University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Towards the latter part of the summer of 18—,
on one of those cool, delightful, and invigorating
mornings which are frequent in the southern regions
of the United States, there issued from the
principal hotel on the valley-side of Harper's Ferry
two travellers, attended by a venerable and stately
southern slave. The experienced eye of the old
ferryman, as he stood in his flat-bottomed boat
awaiting the arrival of this party, discovered at
once that our travellers were from the far South.

The first of these, Victor Chevillere, entered the
“flat,” leading by the bridle a mettlesome southern
horse; when he had stationed this fine animal to
his satisfaction, he stood directly fronting the prescriptive
Charon of the region. This young gentleman,
who appeared to be the principal character
of the party just entering the boat, was handsomely
formed, moderately tall, and fashionably dressed.

His face was bold, dignified, and resolute, and
not remarkable for any very peculiar fashion
of the hair or beard which shaded it. He appeared
to be about twenty-three years of age,
and though so young, much and early experience
of the world had already o'ershadowed his face
with a becoming serenity, if not sadness. Not
that silly, affected melancholy, however, which is
so often worn in these days by young and romantic
idle gentlemen, to catch the errant sympathies of
some untravelled country beauty.

The next personage of the party (who likewise
entered the boat leading a fine southern animal),
was a fashionable young gentleman, about the
middle size; his face was pale and wan, as if he
had but just recovered from an attack of illness.
Nevertheless there was a brilliant fire in his eye,
and a lurking, but too evident, disposition to fun
and humour, which illness had not been entirely
able to subdue. Augustus Lamar, for such was
his name, was the confidential and long-tried friend
of the first-named gentleman: their mutual regard
had existed undiminished from the time of their
early school days in South Carolina, through their
whole college career in Virginia up to the moment
of which we speak.

The third and more humble personage of the
party bore the time-honoured appellation of Cato.
He was a tall old negro, with a face so black as to
form a perfect contrast to his white hair and brilliant
teeth. He was well dressed and cleanly in

his person, and rather solemn and pompous in his
manners. Cato had served the father of his present
highly honoured young master, and was deeply
imbued with that strong feudal attachment to the
family, which is a distinguishing characteristic of
the southern negroes who serve immediately near
the persons of the great landholders.

Our travellers were now smoothly gliding over
that most magnificent “meeting of the waters” of
the Shenandoah and Potomack, which is usually
known by the unpretending name of “Harper's
Ferry.” It was early morning; the moon was
still visible above the horizon, and the sun had not
yet risen above those stupendous fragments whose
chaotic and irregular position gives token of the
violence with which the mass of waters rent for
themselves a passage through the mountains, when
rushing on to meet that other congregation of
rivers, with whose waters they unite to form the
Bay of the Chesapeake. The black bituminous
smoke from the hundred smithies of the United
States' armory, had just begun to rise above the
towering crags that seemed, at this early period, to
battle with the vapours which are here sent up in
thick volumes from the contest of rocks and rivers
beneath.

Old Cato had by this time assumed his post at
the heads of the three horses, while our southerns
stood with folded arms, each impressed with the
scene according to his individual impulses. As
they approached nearer to the northern shore, Chevillere,

addressing Lamar, observed: “An unhappy
young lady she must be who arrived at our hotel
last evening. I could hear her weeping bitterly as
she paced the floor, until a late hour of the night,
when finally she seemed to throw herself upon the
bed, and fall asleep from mere exhaustion;” and
then, turning to the weather-beaten steersman, continued:
“I suppose we are the first passengers in
the `flat' this morning?”

“No, sir, you are not; a carriage from the same
tavern went over half an hour ago. There was
an old gray-headed man, and two young women
in it, besides the driver, and the driver told me
that they were all the way from York State,—the
mail stage, too, went over.”

“The same party,” said Chevillere, abstractedly;
“Did you learn where they were to breakfast,
boatman?”

“About ten miles from this, I think I heard say.”

They were soon landed and mounted, and cantering
away through the fog and vapours of the
early morning. Nor were they long in overtaking
a handsome travelling-carriage, which was moving
at a brisk rate, in accordance with the exertions of
two fine, evidently northern, horses. The carriage
contained an elderly, grave, formal, and magisterial
gentleman; his locks quite gray, and hanging loose
upon the collar of his coat; his countenance harsh,
austere, and forbidding in the extreme. By his
side sat a youthful lady, so enveloped in a large
black mantle, and travelling hat and veil, that but

little of her form or features could be seen, except
a pair of brilliant blue eyes.

