University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
FROM VERA CRUZ TO PHILADELPHIA.

—Texan MSS.

It was in the Walnut-street Theatre.

I hear the snarl of the critic, and thus he
barks,—

`Here's a pretty transition—from the Aztec
vault of Vera Cruz to a Philadelphia theatre!
Horrible! Here we have a story commencing
on the prairies of Texas, suddenly
dashing away to a desolate rancho in the heart
of Mexico, then to Vera Cruz and the vaults
of Sacrificios, and last of all to a Philadelphia
theatre!'

This is truly horrible, and the author who
is guilty of the deed, should be condemned
to solitary confinement for one day, with a
dozen critics, selected at random from the
newspapers and magazines of the large cities.
Such a punishment could make the warmest
blood run cold.

Just fancy it in all its details. One poor
author among a dozen critics. Here a critic
from Boston, brimming full of cant, breathing
it, talking it, living in it—cant from head to
foot, all cant. By his side, distinguished by
a jockey eoat and dirty-brown mustache, a
Cockney critic from New York, talking alternately
of Progress and Pennies, wanting very
much to know—in one breath—when the human
race will take passage in the Progressional
Steam Car for ths Millenium, and how
much you will give him for a first-rate puff in
his paper?

Far in the corner of the cell where our author
is confined, behold the magazine critic of
Philadelphia; a jaunty thing, delicate in perfume,
with oysterish eyes; the scissors in
one hand and the scrap-book in the other.—
A prim gentleman altogether, who pities our
author in yellowish tears for—horrible!—
being `popular with the many rather than the
select.' That `many' the rouge, hardy people
of the workshop and plough; that `select,'
some dozen newspaper and magazine
editors of Philadelphia, who hate each other
most fraternally, and yet keep saying, all the
year round to one another,—`you are a great
man!' and `I am a great man!' and `we
are all great men!' So, Allah Bishmallah,
there is but one Literature; it is in Philadelphia,
and Humbug is its prophet!

Or yet; to go from small things to smaller,
a critic south of Mason & Dixon's line—a
Baltimore critic. The drollest of all kinds of
critics; the very friskiest of all kinds of insect,
crawling and biting around the skirts of
literature, and growing fat as it crawls and
steals. Look at it; a critic, whose whitish
hair, eyelashes and beard, and tallow complexion,
all indicate a human thing, gone to
seed, and sweltering in decay, long before it
has enjoyed one moment of healthy ripeness.
It publishes a large sheet, called soundingly,
`the Universal Hemisphere,' and in the agonising
effort to be witty or die, take some
such slang name as `Major Tomkins,' an

writes in bad spelling, bad grammar, and bad
decency; all being very humorous and quite
original.

Imagine a poor author condemned to be
crawled over and bitten, for one day only, by
vulgarity and indecency, impersonified in a
Major Tomkins, a Baltimore critic.

My kind readers in the country, you will
pardon me for this digession about critics,
when I assure you that it was undertaken entirely
for your good. Call this digression a
preface to my story, if you please, and I will
explain.

You very often see a ferocious attack in
some city perodical, which cuts into ribbons
a book which you have been pleased to buy,
read and love. You wonder at this, and perchance
take the attack for an honest expression
of prejudice, although you, of course,
deny its fairness and truth. Your opinions
would be somewhat modified were you aware
that criticism is in the cities—pretty generally,
and with some honorable exceptions—a
mere matter of dollars and cents, a business
contract between booksellers and critics—so
much praise for so many pennies—an honorable
understanding between those who sell
books and who notice them; that genius is
a thing made altogether of puffs, and that he
who has most dollars can buy most puffs, and
is, of course, the most extensive genius.

You will pardon me if I have the smallest
opinion of these magazine and newspaper
critics, for in a circle of twelve, I have in my
time seen one crittc who had forged another
man's name; one who was a clergyman, and
took his `brandy and water,' and was often
led by his sympathies, with virtue, of course,
into place better known than named; one
who had issued counterfeit notes in his time,
and finding this kind of paper rather unprofitable
took to newspapers; one who had been
convicted of swindling; and some three or
four who divided among them the shattered
fragments of the Decalogue, broken into
pieces and trampled under foot.

