 | Sketches of character, and tales founded on
fact |  |
MARY M'INTYRE HAS ARRIVED.
On my way to St. Louis, safe and sound, I arrived at
Louisville, on the steamer Madison, now years agone.
The falls of the Ohio, at Louisville, were so low, that
the Captain resolved to go round by the canal, which
was cut to obviate the necessity of unloading vessels to
lighten them, so as to permit their passage over the
falls. At ten o'clock, A. M., we reached Louisville, and
the Captain told me, upon enquiry, as I wished to pay
my respects to a friend or two of that hospitable city,
that the boat would not leave until one o'clock, as he
had to take on board a number of Scotch immigrants
with their baggage, who had been brought thus far from
Pittsburgh on a boat that was returning. I therefore
had ample time to make a morning call or two in passing,
a pleasure of which I generally avail myself on
our Western waters, whenever the boat on which I happen
to be a wayfarer stops, where I have acquaintances.
I resolved to pay my respects to “Amelia,” the sweetest
poetess of our land, in whose society I spent a most
agreeable hour, which I would willingly have prolonged,
but the admonition, that the boat started at one
o'clock, rose to my memory.
I therefore repaired to the wharf half an hour before
one, determined to be in time. Lo! as I approached
the wharf, I beheld the Madison lumbering along in the
canal, stopping every moment as if to take breath, being
she could not surmount without the aid of poles, and
ropes, and a fresh start.
My only remedy was to ride round to Lockport,
where the canal terminates by passing into the river,
and wait an indefinite period for the arrival of the steamer,
or get on board a row boat and have myself transported
after her in the canal, and thus reach her, which
I was assured could be affected in half an hour at farthest.
I accordingly fee'd two youths who were padling
about in a boat, to convey me to the Madison. I was
soon seated astern and they pulled away for the steamer.
We soon entered the canal, but owing to the
waves the steamer threw in her confined track, and her
lumbering movements from side to side, it was with
difficulty and delay that we approached her.
The Scotch immigrants were what are called on the
Western waters, deck passengers; of that class almost
all of whom are poor, but often very respectable, who
in the packet ships in crossing the Atlantic, take a
steerage passage. Among the immigrants on the Madison
were many females, among whom there were some
young and beautiful ones.
As I ripped out a strong Western oath. (I am
ashamed to write it, for I have not pronounced one for a
long time,) at the Captain for breaking his word with
me and leaving before the hour, one of these Scotch
lasses said to me imploringly, for our boat had gotten
immediately under the stern of the steamer, where she
stood,
“Oh! sir, please don't swear so.”
Struck with the tone and beauty of the Scotch maiden,
and I instantly said to her—
“Well, I won't again—and you must be like Sterne's
angel when my uncle Toby swore; you must drop a
tear upon the word in the high archives and blot it out
forever.”
As I said this I stretched out my hand to reach the
railing of the steamer, but failed, as our boat gave a
lurch at the moment. Again I made the effort, and
would have failed again had not the pretty Scotch girl
leaned over the vessel's side and given me her hand.
Thus assisted, in a moment more I was on the steamer's
deck beside my fair assistant. I thanked her with
all the grace I could master, which she received with a
blush and said:
“But you forget, sir, that my uncle Toby's oath was
to save life.”
“But it was unavailing,” I replied, “yet your fair
hand stretched out to me may have saved mine, therefore,
as I live and may err,
Be all my sins remembered.”
“Poor Ophelia, ejaculated the Scotch girl sadly,
“she went crazy for love.”
“Ah,” thought I, “here is intelligence as well as
beauty, taking a steerage passage, and not the first
time, for with poverty they have been companions before,
and love, too, I suspect, is no stranger in this
party.”
Impressed with these reflections, I entered into conversation
with my new-made acquaintance and soon
discovered that she was remarkably intelligent, as well
as beautiful. It seemed to me that fair hair was never
braided on a fairer brow. Her neck and shoulders
features, which were decidedly patrician. There was
a naivete in her manner, too, that had caught its tone
from a position, I thought, evidently above her present
one. She had also nothing of the Scotch in her accent,
which was broad enough on the lips of her companions.
