University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

The suspicion that Randal entertained relative to
the conduct of Randolph was fully warranted by the
event. He made known to Sir Edmund Andros the
danger that threatened his government, and advised
him to make such a disposition of his forces, as
would effectually prevent an insurrection.

To this end, on the morning after the Fair, the
inhabitants of Boston were amazed to find that preparation

had been made for a movement which they
had not dreamed of immediately attempting, while
the patriotic leaders of the intended revolution were
downcast and mortified, that their labors should have
been frustrated for a time by their own misplaced
confidence. But they did not despair. They now
waited only for a moment when their odious tyrant
should be lulled again into false security, and they
improved the interim by unremitted exertions among
the people, to prepare them for the auspicious morn,
when the sun of liberty should return again to illumine
their darkened hemisphere.

In the meanwhile, winter set in with all the rigour
of those early days, when the snows banked up
to the chamber windows, and subnivian avenues
were made from house to house as the only way of
communication. The Dolphin, with her prize painted
so as effectually to disguise her, lay near mount Wallaston,
completely imbedded in the ice, their decks roofed
over with planks, and these covered with a thick
surtout of snow. The Rose frigate lay in the stream
as usual; but though she floated free of ice, it was impossible
for her to leave the harbour or the narrow
channel where she rested at anchor. She too was
roofed over in winter quarters, and presented the
same appearance as the others. Her topmasts and
top-gallant-masts were taken on deck, and she was
otherwise half dismantled, the better to contend with
the severity of the season.

There is never so much dissipation as when wars
and rumors of wars abound, if we except times of
greater danger, when plagues are decimating a community
or earthquakes shaking cities to the dust.
Men have so little real belief in the religious obligations
they profess, and so much real love of sensual
enjoyment, that the greater the opportunity, the
more uncontrolled and excessive will be their self-indulgence.
A standing-army quartered in or
about a city, will, it is known, corrupt the most virtuous
people; nor is its effect the more destructive
by the vices which are introduced and disseminated
by it, than by the very sphere, or as it were, atmosphere
of its body.

The mere moral philosopher knows but little of evil
influences, when from a circumscribed view of
the great relations of psychology, he overlooks
those phenomena that link the natural with the spiritual:
of these, this is no time to speak; but that
there are really and truly such phenomena cognizable
by a cultivated perception, is known by a few as
rationally and certainly as are the ordinary facts in
every branch of natural science. Some of these phenomena
have been shown to the world, but they have
been universally hooted at, through prejudices falsely
imbibed from the Baconian philosophy.

It is difficult to make men discriminate between
what is only different, and what is absolutely contradictory.
If new phenomena are presented to them,

they straightway refer them to classes which are
old, and when they find that they cannot predicate
of the one, what they have been accustomed to predicate
of the other, they indignantly reject the new
appearances as contradictory of their experience, and
therefore, as necessarily absurd and visionary: when
a little reflection might inform them, that all unknown
or new phenomena are removed from the
grasp of ordinary reasoning, because none of its terms
or instruments contain individuals but of known
classes.

When Dugald Stewart attacked the Aristotilean
logic for those scholastic pretensions which never entered
into the thoughts of its illustrious author, and
gravely attempted to prove that the syllogism could
not be an instrument for extending the boundaries of
science, he must have had a vague and shadowy notion
of the common tendency of the human mind
to narrow down its observation to the small compass
of what is already established. If the idea had
been developed in his mind, he might have found
a key to that higher logic which he seems to have
had an indistinct dream of, and which as an auxiliary
of truth, far transcends the dialectics of the Stagirite.
It is the only logic that can tear up the fundamental
principles of atheism and show the absurdity
of an à priori religion; that monster, which Paley,
Newton, Lord Brougham, the Bridgewater-Treatise
gentlemen, and the whole body of the clergy have laboured

with such care to establish; little dreaming
that they are labouring on a foundation of sand,
which the searching flood of truth will sweep away
from their superstructure.

Here it is, that the atheist has always had the vantage-ground
in polemic divinity. The christian has
based his argument on a fallacy which the atheist
has felt to be such, without having the means of showing
it; but he has fairly enough contended that if the
foundation of an argument is untenable, the argument
itself is good for nothing: while the christian has, on
the other hand, obstinately insisted on the importance,
the all-importance of natural theology as the
basis of revelation. The very reverse of this is the
truth; for natural theology iscognizable only through
revelation. After a revelation, we recognize God in
his works;—before a revelation, it were impossible;
because an argument that contains heterogeneous
ideas used as homogeneous ones, must allow of no
inference; and every idea we have is a logical inference.
All of which may be demonstrated with mathematical
precision.

