 | CHAPTER IV. The Kentuckian in New-York, or, The adventures of three Southerns |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
A brilliant morning found our collegians refreshed
in health and elastic in spirits. The more
gloomy fancies of the previous night, which had
beset Chevillere both in his waking and sleeping
hours—like the mists of the morning, had been dispelled
by the bright sunshine, and the refreshing
breezes of the bay. After the usual meal had been
some time despatched; and while Chevillere was
leisurely turning over the papers of the day (Lamar
having departed in pursuit of the Kentuckian) he
was surprised by the entrance of Mr. Brumley
(the austere gentleman), who saluted him with the
most friendly greetings of the hour and season,
and concluded by inviting him into their private
parlour. It may be readily imagined that this
invitation was not tardily complied with, for he
now imagined that the whole history of the lady
would be unravelled by a single word—so sanguine
is youthful hope, and so apt are we, at that interesting
period, to jump to those conclusions which
are desirable, without ever considering the previous
steps, and painful delays, and necessary
forms, and conventional usages which inevitably
intervene between our highest hopes and their
fruition. How often would the ardent wishes and
the bold hands of youth seize upon futurity, despoiling
what we wish to know, especially when this could
be learned by dispensing with the accustomed formalities
and wholesome restraints of refined society.
A train of kindred thoughts was passing through
the mind of Chevillere as he was ushered into a
small but elegant saloon, connected with the back
chambers by folding-doors, which were now closed.
On the left of the door, and between the windows
opening upon a great thoroughfare, sat the lady
who occupied his thoughts. She was sitting, or
rather reclining upon one end of a sofa, her head
resting upon her hand in a thoughtful mood. As
is true of most daughters of this favoured land,
nature had evidently in nowise been thwarted,
either in her mental or physical education. She
appeared to possess that naïveté which is so apt
to be the result of a mixed town and country education;
with just enough of self-possession to
show that native modesty had been properly
regulated by much good society, but not too much
to forbid an occasional crimsoning of the neck and
face. Her eyes were blue, shaded by long dark
lashes, and so sparkling and joyous in their expression,
that the evident present sorrow which hung
over her spirits, could not efface the impression to
a beholder, that they were naturally much more
inclined to beam with mirth and gayety, than to
weeping; her features were regular—arch in their
expression, and finely formed—her complexion of
the finest shade—with a rich profusion of light
without a single curl; her figure was just tall
enough to be elegant and graceful, and exhibited
the graces of that interesting period, when the
school-girl is merging into the reserved woman.
As Chevillere was ushered into the presence of
this youthful lady, the old gentleman presented
him as Mr. Chevillere, of South Carolina, and the
lady by the name of (his step-daughter) Frances
St. Clair; she assumed the erect position barely
long enough to return the salutation of the gentleman,
then reclined again and lapsed apparently into
her sad mood; for a moment she pressed her
handkerchief to her face as if she would drive
away some horrible image, and then waited a moment
as if she expected her father to speak upon
some previously settled subject. Perceiving, however,
that she waited in vain, she with some difficulty
forced herself to say, “Mr. Chevillere, I requested
my father to invite you to our apartments
to”—here she seemed overpowered and stopped.
Chevillere seeing her distress, replied, “Madam,
you do me too much honour; but I see you are
distressed—let me say then, without any farther
formality, that if there is any way in the world by
which I can lighten that distress, command me.”
“It is about these very emotions that I would
speak,” she answered; “I was afraid you might
think the scene at the breakfast-table two days
since was got up in some silly girlish affectation,
in pretended disgust at the rudeness of the
their conduct would at many times in my life have
furnished me with an ample fund for laughter; it
was not in their manners, it was in the subject of
one of their discourses that I felt so much affected
—I tried to subdue my feelings, but the more I
tried the more they overcame me; the truth is,
some painful recollections were awakened”—Here
again she covered her face with her handkerchief,
and seemed to be for a moment almost suffocated.