Though she was apparently poor, there was
not only great neatness in her humble toilette, but a
style that was above the “clay biggin.” Several little
trinkets upon her person—a ring, breast-pin, and particularly
a massive gold cross, attached to a handsome
chain—attracted my attention, especially the latter, and
indicated, not only from their value, but the manner in
which they were worn, her superiority to her companions,
as well as the fact to my mind, that she was a Roman
Catholic. Her companions were rigid Presbyterians,
I soon learned, and my fair assistant into the boat
and reprover did not attend, I observed, when an old
Scotchman, in the afternoon, read the Bible to the group
of immigrants gathered about him, but withdrew to the
side of the boat and looked over pensively into the
water.
She interested me much. Being myself, at that time,
the wearer of a large pair of whiskers and an imperial
to match, my humble traveling companions were rather
shy of me, but soon observing that my fellow passengers
above stairs knew me well, and that I was not unpopular
among them, the Scotch folk grew rapidly familiar
and frank with me.
I learned from a solemn and remarkably pious old
Presbyterian, the history of the beautiful Scotch girl,
whose name was Mary M'Intyre. He sighed heavily
when he told it. Her father was an humble farmer of
the better sort, and lived in Ayrshire. An old Roman
daughter, who, on a visit, which she made to Ayrshire,
became acquainted with Mary, and treated her as an
humble friend. When the young lady returned to Edinburgh
she took Mary with her, who was affianced to a
young miller in the neighborhood, named McClung. In
fulfilment of an old Scotch custom, which Burns and his
Highland Mary practiced, they at parting broke a piece
of silver over a running brook, and on a Bible plighted
their everlasting faith unto each other.
In the progress of events, Mary, to the horror of her
lover's faith, became a Roman Catholic. Her lover
wrote her what she thought a harsh and uncalled-for
letter on the subject. Her maiden pride, as well as
her religious prejudices, were aroused, and she returned
him his letter without a word of comment.
Both were stung to the quick; the lover, though he
went to Edinburgh, left for the United States, without
calling to see her, and wandered away up the
Missouri river. Mary grew thin and absent-minded,
and exhibited all the symptoms of a maiden sick for
love. Three years passed, Mary's friend had died, and
she had returned to her father's, the while wasting
away, when lo! a package came from the far Western
wilds from Mary's lover.
He implored her to forgive him for his conduct to her,
in the humblest terms, and in the strongest he expressed
the endurance of his passionate love, and he stated
that he had thought of nothing else but Mary since he
had left Scotland; that knowing every Sunday that she
was worshiping in the Catholic church, he went to one
himself, that he might worship with her, and that he had
become a Catholic, and sent her the antique cross she
wore in testimony of his love and of his faith. He furthermore
World, that if she said so he would go for her, but that
it would ruin his business, (he was a true Scotchman)
and he concluded by begging Mary to come to him.
These immigrants were on the point of leaving Scotland,
many of them were Mary's especial friends, and
she determined to embark with them.
How I felt interested in that Scotch girl! In proud
saloons since in gay and wild Washington, I have many
a time and oft felt all the impulses of my fitful and
wayward nature aroused and concentrated to please
some dark-eyed one from the sunny South, or some fair
descendant of the Puritans, or may be some dame of
high degree from over the waters, cynosures of fashion
in the Capitol, but remember I not woman yet, who more
struck my fancy than this bonnie lassie from the land of
Burns. She could tell me so many things traditional in
Ayrshire about Burns and his birthplace, and then she admired
him so much, and could sing his songs so well.
We had a long passage, and as she kept herself aloof from
the other passengers, I was all day and half the night
by her side. She half made me a Catholic. I have
since with uncertain steps and some short comings, been
trying to fix my conduct where my firm faith and hope
and heart are fixed, in the humble ways of Methodism;
and I know that Mary will think none the less of me
when she sees this avowal, but then I was careless of
everything but the enjoyment of the hour that was passing
over me. It was just this time of the year, (May,)
and the beautiful Ohio never was more beautiful. How
many simple and frank questions she asked me, and as
she did not know that I knew her secret, I could so
plainly trace in all her thoughts the image of her lover
the controling one, as the bright moon above us was the
that I observed her, I witnessed her devotions, and I
thought, as I saw her clasp the crucifix, her lover's gift
and pray, that some earthly adoration mingled with her
heavenly vows.
