University of Virginia Library

According to arrangement, Bradshaw and his
friends visited the Purchase that afternoon. They
approached the farm as the sun was setting. That
glorious luminary, surrounded by a gorgeous host
of clouds, was hiding his disk behind a range of
hills, which bound the Purchase on the west. The
various hues of the foliage of the Indian summer,
shone beautifully in the parting rays. Cantering
gaily on, the young men felt that exhilaration of spirits,
which a ride on horse-back seldom fails to impart,
even to the aged. Bradshaw struck his spurs
into his steed, as they bounded on, and glanced round
on the scene with a compressed lip, but a flashing
eye. Even the Judge's gravity relaxed;—though
not a graceful horseman, he was a sure one, and
he dashed on too, remarking, with something like
a smile, “I like this.” As Willoughby gave the
reins to his steed, he stretched his hand to the setting
sun, and said:

“There, Bradshaw! there's a scene: the sun's
face looks like a jolly old toper, who has taken his
last glass, and who is looking round, with a face full
of joy, on the table. How beautiful the hill-tops
look!—and the foliage! the foliage! What is there

in the oriental lands superior to this of the west.
The sun's glancing now upon old Kentuck, in her
glory. He's laughing upon her hills, and dancing
upon her streams. Those must have been glorious
times in the early settlement of the west, when her
free spirits were roving over hill and prairie, and
when there was just danger enough from the savage
foe to keep up excitement, and to make men
proud of the life and strength which they felt their
own prowess must maintain.”

“Very glorious times,” said Cavendish, “with
wild Indians behind the trees, lurking to shoot and
scalp you. No! the pleasure that I now feel is in
the perfect sense of security. I know there are no
Indians here; my saddle girth is strong, and I can
manage my horse; and there's health in the breeze.
If we were now riding in the west, in early times,
as an Irishman would say, I would not be with you.
I'd rather be snug in a smoky office, poring over
a law book.”

“I know it, Judge,” replied Willoughby. “If
you had been among the pioneers all around the
region of the scalp lock, you would have gone gray
for fear of losing it, while the lock itself would have
been silvered o'er. But, when the country was
cleared, you would have been first rate on the
judgment-seat, with a log shanty for a court-house,
where a lawyer would have to take his coat off,
and go at it, like all wrath, to earn any thing of a
fee; and where they would have to run down a
jury, as they do now in Indiana—catch them, man
by man, and tie them to a tree, till they've got a

dozen, and then bring them, tied together, to prevent
their escape, into the court-house.”

“In those early times,” said Bradshaw, “there
must have been a great field for the display of eloquence.
Men, who follow mainly their impulses,
must be greatly moved by oratory. Henry Clay is
a very great man, no doubt; but, then, he had a
great field, Willoughby—he had a great field.”

“Yes, that's a fact,” replied Willoughby. “I
remember seeing, somewhere, a tale of Davies—
Joe Davies, as he is called in Kentuck—he who
was killed at the battle of Tippecanoe, where the
gallant Harrison commanded, which illustrates the
effect of eloquence upon a Kentuckian. The tale
states that a stranger, from one of the eastern states,
was travelling in a distant part of Kentucky: he
was attracted, by a great crowd, to a log house, in
which, when he entered, he found the court for the
county sitting. A case, I believe, of seduction, occupied
the attention of the court. Pleased with
the powers of the defendant's counsel, the stranger
stopped to listen. After the speaker concluded, a
man in a hunting-dress arose and addressed the
jury, for the plaintiff, in reply. He began awkwardly,
but he warmed as he went along, handled
the testimony in a most masterly manner, and concluded
with an overwhelming burst of eloquence,
that melted the audience to tears. The stranger
was so struck with the speech, that, as the assembly
broke up, he inquired of a rough-looking Kentuck,
who the last lawyer was. The Kentuckian
looked at him with surprise, observing—`You must
be a stranger in these parts.' `I am,' said the

stranger. `I thought so,' replied the Kentuckian,
`for nobody but Joe Davies ever made me cry by
the tin-full.”'[1]