The lady resumed; “Nor should I have thought it
proper to offer this explanation to one who is apparently
a perfect stranger; but, sir, I have known
you for some time by reputation.”
“Indeed, madam, I must be indebted to some
most flattering mistake for my present good fortune;
I am but just emancipated from college
walls and rules, and have, of course, even a reputation
to make for myself.”
“No! no!” said the youthful lady (a beautiful
smile passing swiftly over her sad countenance),
“there can be no mistake about it,” and drawing
from her work-bag a small bit of paper, rolled up
in the shape of a letter, she presented it to him;
adding, “Do you know that hand-writing?”
He gazed upon the signature for an instant, and
then exclaimed, “My honoured mother's! by all
that's fortunate! then indeed we are old acquaintances—with
your permission; and I am perfectly
content with the reputation which you spoke of,
when I know that it originated in such a source.”
“Your mother was indeed a prudent and a
modest, but still a devoted herald of your good
qualities.”
“Believe me, dear lady, that I shall be more
proud than ever to appear in your eyes to deserve
some small share of her maternal praise; it was
always inexpressibly dear to me for its own sake,
but now I shall endeavour doubly to deserve it.
You saw her, I suppose, at the White Sulphur
Springs?”
“We did, sir; and a most fortunate circumstance
it was for me; for being an invalid, she did every
thing for me that my own mother could have
done. Oh! how I regretted that my mother did
not come, merely to have made her acquaintance.”
“Your mother! is your mother alive, madam?”
“I hope and trust she is—and well; she was
both when we last heard from her, and that was
but a few days since; but your agitation alarms
me! you know no bad news of my mother?” laying
her hand upon his arm.
“None, madam! none. I don't know what put
the foolish idea into my head, but I thought that
both your own parents were dead.”
“You alarmed me,” said she. “I conjured up
every dreadful image—I imagined that you had
been commissioned by some of our friends here, to
break the painful intelligence to me—but you are
sure she is well?”
Chevillere smiled, as he answered “You forget
that I am a total stranger to her, and she to me.”
“True! true! But tell me how you left your
charming young cousin Virginia Bell, of whom I
heard your mother speak so often. She told me, I
think, that she was at some celebrated school in
North Carolina?”
“At Salem. She is well, I thank you, or was
well when I came through the town: my mother
intends to take her home with her on her return.”
“So she told me,” said the lady.
“She did not tell you, I suppose, for I believe
she does not know, that I have promised the hand
of the dear girl in marriage, though she is scarcely
sixteen yet. You must know that I had in college
two dear and beloved friends—the one, Mr. Lamar,
you have seen; the other is Mr. Beverley Randolph,
of Virginia—we were both class and roommates.
Randolph has gone on a journey through
the Southern States, as he pretends; but, I believe,
in truth, to take a sly peep at his affianeed bride.
If he likes her looks, it is a bargain; and if not, he
will pass it all off for a college joke.” Here he was
interrupted by the lady gasping; and on looking in
her face, he found she was as pale as marble, and
terribly agitated. She asked her father for water,
which he handed to her instantly, while Chevillere
rang violently at the bell.
“It will all be over in a minute,” said she; “it is
only a return of the suffering to which I am
subject.”
Many strange ideas flitted through Chevillere's
mind during this interruption of the conversation.
between the vulgar fops, at the breakfast-table
the previous morning, had been some runaway
marriage—and “the fearful marriage and
more fearful death” still sounded in his ears, and
now the same subject again introduced by himself
produced like consequences,—he thought it strange
and incomprehensible; he cheered himself, however,
with the reflection, that his mother was not
likely to form an intimacy with persons against
whom there was any charge of crime; nay, more,
he felt assured that they must have been well
sustained by public opinion, or introduced to her
acquaintance by some judicious friend.
“If I have unaptly said any thing offensive, I
hope Miss St. Clair will believe me, when I say
that such a design was the farthest from my
thoughts.”
“Rest easy on that score,” said she; “I am now
well again: you said nothing that it was not proper
for you to say, and me to hear, had I not been a
poor silly-headed girl.”
