 | CHAPTER VI. The Kentuckian in New-York, or, The adventures of three Southerns |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
After the visit to the monument, Chevillere
daily inquired concerning the health of the interesting
invalid; and as regularly was indisposition
pleaded for her non-appearance. Late in the evening
of the third day, he was slowly pacing the
pavement in front of the hotel; now and then throwing
a wistful glance at the lighted window of the
lady, when all at once he suddenly wheeled round,
and grasping in the dark, was surprised to find
that a person whom he had supposed to be impertinently
dogging his steps, had eluded his grasp.
He grimly smiled at his own exasperation for an
imaginary cause, hastily adjusted his cloak, and
turned down the street leading most directly to
the bay.
When he arrived at the quiet and deserted
wharf, and the rapid flow of his impetuous blood
was retarded by the cool invigorating breeze which
swept over the face of the water, he saw an old
yawl lying on the dock, with its broad bottom
turned to the bay. Negligently leaning his person
at full length against its weather-beaten bottom,
and drawing down his hat close over his brows, he
surrendered himself to one of those habitual reveries
which the southern well knows how to enjoy.
things at the time, the scene itself would have furnished
no uninteresting subject, with its hundred
little lights, gleaming in the intense fog and darkness,
and the numberless vessels that lay upon the
bosom of the waters, with their dark outlines dimly
visible, like slumbering monsters of their own element.
He heeded them not; yet were his feelings
insensibly impressed with the surrounding objects,
and deeply tinctured with the profound gloom
of the time and scene. The direct current of his
thoughts pointed, however, in the direction of the
invalid. Her extreme youth, beauty, and apparent
innocence,—her deep distress and profound
melancholy, naturally produced a corresponding
depression in his own otherwise elastic spirits. He
was perfectly unconscious of the time he had spent
in this way, when accidentally turning his head to
one side, he was struck with the appearance of
something intercepting the line of vision in that
direction. He was just about to approach the
cause of his surprise, when a deep voice, issuing
from the very spot, added not a little to his superstitious
mood, by the exact manner in which it
chimed in with the present subject of his meditations.
“A beautiful young woman in affliction is a
very dangerous subject of meditation, under some
circumstances.”
“An honest heart fears no danger from any
earthly source,” was the reply.
“Honesty is no guard against external danger
in this world, whether moral or physical,” said the
figure.
“Discernment may lend a hand to honesty in
such a case.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” hideously retorted the intruder;
“Discernment, said you? Man's discernment is a
mighty thing; by it he reads the past, the present,
and the future; what can withstand his mighty
vision? He can descry danger at a distance, and
bring happiness within his grasp; he can tell the
objects of his own creation, and his Creator's first
beginning; he can read the starry alphabet in
yonder heavens, and fathom the great deep; he
can laugh at the instinct of grovelling creation, and
thunder the dogmas of reason in the teeth of revelation
itself! Discernment, indeed! ha! ha! ha!
why, man is not half so well off as the brutes.
What is their instinct but God's ever present and
supporting hand; but man—he has neither perfect
reason nor instinct! He has the conscience of an
angel, and the impulses of a devil; and reason sits
between them, for an umpire, with a fool's cap
upon her head! Impulse bribes reason, and reason
laughs at conscience. Impulse leads downward,
like the power of gravity; and conscience struggles
upward like the nightmare: but reason and
discernment will traffic and bargain with impulse
for one moment, and blind or cheat conscience the
next! Turn mankind loose with all their reason
without providence, and they will butt each other's
conscience makes fanatics,—
but reason-drilled conscience makes incarnate
devils!”
“But,” said Chevillere, involuntarily interested
by this wild rhapsody, “a tender, conscience-instructed
reason, and christianized impulses, make
an honest and a discerning man, too.”
“Instructed reason! who teaches man's reason,
but the inward devils of his impulses? A few
good parents may point upward, periodically, but
the impulses pull down! down! down! for ever!
no intermission. If they would let go, I myself
could plunge into the sea; but the deeper we
plunge, the harder they pull! The farther we
sink, the heavier they become. Oh! man! of
what a cursed race art thou! Think you the inhabitants
of the moon are likewise under the ban
of God's displeasure?”
“I indulge in no such impracticable dreams,”
said Chevillere.
“No! no! you dream of paradise; but remember
what I now tell you, your paradise will not be
without its Eve, and its serpent too!”
“To whom do you allude?”
“To the lady of whom you were thinking but
now.”
“You know not what you say,” said Chevillere.
“Do I not? Perhaps you would have me speak
more plainly! Perhaps you could screw up your
resolution to the point, that I might amputate your
carrying off his bloody limbs; nay, I could do it!”