We have been led somewhat wide of our intention,
which was only to state that the quartering of
Sir Edmund Andros's army in Boston during the
events of 1688-9, served to relax more than ever the
severity of the popular manners. The outrage of
the Rose frigate was not forgotten, but there was so
many enormities constantly committed by the government,

that it was impossible for the public indignation
to dwell for a long time exclusively on
one act of aggression.

During the interregnum of severe discipline, which
since the accession of James II. to the throne, had
been indulged to more or less extent in New England,
the extravagance and luxuries of the court
had found many imitators in Boston. The large
number of Episcopalians and Catholics who resided
in that town at the time, formed a strong contrast
to the Puritans, who still exercised much self-denial,
in spite of the many allurements with which
they were surrounded. But they were no longer the
same people who were contemporary with the heavenly-minded
Winthrops. A very few of the original
stock remained, and as they passed to the world
of spirits, their example was gradually forgotten:
just as the disinterested patriotism of seventy-six is
becoming only a theme for the historian, as the
heroes of that epoch are fading from our memory.

It was on Christmas night, that the long-expected
festival was to be celebrated at the mansion-house of
the Wilmer's—the anniversary of the charming
Grace's nativity. Great preparations had been made
to give to the occasion all the elegance and luxury
which the fashion of the day afforded. A hundred
invitations had been given and accepted, while many
a young heart beat restlessly for the hour when her
beauty should blaze in the eyes of some fond admirer,

and be the object of general delight in the gay assembly
at the Wilmers.

Though the night was dark, the street on the side
of the house, near the Mall, was in a blaze of light,
for a large number of cressets, the street-lamps of the
time, were hung out at shortintervals near the house,
and imparted a pleasing cheerfulness and excitement
to the company as they arrived. These were a
sort of iron cage hung from a pole on pivots, in a
contrivance resembling a fork, and looked like inverted
caps of iron. In these were placed the lights,
made of twisted wicks saturated with pitch, tallow,
linseed oil, hard rosin, and turpentine, melted
together; the lamp-lighter ascended the pole by
means of transverse pieces of wood projecting from
each side. The cressets were sometimes carried
from place to place on the pole, and were attended
by a man with a bag to feed it, and a torch to light
it with.

The snow at the time lay thin on the ground,
and carriages, (for several had been imported from
England by opulent people of Boston,) were enabled
to approach near to the door of the house. These
carriages were of different degrees of elegance, according
to the wealth and taste of the owners. They
were shaped somewhat like the sedan-chairs seen in
the pictures of Hogarth, placed on four wheels.
The perch nearly touched the ground, and the upper
panels were filled with large glass. The side next

to the driver was vertical to the floor, and that behind
sloped in an angle of about sixty-five degrees.
The driver's box and the dasher were not materially
different from those of our day. These carriages
could not accommodate more than four persons, and
they were drawn by two or four horses, as the circumstances
of the owner allowed.

The hall of the mansion-house was illumined by
a number of globular vessels of glass, in which wax
candles were burning, and throwing a profusion of
light on a line of uniform, engraved portraits in black
frames, that made a broad border along the whole
length of the wall. These were of distinguished
persons of the times of Elizabeth and her successors,
decked out in the various costume of the day. In
the centre of this row of portraits, hung a painting
five feet square, by one of the forgotten artists of the
day, representing Mr. Wilmer while a child eleven
years old, with his feathered hat under one arm, and
holding a large orange in his delicate fingers, around
which the lace ruffles bristled like the ruff on Queen
Elizabeth's neck. On each side of this stiff piece of
drawing were portraits of his mother and aunt, the
simplicity of whose costume strongly contrasted
with the splendid dresses that were now floating by
in crowds.

