University of Virginia Library

THE MYSTERIOUS BOX.

Percival.

“What a shame it is that we have not one real
poet among our thirteen millions of people!” said
Edward Blakeley, as he entered the parlour, with
the Edinburgh Review in his hand.

“You forget, Edward,” cried his sister Lucy,
eagerly; “there is Bryant, and Percival, and Willis,
and Sigourney, and”—

“No, no, Lucy; I forget no one. I remember
well every American who has written a stanza
worth remembering, and I could almost worship
the writer. But I repeat that we have not, and it
is a national disgrace, a single individual among
our thirteen millions of people, who devotes himself
or herself to the service of the Muses.”

“Because there is no adequate compensation
offered for poetry,” said uncle Thomas. “We have
the poetic temperament in profusion among us.”

“I fear not,” replied Edward; “I fear this dullness
is constitutional. When I read the sarcastic
observations of Englishmen and Scotchmen, on
our want of genius and originality, I often am so
mortified, with feeling that the accusation is true,
that I almost hate the name of American.”

“We shall have poets when we have Mæcenases,”
remarked uncle Thomas, drily.

“It is possible—but, dear uncle, what reasons
have you for believing this? None of the immortal
bards have written for hire.”

“But they were rewarded, nevertheless; or
most of them, with whose histories we are acquainted,
attained, in consequence of their writings,
situations of honour and profit; or, at any
rate, they were better provided for than they
would have been, had they never made rhymes.
Most of the poets have been what the aristocratic
language of the old world styles low-born; and
their genius exalted them to be companions of the
titled, learned and wealthy; and this envied privilege
these low-born poets could not in any other
way have obtained. So that you see, Edward,
there is a reward, and one, too, exceedingly coveted,
where the distinctions of rank are established

by law, for men of genius to devote themselves to
works of imagination and taste. America has not,
as yet, offered these rewards in a sufficient measure
to foster that inclination which genius, I believe,
always feels, to indulge in the studies which would
elevate and refine society, rather than make it
comfortable.”

“And so, I suppose, you are intending I shall
infer, that the brave spirits among us republicans,
who might have been distinguished as poets, are
employing their powers to invent steamboats and
cotton gins,” &c. &c.

“I mean to say, Edward, that our men of genius
have hitherto found useful speculations more surely
the path to fame, wealth and respectability, than
sublime fancies would have been. And so they
have been utilitarians, when they might have been
poets. But we will leave this discussion for the
present. I had promised the girls a story, and was
just beginning as you came in—and I believe they
will prefer my story to your logic.”

The young ladies laughed, and declared, as
young ladies should do, that they infinitely preferred
stories to logic.

Edward looked a little blanked, for he had just
graduated, and thought, as graduates usually do,
that all wisdom was learned at college; and that
whatever did not savour of logic, must be nonsense.

But still his early habit of listening to the stories
of his mother, had made him love stories, and he
could not, with all his logic, cure himself of the
silly habit, as he called it. So now he sat down, a
little without the circle which drew around uncle
Thomas, and though keeping his eyes on the open
page of the Edinburgh Review, he heard every
word of the following Tale:

“About fifteen years ago I made an overland
journey to New York city, by the way of Windsor,
Vermont, thence across the Green Mountains
to Albany; but from that place I went by water, so
that, after all, it was not exactly a land journey.
But it was long enough to tire me prodigiously,
for the roads then were rough, and the company I
met in the stage duller than the mile-stones, for
these last always reported progress. I recollect, in
particular, how disgusted I was with the affectation
and chatter of a party who entered the stage the
morning we started from Windsor. There was a
young fellow who fancied himself a great man,
because his father could afford him money enough
to spend. I knew his father well—a pains-taking,
plodding drudge in the service of mammon he was
—and he had been rewarded for his servitude. He
was rich. His son has, not long since, been in the
debtor's room, and, I believe, taken the poor debtor's

oath. Little did he think of such a downfal
when I saw him in the stage. Then he was all
pertness and flippancy; and the two ladies he was
escorting, the young Miss to whom he was engaged,
and her maiden aunt, were delighted with
his pertness, which they doubtless thought wit,
and they laughed at every silly, stupid observation
he made.