“Well, Miss Frances, I am anxious to hear your
opinion of Western Virginia.”
“My opinion is not worth having; but such as
it is, you are welcome to it, or rather to such observations
as a lady might make. First, then, I was
delighted with the wild mountain scenery, and the
beautiful valleys between the mountains; such are
those, you will recollect, perhaps, in which all of
those springs are situated. I doubt very much,
many rich and beautiful mountain-scenes, as we
have passed between Lexington and the White
Sulphur and Salt Sulphur springs. We have similar
scenes along and among the highlands of the
Hudson, it is true; perhaps they are more grand
and majestic than these; but then, there is such a
stir of busy life, such an atmosphere of steam, and
clouds of canvass, that one is perpetually called
back in spirit to the stir and bustle of a city life.
But here, among the rugged blue mountains of
`old Virginia,' as these people love to call it, there
are the silence and the solitude of nature, which
more befit such contemplations as the scenes induce.
We can seat ourselves in one of the green
forests of the mountains we have just left, and
imagine ours to be the first human footsteps, which
have ever been imprinted upon the soil; and we
can repose amid the shades and the profound and
solemn silence of those scenes, with a calmness
and a serenity, and a soothing, delightful, melancholy
feeling, which no other objects can produce.
The very atmosphere seems teeming with these
delightful impressions; primitive nature seems to
have returned upon us with all its balmy delights,
—quiet and peacefulness. The profound solitude
would become tiresome, perhaps, to those
who have no resources in unison with such scenes,
or to those who admire and feign to revel in them,
because it is fashionable just now to do so. But
to an educated mind, a natural and feeling, and I
food for contemplation, and ever-renewing sources
of delight and improvement.”
“They are such scenes,” replied Chevillere, “as
I love to dwell upon, even in imagination. But
come, Miss Frances, I see by the hat and mantle
upon the table, that I have interrupted some intended
promenade; shall I have the honour to be
of your party?”
“Unquestionably, young gentleman—you may
take the whole journey off my hands; Frances
was only going out among the shops,” said Mr.
Brumley.
The plain, but tasteful apparel was soon adjusted,
and the youthful pair sallied forth upon the
promised expedition.
The tide of human life seems to be ever rolling
and tossing, and ever renewing, and then rolling
on again. Pestilence, and death, and famine may
do their worst, but the tide is still renewed, and
still moves on to the great sea of eternity.
Who that walks through the busy and thronged
streets of a populous city, and sees the gay plumage,
the fantastic finery, the smiling faces, and the
splendid equipages, could ever form an adequate
idea of the real suffering and wo, which constitute
the sum of one day's pains in a city life? If all the
miserable—the lame, the blind, the poor, the dumb,
the aged, and the diseased, could be poured out
along one side of the gay promenades, while
fashionables were parading along the other, a much
were the ideas of Victor Chevillere, as he escorted
his timid and youthful companion through the gay
throng from shop to shop.
As they emerged into a part of the city less
thronged, interchange of opinions became more
practicable.
“I am impatient to hear your opinion of the
Southerns,” said Chevillere; “you had the finest
opportunity imaginable to see our southern aristocrats
at the springs.”
“Oh! I was delighted with the little society in
which I moved there,” replied she; “and, but for
one unhappy, and most untoward circumstance for
me, my enjoyments would have far surpassed any
thing which I had ever laid out for myself again in
this world.”
“You excite my curiosity most strangely,”
said he; “and, if it would not appear impertinent
or intrusive, I should like to know two things:
first, what untoward circumstance you speak of?
and next, what great bar has been placed between
you and happiness, that you should have laid off so
small a share for yourself in all time to come?”
“Oh! sir, your questions are painful to me, even
to think of; how much worse then must have been
the reality of those circumstances, which could
poison the small share of happiness which is allotted
to us under the most favourable circumstances. I
would gratify your curiosity if I could, but indeed,
indeed, sir, I cannot now relate to you the whole
to you the cruel train of circumstances by which
I am surrounded, and from which there is no
escape.