Rather a jovial band of moralists, this?

These critics will be the first to attack my
story and pronounce it a combination of improbabilities,
when from first to last it is
founded on published facts, which I have varied,
to avoid the imputation of an unjustifiable
personality.

When they blow their blast, and snarl
their snarl, you will understand at once what
they mean. That I am either too poor to buy
their praise with money, or that I have nothing
of the Egyptian in me, never looking
with favor on that creed which taught you to
worship apes, lest they would do you a mischief;
and go down on your knees to vipers
lest they should bite you.

It was in the Walnut-street theatre.

Look over this thronged house, swarming
from the ceiling to the cellar, with life—life
in every shape—tapestried in its three tiers
of boxes with human faces, a sea of ragged
humanity boiling over in the pit—and tell me
is it not a very solemn sight? Solemn! You
laugh.

Yes, solemn as the air of a grave vault and
more impressive than the black skull of death.
Look at the scene.

Here, in the first circle, the most elegantly
dressed men, the most beautiful women,—
whose silken garments glow in the dazzling
light, as their lovely faces are turned toward
the stage; whose eyes outsparkle the jewels
on their heaving breasts, and all the while,
right before those sparkling eyes, in the over-flowing
pit, you see the hardy sons of toil
mingled with the ragged vagabonds of the
good Quaker City.

And all the while, in sight of those sparkling
eyes, in full view of those grave mothers
and beautiful wives and sinless sisters, you behold
the third tier festering with the painted
prostitution of the good Quaker City!

Delicate contrasts these.

What is the sight that enchains the gaze
of the sinless girl and the painted outcast of
shame? That rivets the eye of yonder white-haired

man in the first tier and the ragged
boy in the pit, right before him, within reach
of his golden-headed cane? On what vision
of moral or intellectual beauty is centered
those thousand eyes, flashing and sparkling
in the red gas light?

A half-naked woman whirling over the
stage, her form clothed in flesh-colored hose
that clings to the skin, a piece of white gauze
fluttering from her waist, her arms and bosom
bare! A half-naked woman, whirling over
the stage, now standing on one limb, while
the other is poised in the air, on a line with
her shoulder; now trembling along on tip-toe,
as in the ecstacy of lascivious frenzy; now
crouching near the foot-lights, her head bowed
until her naked breast is revealed to the
universal gaze—to the eyes of the sinless girl
the painted outcast, the old man and the ragged
boy.

This is the sight which rivets the gaze of
the crowded theatre.—a woman floating aleng
the stage and trafficing her nakedness for
bread.

For her, the poor moth of the foot-lights,
now fluttering in their glare only to be the
more surely withered in ther blaze, there is
some excuse. It is her livelihood—perchance
the head of an aged mother, nay, the life of a
sister, depends on her dancing limbs. Every
twirl of her naked limb is one tear less on her
dying sister's cheeks.

But for these beautiful women, these grey-haired
men, who, in the presence of the painted
prostitute and the ragged outcast boy, gaze
on this spectacle with trembling delight, what
is their excuse?

Come, I do not place it on the ground of
religion or morality, but mereiy as a matter
of common decency—decency so common
that it can only raise one blush and die—I
ask you, my reader, whether the world can
furnish a sight of more disgusting and heart-rending
shame than this?

A half-naked woman showing her limbs for
bread to feed a sick mother or dying sister,
perchance, while grey-haired men look on
and gloat; and beautiful women, made by
the same God who made the dancing woman
going down to the same grave-worm, which
will feed on her form—gaze on their sister's
shame and do not blush.

Do not charge me with a prejudice against
the Drama. That miserably prostituted drama
may be made the voice of genius, the
music of religion.

But these half-naked women on the stage,
tossing in lascivious transport; these painted
ones in the third tier, bargaining in pollution,
while their pure sisters may look on and up,
from the Aristocratic circle—these elegantly
decorated bars, where drunkards are educated
and poison sold—will you tell me what
all this has to do with a pure and intellectual
drama?