It is not to be denied, that these sudden apparitions
of young and beautiful females, almost completely
shrouded in mantles, drapery, or veils, are
the very circumstances fully to arouse the slumbering
energies of a lately emancipated college Quixotte.
A lovely pair of eyes, brimful of tears,—a
“Cinderella” foot and ankle,—a white and beautifully
turned hand and tapered fingers, with perhaps
a mourning ring or two,—or a bonnet suddenly
blown off, so as to dishevel a magnificent head of
hair, its pretty mistress meanwhile all confusion,
and her snowy neck and temples suffused with
blushes,—these are the little incidents on which the
real romances of human life are founded. How
many persons can look back to such a commencement
of their youthful loves! nay, perhaps, refer
to it all the little enjoyment with which they have
been blessed through life! We venture to say,
that those who were so unfortunate as never to
bring their first youthful romance to a fortunate
denouement, can likewise look back upon such
occurrences with many pleasing emotions. A
bachelor or a widower, indeed, may not always
recur with pleasure to these first passages in the
book of life,—but the feelings even of these are
not altogether of the melancholy kind. The fairy
queens of their spring-tide will sometimes arise in
the present tense, until they almost imagine themselves
in the possession again of youth and all its

raptures,—its brilliant dreams, airy castles, “hair-breadth
'scapes,” and miraculous deliverances,—
cruel fathers, and perverse guardians, and stolen
interviews, and lovers' vows and tokens,—winding
up finally with a runaway match—all of the imagination.

After the equipage before alluded to had been
for some time left behind, our travellers began to
descry, at the distance of several miles, the long
white portico of the country inn at which they
proposed to breakfast. The United States mail-coach
for Baltimore was standing at the door, evidently
waiting till the passengers should have
performed the same needful operation. Servants
were running hither and thither, some to the roost,
others to the stable, as if a large number of the
most distinguished dignitaries of the land had just
arrived.

But, behold, when our travellers drew up, they
found that all this stir among the servants of the
inn was called into being by the real or affected
wants of a number of very young gentlemen. We
say affected, because we are sorry to acknowledge
that it is not uncommon to see very young and
inexperienced gentlemen, on such occasions, assume
airs and graces which are merely put on as a travelling
dress, and which would be thrown aside at
the first appearance of an old acquaintance. At
such times it is by no means rare to see all the
servants of the inn, together with the host and
hostess, entirely engrossed by one of these overgrown

boys or ill-bred men, while their elders and
superiors are compelled either to want or wait
upon themselves. At the time we notice, some
young bloods of the cities were exercising themselves
in their new suit of stage-coach manners.

“Here waiter! waiter!” with an affectedly delicate
and foreign voice, cried one of these youths,
enveloped in a brown “Petersham box” coat, and
with his hands stuck into his pockets over his hips.
Under the arm of this person was a black riding-switch,
with a golden head, and a small chain of
the same precious metal, fastened about six inches
therefrom, after the fashion of some old rapier
guards. He wore a rakish-looking fur cap, round
and tight on the top of his head as a bladder of
snuff; this was cocked on one side after a most
piratical fashion, so as to show off, in the best possible
manner, a great profusion of coarse, shining
black hair, which was evidently indebted to art
rather than nature for the curls that frizzled out
over his ears, while the back part of his head was
left as bare and defenceless as if he had already
been under the hands of a deputy turnkey. He
practised what may be called American puppyism,
as technically distinguished from the London species
of the same genus. “Here waiter! waiter!”
said he, “bring me a gin sling,—and half-a-dozen
Bagdad segars,—and a lighted taper,—and a fresh
egg,—and a bowl of water, and a clean towel,—
and polish my boots,—and dust my coat,—and then
send me the barber, do you hear?”

“O, sir! we has no barber, nor Bagdab segars
neither; but we has plenty of the real Baltimores,
—real good ones, too,—as I knows very well, for
I smokes the old sodgers what the gentlemen throws
on the bar-room floor.”