“One question you can, and I am sure you will,
answer me.
“Could a devoted friend, with a cool head and a
resolute hand, effect nothing in freeing you from
this persecution?”
“I will answer you, sir, most plainly. You misunderstand
my allusions, in the first place; for I
am not persecuted now, nor can I say that I have
been. It may seem enigmatical to you, but it is
all that I can in prudence say. There is no person
on this side of the grave who can relieve me from
the cause of those emotions which you have unhappily
witnessed; nay, more! if those persons
were to rise from the dead, who were, unfortunately
for themselves and for me, the cause of my painful
situation, my condition would be incomparably
worse than it is now.”
“Painful, indeed, must those circumstances be,
and incomprehensible to me, which seem to have
been produced by the death of some one; and yet,
if that person should rise from the dead, you would
be more miserable than ever,” said Chevillere.
During the latter part of this speech, the lady, as
was often her custom, pressed her handkerchief to
her face, as if she would by mechanical pressure
drive off disagreeable images from the mind; and
then said, “Now, sir, let us drop this subject.”
“One more question, and then I have done; and
believe me, it is not idly asked. Were the circumstances
you spoke of developed so recently as your
visit to the Virginia springs?”
“Oh! by no means, sir; the untoward circumstance
there that I spoke of, was the frequent and
unexpected presence of one who forcibly reminded
me of all the painful particulars; and what made
it so much worse was, that wherever I moved, he
moved; he followed the same route round the watering-places,
and seemed purposely to throw himself
in my way; and even now I dread every moment
to encounter him; and the more so, as I
have heard lately that his mind is unsettled. Poor
gentleman, I pity him.”
By this time they had arrived in a part of the
city from which Washington's monument could be
seen, elevating its majestic column above a magnificent
grove of trees.
“Suppose we extend our walk,” said the gentleman,
“to yonder beautiful grove.”
To this the lady readily assented. They found
rude seats, constructed perhaps by some romantic
swain; or by some country-bred youths, who came
there, after the toils of the day, to refresh themselves
with the pure and invigorating breezes
which sweep the green, fresh from their dear and
longed-for homes. Here they seated themselves,
to enjoy this delightful mixture of town and
country.
“This is a noble monument to the great and good
and public-spirited people of Baltimore,”
said Chevillere. “Give me such evidence as this
of their veneration for his memory, and none of
your new-fangled nonsense about enshrining him
in the hearts of his countrymen. Let him be enshrined
in the hearts of his countrymen as individuals;
but let cities, communities, and states
enshrine him in marble. These speak to the eyes;
and hundreds, and thousands will stand here, amid
these beautiful shades, and think of him with profound
veneration, who would never otherwise look
into any other kind of history. The effect of such
works as these is admirable; not only in showing
veneration for the great dead, but also upon the
living, in purifying the heart and ennobling its
impulses.”
“Baltimore, indeed, has set a noble example,”
said the lady.
“And richly will she be rewarded. A few years
hence, the far West will be brought to her doors;
and she will grow up to be a mighty city. Standing
on the middle ground, between the angry sectionists
of the North and the South, she will present
a haven in which the rivals may meet, and
learn to estimate each other's good qualities, and
bury or forget those errors which are inseparable
from humanity. But see! Miss St. Clair,” said he,
“what a singular looking man is just emerging
from within the column!”
“Heavens!” said the lady, in extreme terror,
I would not encounter him for the world!”
She was too late; for already had the object of
her apprehension caught a glimpse of her person;
and no sooner had he done so, than with rapid
strides he advanced directly towards them. The
lady shook with terror and agitation. When he
had approached almost in a direct line to within
some forty or fifty feet, he riveted a long and steady
gaze upon the lady, and another of shorter duration
upon her companion, still walking onward. Victor
stood and gazed after him until he was entirely
without the enclosure.