“I did not think it strange that the young lady
was pleased; she was blinded by her love or vanity;
but I did think an elderly spinster, who I could
see wore false hair, and of course was gray, for it
was not then the fashion for all ladies to wear it,
might have been more wise. But to tell the truth,
the ladies were as shallow as the coxcomb, and
that is a case which seldom occurs; for though
women are rarely found so wise as wise men, they
are as rarely found so weak as foolish men. The fair
sex have, as I think, an instinctive capacity for
social intercourse, and seldom appear so dull, odd,
or awkward, even when ignorant of established
rules and the subjects of colloquy, as do their
lords—and then they have a kindness in their
smile, an attentiveness in their manner, which
makes one believe they comprehend every word
they hear. I always like to talk before ladies, for
I am then incited to use my best language, and
bring out my purest thoughts and feelings.”

“And tell your best stories, too,” said Lucy.

“Yes, my love, when I do not forget them in
my old-fashioned digressions. But I shall go on
regularly now, for I am just coming to my hero.”

“Then the young beau in the stage is not to be
your hero?” observed Edward.

“No, no, Edward—I shall never take a coxcomb
for a hero of mine. But I don't mean by a coxcomb,
one who likes to dress and dash, even
though he may carry his extravagance a little too
far. I mean a conceited prig, who has nothing but
extraneous qualifications to entitle him to his place
in society. He depends on his father's fame, or
friends, or wealth, or else on the eclat of graduating
at a popular university, or travelling over Europe,
or residing in a city; such a fellow is all pride and
pretension, and seems to think nature has given
him a patent of nobility, when, if it were not for a
combination of lucky circumstances in his favour,
he would probably have been a wood-sawyer or an
old clothes man. It seldom, however, happens
that such an one is fortunate to the end; and when
the time of trial comes, he `falls, like Lucifer, to
rise no more.' There's poetry for you, Edward.
I am glad you listen so attentively to my story.”

“Your lecture, you mean, uncle.”

“My story, I say. Where was I? Oh! the
stage-coach. Well, we had just crossed the Green

Mountains, and during the whole ride I had hardly
opened my lips. I felt truly rejoiced when a man
in a wagon, who had come from a cross-road,
which seemed to lead through the woods on our
left, hallooed for the stage to stop, and after inquiring
if there were many passengers, said a gentleman
wished to go on as far as Rutland.

“The gentleman soon came up, for he had not
ridden in the wagon, and taking a small bundle
from the wagon seat, he handed it to the coachman
to place on the top of the stage, and then
taking a box from a buffalo skin, in which it had
been wrapped, he spoke a few words earnestly,
and in a low tone, to the wagoner, and then entered
the stage. I tell all these circumstances, because
they are essential to the catastrophe.

“When the stranger entered, I bowed, as I
always do on such occasions, but the coxcomb I
have before named turned up his nose, with a
scornful smile, and instantly removed from the
front seat, where he had hitherto sat, to gaze, as I
supposed, uninterruptedly on his Dulcinea, to the
middle seat, which I had hitherto occupied alone,
and thus left the whole forward seat for the new
comer. He, however, did not seem to wish for
much space in which to display himself. On the
contrary, I thought he appeared to shrink from

observation, and drew his hat down over his eyes,
and his red silk handkerchief up over his chin.
These movements might not have any particular
motive, but there certainly was a mystery in the
curious box he carried with him. It was a queer
shaped box, nearer a triangle than any other form;
perhaps eighteen inches on the longest side, and
about twelve inches in height. This box the
wagoner had handed to the traveller, after the latter
entered the stage. It was handed very carefully,
and the traveller held it very cautiously, and
kept his eyes fastened on it in a way which seemed
to me very odd. I noted these things more, perhaps,
because I was glad to have a subject to employ
my thoughts, and prevent the silly simpering
conversation which was going on between the
lovers and the duenna from entering my sober
ears. But I could not wholly escape hearing, and
I found their witticisms were directed against the
stranger. I knew, too, that he must hear them,
for once or twice the colour rose on his pale cheek,
and he held down his head, and closed his eyes, as
though he would have us think he was asleep.

