University of Virginia Library

LETTER XIX.

You will remember that I promised to write a tale,
or rather to make the attempt. I have written one, and
will send it to you for your decision. I hope you will
be very severe with it, and reject it at once, if it is
wanting in the points that go to make up a “thrilling
story.” Do not let any consideration for my vanity
(what woman is without vanity, especially one who writes
for printers?) prevent you from judging and condemning
impartially; for candor on your side may save me on
my side from many a foolish perpetration in the literary
way hereafter. If editors would show more courage and
candor, there would be fewer scribblers, and more sterling
writers. So, if they complain that periodical literature
is at a low ebb, they ought to blame their own
indolent criticisms, and not fasten the guilt upon poor
literateurs, who only live upon the nod of the editorial
tribunal. It depends wholly on you editors, sir, whether
our manuscript sees print or lights candles. You
will now understand, Mr. —, that I am honest in
wishing you to be so; for if you, in the goodness of
your heart, and because “I am a lady,” publish my
story, and it is a poor one, I shall write nothing else
but just such poor tales all my life! There is my forefinger
up with the caution. Do you know that Isabel

has a very neat talent for writing? I have some of her
MSS. which would delight you, and if you will never tell,
I will send you some of it, but you must not publish it
for the world, if you like it never so much, for it is a
“dead secret.”

I have a beautiful story to tell you of Isabel. A few
days since she went to C—, twenty miles distant, in
the stage. Among the passengers was a white-headed,
poorly-clad man, with his arm in a sling, and lame from
a bullet in his knee. He was pale, and seemed to suffer,
yet was cheerful, and related to her deeply thrilling
stories of his war scenes in Mexico, where he received
the wounds which now disabled him. He had been for
some months in a hospital, at New Orleans, and was now
just returning to his family, after two years' absence, and
moneyless. At the inn, at Columbia, he alighted with
difficulty, and appeared so ill that Isabel told the landlord
that if he would send for a physician, and have him
well attended to, she would be responsible. Isabel was
then driven to the elegant residence to which she was
going on a visit. After tea, she took a bundle of comforts,
and in her friend's carriage drove to the inn,
sought out the old soldier, who was very sick in bed,
bathed his temples, and even assisted the doctor in bandaging
his arm. She remained nursing him two hours,
and then left money to hire an attendant. After an
illness of a week, every day of which saw Isabel at his
bedside, the old white-headed soldier recovered so as to
pursue his journey, his expenses paid from the purse
of this benevolent and generous girl, who is as good as
she is brave and beautiful. How few girls of seventeen
would have thought a second time of the old soldier

after leaving him at the inn! When Isabel was asked
by a fashionable friend, “how she could do so?” she answered
like a true Tennessee girl, “Soldiers fight the battles
of our country, and the least we can do is to cherish
them in their helplessness, and bind up their wounds.
Every true American woman, who loves her country and
the defenders of its glory and honor, would have done as
I did.”

Her father heard this spirited yet modest reply, and
taking her in his arms, he kissed her on both cheeks,
and smiling with pride called her a “true soldier's
daughter.”

A letter came this morning from the old man, to Isabel,
and every line is glowing with praise of her, and warm
with grateful words—though some of them are spelled
wrong. But the heart has little heed of orthography.
I know a lady who always slips in her spelling, when
she writes a letter under any deep emotion. I do not go
so far as a certain matter of fact, but warm hearted
doctor, whose early education had not been done full
justice to, whose maxim was “correct spelling and a cool
head go together; but a warm heart don't stop to pick
letters.” If the old soldier had not written so heartily,
therefore, it is very likely, we see, that his orthography
might have been less erratic.

You recollect that I alluded to a Bengal tiger, in my
last. I have quite an incident to relate of which he was
the hero, and I one of the heroines, alas! a poor heroine
you will say when you hear the story.

Three days ago, the colonel, Isabel, and I, were invited
to spend the day and dine at the plantation of Mr. Henry
Elliott, the gentleman who is husband to our riding sea-captain's

sister. After half an hour's delightful drive in
the carriage, along a picturesque road, with a brawling
brook on one side, running at even pace with the horses,
and woods and rocks overhanging on the other, we
reached the tasteful, English-looking mansion which was
to terminate our drive.