As they wound up the hill, the scene appeared
more and more striking. The noble grove of oaks
behind the house, with its rich variety of hues,
looked even richer in the sun-set, while the venerable
mansion, with its comfortable out-houses, and
highly cultivated grounds, presented a picture of
repose and peace that contrasted delightfully with
the city scene which the young men had just left.
As they approached the gate, old Pete's son, young
Pete, was perched on the top of the gate-post,
waiting for the cows to come up, instead of going
after them, as he had been ordered. Young Pete
had taken his present elevated situation for a double
purpose—first, that he might keep a sharp look
out towards the house, and learn, as soon as possible,
if his mother, who attended to the duties of the
dairy, should have any intention of stealing a march
upon him, with purposes unfriendly to his quiet;
and, secondly, that, while taking his ease, instead
of running after the cows, he might command a
view of them, as they strolled leisurely along, occasionally
stopping to crop the herbage on the sides
of the lane, and observe if any of them had a disposition
to turn back, or to stop so long, as to render
his activity imperious. Young Pete had on
one of “Massa Clinton's” old jackets, which Clinton
had worn when a boy, and which was too

large for its present wearer. The pockets were
crammed full of marbles, tops, and bits of twine,
with which Pete set snares. His head was graced
with an old hat, without any crown in it, and with
the rim torn off in front, so that the vision of the
wearer might not be intercepted. He had a round,
shiny face; his mouth seemed made for a broad
grin, as it was perpetually developing his ivory from
ear to ear. With his lower extremities, which
were graced with a thick pair of coarse shoes, he
was drumming against the gate-post, on which he
was seated, while he patted his thighs and whistled,
in harmony. Occasionally, he would stop, as if
struck with a sudden thought, count and recount
his marbles, to see that none were missing, and then
stow them away safely in his pockets; or he would
examine his twine, to be satisfied that there were
no weak places in it, that might let a rabbit off;
or he would glance up at some bird that was taking
roost in a tree near him, and then at a stone on
the ground; but his love of ease, after a slight struggle,
would prevail over his more warlike purposes.
As soon as young Pete heard the tramp of the
horses, and the voices of the horsemen, he got up on
the post, to see who was coming. “By goley,” said
he, jumping down from the post, and throwing the
gate wide open, “there comes Massa Clinton, and
that gentlemans what looks like a preacher, that
Massa Clinton calls Judge; and another gentlemans.
Pete, keep your eye open, nigger—you'll get something
whiter than a red cent.” Holding the gate
officiously open, he waited the approach of Massa
Clinton and his friends.

“Well, Pete,” asked Bradshaw, “how are all at
home?”

“Sarvant, Massa Clinton,” said young Pete, doing
his best at a bow: “all's well, sir. Miss Mary's
come out this morning.”

“Ah, did she!—Hold your hat—the devil: you're
like my Lord Bacon: you love the blessed rain of
heaven upon your head.[2] Catch, then!” The shining
metal, for a moment, glistened through the air, and
the next it was safe between young Pete's palms.
Pete eyed it, as the horsemen dashed on, and said,
“I was jist guine to chuck you up and catch you,
but fool who! if I miss you, you'll hide in the grass,
like that fip the tother day. Gaul darn it, I can't
find it, no how! I stood right in the spot, and
chucked up a stone, but it wouldn't fall in the
right place. Come in, cows! Come in! I'll buy a
Jews-harp, some more marbles, some gingerbread,
and have some red cents left. Massa Clinton's the
best massa 'bout here, jist as he's the 'cutest. Pete,
you're no fool for a nigger, neither.” Young Pete
here observed his mother advancing, with a stealthy
step, towards him, with her right hand ominously
behind her.”

“Oh, mammy!” exclaimed Pete, as soon as he
could make his voice reach the maternal ear, “I've
had a tarnal fuss with them cows. Massa Clinton
and them gentlemans what come with him, dashed
up an' scattered 'em every which way. He gin
me some money, though, mammy, an' I'm guine,

soon as I git my supper, down to the road to buy
you some 'bacca.”

“That's right, Pete,” said his mother, dropping
a stout switch behind her, as she spoke; “drive
'em quick round to the yard, and put up the bars.
I want some 'bacca badly.”