Must William Shakspeare forever be made
the cloak of loathsome appetites and nameless
pollutions?

It was in the Walnut-street theatre. The
curtain had fallen and the dancing woman
was gone. The ragged boys were fighting in
the pit; the traffic of shame was going on in
the third tier. In boxes, handsome women
were conversing with fashionably attired men,
and here and there a puppy, with something
like a human face, dressed, at all events, in
the garments of a man, was staring those
modest women out of countenance, and fastening
its obscene gaze upon the face of the
pure maiden or the virtuous wife. Of all
puppies in the world, the most impertinent is
the puppy of the theatre, with an opera-glass
in its hand.

It was in the midst of this confusion, between
the acts, that two persons entered the
central box, and at once rivetted every eye.
A tall man, attired in plain black, with the
slight form of a woman, supported by his
right arm.

They quietly took the unoccupied seat, and
as if by an instantaneous impulse, the thousand

eyes of the theatre were turned upon
them.

The man was, or appeared to be, some
thirty five years of age. There was nothing
peculiar in his dress. Black dress coat and
satin vest, black neckerchief, loosely tied, a
faultlessly white shirt bosom, sparkling with
a small diamond. Yet his face enchained
every eye by a kind of irresistible fascination.

The features were bold, his complexion, a
pallid sallow olive, indicating the traces of
strong physical or mental suffering, and the
eyes, so unnaturally large and dark, seemed
not so much to gleam as to burn in their
sockets. There was no moustache upon his
lip nor beard upon his chin, but masses of
dark hair fell carelessly over a bold, white
forehead.

He leaned his elbow on the edge of the
box, and gazed upon the curtain with a vacant
stare.

By his side the slight form of a woman,
whose face appeared among the folds of a
Spanish mantilla. The dark hues of the
graceful robe gave an unnatural paleness to
the colorless cheek, and increased the burning
light of her large black eyes, which shone
from the shadow of their long and quivering
lashes.

As she raised her hand to adjust the folds
of her mantilla, a bracelet was visible, dazzling
with the radiance of a solitary diamond.

Altogether, the pair would have attracted
the eye in any place, and became at once, in
the street, ball-room or parlor, the universal
topic of conversation.

In the theatre the sensation was universal.
eyes were turned, glasses levelled; the house
buzzed with a thousand whispers.

`They are the strangers who have attracted
so much notice in Chesnut-street lately.'

`He is very, very rich—a millionaire.'

`No; a soldier from the Mexican war.'

`I tell you that I have the right story,
—a Mexican General taken prisoner at Cerro
Gordo.'

`How odd! That mantilla—bad taste.'

`I rather like it. It gives quite a charm to
her face.'

`What a splendid bracelet I'

`Do you observe that diamond upon his
bosom?'

Whispers like these from fair ladies and
fashionable men created a buz-buz murmur
in the dress circle. The third tier was somewhat
eloquent in its remarks, rather too much
so; the second tier quite boisterous; and as
for the pit, it seemed to hesitate between a
cry of `boots!' and chuck 'em over!'

A single instance will serve as an illustration
of the public opinion of the pit,—

`I say, hoss,' screamed a ragged newsboy,
raising himself on his toes, as he stood within
reach of the stranger's arm, only separated
by that barrier which confines the whirlpool
of the pit within its limits; `wot did yer giv'
for that ar' di'mond? Jimini, boys, wot a
scorcher!'

Still the stranger, with his cheek resting on
his hand, stared vacantly upon the drop curtain.
Not a movement manifested his consciousness
that the eyes and impertinence of
the theatre were turned upon him and the
lady at his side.

The lady seemed surprised, her cheek
flushed, her dark eyes dropped their glance.

But the mantilla, which half-concealed her
smooth black hair, and floated over the outline
of her small but lovely form, could not be
forgiven.

It was an unpardonable sin, in a Philadelphia
theatre, where everybody must dress
like everybody else, or be pointed at and `put
down.'