After dinner, while Isabel was standing by a marble
table, looking over a superb copy of Boydell's Shakspeare,
by her side, Harry Elliott, a handsome young
collegian, at home on vacation, admiring her rather than
the pictures to which she was drawing his attention, and
while I was seated in a lounge, reading Simms' last novel
to Mrs. Elliott; and the colonel, and “the captain,” and
our host were smoking their cigars on the front portico,
suddenly, with a bound as noiseless as that of a cat, the
Bengal tiger entered through an open window, and
pounced into the drawing room. Mrs. Elliott sprung to
her feet, and pointed in speechless horror at the terrible
and beautiful creature, as it stood for a moment where
it touched the soft carpet, and gazed slowly and fearlessly
around as if selecting its victim from one of us.
Isabel and her young friend had not yet seen him, their
backs being towards the window. As for poor me, I sat
like a statue, motionless and without power of motion.
The blood froze in my veins! I caught the glittering
eyes of the tiger, and, for an instant, was fascinated;
and I do not know, if he had not turned away his look
with dignified contempt, that I should not have risen up
and advanced irresistibly, like a charmed bird towards
the serpent. He moved a step, crouching. I looked at
Mrs. Elliott. I saw courage coming into her eyes, and
she said to me, whispering, “If I catch his eye, I can

detain and cower him.” But ere she could catch it, the
tiger advanced three fearful bounds, and then Isabel, for
the first time, beheld him! Harry Elliott no sooner
saw him, than he laid one hand on the wrist of Isabel,
who seemed to gaze more with wonder than with fear
upon the mottled Bengalese, and pointed with the
other to the piano.

“To the piano, Isabel! Play, quickly! Music, or
he will do mischief—music, quickly!”

The tiger now slowly sunk down couchant upon the
carpet, and I could see him unsheath his curved white
claws, and his eyes burned as if fires were kindled in
their orbs. He seemed about to spring upon Henry,
who fixed his gaze resolutely upon him with a courage I
could not but admire, terrified as I was at such a drawing-room
companion. My fears were not lessened by the
recollection, which just then came upon me, that I had
been told that day as one of the feats of the “captain's
pet” that he would snap off a cat's head at a bite, and
make nothing of it. I always knew my head was small,
and I felt that it was now smaller than ever. The horrid
creature gaped all at once, as if to increase my
apprehensions, and I was now certain he would make as
sure of my head as a guillotine would do it.

Isabel glided backward, pale as snow, and as cold,—
glided backward, step by step, so as not to seem to retreat,
and reached the piano. Running her icy, cold
fingers over the keys in a fearfully brilliant prelude, she
commenced a superb cavalry march,—a new Hungarian
piece—with a world of war music in it. The tiger, as
soon as she began to play, rose from his crouching attitude,
and moved with a sedate step to the piano, and

took his stand by Isabel, and so near that her snowy
arm, as she reached to the distant keys, would nearly
touch his glossy shoulder. We were as still as death!
We began to have faith in the music, seeing that he noticed
it in so marked a manner, for he stood as if listening,
charmed.

White as a Medician statue, yet Isabel played on. I
expected each instant to see her fall from the music
stool, or pause in pure terror, when I felt confident the
fangs of the terrible creature would be buried in her
bosom. Yet we dared not give the alarm! The voices
of the three gentlemen could be heard on the gallery, yet
we feared to call for aid lest we should draw the tiger to
spring upon us. So silent, and nearly dead with awful
fear, we waited the issue, trusting to Providence, or the
music, for a diversion in our favor.