At the door of his hospitable mansion, Mr. Bradshaw
welcomed the friends of his sons in a manner
that justified the eulogy of Cavendish; by his side
stood Emily Bradshaw and Mary Carlton.

“Mary,” said Bradshaw, “this puts me in mind
of old times.”

“Come, sir, not such old times neither; we're not
so ancient of days. If we are, my memory is vivid;
for it seems to me as yesterday.”

As Bradshaw entered the house by her side, he
whispered, “May it always seem so, lady fair.”

At the board of Mr. Bradshaw, under the care
of his daughter, there was elegance as well as
abundance. The evening glided on delightfully.
Seated in the corner, in a comfortable rocking-chair,
Mrs. Bradshaw employed herself in knitting,
every moment glancing round with a delightful
smile, and occasionally mingling in the conversation.
Cavendish sat beside old Mr. Bradshaw, much
interested in a conversation with him as to the probable
decision of the court on a writ of mandamus,
which had been granted in a religious controversy.
Willoughby was engaged in conversation with Miss
Bradshaw. At a stand, a little apart, sat Mary
Carlton, with a pencil in her hand, making grotesque
figures, and writing names on the blank leaf
of a novel, while her long curls fell over either

cheek and touched the book before her, leaving
uncovered a neck white as snow. Bradshaw sat
beside her, with his elbow on the stand, leaning
his head on his hand: he mingled in the conversation
whenever it became general, which was every
few minutes, for a passing remark or two, when,
again, every one would turn to his immediate
neighbour, and Bradshaw would address Miss Carlton,
or answer some remark of hers—she looking
up at him from the paper momently, with a face
expressive of every emotion, as it passed through
her mind. Sometimes she would throw back her
curls with a happy laugh; or bury her face in
them, and seem to be busily drawing, as he spoke;
or glance through them with so arch a look, that
whoever chanced to catch it, though engaged at
the time in earnest conversation with another, could
not but smile pleasantly at its beauty and expression.

At ten o'clock, the servants were called in to
prayers: after reading a chapter in the Bible, Mr.
Bradshaw offered up a prayer to the throne of
grace, with that impressive fervour that comes
right from the heart, and goes right to it. The
girls, with most sweet voices, then sang a hymn;—
and the old folks retired, and left the young ones
to themselves.

After Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw retired, Willoughby
sat, with folded arms, musing for some time.
At last, he exclaimed, as if he were expressing his
own thoughts, unconscious to whom he spoke—

“Bradshaw, how I like the face of your father!
He looks as if he had the blood of the pilgrims in

him. I feel he would have stood on the pilgrim
rock, with the ocean behind him, and wilderness
before, with a firm reliance upon that Being to
worship whom, in freedom, he had sought the spot.
Where the deuce did you get your ambition from,
and your tact, and worldly energies?”

“From the world,” said Bradshaw, smiling, “if
I have them. But,” continued he, gravely, “the
lessons I have learned under this roof will ever, I
hope, keep them in just subjection. Kentuck, I'm
glad you like my father: I thought you would. I'm
prouder of him than if he were a duke. You must
know, that I consider, if there is any aristocracy
in this free land, I belong to it. Not that I consider
any “stagnant, wasting reservoir of merit” in
my ancestors should do me any good, but only if
such honours are to count in the game of life, I lay
claim to my share.”

“But you would rather count by tricks, would
you?” said the Judge, who was very proud of being
descended from one of the old families.

“No, Judge, not exactly,” replied Bradshaw,
smiling; “but I would have honours easy, a fair
deal, honest players, and then go a-head for the odd
trick, which should not be won by trickery.”

“There's a knave in every pack, Bradshaw,”
said Cavendish.

“I know it, Judge; but, remember, he counts
among the honours, and takes a trick, too, your
honourable knave.”