`How odd!' trembled all over the dress
circle.

At last the lady whispered a word in
Spanish,—

`Juan!'

He turned and gazed upon her with a look

whose mingled meaning it were in vain to
guess, and exclaimed with an evident effort,—

`You seem melancholy, Isora? In a moment
the curtain will raise and the play begin.
It is indeed a very dull place, a crowded
theatre.'

He leaned back in his seat, and the lady,
with a single red spot glowing on each cheek,
murmured in almost inaudible tones, still
speaking in Spanish, you will remember.

`But the letter, Juan?'

A sudden, nervous start shook the stranger's
frame. He turned quickly, as though
he had been bitten by an adder; a cloud rushed
over his brow.

Mastering his agitation he composed his
pale features in a smile,—

`I cannot show it to you now, Isora. It is
postmarked New Orleans. Your brother is
now in that city; he is on his way to Philadelphia—he
will be here in a few days.'

How her face flushed from its sad hue into
a rosy life.

`Oh, I am so happy, Juan! He will be
here in a few days; he has forgiven his wayward
sister for her wanderings—he will be
your friend, Juan. Is it not so? Blessed
Virgin! we will all be so happy!'

Juan smiled; and then his eye flashed, his
brow was corrugated, the expression of his
sallow face was horrible—it passed like a
cloud—he smiled again.

`This letter, Juan, is from my brother?'

Again he started, once more that expression,
and then the calm smile,—

`No more now, Isora, when we return
home I will tell you all. For the present,—
your brother, Don Antonio Marin, will be here
to-morrow—perchance to-night.'

He said no more, but while the curtain
rose and the play went on, and the audience
laughed, and hissed, and stamped, he sat with
his cheek upon his hand, his large eyes fixed
upon the stage with an absent stare.

It cannot be denied that his face was in
vested with a cold, pallid beauty; the firm,
aquiline features stood out in the glaring
light, like the head of an antique statue, darkened
by the dust of ages. Yet never once,
during all the play, did he turn from side to
side, or change his fixed, unvarying glance,
though Forrest was on the stage and the play
was Richlieu.—Forrest and Richlieu after
the shameless display of a half-naked woman's
limbs!

The play was over, and the audience,
pouring from the various boxes of the theatre,
swarmed through the outer corridor, and
swept like a torrent into the street.

Amid the crowd descending the stone steps
in front of the theatre, the form of Juan and
the lady were marked, prominent; his head
rising above the crowd, her mantilla contrasting
with the rainbow dress of the other women.

The other women! Yes—courtezan and
fine lady mingled together in the crowd that
poured from the doors of the theatre, and the
flaming gas-lamp on the pavement disclosed,
with impartial light, the face of the sinless
girl and the painted visage of her sister-woman,
the child of shame.

Suddenly, even as Juan and Isora were descending
the steps, a cry was heard; the
crowd rocked to and fro—a strange wave of
human faces—and universal clamor and confusion
tossed the strongly contrasted mass together.

It was shouted that the stranger had been
robbed, his pocket-book stolen; four or five
men, with red faces and noses of extraordinary
development, were seen rushing toward
him, making with their fists an extemporaneous
lane through the centre of the
crowd.

They were known at once as Police Officers.

`I say, Mister,' cried the foremost, a rotund
man, on whose rich-colored visage brandy
had not been showered for nothing; `I saw
the fellow hook your pocket-book—will know

him agin. What's the figur? Damage very
ser'ous?'

Juan bent his lips to the ear of the red-faced
man, as his brow manifested deep vexation
and chagrin,—

`Five thousand dollars were in that pocket-book;
if you reclaim it by to-morrow morning
without touching the papers which it contains,
one thousand shall be yours.'

`Won't I! Why I've had my eye on the
feller these three weeks and know'd he was
up to mischief. Your residence, sir? The
pocket book 'ill be in your hands before nine
o'clock to-morrow morning!'