Henry Elliott, in the meanwhile, leaving Isabel playing,
stole out of the room, unseen by the tiger, and
reaching the portico, made known to the gentlemen, in
scarcely articulate words, the state of affairs in the
drawing room. Mr. Elliott would have run for his rifle,
and the colonel was calling for pistols, when the captain,
motioning for them both to preserve silence, hastened to
the scene of danger. When I saw him enter I felt inexpressibly
relieved, for I believed in him that he could
help us. He moved noiselessly across the room, and
coming round at the end of the piano, he faced the
animal, and bending his glance upon him, he caught the
glittering eye of the tiger full with his own! The effect
of his fixed and commanding gaze upon him was wonderful.
The monster gradually dropped his body upon
his haunches, and sank quietly into an attitude of submission

at Isabel's feet. The captain then placed himself
at a bound between her and the animal, and grasping
him by his jaw, he spoke to him in a tone so absolute
and bold, that he rose and suffered himself to be led out
of the room like a hound, and locked up in his cage in
the poultry yard. He had no sooner disappeared than
Isabel, who had not ceased to play, dropped to the floor,
but half-arrested in her fall by her father's embracing
arm. Mrs. Elliott fainted outright. As for myself, I
did nothing but cry for half an hour, I was so happy we
had all escaped so well. Even the courageous Harry's
voice trembled two hours afterwards when he was congratulating
me on my escape.

And was it not an escape, Mr. —? To be called
upon by a gentleman tiger, and only saved from being
eaten up by him by treating his lordship with music. It
appeared, on inquiry, that the captain had let his “pet”
out for air, and tied him to a chestnut tree that stands
in the centre of the yard, from which freeing himself,
he had taken the liberty of bounding into the parlor,
through the window which opens directly upon the lawn.

You may be sure, we, and Mrs. Elliott in particular,
gave the captain a good rating for bringing such a pet
into a peaceable neighborhood, frightening young ladies
out of their senses. Mrs. Elliott roundly informed her
brother that the monster must be shot, or she should not
sleep a wink all night for thinking he might get into the
bed-room.

The captain, who had been terribly alarmed at our
perilous situations, promised he should be shot, but said
he could not have the heart to be the death of his old
friend. It was decided that the negro driver of the

estate should kill him, but the black objected from some
superstitious feeling, when Harry Elliott proposed that
he should be turned loose in the forest and hunted down!
This proposition, so promising of a new kind of sport in
the way of Western hunting, was warmly accepted, and
would, no doubt, have been carried out, if some one had
not started the objection that he might not be easily shot
in the chase, and if left to roam the park, might do some
fatal mischief. Whereupon, Mr. Elliott went out and
shot the handsome, wild brute through the head, with a
rifle, at five paces. The captain would not see the deed
done, and remaining in the house, jammed his fingers in
his ears, to shut out the report of the gun that sealed the
fate of his friend. The poor tiger died instantly, and
we all went out to look at him as he lay on the green
grass, now quite harmless, yet looking strong and terrible
in death. He was a beautiful fellow, with the glossiest,
silkiest hide, barred and spotted brown and black. The
captain says it shall be made into housings for Isabel's
saddle and mine. Moreover, he has given me two
monkeys and a superb bird of paradise, his sister, Mrs.
Elliott, having been made so nervous by the late tiger
adventure, pointedly refusing to have any more of the
outlandish citizens of earth or air on her premises. Two
monkeys, Mr. —! And merry, ugly, little men they
are, wrinkled as a negro a hundred years old, and mischievous
as two imps satanic. They are both with chains
round their bodies, fastened one at one pillar and another
at another pillar of the gallery, so that they can run up
and down at pleasure, and all the little “miniature
humans” do, is to take their pleasure.

They have done nothing all day but eat nuts and cakes,

mow and chat together, and make faces at the negroes.
The old slaves seem to look upon them with an evil eye
and a spice of fear. Our old African says they are
“Goobah—no good—hab old one in 'em!” The young
fry among the blacks—the little niggers—go mad with
delight at witnessing their pranks, wonder at their having
tails, and seem to regard them as in some sort cousingermans
of their own race, mysteriously tailed, an addition
which they evidently look upon with envy. My
magnificent bird of paradise has a disagreeable voice,
like a creaking cart wheel, and yet his plumage is splendid
beyond description! With all his prismatic glory, the
little brown mocking-bird that sings under my window
half the night long, by moonlight, is worth a score of
them. The eye soon wearies with the monotony of
beauty, but the ear never with the harmony of sound.