“Why, sir, you never saw me till within the
hour.”
“Have I not? perhaps not; I would to heaven
I could say as much about the lady.”
“To what lady do you so often allude?”
“To the lady with the black mantle.”
“Hold, she is all innocence and purity.”
“Innocence and purity! Eve was innocent and
pure too! yea, and surpassingly beautiful! but she
fell! Alas! her daughters are like her.”
“Come, sir,” said Chevillere, with some exasperation,
“let us put a stop to this discourse; it is
not pleasing to me, and I feel sure it is not useful
to you.”
“Be it so,” said the intruder, drawing up his
long goat's-hair cloak, and pulling a flat cloth cap
closely over his gray locks, as they for a moment
became visible by the reflection of the long horizontal
rays of a lamp from the deck of a neighbouring
vessel; “be it so, sir; there is no convincing
a child that a beautiful candle will burn until it
scorches its fingers.”
“In God's name, then, out with it, sir! what is
it that seems to burn so upon your tongue? come,
out with it!” said Chevillere, sharply.
“For what do you take me, young man? a gossip
or a stripling! I am neither one nor the other;
I am old enough to be your father; as well born
and as well educated as he ever was; and (notwithstanding
notions) it may be as proud; farewell, sir, and the
next time I offer to pull you from the edge of a
precipice, perhaps you will listen with more respect
to one of double your age, who can have no interest
in deceiving you. Farewell, sir!”
“Stay! stay! a moment,—one word more.
Did you not visit Washington's monument three
days ago, and see me there for the first time?”
“I could answer either yes or no to that question.
How do you know, sir, that we have not met
before, centuries ago? Do you not sometimes
foresee a whole scene, just as it afterward takes
place? Do you not sometimes look upon a strange
face with a shudder? Does not a feature—a smile
—or an expression of them combined—sometimes
awake the slumbering memory of ages? Is it not
so? have you never communed with the dead?”
“Never, sir.”
“I have, often! often!—and many times have I
been warned of approaching evils, by these dreamy
conversations; I never dream of seeing my father
smile upon me, that something good does not
speedily follow; nor of snakes and serpents, unattended
by bad news or bad fortune. Of these
things I usually dream the night before meeting
the lady yonder, after a long absence.”
“I supposed as much,” said Chevillere.
“How, sir.”
“I supposed that you had dreamed something
against that pure and unfortunate young lady.”
“Would to Heaven it were all a dream! Sunshine
would again break into the dark regions of
my thoughts.”
“Suppose I should undertake and pledge my
life to convince you that it is so.”
“You might convince me of your sincerity,
but not of your power. Can you raise the dead?”
“No, but what has raising the dead to do with
the lady?”
“More than you imagine, perhaps.”
“Ah, I see it is useless to attempt what I proposed
and hoped to effect for the sake of the lady's
peace. Have you no friends with you in this
city?”
“Yes, I have a dog! there sits the best friend I
ever had, save one!”
“My dear sir! permit me to say I think you
far from being well.”
“I never felt better in health than I do at this
moment.”
“But we are not judges of our own ailments:
Physicians do not often prescribe for themselves.”
“I tell you, sir, I am well!
“Have it so, sir! but if you are the person whom
I met a few days since at the monument, I would
mildly and respectfully recommend to you to think
no more of the lady you saw there with me. You
certainly labour under some grievous error, with
regard to her, at least.”
“You will find, when it is too late, perhaps, that
others instead of me are labouring under fatal
sir, farewell. When next we meet, you will listen
with a more attentive ear to what I have to say;
you will have observed many strange things yourself,
and you will naturally seek, rather than repel a
solution of the mystery.” Then with a signal to
his dog, he hastily went from the wharf, leaving
Chevillere in no enviable state of mind.
Youthful thoughts will not long voluntarily
dwell upon the gloomy aspect even of the circumstances
surrounding themselves; it was very
natural, therefore, that Chevillere should reflect
with much complacency upon the tendency of his
friend Lamar's laughing philosophy; nor was he
long in threading his way to the lodgings of the
Kentuckian. He had calculated with great certainty
upon finding his friend there, and on ascending
the three flights of stairs, he heard the voices
of both in full chorus of laughter, that of Lamar
indicating his most joyful mood. He rapped at
the door once or twice before he was heard.