“I always feel pained to see a fellow being suffer
such contumely, when it is so undeserved, and I
endeavoured, by paying him particular attention,
to reassure him. But it was all in vain that I

talked to him. I could not draw him out. He
would answer my questions, but as briefly as possible,
consistent with civility. To my several remarks
on the country, the weather, the news, &c.,
he would not add a single syllable. He seemed to
be labouring under some excitement or anxiety of
mind, which entirely unfitted him for conversation.
I did not think it was bashfulness, as what he did
say was spoken in an easy assured tone, and there
was no lack of information in his answers. But
he would not talk; and so I contented myself with
taking the inventory of his apparel. He was not
exactly shabby, yet his clothing augured poverty;
it was unsuited for the season. The day was a
chilly one; it was the last of October, and the
traveller had no over-coat nor gloves; and his sur-tout
was thin and threadbare, and his boots were
patched, and did not fit him very well.

“Yet still there was something in his appearance
and manners which interested me very much—
somewhat like the sympathy we read of in novels.
He was young, and his face, or all of it I could see,
very pale and scholar-like. His eye was blue,
deep dark blue, and I thought expressed melancholy
or suffering; but there was, at times, a quickness
in his movements, which betrayed a hasty
temperament, or it might belong to a suspicious

one. Perhaps I should have thought the quick
changes of feeling which I observed pass over his
countenance were the inspirations of genius, and
have set him down as a scholar—a poet—had it
not been for his hard, sinewy hand, which showed
too plainly that manual labour had been his calling.
All these particulars I noted before it grew dark;
and, on the whole, I made up my mind that he
would prove no common character—but whether
inclined to good or evil I could not decide. But
tavern-keepers know every body, thought I; so,
when we reach Rutland, I'll find out who this
young adventurer may be.

“We reached Rutland about nine in the evening.
Now I never thought I was much given to the
luxuries of the table, but yet, when I am travelling,
I confess my mind is quite too much taken up
with what I shall eat and what I shall drink. At
this time I was cold as well as hungry; the landlord
had a good fire and a good supper, and I was
so completely engrossed with self, that I never
observed the young traveller was not at the table
with us, nor in the parlour with us, nor did I see
him, or think of him, till the landlord was lighting
me to my bed. Then I inquired for him.

“`What, the fellow in the surtout?' answered
the man. `Why, he called for a chamber, and

lights, and carried up his box and budget, and then
went out, and after a time returned with some one,
and they are now, I guess, in that chamber.' He
pointed to one next that I was entering.

“`Did he take supper?' said I.

“`No, no! he did not look like one who could
afford to eat my suppers.' The landlord laughed,
and I felt as though I would have been willing to
have gone without my own supper, to have been
certain that poor young man was not hungry.

“After the landlord had departed, I sat down in
a huge arm-chair that stood close to a door which
was then partly open. I had not sat there above a
minute, when I was certain I heard voices in the
next chamber. It was there that the young man
was, and I opened the door without any plan or
thought of what I wished to do or know. The
door opened into a large closet, which separated
the two chambers; I saw a glimmering of light
through the plastering near the top of the wall, and
I could now plainly hear, for the plastering was
very thin, some one talking earnestly and rapidly.
My curiosity was awakened. I softly entered the
closet, and standing on a chair, could just look
through the chink in the wall, which had probably
been made by the removal of a nail, or large
wooden peg, which had once been driven into the

plastering on the closet side. The hole was sufficiently
large for me to see the two men plainly.
They sat by a table, one on each side. The young
traveller was facing me, consequently I could only
see the back of his companion. But I judged by
his thin hair, and the appearance of his dress, that
he was an elderly man. I noted him but little
though, for my whole attention was engrossed by
the mysterious traveller.