One day as we sat chatting together with more than
usual unreservedness, I observed: “Well, you will soon
marry some rich American. “No,” she instantly replied,
“I prefer a poor Scotchman.” I must have felt
a pang of jealousy of her lover at the time, for I remarked:
“Mary, you have asked me what I thought was the
difference between a Scotch woman and an American;
I will tell you: an American would make her lover come
to her; a Scotch woman, as you know, would come to
her lover.”
Her brow and bosom crimsoned in an instant, and
rising from my side, she looked at me and said: “Sir,
you have no right so to wound a lonely woman's heart,”
and bursting into tears, she walked away from me.
Whatever may have been my misunderstandings with
men, and they have been few, I certainly never had
then had one with a woman, and my uncourteous and
uncalled for remark stung my own pride as a gentleman,
as much as I had wounded Mary's womanly nature.
I instantly followed her, and used every effort to
reconcile her, but without effect; she walked away from
me with a haughty inclination of the head, and entered
her humble apartment.
I learned that one of her chief objections to her voyage,
was this coming to her lover instead of with him.
Her refined education had taught her this refinement of
woman delicacy. I could not forgive myself for the
wound I had inflicted on Mary's feelings, and I soon
me.
At last we approached a point not far below St. Louis,
near by Jefferson barracks, where the Scotch immigrants
were to debark, and they were all bustle and
preparation. I sat smoking a segar on the guards and
watching them. Mary, in the certainty of meeting her
lover, was with a natural anxiety practising all the arts
of the toilette to make her scanty wardrobe do its best.
I could see her arranging her hair and shawl, and consulting
one of the Scotch girls as to their adjustment,
whose opinions, but for her own anxiety, she would
have disregarded. Doubtless, she often thought, years
may have changed me much, and he—how he will be
disappointed! She may have fancied that her very education,
which gave her a different air and manner from
what she had when he wooed her, might make an unfavorable
impression upon him.
I never in my life thought I could easier read a woman's
feelings.
At last we reached the point of the Pilgrims rest, and
the boat rounded to, but, when they landed, Mary's
lover was not there! She seemed stupified; and the
others were so busied with themselves and their own
concerns, that they thought not of Mary or her lover.
She took a seat on her trunk on the shore amidst the
baggage, which the immigrants were getting off, and
looked the very picture of despair; as with her hands
clasped in her lap, she gazed now here now there, as if
she thought that from some point or other he must come,
but he came not.
My provocation at Mary for her unforgiveness was
gone. I arose from the guards of the boat, threw my
segar overboard, and went ashore. I had often been
saw several persons that I knew. I went up to a young
Frenchman, whose employment was carting wood to
St. Louis, and after a profusion of compliments between
us, for he was an old acquaintance, I asked him if he
knew a Scotchman named McClung, a miller in the
neighborhood?
“Well monsieur—ah well.”
“How far from here does he live” I asked.
“Ah—about—two mile.”
I will give you a five dollar gold piece if you will
mount a fleet horse and go to him and tell him that the
Scotch immigrants have arrived”—and I showed the
glittering coin.
“Instanter, Monsieur,” he replied, with a dancing
eye.
“Stop,” I exclaimed, and taking one of my cards
from my pocket, I wrote on it with pen and ink which
he got for me from the boat, the simple words, “Mary
M'Intyre has arrived.”
I saw my Frenchman in a few minutes more at the
top of his speed, on a Canadian pony, dashing like mad
through the woods. As I walked towards the boat, I
met Mary's eye, but she instantly averted it as if she
thought I was taking pleasure in her grief at her not
finding on the spot, to welcome her, the lover she had
“come to.” What strange creatures we are. I felt a
proud thrill through my heart. No, my bonnie lassie,
thought I, I'll have a braver revenge upon you than that
—you shall forgive me.