“Come in!” shouted the backwoodsman, “what
the devil's the use of knocking with every mug of
punch.” Lamar sprang to his feet at the sight of
his friend, with volumes of smoke rolling over his
head, and laying one hand on Chevillere's back
and another on his breast, cried in the true mock
heroic;—“`Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
thou com'st in such a questionable shape, that I
will speak to thee.' `Revisit'st thou thus the
glimpses of the moon, making night hideous, and us
with thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls;
say, why is this?' But, by old Shakspeare's beard,
you look like a ghost indeed! why, whence com'st
thou, man? see his cloak, too! it is covered with
sawdust!”
“Hurrah for old Kentuck!” said Damon, “he's
been to the circus! I say, stranger, was there any
knockin down and draggin out there. O! black
eyes and bruises! what a rascally appetite I've
got now for a knock down; I swear I think my
hands will git as tender as a woman's, if I don't
git a little now and then jist to keep'em in.”
“I may be soiled from leaning against a boat at
the dock,” said Chevillere.
“You certainly have the air of one who had
tried a few perils by land and sea,” said Lamar.
“The fact is, I do not feel well, nor in high
spirits, and I came here on purpose to see if Damon
could not brighten me up a little.”
“To be sure I can,” said he; “but why did'nt
you come sooner, and then we could all have gone
to the circus together; that's the place for my
money; you see you want something to make your
blood circulate: a small taste or two would soon
bring you round.”
“A taste of what?” asked Chevillere.
“A small bit of a regular row, to be sure; all
in good-nature, you know; a man need'nt git in a
passion, in takin a little exercise after bein cooped
up here all day, in one of these cocklofts—why,
if I sit here an hour, and go down in the street,
old Pete when he's been stabled up for a week or
two, and jist turned loose to graze a little; and I'll
tell you what it is, stranger, I'm for making a
straight coat-tail out of this place, and that in a
hurry, for I've got through all my business now,
and I'm keen to be among the Yorkers; for I've
heard tell there's smashin work there every night.”
“Have you any acquaintances there?” asked
Lamar.
“No; but I expect to find some of our Kentuck
boys there, who come round by the lakes; and if
I do, I rather reckon we'll weed a wide row.”
“Take care you do not run against old Hays
in your mad pranks,” said Chevillere.
“They say he's a little touched with the snappinturtle,
but I'm thinkin he'd hardly try old Kentuck
at a fight or a foot-race.”
“He has had a good many fights and foot-races
in his day,” said Chevillere.
“Yes,” said Damon, “but always with rogues;
he'd find it rather a different business at an honest
ground-scuffle, where every man had to take care
of his own ears.”
“You think, then, he could not be so successful
in Kentucky as he is in New-York, at his occupation,”
said Lamar.
“He'd be off the scent there, and I rather
think he'd soon look like the babes in the woods;
you see he has the rogues in the city like a coon
one in such a fix.”
“But come, Damon, go on with your adventures
of the day which Chevillere's entrance interrupted.”
“Not till we have wet our whistles; come,
stranger (to Chevillere), you have'nt drank nothin
since you came into the room, nor into the city
either, for what I know.”
“You know,” said Chevillere, “that I am a
cold water man, upon taste and principle both.”
“And that's what I call ra'al hard drink; well,
here's to the little gal of the circus, and the little
gal down yonder at the hotel; cold water's but a
sorry drink to pledge such warm-hearted creters
—but I see talking of them makes you look solemncholy
again, and so here goes for my day's
work; let me see—where did I leave off?”
“At the commission house where you carried
the letter,” said Lamar.
“Ah, by the hokies! so it was. Well, you see, I
marched into the great store, as they had told me
it was, with my nose uppermost, like a pig in the
wind, I had an order on them for some of the eel-skins—but
I soon brought my snout down agin;
ho! ho! thought I, here's a pretty spot of work!
I'm a Turk if I aint tetotally dished.”
“What was the matter?” said Chevillere.
“Why, instead of all the fine things loomin out
in the wind as I expected for such great marchants,
I found nothing but a long empty store, and no
lookin dogs, on so many old rum bar'ls; I swear
I thought in a minute about our old still-house,
and the school-master, and the miller, and the
blacksmith, and the stiller, talkin politics over
the bar'ls, and takin a swig every now and then
out of the old proof-vial.”
“Well! you presented your draft,” said Lamar,
“and what then?”
“No I did'nt—I got a straddle of a bar'l too; I
thought I would take a dish of chat, for that was
about the most I expected to get. Rat me! but I
began to feel a little particular about the gizzard
in thoughts of sellin old Pete to get home on; I
put on a long face. It's everlastin dull times for
business, said I. `O sir, you are quite mistaken,
business is taking a look up—it's getting very brisk
indeed.' And he rubbed his hands, and looked as
glad as if he had had a drink of that hot punch.