“This young man had laid aside his hat, and his
bold forehead, from which he often brushed back
the dark hair that clustered thickly on the top of
his head, gave much more of dignity to his appearance
than I had thought he possessed. But the
charm of his face was in his eyes. I told you they
were blue, and I had thought melancholy—all that
expression had now passed away. They seemed
to burn and literally flash with energy, and hope,
and joy, as he went on showing paper after paper
to the other gentleman. The papers seemed to be
filled partly with writing, and partly with plans or
drawings, which the youth was describing. He
had taken these papers from his queer-looking box,
which stood open on the table; but they did not, I
found, constitute its chief treasure. Presently he
took, very carefully, some little wheels and models
in wood and metal, and other strange fashioned articles,

from his box—and he placed them together,
and then he stood up, and rubbed his hands, and
went up close to the other man, and talked. My
stars! how fast he talked! You must know that I
could not hear a connected sentence, for he spoke
low as well as fast, so that the whole scene was
pantomimic. It was the most animated one I ever
saw—the embodying of real feeling and passion in
the changes of noble features, and the gestures of a
fine and powerful form.

“You probably wish to know what I thought of
the scene and the youth. I could not, for some
time, form any guess of his character. At last I
saw the old gentleman take from his pocket-book a
bank bill, which he seemed comparing with some
of the drawings on the papers before him: and
then the truth flashed on my mind at once. They
were counterfeiters! The whole mystery of the
scene was unravelled. I now knew why the young
man had come from that cross-road with so much
precaution, his whispering with the wagon-driver,
his skulking in a corner of the stage, his silence
and downeast looks—why, I read the whole history
at a glance. It is wonderful how the possession
of one link in a confederacy will enable you to
put the whole fabric in motion, like pulling the
string of a dancing Jack. but so it is. And after

the mystery is understood, how very weak appear
the devices of the art which had before blinded
you!—and how manfully you go on, tearing in
pieces the whole fabric, and accounting for every
appearance, probable or improbable, with as little
hesitancy as you would balance an account, when
the items were all before you.

“I had heard, when in Windsor, of the recent
escape of a young and ingenious villain, who had
been detected in passing counterfeit money. I believe
I read the advertisement, offering a large reward
for his apprehension; at any rate, I heard
him described, and the youth before me answered
the description. He had `dark hair and blue eyes,
and was nearly six feet in height, and could appear
like a gentleman,' as the description ran.

“My first impulse, after making this discovery,
was to call the landlord, and have the rogues secured.
Then I recollected I had heard that the
misguided man was the only son of a widowed
mother, who, it was thought, would never survive
the disgrace of having him condemned to the state
prison. I remembered, too, that extenuating circumstances
were named—how the youth, who was
clerk in a store, had been inveigled by older villains,
and a bad woman, the worst of tempters in a
human form. I had heard more than one gentleman

observe, he hoped the poor fellow would escape,
for he might reform if not degraded by public
punishment, because he was young, and naturally
a fine disposition.

“These thoughts so overpowered me that I
could scarcely stand, and so I crept softly from the
closet, and sat down in the arm-chair, to reflect
what was my duty in this case. On one hand, my
sympathy for the unhappy culprit, who I saw was
really a noble creature, that is, as God had made
him, strongly inclined me to let him take his
chances of escape. Then, his poor mother—I fancied
I heard her beseeching me not to expose her
son, her only son, to disgrace; and I was decided
for a few moments to let him go.

“Then the responsibility of an American citizen
to protect those laws from violation which he has
helped to make and impose, came vividly on my
mind. How could I connive at the escape of the
guilty from justice, without forfeiting my own
esteem, even though my secret should never be
known? Those bonds of law which freemen impose
on themselves, are far more obligatory on the
conscience and honour of individuals, than are those
statutes enacted by despots, or self-constituted rulers.
The freeman has no mental reservations.
His secret purpose, as well as his solemn oath, is

pledged to support the laws. He knows and feels
this responsibility, and he cannot escape it. There
is no subterfuge. He cannot say these things belong
to the government, let the proper officers look
to it. Our police are the citizens, our guards the
citizens; and as an American citizen my duty was
plain: I must expose the guilty.