He was a well-dressed man, apparently about
fifty-five years of age, tall, and straight in his
carriage as an Indian; his hair was slightly silvered;
his countenance expressed wildness, but
was steady and consistent in the expression of
present purpose; his eye was dark and deep,
and, when you looked upon it steadily for a short
time, appeared as if you were gazing at two black
holes in his head; his complexion was sallow;
its characteristics—energy and deep determination.
“And that is the maniac?” said Chevillere, in a
half-abstracted mood.
“I said not so,” replied the lady; “but he is, indeed,
that most unfortunate man, whose whole
business seems to be to haunt me in my travels;
otherwise our meeting has been most strangely
accidental and untoward.”
“If he is in ill health,” said Victor, “he may have
gone to the Springs without intending to meet you;
and now, when the season is nearly over, and he is
likewise on his return, there is nothing more natural
than his visiting this monument—every stranger
does so,—do not, therefore, aggravate your distress
by supposing these meetings to have been
sought on his part. I will endeavour to find him,
and demand of him whether he seeks to annoy an
unhappy invalid by pursuing her from place to
place, and what are his motives.”
“Oh! sir, for Heaven's sake, do not think of such
a thing. He is a powerful and a fearful man,
when in his right mind; and even in his derangement,
might do you some harm, especially if you
went as commissioned by me. Besides, sir, if he
was undoubtedly sane and respectful, he might demand,
as a right, to see me, and converse with me
too. Nay, he might possibly have some claim to
control my actions; but you see he does not.
Let him alone, therefore, and do not involve yourself
in any of my troubles. I am inextricably entangled,
and pinioned down to a certain routine of
suffering, perhaps unexampled, and that too by no
crime of my own.”
“Dear lady,” said Chevillere, taking her hand, as
he saw her blue eye filling with tears, and just
ready to run over; “you cannot imagine how
much I feel interested for you; and what I am
about to say, as it will risk your displeasure, is the
very best evidence that I can give of my deep interest
me, ear lady, that though I am young,
and may be inexperienced,—I am not an indifferent
observer of the secret machinery of men's
actions. I have been a steady observer and a
thinker for myself, without regard to the opinion
of individuals or the world, when I was conscious
that I was right, and that they were wrong. Listen
to me, then, with patience, while I give you my
opinion, with regard to the difficulties which seem
to be accumulating around you. Of course, this
opinion must be a general one; as the circumstances
upon which it is founded are only such as
are of a general character. Nor do I seek for more
confidence on your part towards me; I cannot expect
that you should unfold the intimate relations
of your family and your friends to a comparative
stranger. This, then, is my (of course vague)
opinion—I have generally observed, in my intercourse
with mankind, that the most trying situations
and the deepset distress are often brought about
by a small mistake—misfortune—or crime in the
beginning. The latter of these I would defy the
most malignant misanthrope to look upon your
countenance and charge you with; one of the two
former, then, is the point upon which all your distress,
and ill health, and melancholy hangs. My
advice then is, upon this general view of the case,
that you go back to that point, and rectify it as
speedily as possible; and do it boldly and fearlessly,
that fetter you, whatever they may be.”
“I see,” said the lady (tears fast stealing down
her cheeks), “that I am always destined to make
the same unhappy impression on every acquaintance,
male or female, valued or unvalued. Before
I have grown many degrees in their good opinion,
some of these unlucky things are seen to develop
themselves, and then I am subject to the greatest
misfortune to which an honourable and a sensitive
mind can be exposed; that is, to be supposed weak
or wicked, though at the same time conscious of
pure and upright motives. To be plain with you,
sir, I must tell you again, that in order for me to
be relieved of that which trammels me in some
shape or other at every step, the grave must give
up its own; and the law must give up its own; and
the avaricious must annul their decrees; and the
dead of half a century must undo their work; and
the wisdom of the sage must be instilled into the mind
of a child; and the slanders, and the wild and
wicked fancies of the lunatic must be convinced by
reason or actual demonstration of the foregoing
things—before the point you speak of can be
seized upon, and turned to my advantage.”