So, thought I, I'm off the trail; but I thought I
would tree him next time. `The best horses, said
I, will stumble sometimes.' `Sir?' said he, I said
`the honestest men sometimes make bad speculations.'
`Oh!' said he, `I understand you! but I
hope business is brisk and money plenty this season
in the west.' Now, thought I, he's got the boot
on the wrong leg, this time; `yes, said I, we
can't complain, but I must say I thought it looked
a little dull hereabouts.' `O, you western men are
such driving fellows, that you can't put up with our
slow way of makin money.' He's feedin me on
but getting the money afterward is all our trouble,'
said I. `Why, sir, you have hit the nail upon the
head; that's the difficulty everywhere,' said he.
I thought I would run him into a stand 'fore long;
but he hoisted his tail and flung me clean off the
trail agin. `Can't I sell you half a dozen bar'ls
of cognac brandy to-day,' said he. I snapped my
fingers and jumped up, and by the long Harry I was
near raisin the whoop; for I thought old Pete and
the money was all safe, and so it was. `O! the
hunters of Kentucky! old Kentucky;' and he
began to sing and caper round the table.
“Did he pay the money?” asked Chevillere.
“Not exactly; these city chaps keep their money
buried, I believe, for you never see none of it; I
reckon they're 'fraid it'll spile; howsomever, he
gave me an order on the bank for the eel-skins.”
“Then you took your leave,” said Lamar.
“No; he asked me if I had ever seen an auction
of a ship's cargo; I said no, I had never seen more
nor a Kentuck vendue: he asked me to go along;
I'm your man, said I, for I expected there would
be smashin work if a whole ship-load was to be
sold, for I have seen some very clever little skrimmages
at a vendue; well, when we got there, there
was boxes and bags all laying in rows, and little
troughs laying under them, like them we catch
sugar-water in. Some had little long spoons made
on purpose to suck sugar with, and some had little
augers for boring holes; presently the crier began.
pound, going, going,' and smash went the little
mallet; `how many do you take, sir? twenty, or
the hundred boxes?' said he. `Take the hundred,'
said a man, that looked like he wasn't worth the
powder that would blow him up.”
“Could you always tell who bid?”
“No; they mostly did it by winkin, I believe;
sometimes one fellow would grunt this side and
another that side; I kept my head bobbin after
them first one side and then the other; but whenever
I looked in their faces their eyes looked as
sleepy as a dog in fly-time, just waitin to snap a
fellow that was buzzin about his ears.”
“Did you find out at last who were the bidders?”
“No; they shut up their faces like steel-traps.
Once or twice, maybe, I saw a dyin-away
wrinkle round a feller's mouth, like the rings in
the water when you throw a stone in; but they
soon faded away, and they looked as smooth and
deceitful as a pool of deep water itself agin.”
“They tasted and tried the articles, of course,
before they bought?”
“Yes; some of them had their mouths daubed,
like children suckin 'lasses candy; and some of
their big noses was stuck full of Bohea tea, outside
and in, like old Pete when he's had a good feed of
chopped rye and cut straw.”
“And what sort of a man was the auctioneer?”
“Why, his mouth went so fast when he got to
you had had your mouth fixed; but his face I didn't
like at all.”
“What was there in his face objectionable?”
“O! I can't tell exactly, it looked out of all sort
of nature; a good deal I don't know howish. One
thing I'll be sworn to, you would never see such a
one in old Kentuck; there every man wears his
Sunday face on week days.”
“I suppose you mean that the man was disfigured
with affectation,” said Chevillere.
“You've hit it, stranger, you've hit it; that's the
very word I wanted to be at, but I couldn't get it
out. Well, from the vendue I took a stroll round
town, to see the lads and lasses; how they carried
their heads in these parts, and maybe to see how
they carried on their sparkin in a big town like
this; for, to tell you the truth, that's one of the
things I never could see how they carried on
here.”
“How did you manage such things in the west?
Is there any thing peculiar in your method?”
“I can't say we're different from other folks in
the country, but you see we have abundance of
chances to court the gals a little; for there's our
weddings.”
“There are weddings here, too, I hope,” said
Lamar.
“Yes, and a pretty business they make of 'em;
I blundered into a church the other day, and what
should be goin on there but a weddin; and smash
snifflin than I've seen at many an honest man's
funeral, and all in broad daylight, too; and when
the parson had got through his flummery, with his
long white mornin gown, they all jumped into carriages,
and off they went away into the country
somewhere, to hide themselves. I rather suspect
they had stole a march on the old folks, else they
wouldn't have run so as if the devil was at their
heels.”
