University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The Colonel galloped through the park and down
the hill, until he had approached nigh enough to
Elsie's cottage to see that its porch was darkened
by the bodies of several men, moving about in what
seemed to him extraordinary commotion. He grew
pale, and finally, drawing up his horse, beckoned
to his servant, a young and active mulatto, with
an exceedingly bold and free visage, to approach:

“Give me the larger pistols, Reuben,” he cried,
“and do you take the smaller holsters—'Pshaw,
they are fiddling and dancing! It is nothing.—
Follow.”

He resumed his course, and drawing nigher to
the little inn, saw that the group, which he at first
eyed with trepidation, consisted of his own son,
and two or three young gentlemen of the bridal
party, with a man of strange and even ludicrous
appearance, from whom they appeared to be extracting
no little diversion. He was a tall man,
with a French military coat of white cloth, faced
with green, and on his head a chapeau-de-bras,
which was, at that time, though the common cap
of the Gallic auxiliaries, esteemed quite a curiosity
in the confederacy. Instead of a white underdress,
however, he had on breeches of broad blue and

white stripes, which, being very tight, gave a pair
of legs more remarkable for brawn than beauty,
an appearance quite comical, and the more especially
that they were decked off at the extremities
with rose-coloured shoes, and were kept moving
about as briskly as those of a house-fly or a monkey.
In the particular of shoes, as well his silver-fringed
rich waistcoat, and a cane with a head
half as big as his own, he bore no little resemblance
to the valet-messenger of a French field-officer,—
a sort of humble aid, whose business was
to fetch and carry written orders in a review, but
who was sometimes mistaken by our simple-minded
ancestors for a general-in-chief, in consequence
of the splendour and gravity of his appearance; and
such a menial Colonel Falconer supposed him to
be, discarded by his late master, or driven from
service by that sudden spirit of independence so
apt to appear in foreign servants, when brought to
the land of liberty. Besides his cane, he had a
fiddle and bow in his hand; and from these, as
well as the prodigious grace, restlessness, and activity
of his motions, it was judged that he had betaken
himself, in his distresses, to that honourable
profession, to which three-fourths of the wanderers
of the Grande Nation seem to have been born,—in
other words, to that of the dancing-master. It did
not seem, however, that he had yet profited much
by the change of profession, for his attire was in
somewhat a dilapidated condition, and his cheeks
pinched and hollow. Such as he was, however,
he seemed to be the happiest creature in existence;
and as Colonel Falconer drew nigh, he saw that he
was one while engaged flourishing his bow, the
next his leg, and ever and anon his tongue,—the
last with intense volubility,—as if in spirits irrepressibly
buoyant and exuberant. The unruly
member was hard at work, as the Colonel approached,
and had it not been for the clatter of his
horse's feet, he might have heard him deliver the
following highly flattering account of himself:

“Yes, Missare Ou-at-you-call-it, and jentlemans,
I am a man of figure in mine own land; and you
laughs, par de deb'l! I come invite myself to de
marriage, néanmoins, juste like Ménélas in l'Iliade
d'Homère, mort de diable, parce qu'il etait jentleman.
You are soldiare! Et moi, by mine honneur,
and so am I; for autre fois, jadis, (ou-at de deb'l
you call him?) I use de sword for de violon, ride
de horse, chargé sur mon ennemi, in ou-at you'
Shakaspeare call de `war glorieuse.'—

Yes, missares, I am jentleman-soldiare, ou-id fiddle.
How de deb'l you make mariage wi'sout de fiddle,
Paimable violon, Pinstrument des amours? Ecoutez!
you s'all hear. How de ladies and jentlemans s'all
dance when dey hears, `Qu'elle est grande, qu'elle
est belle!' ”—And, in a rapture, he forthwith began
sawing his instrument, and singing, with a voice
exceedingly cracked and enthusiastic, the words of
the old chorus of shepherds,
nor did he cease, even when the merriment of
his auditors became as uproarious as his own
harmony.

In the midst of the chorus and the laughter,
young Falconer looked up, and beheld his father,
who had suddenly checked his horse at the entrance
of the little oak-yard, and was looking towards
him. He was struck with the unusual agitation

of his parent's countenance, and ran towards
him; but before he could speak, the Colonel demanded
quickly, as if with an effort to change the
current of his own thoughts,

“What do you here, Henry! Is this a place, is
this a sport for a bridegroom?”

“'Pon my soul, pa,” said the hopeful son, “I
find it more agreeable than up among the tabbies.
This fellow, this Monsieur Tiqueraque, as he calls
himself, is decidedly the most agreeable person I
have seen to-day,—a gentleman fiddler, who swears
by all the gods of a Frenchman, he has trudged
twenty miles on foot, to have the honour of dancing
at my funeral—that is, my wedding; but the lord
knows, pa, you look as solemn as if to-day was to
be the end of me. Pray, sir, what is the matter?
I hope you are not offended? Egad, sir, I am acting
under orders,—under Harry's, who has taken
as much command of me as if she were my wife,
instead of my sister. She ordered me away, to be
out of Catherine's sight,—the lord knows why, but
women are all mad, and I think Catherine is growing
as whimsical and absurd as the rest.”