The parlors were on each side of the hall as in all
old-fashioned houses: the one looking towards the
Common was the more elegant of the two, and was

not generally opened, but was reserved for extraordinary
occasions. The windows toward the Mall
were within deep alcoves, from the arches of which
fell rich, heavy drapery of crimson damask silk, looped
up at the sides, and secured by large gilded
hooks. This room was hung round with gorgeous
tapestry, where in elaborate workmanship, was represented
the story of Actæon and his hounds, which
seemed to be preaching a practical homily on the
danger of domestic extravagance. The fire-place in
this room was ornamented with light green tiles,
each one of which was a beautiful picture of some
interesting sort. One series of them told the story
of a charming country maiden, from her first falling
in love to her disappointment; another, of a happy
marriage; and still another, of a maiden lady's lonely
state, when the astrologer cast her horoscope of
“Never to be married.” Over the mantle-piece in
this room were, on each side, gilded figures of angels,
each holding branches worked like olive-boughs,
wherefrom seven wax candles shone with a blaze of
light; and between these was a large panel of one
piece of wood, elegantly worked around like a picture-frame
with elaborate carving, the centre containing
a well-wrought group of figures representing
the Ascension of the Lord, which stood out in altorelievo,
and would have been creditable to the modern
artists of Italy.

In this room was a rich Turkey carpet of a magnificent

pattern. The chairs were of solid mahogany,
with straight backs, curling over at the tops
like the capitals of Ionic columns, with stuffed leather
seats varnished to the highest polish, and studded
round with large-headed, bright brass tacks.
The windows facing the garden were not in alcoves
like those on the street, but they were sunken in
the wall enough to admit spacious seats, cushioned
to correspond with the curtain that fell in heavy
masses over them. Between these windows was a
spacious looking-glass of an oblong form, the gilded
frame of which was a foot deep, representing a grapevine,
from which hung bunches of golden fruit.
Beneath this was a heavy mahogany table, on which
were placed six tall silver candle-sticks, representing
Corinthian columns, each one containing a lighted
wax candle. In different parts of the room were
fire-screens, which were tall rods of iron-wood, fixed
on a sort of pedestal with three claw-feet, on which
a shield of damask silk moved up and down, as also
did a little shelf for the accommodation of a book, if
one were disposed to read by the fire. This last was
blazing away from large logs of oak resting on ponderous
andirons which shone like silver, and were
surmounted with balls of shining brass six inches in
diameter. By the side of the jambs were the shovel
and tongs, the latter large enough to lift a log with,
and were as bright as molten metal.

The other parlor was not so elegantly furnished.

The windows were constructed in the same way,
but the curtains were of a more sombre hue, and less
expensive fabric, and the walls, instead of being tapestried,
were only panelled; but these were beautifully
wrought, and conveyed an air of great comfort to
the apartment. A very few pictures hung about the
room, but they were from the pencils of distinguished
artists, and never failed to excite admiration from
visitors of good taste. This room was carpeted like
the other; the arrangements of the fire-place were
much the same; a similar looking-glass in a corresponding
place appeared, beneath which was a table
conformable to the other, with another like set of
candlesticks and their accompaniments. At one
corner of this apartment was a spacious beaufet
built in a circular form, with crescent shelves, on the
highest one of which appeared a large china bowl,
which would have held three gallons at least. On the
other shelves a part of the family plate was arrayed,
with burners, porringers, tankards, vases, bowls,
and wine-cups, few specimens of which remain in
our times, when a vandal love of foolery prompts
the silly heiress to melt them down to more fashionable
forms.

In both apartments among other furniture, was
a chair called a round-about, with a bottom of a triangular
shape, a fashion that in some respects has been
revived in our times for study chairs. In the back
room, stood an old clock, which indicated the day of

the month, and the phases of the moon; and by the
side of this was a spinnet, the first form of the modern
piano-forte, the jacks of which would sometimes
jump of their own accord, and scare little children
who were playing together in the room.

The guests were now rapidly pouring in, and as
they entered, were courteously received by Mr. Wilmer,
who conducted them first to his lady and daughter,
who stood according to the custom of our times, to
exchange with them the salutations of the evening.

Only half a century previous to that day, the costume
of ladies who were not restricted by the exclusive
rules of the puritans, was more elegant than
splendid, and citizens' wives dressed with exemplary
plainness; but now, among the fashiouables, two
thousand pounds for a daughter's marriage-portion
were considered as hardly equivalent to a quarter part
of that amount half a century before. This march
of extravagance was owing to a re-action that took
place after the Restoration, and which had increased
prodigiously up to the year 1688, when there were,
among other luxuries, fifty carriages to one previous
to the interregnum.