“Then, indeed, is it a hard case, and I will not
distress you further on the subject; I will not add
my persecution to that of others—I will not say
enemies; for one so young and so artless, so innocent
and so unfortunate, can have no enemies.”
“And therein consists part of my distress,” replied
enemy living, to my knowledge, who has ever wilfully
injured me in word or deed? unless, indeed,
it be you wretched old man, whose mind is now,
and whose heart, I fear, has always been wrong.
Now, sir, let me beg of you, in future, whenever
any of these little occurrences embarrass me during
my stay here, to take no notice of them whatever;
let me move along as quietly and as unobtrusively
as possible. I love the retirement of the country, and
to the country and retirement I will go. My mother
loves me, and knows all my actions, and their motives
too; and even my father loves me in his own
way. They will be my companions for the remainder
of a short and weary life.”
The colloquy was cut short by their return to
the hotel.
Lamar, as has been already announced, was a
humorous gentleman, and would not lose an opportunity
of enjoying the remarks of one so new
to the busy world and its ways as Damon. He
was not long in finding out the retired quarters of
the gentleman of the west. At the bar-room he
inquired if there was such a lodger in the house.
“No,” said the barkeeper (so are these functionaries
called), “but he is expected every minute.”
Lamar seated himself near the files of morning
papers which lay strewed along a reading-desk,
and awaited the arrival of his singular new acquaintance.
In a few minutes Damon stalked in.
altered his appearance, that Lamar did not recognise
him until he took off his hat, wiped his dripping
brows with the handkerchief which he still
carried in it, and then, seeing Lamar for the first
time, waved it over his head.
“Hurrah! for old Kentuck!” was his characteristic
exclamation.
“Why, Damon, you have been under the tailor's
hands,” said Lamar.
“I believe I was in Old Sam's hands last night;
but come up-stairs, and I will tell you all about
it.”
They proceeded to the third story into a small
apartment, dimly lighted through a single window.
Damon, after seating Lamar, threw aside his coat,
and drawing from under the head of his bed the
one in which Lamar had first seen him, he quickly
inserted his arms through what remained of the
garment,—the lappels were torn off on each side
down to the waist, so that all the front of the coat
was gone, leaving nothing but the long straight
back, collar, and sleeves. What remained was
smeared with mud, and torn in many places. He
next proceeded to pull out of his pocket a collar,
and parts of two sleeves of a shirt, spreading them
on the bed, as a milliner would do her finery; and
holding out both his hands with the palms upward
in the manner of an orator,—
`There!” said he, “that's what I call a pretty
he comes to town.”
Lamar, who by this time began to see a little
into the affair, asked, “But, Damon, how did all
this happen? you seem to have been discomfited.”
“Now I'll be smashed if you ain't off the trail,
stranger, for you see I've only showed you half
yet.”
Upon which he drew from his other pocket a
pair of spectacles, bent, bloody, and broken,—then
a wig,—and, lastly, the remains of a little black
rattan with a gold head and chain broken into
inches. He displayed these on the bed as he had
done the others; only drawing his handkerchief as
a line between them. Upon this he fell, rather
than sat, back into a chair just behind him, and
burst out into a loud, long, and hearty laugh, seemingly
excited afresh at the sight of his spoils.
“Well, now,” said he, “I wish I may be horn
swoggled, if ever I thought to live to see the day
when I should `sculp' a Christian man; but there
it is, you see; I left his head as clean as a peeled
onion.”
“But how? and when? and who was your antagonist
in this frolic?”
“Frolic!” exclaimed Damon; “well, now, it's
what I would call a regular row; I never saw a
prettier knock down and drag out in all the days
of my life, even in old Kentuck.”
“But do tell me,” said Lamar, “was anybody
seriously hurt?”
“There was several chaps in the circus last
night with their heels uppermost, besides them
suple chaps on the horses; I can tell you that.”
“Oh! you were in the circus, were you?”
“Yes; and there was a rip-roaring sight of
slight o' hand and tumblin work there, besides their
ground and lofty tumblin they had in the handbills.”