“Get you back to her, notwithstanding,” said
the father; “a maiden is privileged to be capricious
on her wedding-day. Get you back; your
absence is improper. And hark you, Henry, my
son—delay not the ceremony on my account: the
clergyman must be now on the way, and will soon
arrive. Wait not a moment for me. A sudden
affair, not to be deferred even to the nuptial rite,
calls me to Hillborough:—Say thus much to Captain
Loring and the rest; say that I will be back
within a few hours; and add, that I charge them
not to delay the ceremony a moment for me. God
bless you, my son—I must away.”

So saying, he put spurs to his horse, and followed
by Reuben, was soon out of sight.

“Well done, dad!” cried the young soldier,
staring after him; “I wonder what's in the wind
now? He has seen one of his spectres, I warrant
me.—Adzooks, as the Captain says, if one were to
believe that Reuben and black Joe, they are thicker
in our house, about two in the morning, than is
comfortable,—especially in dad's chamber. Won't
stay to the wedding? why that's comical, egad!
But that's his way. Well, now for that mad fool,
Tiqueraque: he shall have his will, were it only on
account of his striped breeches; he shall go among
the fiddlers, though, gad's my life, he saws like a
knife-grinder. I never saw two such legs before:
egad, I beg my pardon, I did! `List, list, oh list!'
Such legs in Hamlet! Well God bless us, and by
the eternal Jupiter, as Caliver says, I had no idea
it was so stupid a thing to be married. “Eh bien,
monsieur,” he added, turning to M. Tiqueraque, “I
have no doubt you are a gentleman born and
bred; so, gad's my life, you shall fiddle at the wedding,
and get drunk into the bargain; but, by the
eternal Jupiter, you must not be in a hurry!”

“Si fait, monsieur,” cried the wanderer, drawing
a note of indignation from his instrument;
“Mort de ma vie, dronk! I s'all do no such sing.
But I s'all see de leddees?” he added, in a transport
that quite dispelled his temporary wrath.
“Ah, Missare Ou-at-you-call-him, I s'all be very
happy now! I love de leddees, particulièrement de
leddees of figure, and not the contree pauvrettes,
wis big feet and te'es like de old horse.—Ah ça, I
s'all be very happy, and I s'all sharge only two
dollare.”

“Bring him along Tom, fiddle and all,” cried
the bridegroom,—“and, you Ned Cascable-nose,
if you love me, gad, steal somebody's horse, ride
down the road, and see what the deuce has become
of the parson. We can get married very

well without dad; but, adzooks, as the Captain
says, a parson is quite essential. I swear, gad's
my life, 'tis a very ludicrous thing, one's wedding-day.”

And thus, as the party bent their steps towards
the mansion, rattled the bridegroom, a youth of
the lightest heart and emptiest head in all Pennsylvania,
of a mind entirely too contracted for
eccentricity, yet full of those foibles of character
which commonly pass for such,—incapable of any
stretch of sentiment or elevated emotion, and indeed
rude, boisterous, and unreasonable of manners,—
yet with a certain native good-humour and
spirit prevailing through all his acts and conversation,
that recommended him to the favour of such
as were not choice in their friendships, and preserved
him the affection of those whom the ties of
relationship compelled to love. Such was the man
whom Colonel Falconer, or rather his daughter,
(for she was the guiding and ruling spirit throughout
the whole attempt to unite such adverse elements
together,) had chosen as the husband of
Catherine Loring; and the inhumanity of the
choice was rendered excusable only by the natural
desire she had to contribute to his happiness, and
the undue importance she attached to those good
qualities he really possessed. Still the attempt was
cruel, for it set at naught the disinclination of one
whom feebleness of character, a sense of destitution,
operating, however, only through the person
of a bereaved parent, a knowledge of his desires,
and a consciousness perhaps that it was too late
for escape, had put into her power. It is not to be
supposed that Miss Falconer saw, that in effecting
her brother's happiness she was destroying that of
her friend; or that seeing it, she would have persisted
in her object. On the contrary she was sincerely
attached to Catherine, and fully believed she

was consulting her welfare, though at the price of
some temporary pain. It was her peculiar disposition
to pursue every object with an avidity and
resolution that became the stronger for every interposing
obstacle; and she willingly blinded her
eyes to such difficulties as she was not forced to see.
She turned her looks, therefore, from her friend's
distresses, and soon ceased to believe that they existed.
But the match was one not made in heaven,
nor destined to be accomplished; and fate, in frustrating
the whole ill-advised scheme, was preparing
a heavy retribution for all who had laboured to
promote it.