University of Virginia Library

COUNT POTT'S STRATEGY.

There were five hundred guardian angels (and of
course as many evil spirits), in and about the merry
premises of Congress Hall. Each gay guest had his
pair; but though each pair had their special ministry
(and there was here and there a guest who would not
have objected to transform his, for the time being, into
a pair of trotting ponies), the attention of the cherubic
troop, it may fairly be presumed, was directed mainly
to the momentous flirtatious of Miss C. Sophy Onthank,
the dread disposer of the destinies of eighty
thousand innocent little dollars.

Miss Chittaline Sophy (though this is blabbing,
for that mysterious “C.” was generally condemned
to travel in domino)—Miss Chittaline Sophy, besides
her good and evil spirit already referred to, was under
the additional watch and ward of a pair of bombazine
aunts, Miss Charity Onthank and Miss Sophy the
same, of whom she was the united namesake.—
“Chittaline” being the embellished diminutive of
“Charity.” These Hesperian dragons of old maids
were cut after the common pattern of such utensils,
and of course would not dignify a description; though
this disparaging remark (we must stop long enough to
say) is not at all to the prejudice of that occasional
love-of-an-old-maid that one does sometimes see—
that four-leaved clover of virginity—that star apart in
the spilled milk of the Via Lactea:—

But the two elderly Misses Onthank were not of this
category.

By the absence of that Junonic assurance, common
to those ladies who are born and bred heiresses, Miss
C. Sophy's autograph had not long been an object of
interest at the bank. She had all the air of having
been “brought up at the trough,” as the French
phrase it,

and her belle-ship was still a surprise to her. Like
the red-haired and freckled who find, when they get
to Italy, that their flaming peculiarities are considered
as captivating signs of a skin too delicate for exposure,
she received with a slight incredulity the homage to
her unseen charms—homage not the less welcome for
exacting from the giver an exercise of faith and imagination.
The same faith and imagination, she was
free to suppose, might find a Venus within her girdle,
as the sculptor sees one in the goodly block of marble,
lacking only the removal of its clumsy covering by
chisel and sandpaper. With no visible waist, she was
as tall as a pump, and riotously rosy like a flowering
rhododendron. Hair brown and plenty of it. Teeth
white and all at home. And her voice, with but one
semitone higher, would have been an approved contralto.

Having thus compressed into a couple of paragraphs
what would have served a novelist for his first ten
chapters, permit us, without the bother of intermediate
mortar or moralizing (though this is rather a mixed
figure), to lay on the next brick in the shape of a hint
at the character of Miss Onthank's two prominent
admirers.

Mr. Greville Seville was a New York beau. He
had all the refinement that could possibly be imported.
He had seen those who had seen all that is visible in
the fashionable man of London and Paris, and he was
well versed in the conduits through which their
several peculiarities found their way across the Atlantic.
Faultlessly booted, pantalooned, waistcoated, and shirted,
he could afford to trust his coat and scarf to Providence,
and his hat to Warnock or Leary. He wore
a slightly restrained whisker, and a faint smut of an
imperial, and his gloves fitted him inexorably. His
figure was a matter of course. He was brought up in
New York, and was one of the four hundred thousand
results (more or less) of its drastic waters—washy and
short. And he had as good a heart as is compatible
with the above personal advantages.

It would very much have surprised the “company”
at Congress Hall, to have seen Mr. Chesterfield Potts
put down as No. 2, in the emulous contest for the two
hands of Miss Onthank. The count (he was commonly
called “Count Potts,” a compliment to good
manners not unusual in America), was, by his own
label, a man of “thirty and upward”—by the parish
register possibly sixty-two. He was an upright, well-preserved,
stylish looking man, with an expensive wig,
fine teeth (commonly supposed not to be indigenous),
and a lavish outlay of cotton batting, covering the retreat
of such of his muscular forces as were inclined
to retire from the field. What his native qualities
might be was a branch of knowledge long since lost to
the world. His politeness had superseded the necessity
of any particular inquiry into the matter; indeed,
we are inclined to believe his politeness had superseded
his character altogether. He was as incapable of the
impolite virtues (of which there are several) as of the
impolite vices. Like cricketing, punning, political
speech making, and other mechanical arts, complimenting
may be brought to a high degree of dexterity,
and Count Potts, after a practice of many years,
could, over most kinds of female platitude, spread a
flattering unction humbugative to the most suspicious
incredulity. As he told no stories, made no puns,
volunteered but little conversation, and had the air of
a modest man wishing to avoid notice, the blockheads
and the very young girls stoutly denied his fascination.

But in the memory of the riper belles, as they went
to sleep night after night, lay snugly lodged and carefully
treasured, some timely compliment, some soothing
word, and, though credited to “old Potts,” the
smile with which it was gracefully re-acknowledged
the next morning at breakfast, would have been warm
enough for young Ascanius. “Nice old Potts!” was
the faint murmur of many a bright lip turning downward
to the pillow in the “last position.”