The next morning shone upon the inmates of
the Purchase one of the mildest and mellowest of
this delightful season. A thin haze rested over

the landscape; the branch rippled along like a
sheet of silver, over which the weeping willow
hung still green, while the other trees bore the
red and yellow leaf. It was determined that they
should all go to the county church; Mr. and Mrs.
Bradshaw, as usual, in their chaise, and the rest
on horseback. A servant had been sent to Mr.
Carlton's for Mary's favourite horse; and, at the
proper hour, the party could be seen on their
“winding way” through the woods. The church
was situated about two miles from the Purchase,
at a place called the cross roads, where a road that
ran parallel with the turnpikes of which we have
spoken, intersected another that connected them.
These cross roads were made for the convenience
of the different farmers who lived off of the turnpikes.
There were no buildings at the cross roads
but the church and a farm-house, the owner of
which attended to the duty of having the church
swept and lighted. This rural place of worship
stood on a rising ground, in a high primeval forest
that towered above and around, and formed, in summer,
a delightful shade, beneath which the horses
and various vehicles of conveyance of the worshippers
might be seen whenever there was preaching.
The church itself was built of such stone as was
found in the neighbourhood, and very plain: it
was erected on the ruins of a log meeting-house
that had been built in the early settlement of the
country, in which the rude forefathers, who were
sleeping in the grave-yard near, had worshipped
with their rifles in their hand, to guard their families
around them, and their altar, from the cruelty
and profanation of the savages. In the clearing
which had been made to build the log meeting-house,
was the grave-yard. A neat fence had
been erected round it when the new church was
built, immediately behind which it stood. Many
of the head-pieces at the graves had sunk considerably
in the earth, while various others leaned
in different directions in the dark, rank grass.
An aged oak, that had grown to an immense size,
stood in the right corner, at the lower end of the
enclosure; immediately at the foot of which was
a grave, where, according to tradition, he, who
had contributed most to the log meeting-house,
and given the ground on which it stood, slept.
In the opposite corner was a weeping willow that
bent inwards towards the graves, and bowed its
branches over them as though it felt the sorrow
of which it was the emblem. Many willows, besides,
and some cedars, with the wild sweet brier,
and, here and there, a clump of alders, grew over
the last repose of the sleepers. Every thing
around, as a painter would say, was in keeping.
The large gray stone that composed the church
with the tiled roof, to which the overshadowing
trees had given a mossy appearance, made the
building seem much older than it really was.
The Sabbath, in such a scene, was truly the Sabbath.
A party would ride up and fasten their
horses under the trees, and join some group
of friends who had arrived before them, and who
were waiting for the coming of the preacher,
when the most neighbourly salutations would be
given and received. Here, a rustic beau, bedecked
in his best, would assist a rustic belle from
her palfrey, and fasten him to some tree, on which,
perchance, he had been carving her initials, in his
best style, surrounding them with a double heart,
in which sacred enclosure he hoped some day to
carve his own: while, there, some old couple were
descending from their ancient vehicle, assisted, may
be, by the country doctor, who inquires, with a most
sympathetic physiognomy, after the old lady's
“rheumatise,” and narrates some cure which he
had just effected in neighbour Tomkins' right leg,
just at the knee-joint, that had been sorely afflicted
since last winter. In the corners of the fences, and
lolling against the trees, on the sunny side, might
be seen the negroes, in various lazy groups, talking
in a low voice. Some old aristocratic family black
would, with officious zeal, hold his young “Massa's”
horse, and boast of him as he walked away; while
his wife or daughter would speak of their young
“Missus,” and tell how many beaux she had. These
old servants have as much family pride as their
masters. On this occasion, young Pete was in the
woods, within sight of the meeting-house, but in
rather an unfrequented place, with a whole troop
of little blacks around him, displaying his various
treasures of marbles, gingerbread, twine, red cents,
and fips, with the zeal of a connoisseur, who exhibits
a diamond, whilst he pronounces it of the
best water. By his officiousness in attending upon
Willoughby and Cavendish—holding their stirrups,
tightening their girths, &c.,—he had contrived to
levy a contribution upon both of them. Early in
the morning, he slipped round to the grocery store,
added to his stock of marbles, bought his mammy
some 'bacca, himself a great hunck of gingerbread
and a Jews-harp; and, with his change jingling in
his pocket, came, whistling, to church. His jacket
was buttoned, by one button, just above the pockets,
so that their openings, or mouths, were drawn
down tightly over their accumulated treasures, that
projected luxuriantly on either side. A large, old-fashioned
pin, that, by rights, belonged to Mrs.
Bradshaw, flanked the button, and made assurance
doubly sure. When he unpinned his jacket, he
carefully deposited the pin in his cuff, and then,
unbuttoning the garment, he exclaimed—