`Enough! We understand each other.—
Here is my card;' and supporting Isora with
his arm, he pushed down the steps, and presently
stood on the edge of the pavement,
where stood a glittering carriage with a coat
of arms on the panels; a liveried footman
holding the open door, and a coachman, also
in livery, snoring on the box.

`Rather aristocratic!' murmured voices
from the crowd.

`Splendid turn out!'

`Just look at them blooded bays—and that
darkey, with one eye and a blue coat!'

`Isora, you will enter and go home alone!
Urgent business demands my presence elsewhere,
for an hour or more. Nay, do not
look so reproachful.'

From the folds of the mantilla her pale face
appeared, as her lustrous eyes were raised to
meet his glance.

Her delicate foot was upon the carriage
step—her hand upon the door.

`The letter, Juan?'

It was but a whisper and yet her bosom
heaved as she spoke the words.

`Within two hours I will return home and
tell you all!'

He lifted her gently into the carriage,
closed the door and spoke to the lacqueys.—
In a moment the couch was seen dashing
away through the hacks and cabs that lined
the street.

Juan turned up Ninth-street, murmuring
as the hurried along,—

`She fades every hour—I can see her fade
—withering, drooping into the grave. `My
brother!' her only word, from hour to hour,
She dreams, even now, that I have gone to
bring him home!'

At the corner of Ninth and George streets,
in the shadow of that immense pile known as
the Museum, a dark horse stood saddled, the
bridle held by a liveried servant. Juan spoke
to the servant, and with a bound sprang into
the saddle and dashed away, as though his
own spirit had maddened the veins of his
horse.

Up Ninth street, into the Ridge Road, and
out into the country.

It was a gloomy night in May; the air was
damp and misty; the sky one mass of leaden
cloud.

Along the dark road—the trees on either
side appearing like a shapeless mass—bounded
the horse, striking fire with his hoofs as he
flew, while his master applied the spur and
chafed and maddened him to the utmost
stretch of his speed.

Through the misty atmosphere, a huge
white mass arose; looking somewhat like a
mountain of snow, shapen by superhuman
hands into the form of a Grecian temple. It
was a magnificent sight, that College of Girard,
looming through the misty night, but
Juan did not see it.

His head upon his breast, his dark eyes
glaring straight ahead, he kept his mettled
horse at the same arrow-like speed, and soon
left the college three miles behind.

Down the steep hill, into the hollow, where
an old tavern stands—somewhat retired from
the road - its lonely sign creaking on rheumatic
hinges.

A light shone out upon the porch as the
foaming horse, bounding aside from the road,
attracted by the echo of his hoofs, the tavern
keeper, lantern in hand, came to the door.

`I wish you to take care of my horse for

an hour or so,' said Juan, as he bounded from
the saddle upon the road.

The sleepy host rubbed his eyes and surveyed
the stranger, with as much amazement as
though he hid been rained from the clouds.

`You don't live here about, it may be?' he
drawled. `Hello! He's gone. Don't much
like him—very pucooliar eyes! Not a bad
horse, though!'

While the tavern keeper stood wondering,
Juan had crossed the road, leaped the wicket
fence, and was now threading a westward
path that led along a broad and gently undulating
meadow.

In the day-iime, when the bees fill the air
with their music, this meadow is very beautiful—a
broad mantle of trembling green
stretched in sight of the dusty road. But now
there was a mist upon it; a floating shroud
hung over its gentle undulations and veiled its
moist verdure.

Soon the path terminated, and before the
wanderer rolled the Schuylkill, its beautiful
hills and picturesque bridges and island of
glorious foliage, all shrouded by that misty
veil.

To the north over those rude cliffs and
down into the wilderness where the herbage
and trees are locked in one woven mass of
leaves and flowers. Up the steep rock that
rises like a wall, stone heaped on stone, and
mass piled on mass, with vines twining all
about it—like little children around a harsh
old warrior—and saplings starting from every
cleft, then exuberant foliage clothing the
granite heap with a girdle of summer green.

The wanderer stands upon the summit and
feels the night breeze from the river on his
hot brow, and sees the mist gliding among
the trees and over the graves of Laurel Hill.