“How do you conduct such things in the west?”
asked Lamar.
“Oh! there we have quiltings, skutchings, and
sewin frolics, and makin apple butter, and all such
like; and they always wind up at the little end
with a rip-sneezin dance, and that's where we do
the sparkin; well, presently a weddin grows out
of it, and maybe then there isn't a little fun agoing,
dance all night, and play all sort of games, at least
all them sort that wind up in kissin the gals, and
that they manage to bring about by sellin pawns,
and one thing or other. For my part, I never could
see into any but the kissin part, and that you know
was the cream of the joke.”
“They do not often go to church to get married
then,” said Chevillere.
“No; I never saw anybody married at church
before t'other day, and I hope it'll be a long time
before their new-fangled ways travels out to old
Kentuck; there our gals and boys stands up before
the parson a few minutes, and he rolls his tobacco
words, and it's all over before you could say `God
save the commonwealth' three times; and what's
the use in makin three bites of a cherry?”
“But you have wandered from your point,” said
Lamar; “you started out on an expedition to see
how the lads and lasses carried themselves here.”
“O! ay, sure enough; well, one of the first
things I come across was a parcel of gals and
boys on horseback, and I'm flummucked if it
wouldn't have been a pretty tolerable show in the
land of hogs and homminy. The gals rode well
enough, considering how they were hampered with
clothes and trumpery; but the men! O smashy!
how they rode! bobbin up and down on the saddle,
with three motions to the horse's one. I'm an
Injin if old Pete Ironsides wouldn't have kicked
up his heels and squealed at the very first motion
of the rider goin ahead of him; and then the saddles
were stuck on the shoulders of the animals,
like a hump on a man's back, or a pair of haims to
hitch traces to. One of them chaps would ride a
saddle about twice as hard as a horse. I was
lookin evry minute for one of 'em to light behind
his saddle.”
“Did all the gentlemen and ladies you met carry
themselves so unnaturally?” said Lamar.
“No; I met one young lady dressed in black
that I thought I had seen before somewhere, and
her spark too; but they were too busy to see me.
country gals, than any of them.”
“How did the gentleman bear himself? was he
polite and respectful in his carriage?” said Lamar,
smiling, and looking at Chevillere.
“Oh, yes! he bowed his head close down to the
bonnet of the pretty little lady, and walked that
way all through the street, as if he was afraid to
lose so much as a word; sometimes she seemed to
be just ready to cry, and looked pale and frightened.
I rather suppose her old dad's a little sour or cross,
maybe; but for all I couldn't help thinkin what a
clever nice young couple they would make to stand
up before the parson.”
Chevillere attempted reserve of manner, but
blushed and smiled in spite of himself, as he asked
Damon, “Not your chaw-tobacco parson, I hope?”
“And why not? what if he would roll his chaw-tobacco
into one cheek at you, while he coupled
you up with the other? I'll be bound you'd look
at somebody else's pretty cheeks more nor you
would at the parson's chaw-tobacco; besides, what
harm is there in a parson's chawin? I know an old
one who would no more git up into his pulpit of a
Sunday without a good smart plug in his mouth,
than I would strike my own brother when he's
down. I've seen him afore now, when his wind
held out longer than his tobacco, run his finger
first into one jacket-pocket, and then into the other,
and at last he'd draw a little piece of pigtail, just up
to the top of the water (as you may say), and then
he'd let it go again.”
“Some virtuous shame, in view of the congregation,
I suppose,” said Chevillere.
“Yes, that was it; but I never heard any of the
sarmont after the old boy's ammunition run out.”
“Why, what had his tobacco to do with your
listening?”
“A great deal; no sooner would the old feller
begin to fumble in his pockets, than my hand
always run into mine, of its own accord, and
lugged out a chunk of a twist just ready to hand
to the old man, and then when I'd find it couldn't
be, I naturally took a plug myself, and chawed for
the old boss till his wind flagg'd.”
“Or, in other words, his desire for the weed
made you desire it, to cure which you chewed for
yourself, and flattered your conscience all the while
that you were rendering him a service,” said Chevillere.
“Very like! very like! for I know it makes a
feller husky dry to see another famishin for a little
of the cretur.”
“Not so much so, perhaps, as if a dry person, as
you call him, should see another drinking, and could
get none himself.”
“Oh! but that's a case out of all nature, as one
may say, in these parts, anyhow, where liquor runs
down the streets, after a manner.”
Chevillere and Lamar, both rising, exchanged
the usual salutations, and the good night! good
night! went the rounds of all present.
| CHAPTER VI. The Kentuckian in New-York, or, The adventures of three Southerns | |