Mrs. Wilmer, whose appearance we have not yet
described, was, making due allowance for the difference
of twenty years in their ages, an exact counterpart
of her daughter. Of course her figure was
more fully developed, and the expression of her face

more saddened and subdued by time, whose hand,
however, had not been laid too rudely on her beauty,
which by many might have been preferred even to
her child's.

She was dressed rather more in the fashion of
ladies in the time of Charles I. than in the strict costume
of her day. She had on a rich scarlet silk
gown, close-bodied, with tight sleeves; a falling ruff
of very rich lace hanging over the shoulders, her hair
gracefully curled and adorned with a bunch of
white artificial flowers, and a string of pearls tastefully
bound about her head. She wore also earrings
with a single brilliant in each, and a pair of
pearl bracelets on her arms. The cuffs of her gown
were ornamented with rich point lace. Beneath her
gown appeared black silk clocks, and her beautifully
formed foot was encased in scarlet shoes with white
roses. Around her waist, tied behind, she wore a
broad, plaid sash, in memorial of her ancestors.

Grace appeared that evening in all her glory,
and her dress was calculated to show off her surprising
beauty to the best advantage. Her hair, parting
in front, fell in luxuriant curls over her shoulders, and
her forehead was encircled with a band of pearls,
with a large diamond in the centre. The skirt of
her gown was of pale blue silk, over which she wore
a white satin jacket, with short, castellated lappels,
edged with blue, and bound round the waist by a
blue ribbon, tied in front in a small bow. She had

on also white silk stockings, and satin shoes with moderately
high heels. Her bosom was modestly veiled
by a falling ruff of very rich lace, and her hand
had no other ornament than the ruby that sparkled
on her finger.

Mr. Wilmer was dressed in a plain suit of black
velvet, the doublet having a single row of jet buttons,
over which a cloak hung to the knees; this was
adorned by three capes. He wore breeches tied below
the knee, black silk stockings, and shoes ornamented
with ties of ribbon. Over the wrists were
broad cuffs of point lace. His head was dressed in a
black peruke, that fell in curls behind, and his neck
was adorned by a falling ruff of rich lace, fastened by
a cord and tassel.

Among the ladies was seen a great variety of
dresses, varying from the costume of Grace, more
particularly in the mode of wearing the hair, which
was arranged as their individual taste dictated, in a
profusion of curls stiffened with wires, in very fantastic
as well as elegant forms. Some wore lace on
their bosoms, and others only neeklaces of pearls.

But the most remarkable dresses were to be found
among the young gallants who figured on that occasion,
some of whose hearts were ill at ease on the score
of Grace's engagement to Seymour; who, to tell the
truth, was not far behind the others in the foppery
of his attire. Their heads were decked out in perukes
of every fashion and variety, with longcurls like

the coxcombs of our day, who excite the sympathies
of the sex for fear lest they may have unfortunately
been deprived of their ears. The colour of these
perukes was varied to suit the complexion, by powders
of every teint, and while some were seen combing
them at their ease, others were twisting the curls
about their fingers, as they ducked and bowed to the
ladies, and simpered out the compliments of the season.
Some of them wore double laces for ruffs, tagged with
silver; vests and cloaks of damask silk and velvet;
short trousered breeches terminating in stuffed rolls
and fringes; elegant boots with large projecting lace
tops under the calf of the leg, the points dangling
below the knee. Each had a broad brimmed castor
with feathers, which he carried in his hand; this was
gloved with scented leather; the other hand bore an
ivory or tortoise shell comb highly ornamented, which
was used as constantly as they now use the eye-glass.
Two or three of the beaux wore the new-fashioned
shoe-buckle resembling the horse-bean; and with the
addition of flimsy Spanish-leather boots, worn loose
and jauntily, and the superaddition of spurs, did
more execution that evening among unguarded
hearts, than the best-contrived mustach or epaulette
could do now. The small rapier was universally
worn.

Seymour, who officiated as a sort of master of ceremonies,
was here and there and everywhere distributing

a portion of small-talk to every one of the company.

“Well Grace,” said he to her in an under-tone, having
just left a group of beautiful girls, “you have a
brilliant party this evening. But where is your
friend, Miss Phips—I don't find her as yet among the
amiables.”

At that moment there was a bustle about the door,
which diverted the attention of Grace Wilmer, and all
eyes were turned in that direction, as the name of
Miss Phips was announced.