And now, dear reader, you have an idea of the forces
in the field, and you probably know how “the war is
carried on” at Saratoga. Two aunts and a guardian
angel versus an evil spirit and two lovers—Miss Onthank's
hand, the (well-covered) bone of contention.
Whether the citadel would speedily yield, and which
of these two rival knights would bear away the palm
of victory, were questions upon which the majority
of lookers-on were doomed to make erroneous predictions.
The reader of course is in the sagacious
minority.

Mr. Potts' income was a net answer to his morning
prayer. It provided his “daily bread” but no provender
for a horse. He probably coveted Miss Onthank
as much for her accompanying oats as for her personal
avoirdupois, since the only complaint with which he
ever troubled his acquaintances, was one touching his
inability to keep an equipage. Man is instinctively a
centaur, he used to say, and when you cut him off
from his horse and reduce him to his simple trunk
(and a trunk was all the count's worldly furniture), he
is but a mutilated remainder, robbed of his natural
locomotive.

It was not authenticated in Wall street that Mr.
Greville Seville was reasonably entitled to horse-flesh
and caparison; but he had a trotting wagon and two
delicious cropped sorrels; and those who drove in his
company were obliged to “down with the dust” (a
bon mot of Count Potts'). Science explains many of
the enigmas of common life, however, and the secret
of Mr. Seville's equipment and other means of going
on swimmingly, lay in his unusually large organ of
hope. He was simply anticipating the arrival of 1840,
a year in which he had reason to believe there would
be paid in to the credit of the present Miss Onthank
a sufficient sum to cover his loosest expenditure.
The intermediate transfer to himself of her rights to
the same, was a mere filling up of an outline, his mind
being entirely made up as to the conditional incumbrance
of the lady's person. He was now paying her
some attentions in advance, and he felt justified in
charging his expenses on the estate. She herself
would wish it, doubtless, if she could look into the
future with his eyes.

By all the common data of matrimonial skirmishing,
a lover with horses easily outstrips a lover with
none. Miss C. Sophy, besides, was particularly fond of
driving, and Seville was an accomplished whip. There
was no lack of the “golden opportunity” of tête-à-tête,
for, with a deaf aunt and somebody else on the back
seat, he had Miss Onthank to himself on the driving
box, and could talk to his horses in the embarrassing
pauses. It looked a clear case to most observers:
and as to Seville, he had studied out a livery for his
future footman and tiger, and would not have taken an
insurance at a quarter per cent.

But Potts—ah! Potts had traced back the wires of
woman's weaknesses. The heiress had no conversation
(why should she have it and money too?), and
the part of her daily drive which she remembered with
most pleasure, was the flourish of starting and returning—managed
by Potts with a pomp and circumstance
that would have done honor to the goings and comings
of Queen Victoria. Once away from the portico, it
was a monotonous drag through the dust for two or
three hours, and as most ladies know, it takes a great
deal of chit-chat to butter so large a slice of time;
for there was no making love, parbleu! Miss Chittaline
Onthank was of a stratum of human nature susceptible
of no sentiment less substantial than a kiss,
and when the news, and the weather, and the virtues
of the sorrel ponies, were exhausted, the talk came to
a stand-still. The heiress began to remember with
alarm that her education had been neglected, and that
it was a relief to get back to old Potts and the portico.

Fresh from his nap and warm bath, the perfumed
count stepped out from the group he had purposely
collected, gave her his hand with a deferential inquiry,
spread the loungers to the right and left like an “usher
of the black rod,” and with some well-studied impromptu
compliment, waited on her to her chamber
door. He received her again after her toilet, and for
the remainder of the day devoted his utmost powers
to her aggrandizement. If talking alone with her, it
was to provoke her to some passage of school-girl
autobiography, and listen like a charmed stone to the
harp of Orpheus. If others were near, it was to catch
her stupidities half uttered and twist them into sense
before they came to the ground. His own clevernesses
were prefaced with “As you remarked yesterday,
Miss Onthank,” or, “As you were about to say
when I interrupted you.” If he touched her foot, it
was “so small he didn't see it.” If she uttered an
irredeemable and immitigable absurdity, he covered
its retreat with some sudden exclamation. He called
her pensive, when she was sleepy and vacant. He
called her romantic, when he couldn't understand her.
In short, her vanity was embodied—turned into a
magician and slave—and in the shape of Count Chesterfield,
Potts ministered to her indefatigably.

But the summer solstice began to wane. A week
more was all that was allotted to Saratoga by that
great American commander, General Consent.

Count Potts came to breakfast in a shawl cravat!

“Off, Potts?”

“Are you flitting, my dear count?”

“What—going away, dear Mr. Potts?”

“Gracious me! don't go, Mr. Potts!”

The last exclamation was sent across the table in a
tone of alarm by Miss C. Sophy, and responded to
only by a bow of obsequious melancholy.

Breakfast was over, and Potts arose. His baggage
was at the door. He sought no interview with Miss
Onthank. He did not even honor the two bombazinities
with a farewell. He stepped up to the group of
belles, airing their demi-toilettes on the portico, said
“Ladies! au revoir!” took the heiress's hand and put
it gallantly toward his lips, and walked off with his
umbrella, requesting the driver to pick him up at the
spring.

“He has been refused!” said one.

“He has given Seville a clear field in despair!” said
another. And this was the general opinion.