“You did some of the ground tumbling yourself
then?” asked Lamar.
“No, I did the slight o' hand work, as you may
see by the skin that's gone off these four marrowbones.”
“And who did the ground tumbling?” asked
Lamar.
“There was a good deal done there last night;
the chaps in the ring and the chaps in the pit all
did a little at it; flummuck me if I didn't think the
heels of the whole house would be uppermost before
they were done; what an everlastin pity 'tis, these
critters elbows ain't as suple as their heels.”
“Then you think all the people of Baltimore a
little limber in the heels.”
“I can't say as to that; but I wish I may be
hackled, if there was not so much flyin up of the
heels there last night, that I was fidlin and tumblin
all night in my sleep, jumpin through hoops, and
tanglin my legs in their long red garters, which the
circus riders jumped over; and then I thought
they had my poor old horse, Pete Ironsides, jumpin
over bars, and leapin through fiery balloons, until
and then maybe I didn't fly into a tear down
snortin rage! I was crammed full of fight then,
and so I got to slingin my arms about in my sleep,
till I knocked out that head-board there,—then I
woke up, and I wish I may be hanged if I didn't
think it was all a dream; till I found that the forepart
of my coat had run away from the tail, and
that I had got an odd collar among my linen. And
then on t'other hand I began to think it was all
true, and rung the bell, and sent the nigger down
to the stable to see if Pete had his head in a tar
barrel sure enough; presently the nigger came
back, grinen and giglin, and said Pete had gone to
the country two hours ago; so I run the little
nigger down stairs, and sent my old boots after
him to get blacked; and as I was dodgin through
that long entry there, I saw the bottles, and tumblers,
and lemon-skins; so ho! said I, there's the
mad dog that bit me last night.”
“Then you began in a frolic at least,” said Lamar.
“Only a small breeze or so; a few tumblers of
punch, made of that doubled and twisted Irish
whiskey; it was none of your Kentuck low wines,
run off at a singlin, for I have made many a barrel.
It was as strong as pison, and it raised the Irish in
me pretty quick, or rather old Kentuck, for I
jumped up and kicked the table over, and broke
things, afore I would have been cleverly primed
with the low wines.”
“Were you drinking all alone?”
“No; there was half-a-dozen milksops set down;
I believe they board here; but no sooner had I
kicked the table over, and begun to smash things a
little, than they all sneaked out one by one, until
they were all gone but one, and I rather suspicion
that he's a blackleg, for he stuck pretty close to
me till the row at the circus was over, and then
when I had got clear, he come up here with me,
and sent for the chap who furnished me with my
new hat and coat; but it wasn't all for nothin, as
he thought, for he presently proposed that we
should go down street a piece, and see some fine
fellers, he said, who were friends of his, and who
were going to have a night of it. Well, said I, `a
little hair of the dog is good for the bite,' and down
we went to a large room up four pair of stairs in a
dark alley. And there, sure enough, there was a
merry-looking set of fellers; but you see they
overdid the job, for I soon smelt a rat; they most
all of 'em pretended to be too etarnal drunk. I
said nothin though, but 'possumed too a little; only
sipped a little wine, and that made me straight
instead of crooked. But at last they proposed a
game of cards. Well, said I, I'm not much of a
dabster at it, but if the stake ain't high, I don't care
if I do take a fling or two; so down we set to it,
and they pulled out their cards for loo. Stop!
stop! said I, we must have new cards; I never play
with other men's cards. They began to suspicion,
maybe, that they had got the wrong sow by the
ear, but they sent and got some new packs, and
a Cherokee if I didn't give 'em a touch or two of
old Kentuck. I won all the money they had, but
it wasn't much, and they made me pay most of
that for the refreshments, as they said the winners
always paid for them things.”
“But you have not yet told me how you got
into the row,” said Lamar; “I wish to know the
whole story—come, let us have it?”
“Well, it's soon told. As I was telling you, the
black-leg chap and I went to the circus, and we
had'nt set long in the pit before there was a young
gal come in, and set on one end of the same bench.