Time flew on—the baggage was all landed; we were
preparing to depart, when some one exclaimed;
“Look yonder! there's some chaps coming to the
on.”
We looked, and sure enough two horsemen were
bounding towards us, as if with such intent, and one
was my Frenchman, so I supposed, the other was
McClung; and I soon knew it, for I could see his Miller's
clothes.
The whole boat was excitement, and the Captain ordered
delay for a moment, till they should arrive, not
knowing what their eager haste meant. I understood
it: McClung was thinking of his Mary M'Intyre and
the Frenchman of his five dollar gold piece.
“They come on bravely,” was the cry.
“Yes, and the Miller is ahead,” exclaimed another.
I was glad to see LOVE ahead of AVERICE, but I suspect
it was owing more to the steeds than their riders.
I looked at Mary. At the cry “the Miller is ahead,”
she had risen from her listless posture, and was gazing
intently at the horsemen.
In a moment, the Miller's horse was bounding home
without his rider, for he had not thought to fasten him
as he threw himself from his back. He rushed towards
Mary, and in a instant they were in each other's arms.
Such a wild embrace of joy I never witnessed. I thought
their kindred hearts, like the “kindred drops” of the
poet, would literally mingle into one.
“Ah, Mon dieu,” exclaimed the Frenchman from the
shore, for the Captain had ordered our departure, mad
at the delay, and we had left. “Ah, mon dieu,” my
five dollar, dat gold piece—I am a cheat!” I stuck it
in an apple, and threw it on the shore, and had the satisfaction
of seeing the Frenchman bound towards it like
the Miller toward Mary, and grasp it too; and I laughed
heartily at the manner—so eager, and yet so gentle,
the luscious pippin disgorge its golden treasure.
The last thing which attracted my attention on the
shore, was the Frenchman, who stood beside Mary, and
the Miller, with one hand restoring the gold piece to its
lustre by rubbing it on his pantaloons; and in the other
holding the pippin, from which he was taking large contributions,
while he gesticulated with that member when
not applied to his mouth, towards the steamer, evidently
trying to do a good many things at once, and among
the rest to explain who sent him on his errand.
Ah, though I, I have had my revenge.
Years after this, I was again in St. Louis, in a very
sickly summer. Partaking, may'be, too freely of its
hospitalities—for I never saw a more hospitable people
than those of St. Louis; and not being used to the climate,
I was seized with a bilious fever—in fact it was yellow
fever. I was in a boarding house, and in a very confined
room, and the physician said if I could not be
taken to the country, I would die.
I became unconcious. I awoke one morning at last,
with a dreamy impression of existence, but I had not
the slightest conception of my location. I discovered
that I was in the country, and as, in the progress of
days, returning life grew keener, I found myself in a
pleasant chamber, and a lady attending to me. She
would not let me talk at first, but I at last learned that
I had been there a week delirious; and further, from a
black servant, that her mistress had, without taking off
her clothes, watched on me all that time. I was about
questioning the black girl further, when from a moment's
absence, her mistress returned; and after remarking
how much better I was, asked if I did not know her?
I looked at the beautiful lady before me,—for she was
upon me I supposed, and replied:
“Indeed, my dear Madam, I do not know you, though
I shall never forget you.”
She stepped to the mantle-piece, and took from it a
small richly gilt frame, which looked as if it contained
a miniature, and showing it to me, I beheld within it
my card given to the Frenchman: “Mary M'Intyre
has arrived,” Mr. McClung had greatly prospered in the
world, and Mrs. McClung was what she would have
been, in fact, in any situation—a Lady in the Land,
and now an acknowledged and received Lady. She
seldom visited St. Louis, and when she did she stopped
at the house where I was so ill, and hearing my name
mentioned, and learning who I was, she had me conveyed
to her house in her own carriage, supporting my
unconscious head all the way herself. Lucky for me
was this last arrival.
I may speak again of this Scotch lassie, for we have
met in other scenes, where beaming the “bright, particular
star,” fashion, and rank, and intellect did her
homage.
| Sketches of character, and tales founded on
fact | |