“Now, niggers, keep your eyes open! Do you
see this little child—this white alley?” said he,
showing a white marble, after wetting it in his
mouth; “look at the streaks in it. She's a little
pealer—she cost two of the prettiest red cents you
ever seed—she's my man! Who'll play, niggers?
There's twine, that the rabbits 'll love to have round
their necks. There's fips for you, niggers! five of
'em, and look at them red cents. Look at this
Jews-harp! it ain't iron, it's silver; I can make her
sing betterer than 'ary lady at that are church,
but my two missusses. Here,” said he, taking out
of his hat, the top of which he had tied with twine,
so that it looked like a sugar-loaf, a large piece of
gingerbread, “here, niggers, here's some gingerbread
for you; this nigger's got his belly full. Wait
till church is guine in, and we'll go down to the road,
and I'll treat the whole on you to some cherry-bounce.
Take care! take care! there's massa Clinton,
and them gentlemans, and young missusses. I

must tend their horses!” exclaimed young Pete,
running towards the church. “Here, gaul darn
it! Joe Carlton keep that marble for me,” said Pete,
as a marble bounced out of his pocket. On he
went, not having time to button his jacket, which,
nevertheless, he held together with his elbows
pressed down on his pockets.

The young men gathered round Bradshaw and
welcomed him. It was evident, that he was a
great favourite, and that they were proud of his
acquaintance. He had not the least show-off in
his manner; on the contrary, he seemed almost
boyish, as he grasped their hands, inquired after
their parents, and spoke of their schoolboy pranks
together. Even the oldest men seemed anxious to
speak with him, and listened, when he spoke upon
any subject, not as they generally listen to young
men, with restiff impatience or indifference, but
with affectionate respect. He knew all the country
belles, from the blacksmith's daughter, a pretty
girl, by the by, to Miss Carlton. His manner was
the same to all. They greeted him joyously, asked
why he had not been to see them, and told him he
must be sure to ride over. All the negroes, young
and old, knew him; and, as he passed them, they
were sure to speak to him, and receive a kindly
remark: so was it with his sister and Mary Carlton.

With sober and quiet dignity, the congregation
were soon all gathered into the church, like, to use
the Scriptural phrase, the sheep in the fold. The
sermon was a plain, practical one—upon good
works, such as all denominations of Christians

might subscribe to, without offence to any of their
sectarian notions of faith.

After the service was over, a number of the
young gentlemen and ladies of the neighbourhood
rode over to the Purchase, and spent the remainder
of the day there. Cavendish was known before
in the neighbourhood, and popular. It was
pleasing to observe how quickly Willoughby became
a favourite. His frank manners, manly deportment,
fine person, and general intelligence interested
every one. He seemed so soon to catch
the hue of the society around him. He gave pleasure
not by attempting the arts of pleasing, but by
giving himself up to the social impulses of his companions.
“There was so much heart in his manners,”
as Emily Bradshaw observed. He was a
young man of fortune; or rather he had the expectation
of a very large one, at the death of his only
relative, an uncle. Willoughby was an orphan,
and the only blood connexion that he had in the
world was this uncle.

In speaking once of his uncle to Bradshaw, Willoughby
said: “My uncle, Bradshaw, is one of the
strangest men you ever saw: he is generous, at
times, to a fault—that is, when the wind blows
right—and he'll chirp about like a bird: you'd
think, to see him then, that he never had a sad
moment—after a while, he falls upon what he calls
one of his dark days, and then every thing goes
wrong with him—he hates to part with a fip, gets
tetchy, wayward, usurious, and fancies his best
friend his foe. It proceeds from ill health—a disorder
of the liver, which the doctor told me once,

in confidence, for he dare not tell the old gentleman,
he thought partially affected his mind. He
has no children—never was married—and he received,
by inheritance, a large estate, to which he
has all his life been adding. He has now the largest
fortune in the west. He has treated me with wayward
harshness several times, but he always made
more than an atonement. Generally, he gives me
every thing that I want—and, I really believe, is
sometimes angry with me because I don't spend
more money; but he is a strangely suspicious being.