She was'nt so ugly neither, but I took pity on her
because she looked like a country gal, and there
was no women settin near her. After a while, three
chaps come down from the boxes above, and set
right down by the gal, and began to push one
another over against her; at last the one next her,
and he was the same chap you saw in the stage yesterday
morning, only he had on them green specks
—well, he put his arm round her, and called her his
dear, and all that; well, you see, I had heard tell
of these city gals, and I thought if she was pleased
it was none of my business; but presently I heard
her sobbing and crying, with her apron up to her
eyes, and she told them they were no gentlemen,
or they would not treat a poor girl so away from
home. So the Irish whiskey, or old Kentuck, I
don't know which, began to rise in my throat. I
jumped up and raised the war-whoop. `Old Kentuck
back of my hand and knocked the chap's hat off,
and his `sculp' went with it. Call your soul your
own, said I; he jumped up and gin me a wipe
with that little black switch across the nose; it
had hardly cleverly touched me, afore I took him
a sneezer, between the two eyes, glasses and all;
he dropped over like a rabbit when you knock 'em
behind the head; I rather suspicion he thought a
two year old colt's heels had got a taste of his
cocoanut.
“Then the other two took it up, and both on 'em
seized me, and swore they would carry me to the
police office; but I took 'em at cross purposes, for
while one of them held the collar of the old homemade,
I fetched the other a kick that sent him
over the benches a rip roaring, I tell you.
The other little chap was hangin on to me
like a leech to a horse's leg; I jist picked him
up and throwed him into the ring upon the sand,
for I did'nt want to hurt him: but then the real
officers come up and clamped me. I wished
myself back in old Kentuck bad enough then;
but while they held me there, like a dog that had
been killen sheep, the little gal came up to me, and
said she would go and bring her father, to try and
get me off; and then she asked me where I lived,—
I told her in old Kentuck; then she asked me
where I put up, and I put my mouth to her ear
and told her; and I could hardly get it away again
without givin her a smack, for she would pass for
her and her father were here by times to thank
me, and the old man invited me to stop at his house
as I go home; it's on the same road we came down
yesterday.”
“Did the girl go to the circus by herself?” asked
Lamar.
“No; the old man stopped at the door to buy a
ticket, and she went on, and lost him.”
“But you have not told me how you came by
this scalp,” said Lamar, taking up the large black
scratch with curled locks.
“Oh! you see, I grabbled that in the scuffle, and
slipped it into my pocket.”
“How did you get away from the officers?”
“Oh! that's the way I lost the old `home-made;'
you see they began to pull me over the benches,
and I told 'em I would walk myself if they would
let me, and so they did, but they held on to my
coat. I kept pretty cool until they got outside of
the house, and then a crowd gathered round, and
they began cologueing together, until I saw my
way out a little, and then I jist slipped my foot
behind one of 'em and pushed him down, and
tumbled the other feller over him, and then I showed
them a clean pair of heels. They raised the whoop
—and I raised my tail like a blue-lick buck, for
you see I had'nt much coat to keep it down;—
dash me if it was'nt tail all the way to the collar,
and stood out straight behind like it was afraid of
my pantaloons. I made a few turns to throw 'em
hurrah! for old Kentuck, I got to my own door,
where I found the black-leg chap. Now you know
the whole business, and I suppose you can tell me
whether there is any danger of their finding me
out in that little excuse for a coat that blasted
tailor, who was so stingy with his cloth, made me.”
“I should suppose there was none in the world.
Have no fear on that head; there is not a magistrate
in town who would not honour you in his
heart for what you did.”
“I should think so too, if they had any gals of
their own. The fact is, if there was a little knockin
down and draggin out once in a while among
them dandy chaps, they would take better care
how they sleeved decent men's daughters.”
“Well, good day, Damon,” said Lamar; “send
for me or Chevillere if you get into trouble.”
| CHAPTER IV. The Kentuckian in New-York, or, The adventures of three Southerns | |