will know her by her shouting in the meeting house) to her broading-house, you will find me. My uncle is here, and might be harsh if he met you. Should you meet, you must not resent anything he may say, and above all, have no hostile collision with him. You must register a promise in heaven to do as I bid, before starting hitherward; else you have not my permission to come. Remember “Sir—In violation of the expressed desire of my brother, you have persisted in addressing letters to my niece; you have not only done that, but you have had the presumption to seek and obtain a clandestine interview with her. Being her next of kin, and natural protector, I deem it incumbent on me to demand, in this formal manner, the satisfaction which one gentleman has a right to require of another (and which no gentleman can refuse), for such an intrusive disregard of the wishes expressed by my brother, and endorsed by myself. “Dear Sir—I am at No. 6, — hotel, an entire stranger, and have received a challenge from Mr. E. Beaufort to meet him in mortal combat. I have never seen Mr. Beaufort before to-day, and certainly never insulted or injured him. If you will consent to give me the benefit of your advice in the premises, I will avail myself of the opportunity to relate all the circumstances of the case to you. “Luke:—The servant who hands you this, belongs to me, and has informed me that my uncle has challenged you to mortal combat. He says he heard my uncle tell his friends that he liked your appearance so much, he was almost sorry that he had quarreled with you, and that if you behaved well on the field, he would tender you his friendship, after an exchange of shots, which he hoped might have no serious result. Now, Luke, are you willing to fight for me? You have never said you desired to have me, nor I that I was at your service. I desire it to be distinctly understood by you, as it is sufficiently by him, that I am not at the disposal of my uncle. I am of age, and am my own mistress. My uncle is kind to me in my presence, and never seeks to control my actions. Should I make an unworthy alliance, the worst thing he could do, or would have a desire to attempt, would be to abandon my society. You now understand the relation in which we stand. I do not, however, wish to break with my uncle. He is generous, brave, and magnanimous; and of course it would wound me past recovery if you, my friend, should slay him in a duel. Thus you see that, by acceding to his proposition, to obtain his friendship, you would lose mine. Of that you may be assured. If you resolve to meet him, I resolve never to see you again. You must choose between him and me. But if you determine to accede to my request, and depart without a collision with him, you have my promise that, at a future day, should it be your pleasure, you can see me again, unchanged in every particular. “Sir:—I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your note of this morning. In reply, I have to state that, inasmuch as no definite proposal has been made by me to your niece, and as my engagements will demand my unintermitting presence at a point some two thousand miles distant from this, for at least a year to come, I must decline the meeting you demand, at least for the present. Should fortune bring me again in the vicinity of your niece, at some future day, and it should then be your pleasure to renew the demand, that will be the proper time for me to announce my final decision. “Luke,” said Blanche, “if you have seen proper to afflict yourself without reason, it was cruel to afflict Blanche also, who never did you any harm. And now, if you persist in dying, you may have the consolation, if the fact can console you, of knowing that Blanche will die also, murdered by you. * * * * You declare your love, and announce your purpose never to see me more. Would it not have been generous to have withheld the declaration, and left me in doubt? Luke, did you know that the passion was mutual? You have spoken plainly, at last; and I will do so too. Never, since we first parted, no, never for a moment, have I entertained the shadow of a thought that I could or would bestow my hand on any other than yourself—and such is the case still. * * * * * Luke, I have been addressed by several since we parted last, and all have abandoned the pursuit on learning my purpose, which I have frankly made known to them. My uncle took me to the falls of Niagara, Saratoga Springs, and divers other gay places last summer; but all in vain: he found that it was impossible to wean me from my first attachment. On my return, I pronounced my last positive rejection of the suit of the one whom my uncle preferred. Luke, we were standing on the balcony of a hotel in 23 Philadelphia, when he desired to know my decision. At that moment I thought I beheld your pale features, and that you cast upon me a look of reproach and sadness. A monosyllable sufficed for my petitioner, and I did not even have the curiosity to look after him, and observe how deeply he was disappointed and piqued. I had eyes only for the vision before me, if vision it was. I felt that Providence had linked our destinies together by adamantine chains, and I had no disposition to rupture them if they had been formed of a weaker material. Luke, was it you? Oh, if it was, how cruel not to come and speak to me! * * * * * * Luke, when I learned through the newspapers of your loss on that terrible steamer, my mind was made up. It was my fixed determination to place myself and my little fortune in your keeping, if you desired it, as soon as we met. How could you suppose that the loss of your money might involve the loss of my affection? No, Luke, you have not yet learned fully the character of Blanche. In misfortune she will cling the more closely to you, and be all the bolder in her ministrations of solace and encouragement. * * * * * Adhere Steadfastly to your Business.
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