John Randolph, of Roanoke, and other sketches
of character, including William Wirt together with tales of real life |
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MARY M`INTYRE HAS ARRIVED. |
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 | John Randolph, of Roanoke, and other sketches
of character, including William Wirt |  |
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 inquiry, 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 Pittsburg 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, arose 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, in fact, retarded by
some obstacle or other, which 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
effected in half an hour at farthest.
I accordingly feed two youths, who were paddling
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
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
the 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, my impulse of anger changed to one of
admiration, 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 should 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
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 deck 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 over a fairer brow. Her
neck and shoulders were exquisitely turned, and
added to the charm of features, which were decidedly
patrician. There was a näivete 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.
only great neatness in her humble toilet, but a
style that was above the “clay biggin.” Several
little trinkets upon her person—a ring, breastpin,
and particularly a massive gold cross, attached
to a handsome chain—attracted my attention,
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 travelling 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 folks 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
Ayrshire. An old Roman Catholic nobleman, who
dwelt in Edinburgh, had a 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
M`Clung. In fulfilment of an old Scotch custom,
which Burns and his Highland Mary practised,
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
terms he expressed the endurance of his passionate
love. He stated that he had thought of nothing
else but Mary since he left Scotland; that knowing
every Sunday that she was worshipping 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 told Mary that he was doing well in
the New 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 capital;
but remember I not women yet, who more
struck my fancy than this bonnie lassie from the
land of Burns. She could tell me so many things
and then she admired him so much, and
could sing his songs so well. We had a long passage,
and 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 simpler ways
of Protestantism; 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 controlling one, as the bright moon above
us was the controlling light. Several times, when
she knew not 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
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 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 womanly delicacy. I could not
forgive myself for the wound I had inflicted on
Mary's feelings, and I soon began to feel that I
should not forgive her for her want of forgiveness.
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 cigar
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 toilet 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 opinion, 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
stupefied; 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,
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 cigar overboard, and went ashore. I
had often been at this point on pleasure excursions
from St. Louis, and I 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 M`Clung, 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
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 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 boat, or else they're racing it, for they've got
all steam 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 M`Clung; 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; M`Clung 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 avarice; 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 an 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,
holding it between his compressed legs—in which
he made the golden pippin disgorge its truly
golden treasure.
The last thing which attracted my attention on
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, thought 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 unconscious. 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, farther, from a black servant,
that her mistress had, without taking off her
clothes, watched over me all the time. I was about
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 indeed beautiful, though
she looked wan, from her attendance 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. M`Clung had
greatly prospered in the world, and Mrs. M`Clung
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.
| John Randolph, of Roanoke, and other sketches
of character, including William Wirt | |