University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
A NEW CHARACTER.

Den. Ap. Virg.

As Orville and Pocahontas left the group at
the temple, the attention of the company was attracted
by a new character. This was a travelling
minstrel, with his harp slung on his back—

He was instantly surrounded by the idlers of
both sexes, offering him money to play; and
after receiving several cents in his hat, he sat
down on the steps of the temple to tune his harp.
The band in the gallery had ceased, and the

dancers began to assemble around the new comer.
While he was tuning the instrument, few persons
believed that he would attempt to play; but when
he passed his fingers over the trembling chords,
every eye glistened with surprise and pleasure.
The tones were so sweet, and the melody so exquisite,
that the auditors at length seemed almost
entranced with wonder and delight. After running
through a short, but very expressive symphony,
he sung the following in a voice only
surpassed in sweetness by the tones which accompanied
it:

As the last note of the concluding symphony
expired, a mask, in the dress of a black friar,
addressed the performer in a low voice, but in a
tone so wonderfully singular, that George started
with surprise. His stature was large, and his
deportment dignified, but so completely was he
enveloped in his sable cowl, that no feature, except
a piercing black eye, could be discerned.

Friar. Does it become the only son of Edward
Willoughby, the destined champion of
American Freedom, to waste his precious hours
in idleness?—in worse than idleness—revelling
in the lap of luxurious pleasure, and reposing
on beds of roses—while his intrepid countrymen
are braving the dangers of war, and snatching
but a moment's rest on the cold ground, before
the yell of battle arouses them to the work of
death? How would that delicate hand, habituated
to trill the wires of a harp—how would it
handle the deadly rifle, or wield the sword of
Washington?

George. (Visibly embarrassed.) How—who
are you?

Friar. The friend of your father—the destined
Mentor of his son.

George. Where knew you my father?

Friar. On the battle-field where he lost his
hand. There he dedicated you to his country,
and called on high Heaven to sanction the oath.
A thousand times since has he ratified the contract,
and I now claim its fulfilment.

George. The son of Edward Willoughby will
require no prompter when his country is in danger.
But who commissioned you to prefer her
claim? (He struck a few careless notes on his harp,
and then asked with a smile) Who signed your
credentials?

Friar. Who announced your birth?—I am—

At this moment the falling of a chandelier, in
the adjacent room, called a universal shriek from
all the ladies; which, mingled with the crash of
broken glass, and the confusion of voices, created
a momentary tumult, in which all were engaged,
except George and the mysterious stranger, both
of whom seemed too much interested in the conversation
to relinquish it for so trifling an occurrence.
George had now risen, and exclaimed
in a tone of surprise—

“Announced my birth!—Indeed you create
a strange interest in my bosom. Speak—be
more explicit. Who are you?”

The stranger answered not, but throwing open
his mantle, discovered a Miami warrior in the
full dress of his tribe—an exact counterpart of
the picture in major Willoughby's possession.
George was lost for a moment in astonishment.

George. Whoever you are, the costume of the
character you have assumed is inimitably correct;
and how you could thus have copied it
without ever seeing the picture, I must confess
I am at a loss to determine.

Friar. I have nothing to do with pictures or
copies. I am an original. You are my pupil,
and the day fast approaches when the lessons I
shall teach you must be put into practice in your
country's defence. Even now the tomahawk is
suspended; the ambush is laid; and before the
rays of to-morrow's sun shall sparkle on the bosom
of Erie, numerous white men will fall before
the treachery of the foe. Your country calls!
Obey her voice! for in the womb you were devoted
to her service!

So saying, he wrapped himself in his mantle,
drew the cowl over his face, and, before George
could reply, was lost among the crowd that
surrounded the scene of confusion in the next
room.

A most tender scene between Orville and Ellen
had been interrupted by the same disaster, and
they were joined by our minstrel just as the signal
was given for supper, when every mask was
laid aside, and the whole party ascended to the
banquet-hall.