“But before I went to call the landlord, I thought
I would take one more look at the counterfeiters.
The old man had gone; and the youth was pacing
the room with an anxious and troubled air. The
bright flush, that had given such animation to his
features during the discussion, had faded entirely.
He was pale as a statue, and when he stopped in
his walk, as he several times did, and stood still as
a statue, had it not been for the glance of his eye,
he would have seemed a marble figure. I pitied
him deeply, I think it no shame to say it, though
he were a counterfeiter, for I saw he was miserable.
Finally, I resolved to go to him, and expostulate
with him, and see if I could not find in his
penitence some reasons to justify me in letting him
escape.

“I went and knocked at his door, which he immediately
opened. He seemed a little startled,
however, and asked me, abruptly enough, what I
wanted with him. I answered that I came to warn

him of consequences which must overtake him
soon, if he pursued the course he had begun.

“He looked wonderfully amazed, and asked me
to explain. This I did as quickly as possible, for
I think a frank straight-forward manner always
succeeds best with the young. Had he been an old
offender, I should have gone more cunningly to
work, and endeavoured to entrap him by artful
questions, and asked for a sight of his box, and so
on;—but I went right to the point at once, told
him how I had seen him and his partner in iniquity,
and the contrivances I knew he had in his box for
forging bills; and lastly, I told him who I suspected
he was.

“He had listened to me without speaking; but
once or twice I thought he seemed inclined to
laugh; and when I named the counterfeiter P****,
he could restrain himself no longer. He burst out,
not with a laugh of mirth, as it seemed to me, but
of scorn, bitterness, derision, as though he set warning
and advice, as well as law and honesty, at defiance.

“I was tempted to knock him down. It seemed
to me, as I turned to leave the room, in order to
call the landlord, that such a reckless villain well
deserved the state prison.

“But when he saw me going, he checked his

laugh, and begged me to have a little patience, and
he would show me his box. He brought it forward,
and took out every thing it contained. He
then untied his bundle, and placed that, too, for my
inspection. And then he asked me to take a seat
at his table, and sitting down himself, he arranged
all his models before me. What do you think they
proved to be, Edward?”

“How can I guess?” said Edward.

“Nothing very wicked, I hope, uncle,” said
Lucy.

“Why,” resumed uncle Thomas, taking a huge
pinch of snuff—always his custom when a little
vexed—“Why, I never like to think of this part
of the affair, so we will pass over it as lightly as
possible. The models and drawings were those of
a machine for grinding tanners' bark, which machine
the young man had invented, as well as made
some improvement in the process of tanning leather,
for which he wished to obtain a patent; and he had
been explaining all these matters to an old uncle of
his, in order to induce him to advance a sum of
money necessary to secure the patent-right.

“I never felt myself less a man than when looking
on the models before me, and then on the animated
face of the youthful projector, where every
feature seemed now instinct with enthusiastic honesty,

as well as energy of purpose. And I had
judged him to be a base counterfeiter! Well, I
have one comfort. If I sometimes judge wrong, I
am always glad to act right. And so I made my
apology to the youth;—not a half-way, cautious
apology, as if I were
No, no; I spoke out heartily, and told him I was
sorry and ashamed of my suspicions, and convinced
he was a good as well as an ingenious young
man, and I sincerely wished him success. I added,
too, that I should like to hear the history of his
inventions, and perhaps it might be in my power
to assist him. Ah! I wish you could have seen
him then, Lucy. His look of thankfulness and
joy went to my heart, for I saw I had touched the
core of his. The inventions of a projector are
dear to him as children to their parents, and to
hear them praised is like offering incense to his
idols.

“The adventurer's name was Hugh Griswold,
and his story was a common one in our country—
that of an aspiring boy, determined to raise himself
above the condition in which he was born.
Monarchists may talk of rank, and how the dignity

of high birth elevates human nature; but the
struggle to keep an honourable station is never so
hearty, so ennobling, as the struggle to attain one.
Let public opinion be virtuous and enlightened,
and let the free spirit have room to rise by its own
deserts, and you place before men the most powerful
motive for improvement which society can offer,
I shall not relate the story of my hero very
minutely. He told me his father was a good man,
but sickly, and always poor. He died when Hugh,
the eldest of eight children, was fifteen. Hugh
described himself as a dreaming, wayward boy,
who formed a thousand dazzling schemes by which
he might become rich and great. And so loath
was he to learn a trade, that his father, who had
designed to put his son apprentice to a tanner and
shoemaker, never had prevailed with him to begin
his trade.