Caroline Phips was a lovely girl of seventeen, and
a particular friend of Grace's, and this evening had
been chosen for her “coming out.” Expectation had
been on tiptoe about her for some time, for it was
understood that she was to appear in the latest fashion,
dresses having been sent out to her from England
as a present from the Duchess of Albemarle.

As she entered the room, a great “sensation” was
produced of course, and well it might have been, for
the heels of her silver-tissue shoes were so high, that
she could not walk without the assistance of another
person; this was a gentleman who was distinguished
by the peculiarity of his boots, and the beauty of
his spurs. Her gown was of lilac-colored damask
silk, with a train six feet long; this was supported
by two little girls, dressed with wreaths of flowers on
their heads. Her hair was strained over a toupee of
silk and cotton wool, and was carried up higher than

the length of her face, the whole ornamented with
furbelows, and long lappets of point lace hanging
from it. The waist of her gown was very long, and
she wore a stomacher of purple velvet covered with
jewels.

No sooner had she gone through the preliminaries
of the evening, than she was surrounded by a dozen
beaux, all of whom were informed that her father had
been knighted (no great honor, by the way, at that
time when knighthood was so cheap) and was worth
a million of pounds sterling; Sir William Phip's fortune
having been increased by Madame Rumor to the
said enormous amount.

“Are you sure the old man is worth so much?”
said a weakling of one-and-twenty in a pink peruke,
addressing a sapling of seventeen in “a short bob” of
yellow; the meanwhile curling his ringlets round
his fingers, and staring at the heiress with all his
eyes.

“No doubt about it whatever,” replied the short
bob; “and they say too that the Duke of Albemarle
has presented her with a costly set of diamonds.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed the pink peruke,
“well, she is a splendid girl to be sure. Did you
ever see such a dress as that, though?”

“Magnificent! is'nt it?” responded the short bob.

At that moment a young lady called the attention
of the latter by tapping him gently on the arm, and
inquiring how he liked Miss Phips's dress; but the

short bob read her own opinion in her arching eye-brows
and pouting under lip, and replied:

“It is in execrably bad taste, on my honor!—there
is nothing like low-heeled shoes for a pretty foot, and
just such a dress as you have on to show a splendid
figure to advantage.”

The young lady swallowed the intended flattery
whole, without biting it, and giving him a farewell
tap, by way of “thank'e sir!” moved off to fish for
another compliment: while the short bob took the
arm of his friend and strutted over the room to flirt
with the lady whose dress he had satirized, and to
make all the pretty speeches to her he could.

Another movement was now perceptible in the
hall, and presently Mr. Temple was ushered in, leaning
on the arm of Fitzvassal. The old patriarch was
dressed with great simplicity, a plain coat of black
velvet fitting his body closely, with a single row of
small black silk buttons from the upper part of the
neck downward. His lower dress was cut with like
plainness, and he wore black silk stockings, and ties
on his shoes. A plain collar of white linen was
turned over his coat, extending but a few inches
downward, and his white locks fell on his shoulders
in easy, natural curls. There were four or five gentlemen
present who were dressed with the same simplicity,
but they were all a good deal advanced in years,
who could not be influenced by the changes of fashion.

Fitzvassal was dressed in a superb suit of crimson
velvet, his doublet richly in wrought with gold, while
his breeches were of corresponding workmanship; he
wore the loose boot of Spanish leather without spurs,
and over his shoulders swung a sword-belt of crimson
velvet worked with silver. His ruff was a standing
one of Brussels lace. He carried an elegant
Spanish castor in his hand, from which waved two
black ostrich feathers. A single diamond, of great
size and purity, blazed from the band of the hat where
the feathers united. He wore his own hair, which required
no artificial arrangement.

As they moved along under the guidance of Mr.
Wilmer, the crowd opened to the right and left, and
all eyes were fixed upon them.

“Who is that young man?” was the eager inquiry
of several blooming beauties, at once.

“Why, don't you know?” was a common reply,
“that is Captain Nix, one of the first gentlemen of
the age.”

And indeed, as Fitzvassal paced the room with the
venerable patriot on his arm, there was much about
him to interest every one who saw him.

Amidst the foppery of the times, he was arrayed superbly,
yet in accordance with consummate taste, while
there was an expression of thoughtful melancholy in
his fine countenance, that could not fail to excite the
curiosity of the sex.