During the repast, Orville and Ellen were
seated opposite each other, and their eyes spoke
“unutterable things;” they literally banquetted
on “lovers' food,” and scarcely honored with a
moment's notice the delicious realities before
them. Near Orville sat another who appeared
also to have forgotten the purpose for which he
came. This was George. The words of the
Mysterious Chief still rung in his ears, and he
examined every countenance at table, without
discovering any feature that could have belonged
to that singular character. No one knew what
had become of the friar: neither his entrance
nor his exit had been observed. Such a crowd
of images obtruded on the mind of our hero, that
he was entirely insensible to the scene of festive
gaiety around him, and left the table having
scarcely tasted a morsel. “Your country calls
you—obey her voice, for in the womb you were devoted
to her service.” What could this mean?
America was at peace with all the world. He
was lost in conjecture, and wandered alone
through the lately crowded rooms in profound
meditation.

“Shall I tell your fortune?” said a little gipsey
to George, as he stood leaning against a pillar
of the temple. He gave her his hand.

Gipsey. What a beautiful hand! and how
wonderfully marked with the chequers of fortune!

George. And what do you discover there, my
little prophetess?

Gipsey. That you are beloved by a female
whom you never suspected of affection, and who
would cheerfully make a pilgrimage to Mecca, if
by so doing she could acquire a right to this hand.

George. Her name—

Gipsey. I dare not tell.

George. How then can I profit by your information?

Gipsey. Will it give you no pleasure to know
that you are beloved?

George. Not unless I can love in return.

Gipsey. And could you refuse your heart to an
affectionate girl who doats on you?

George. Suppose that I have no heart to refuse?

Gipsey. Catharine will forget you—perhaps
you will never see her again.

George. Do you read that in my hand?

Gipsey. We are interrupted—meet me at the
east pavilion, there I will tell you more; and
away she tripped, leaving George not a little surprized
at her language and manner. At that moment
his sister, with their cousin Aylwin, approached,
and the latter exclaimed—

“Beware of idolatry, George; here comes the
deity of the temple.”

George. Who is that gipsey, Amelia?

Aylwin. Admirable! excellent! upon my
honor. After abandoning the supper table, supper
and all, with the glittering attractions around

it, to enjoy a private tete a tete with a strolling gipsey,
he gravely enquires, “who is she?” Don't
you think that your brother is rapidly improving
in refinement and gallantry?

George. Do you know her, Amelia?

Amelia. I am not at liberty to unmask any
one of this company without their consent.

The company now began to descend in crowds
from the supper-room, and resume their masks,
when a scene of “gay confusion” commenced.
The exhilirating draughts of American wine had
imparted a patriotic glow to almost every bosom,
and good-humored wit and mirth now circulated
without restraint. Characters and dominos who
had scarcely ventured to breathe a syllable before
supper, now found no difficulty in rattling out
whole sentences, without regard to reason, rhyme,
or syntax. Dull formality was entirely discarded,
and that happy freedom tolerated which approaches
to the very verge of decorum without
overstepping the line.

As soon as George could escape from his sister
and cousin Aylwin, he resumed his mask, and
strolled towards the east pavilion in search of
his kind little gipsey; but as he entered the apartment
a gold repeater in his pocket struck a quarter
past four, and at that moment the Mysterious
Chief stood again before him. Our hero started
as if he had seen a spectre, while the object of
his surprise exclaimed—

“Relinquish the pursuit! and obey the voice
of your country.”

“What of my country?” inquired George,
“when does she require my service?”

“Now!—Hark! the war-whoop sounds!—the
shriek of death echoes through the forest! and
the vulture whets her beak for a bloody repast!

The camp of the white man is surprised!—he
bleeds!—he falls!—he rises!—and if he conquers—”

“Maniac! What a singular taste for a masquerade
character!”

“Obey your country's call!—in the womb
you was devoted to her service. I have reminded
your father of his engagement. Remember me!”

With this exclamation he again disappeared
among the crowd.