The day crept on. But there was an emptiness
without Potts. Seville had the field to himself, and
as there was no fear of a new squatter, he thought he
might dispense with tillage. They had a very dull
drive and a very dull dinner, and in the evening, as
there was no ball, Seville went off to play billiards.
Miss Onthank was surrounded, as usual, by the belles
and beaux, but she was down flat—unmagnetized, ungalvanized.
The magician was gone. Her stupid
things “stayed put.” She was like a glass bead lost
from a kaleidoscope.

That weary week was spent in lamentations over
Potts. Everybody praised him. Everybody complimented
Miss Onthank on her exclusive power of
monopoly over such porcelain ware. The two aunts
were his main glorifiers; for, as Potts knew, they
were of that leathery toughness that only shines on
you with rough usage.

We have said little, as yet, of Miss Onthank's capabilities
in the love line. We doubt, indeed, whether

she rightly understood the difference between loving
and being born again. As to giving away her heart,
she believed she could do what her mother did before
her, but she would rather it would be one of her back
teeth, if that would do as well. She liked Mr. Potts
because he never made any difficulty about such
things.

Seville considered himself accepted, though he had
made no direct proposition. He had asked whether
she preferred to live in country or town—she said
“town.” He had asked if she would leave the choice
and management of horses and equipages to him—
she said “be sure!” He had asked if she had any
objection to his giving bachelor dinners occasionally
—she said “la! no!” As he understood it, the whole
thing was most comfortably arranged, and he lent
money to several of his friends on the strength of it—
giving his note, this is to say.

On a certain morning, some ten days after the departure
of the count from Saratoga, Miss Onthank
and her two aunts sat up in state in their parlor at the
City hotel. They always went to the City hotel
because Willard remembered their names, and asked
after their uncle the major. Mr. Seville's ponies and
wagon were at the door, and Mr. Seville's father,
mother, seven sisters, and two small brothers, were in
the progress of a betrothal visit—calling on the future
Mrs. Greville Seville.

All of a sudden the door was thrown open, and enter
Count Potts!

Up jumped the enchanted Chittaline Sophy.

“How do you do, Mr. Potts?”

“Good morning, Mr. Potts!” said the aunts in a
breath.

“D'ye-do, Potts!” said Seville, giving him his forefinger,
with the air of a man rising from winning at
cards.

Potts made his compliments all round. He was
about sailing for Carolina, he said, and had come to
ask permission of Miss Onthank to leave her sweet
society for a few years of exile. But as this was the
last of his days of pleasure, at least till he saw Miss
Onthank again, he wished to be graced with the honor
of her arm for a promenade in Broadway. The ladies
and Mr. Seville doubtless would excuse her if she put
on her bonnet without further ceremony.

Now Potts's politenesses had such an air of irresistible
authority that people fell into heir track like cars
after a locomotive. While Miss Onthank was bonneting
and shawling, the count entertained the entire
party most gayly, though the Sevilles thought it rather
unceremonious in the affianced miss to leave them in
the midst of a first visit, and Mr. Greville Seville had
arranged to send his mother home on foot, and drive
Miss Onthank out to Harlem.

“I'll keep my horses here till you come back!” he
shouted after them, as she tripped gayly down stairs
on the count's arm.

And so he did. Though it was two hours before
she appeared again, the impatient youth kept the old
aunts company, and would have stayed till night, sorrels
and all—for in that drive he meant to “name the day,”
and put his creditors at ease.

“I wouldn't even go up stairs, my dear!” said the
count, handing her to the wagon, and sending up the
groom for his master, “it's but an hour to dine, and
you'll like the air after your fatigue. Ah, Seville,
I've brought her back! Take good care of her for
my sake, my good fellow!”

“What the devil has his sake to do with it, I wonder?”
said Seville, letting his horses off like two rockets
in harness.

And away they went toward Harlem; and in about
an hour, very much to the surprise of the old aunts,
who were looking out of the parlor window, the young
lady dismounted from an omnibus! Count Potts had
come to dine with them, and he tripped down to meet
her with uncommon agility.

“Why, do you know, aunties,” she exclaimed, as
she came up stairs, out of breath, “do you know that
Mr. Seville, when I told him I was married already to
Mr. Potts, stopped his wagon, and p-p-put me into an
omnibus!”

“Married to Mr. Potts!” screamed Aunt Charity.

“Married to Mr. Potts!” screamed Aunt Sophy.

“Why—yes, aunties; he said he must go south,
if I didn't!” drawled out the bride, with only a very
little blush indeed. “Tell aunties all about it, Mr.
Potts!”

And Mr. Potts, with the same smile of infallible
propriety, which seemed a warrant for everything he
said or did, gave a very sketchy account of his morning's
work, which, like all he undertook, had been exceedingly
well done—properly witnessed, certified, &c.,
&c., &c. All of which shows the very sound policy
of first making yourself indispensable to people you
wish to manage. Or, put it receipt-wise:—

To marry a flat:—First, raise her up till she is
giddy. Second, go away, and let her down. Third,
come back, and offer to support her, if she will give
you her hand.

“Simple comme bonjour” as Balsac says.