As the unknown buccaneer, in his turn, bowed to

Grace Wilmer, without lifting his eyes to her own,
such a death-like paleness spread upon her lips and
cheeks, that it could not fail to be observed by many.
No one, however, suspected the cause, and it was attributed
to the closeness of the room.

Ever since that morning when Fitzvassal declared
his love to Grace Wilmer, her heart had been
sorely oppressed with the remembrance of it. She
had often met him in company, and his conduct
had been so unaccountable that she could not
understand it. He was all smiles and sunshine at
the time when she left his vessel with Seymour, and
nothing had transpired, that she knew of, to occasion
so marked a change in his manner. She could
not doubt that he loved her, and though she had
done nothing to encourage his affection, and most
heartily deplored its existence, she could not help acknowledging
to her own thoughts, that she entertained
no ordinary regard for him, and she was willing
to ascribe it to gratitude. However that might be,
she was grieved at his coldness, for she was afraid
that he had some cause, unknown to her, for being
offended with her.

After the party were assembled, supper was announced,
and the gentlemen led off the ladies to a
large room, contiguous to the one which we described
at first, where tables were laid for all the guests.
A complete service of silver shone upon the board and
side-boards, but the viands, for the most part, would

not have been so tempting to ladies of our day, as
coquilles garnies de blanc de volaille aux truffes,
or Charlotte russe, au citron.

The principal dishes were two chines of beef
roasted; to these were added, two legs of mutton; a
dish of fowls, four pullets, two dozen larks, all side by
side or in piles; two large tarts, six neats' tongues, several
dishes of prawns, anchovies, marrow-bones, with
a cheese. Besides, they had the king's favorite sauce,
which consisted of parsley and dry toast pounded in
a mortar, with vinegar, salt, and pepper. Ale and
wine, with sack-posset, were the principle articles of
drink. The malt-liquor was drank from large silver
tankards, which were hooped at intervals within;
and it was the bounded duty of every one to drink
exactly to a hoop; if he drank either above or below
one, he was compelled to go another.

The windows and walls of the banqueting-room
were adorned with branches of spruce, and the mistletoe
had its place over the door.

In the course of the evening, the health of the governor
was proposed by Mr. Wilmer, as a matter of
ceremonious necessity. In offering it, he regretted
that Sir Edmund was unavoidably absent, and the
applause that followed may have been ascribed to the
latter circumstance, rather than to any sympathy
which the proposal of his health had awakened.

Amidst the hilarity of the evening, Fitzvassal alone
was sad; for even Mr. Temple and the stricter puritans

who had honored the company with their presence,
threw off a portion of their reserve and entered
into the innocent gayety of the occasion. Among
the ladies, Grace might have been selected as the
most unexcited beauty, but her sadness was tempered
by an ever watchful courtesy, which made her forget
herself in the interest she felt for those around
her.

Once only Fitzvassal's eyes met hers, when a blush
mounted to her cheeks, which drove his memory
back to the scene which haunted him like a demon,
while the table for a moment swam before his
vision.

The all-important task of eating and drinking being
ended, a game of blind-man's-buff was proposed.
To this end the tables were cleared away, while old
and young commenced the Christmas diversion.

As the guests were most of them occupied in this
amusement, Fitzvassal again caught the eye of
Grace, who was standing close beside him, as if she
did not wish to avoid a friendly encounter with her
benefactor. As their eyes met, Grace, to guard herself
from further embarrassment, addressed him,—

“Don't you intend to join in the game, Captain
Nix?”

“No, madam!” replied the buccaneer, with a forced,
melancholy smile, which he believed expressed
his indifference.

“Nor I;” resumed the fair girl, looking down at

her feet, as if she would have no objection to his
continuing the conversation.

“Let us walk below, then;” said Fitzvassal, offering
her his arm, which she willingly accepted, “I
think it would be quite as pleasant there, and less
distracting.”

So saying they descended the broad staircase together,
and turned into the principal room beneath.
It was blazing with light, but there was not a solitary
guest present. Their minds were all absorbed
with blind-man's-buff above.

The curtain had fallen down on one side of an
alcove, and softened the light within.

“Let us shun this glare, Miss Wilmer,” said the
buccaneer, as he led her to that inviting retreat.

Grace was willing, yet reluctant,—but she had
heard the worst that she dreaded from the handsome
officer, and she was desirous of regaining his good
opinion, which she feared had been temporarily disturbed.