“But the tears of his widowed mother decided
him. He saw he must lay aside his books, and
forego his dreams of being a scholar, a poet, and a
gentleman, to prepare himself to assist her. He
went to his trade, but he told me, that even then
these wild visions of fame and greatness continued
to haunt him, and he had no doubt it was these
promptings, which, as he grew older and wiser,
took a more reasonable shape, and incited his restless

ingenuity to construct experiments and plans
which had finally been successful in his present
invention.

“`I had determined,' said he, `to succeed. I
laboured during the day, and studied my inventions
through the night. For the last three years,
I was then nineteen, I have scarcely allowed myself
common necessaries, because all my earnings
I expended on my experiments. My blessed mother
bore with all my plans and whims, even encouraged
my projects, and she shall now be rewarded.
If I can only go to Washington and secure
my patent, I shall soon be independent.'

“You should have seen him, Lucy, while he
was saying these things, to know fully how much
interest genius and enthusiasm can give to the
most common, or, as it is called, vulgar employment.
I thought, while he was talking, that
tanning leather was an office of great and dignified
importance. So much did I enter into the
spirit of his feelings, that, as I happened then to
be a representative in congress, I gave him my
name, with an invitation to call on me when he
came to Washington, and promised to assist him
all in my power. As an earnest of my good-will,
I offered to advance him fifty dollars then, if he
needed. My offer was, doubtless, wholly unexpected

by him, for he had never found a patron,
and his old uncle, as I afterwards learned, only
lent him five dollars. His lip quivered, and it was
some time before he spoke; at last he thanked me,
and accepted my offer.

“I saw him at Washington. He secured his
patent, and soon disposed of shares to such advantage,
that I had little doubt he might be a rich
man, if his poetic temperament did not hurry him
into hazards and extravagancies. I took the liberty,
in one of our confidential conversations, to hint
this to him. `Never fear me,' said he, blushing,
and half-hesitating—`I am under bonds to be a
reasonable man.'

“Under the bonds of the heart, I presume,”
said I. He smiled, and we parted.

“Ten years after that, I met him on the floor of
congress, a representative from New York. Our
recognition was, I trust, mutually pleasant. I was
not surprised to meet him there, for I knew he
had talents and energies which would make him
distinguished, if he only persevered; but I confess
the extensive knowledge he displayed, and his perfect
gentlemanly deportment, somewhat disconcerted
my old prejudices. I had held it to be impossible
that one, whose early training was neglected,
could ever excel in liberality of ideas and refinement

of manners, those who had had the advantages
of a public and polite education. But
after he had introduced me to his lady, a lovely
and accomplished woman, I wondered less, as I
know well the influence of a gentle and intelligent
spirit over such a mind as Hugh Griswold possessed.
He told me he was rich, very rich, but he
valued his wealth only as it made him successful
in lore and fame.

“Had that man been born in a sphere of military
glory, he would have been a hero; or had literary
reputation been the best passport to honours,
he would have been a poet. In our country, where
the skill that contributes to make life comfortable
has been hitherto more regarded and better rewarded
than the talents which defend and amuse
it, he devoted his genius to the construction of
machines for grinding tanners' bark! But this
predominating influence of bodily wants will not
much longer enslave. Our people are becoming
rich. The rich will search for expedients to make
their wealth contribute to their renown. The age
of warriors and spectacles has gone by. Physical
strength must yield to mental power; and the
indulgence of the senses be considered poor and
vulgar, when contrasted with intellectual and moral
pleasures. Yes, Edward, the rich will find that

their surest, greatest, most durable distinction, must
be the distinction of superior intelligence. They
will encourage literature either from taste or for
pretention; genius will be exalted and rewarded;
and then, Edward, we shall have both Mæcenases
and poets.”