“Have I done any thing to offend you, Captain
Nix?” said Grace, blushing in spite of herself.

“Why do you ask that question?” replied the buccaneer,
whose heart beat tumultuously as he gazed
on her, and whose love revived at the sight of her extreme
beauty and innocent expression.

“Because,” replied Grace, venturing to look upon
his countenance, “I would have the good opinion
of Captain Nix, though—”

“You cannot love him!”—added Fitzvassal with
a sigh.

“My affections were engaged before I saw you,”
replied Grace, with simplicity.

Fitzvassal grasped her wrist convulsively as she
spoke, and rivetted his eyes upon her.

“Miss Wilmer!” said he, his deep voice faltering
with emotion, “you surprise me—were you betrothed
to Mr. Seymour before you visited my vessel?”

“Yes! certainly—why? oh, yes, long, long before!”
exclaimed Grace, as if she had an inward perception
that on that depended the mysterious conduct
of the supposed Captain Nix, and she now rejoiced,
in clearing it up; “yes, indeed, long before!”

“Then I thank God!” replied Fitzvassal, “for
you are innocent, though I am irretrievably ruined!
”

“How ruined!” exclaimed Grace, with the same
simplicity as before, and little suspecting the true
meaning of his words; “how am I innocent, Captain
Nix?”

“A lover cannot be blamed,” replied Fitzvassal,
“for touching his lips to his betrothed's—and she is
innocent of any blame who reciprocates that token
of affection.”

Grace looked at him for a moment surprised,
when the truth flashed suddenly upon her; she then
knew that she had been seen by the mariner under

circumstances which have been mentioned, and her
eyes fell upon her bosom.

“But oh, Miss Wilmer!” he added passionately,
“you cannot think what a hell of agony he encounters,
who loving to excess, madly, violently
loving, is compelled to be the unwilling witness of
that seal of love, which should have been his own.
Seymour never loved you as I love—”

“Captain Nix!” said Grace, rising,—her sweet
voice trembling as she spoke.

“Stay!” exclaimed Fitzvassal—“do not leave
me in anger! man never loved woman as I love
you—nay! you must, you shall listen to me, Miss
Wilmer! From the moment I first beheld you, I
loved you, adored you, worshipped you; I had no
thoughts in which your image was not blended, no
hopes, no wishes, separate and unmingled with
your happiness.—True, I never told you that I loved
you, but you knew it too well, alas!”

“Indeed, I never knew it!” replied Grace, deeply
moved at what he had uttered, “oh! if I had but
known it sooner!”

“And if you had!” said Fitzvassal eagerly, as if
a ray of hope gleamed from her angel utterance to
illumine the midnight of his despair—“if you had
have known it—what then, Miss Wilmer; tell me, I
beseech you tell me!”

“I would—” sighed Grace, and sighing paused,
without completing the sentence.

The downcast, perturbed look of the transcendent
beauty faltering in the presence of the man who
religiously adored her, flattered his fondest hopes,
and prompted him to say:

“Had you sooner known that I loved you—say,
Miss Wilmer, could you not, would you not have listened
to my supplications?”

“Never!” ejaculated Grace, choking as she uttered
the words,—“Never, Sir, I could not—I ought
not to have loved you!”

“You must have loved me, charming creature!”
exclaimed Fitzvassal, carried away by the height of
his feelings, “you could not have helped loving one
who idolized you so much, so entirely!”

And as he spoke, he fell upon his knee and smothered
her hand with kisses.

For an instant, Grace seemed to waver—but it was
only for pity of her lover,—a dangerous and fearful
herald of an approaching guest, which had it come
would have betrayed the hospitality of her bosom;—
for an instant she seemed to waver, but immediately
rallying with heroic energy, she turned from him
with these words:

“Captain Nix, I never loved you, and never can;
what I might have done, heaven only knows! you
are aware that I am the betrothed of another. In future,
then, never speak to me of love. I would fain respect
you, and be grateful to you, but I cannot think
of a warmer sentiment.”

As she spoke, in tones of mingled sweetness and
dignity, Fitzvassal dropped her imprisoned hand
forever. As she left the room, his eyes followed her,
and when he observed a large tear coursing down her
cheek, a gush of tenderness leaped from the fountain
of his sympathy, and the lover and the loved wept
together, though there was a barrier like the Alleghany
between them.

Fitzvassal left the house, buried in the gloomiest
reflections.