“It is one of the most amusing scenes imaginable,”
said Victor Chevillere to Augustus Lamar,
as they sat witnessing this scene, “when the waiter
and the master pro tempore are both fools. The
fawning, bowing, cringing waiter, with his big lips
upon the qui vive, his head and shoulders constantly
in motion, and rubbing his hands one over the other
after the most approved fashion of the men of
business. In such a case as that which we have
just witnessed, where puppyism comes in contact
with the kindred monkey-tricks of the waiter, I
can enjoy it. But when it happens, as I have
more than once seen, that the waiter is a manly,
sensible, and dignified old negro of the loftier sort,
such as old Cato,—then you can soon detect the
curl of contempt upon his lip,—and he is not long
thereafter in selecting the real gentlemen of the
party,—always choosing to wait most upon those
who least demand it.”

“I would bet my horse Talleyrand against an
old field scrub, that that fellow is a Yankee,” answered
Lamar.

“He may be a Yankee,” continued Victor Chevillere,
“but you have travelled too much and reflected
too long upon the nature of man, to ascribe
every thing disgusting to a Yankee origin. For

my part, I make the character of every man I
meet in some measure my study during my travels,
and as we have agreed to exchange opinions upon
men and things, I will tell you freely what I think
of that fellow who has just retreated from our
laughter. I have found it not at all uncommon, to
see the most undisguised hatred arise between two
such persons as he of the stage-coach,—the one
from the north, and the other from the south,—
when in truth, the actuating impulse was precisely
the same in both, but had taken a different direction,
and was differently developed by different
exciting causes.

“The puppyism of Charleston and that of Boston
are only different shades of the same character,
yet these kindred spirits can in nowise tolerate
each other. As is universally the case, those are
most intolerant to others who have most need of
forgiveness themselves. The mutual jealousy of
the north and south is a decided evidence of littleness
in both regions, and ample cause for shame to
the educated gentlemen of all parties of this happy
country. If pecuniary interest had not been mixed
up with this provincial rivalry, the feeling could
easily have been so held up to the broad light of
intelligence, as to be a fertile source of amusement,
and furnish many a subject for comedy and farce
in after-times.”

This specimen was by no means the only one
among the arrivals by the stage-coach. Every
waiter in the house was pressed into the service of

these coxcombs,—some smoked,—some swaggered
through the private rooms,—others adjusted their
frizzled locks at the mirrors with brushes carried
for the purpose,—and all together created a vast
commotion in the quiet country inn.

As our two young southerns sat in the long
piazza, eying these stage-coach travellers and waiting
for breakfast, the same equipage which they
had passed on the road, and containing our northern
party, drew up to the door.

Not many minutes had elapsed before a black
servant stood in the entry between the double
suite of apartments, and briskly swung a small
bell to and fro, which seemed to announce breakfast,
from the precipitate haste with which the gentlemen
of the stage-coach found their way into the
long breakfasting-hall of the establishment. Our
southerns followed their example, but more quietly,
and by the invitation of the host. At the upper
end of the table stood the hostess, who, like most
of her kind in America, was the wife of a wealthy
landholder and farmer, as well as tavern-keeper.
She was a genteel and modest-looking woman, and
did the honours of the table like a lady at her own
hospitable board, and among selected guests. It
is owing to a mistake in the character of the host
and hostess, that so many foreigners give and take
offence at these establishments. They often contumaciously
demand as a right, what would have
been offered to them in all courtesy after the established
usages of the country.

On the right of the hostess sat the youthful lady
who had spent such an unhappy night at the ferry,
—in the hearing of Victor Chevillere,—and whom
they had passed on the road. She was still so enveloped
in her travelling dress and veil as to be
but partially seen. On the same side, unfortunately,
as he no doubt thought, sat Chevillere with
Lamar. The grave-looking old gentleman, the
companion of the youthful lady mentioned, sat immediately
opposite to her. The gentlemen of extreme
ton (as they wished to be thought), were
ranged along the table, already mangling the dishes,
cracking and replacing the eggs, and apparently
much dissatisfied with the number of seconds they
had remained in heated water. Nor were they
long in striking up a conversation, as loud and full
of slang as their previous displays had been. During
this unseemly and boisterous conduct, some
more tender chord seemed to be touched within
the bosom of the lovely young female, than would
have been supposed from the character of the assailants.
Victor Chevillere turned his head in that
direction, and saw that her face had become more
deadly pale; at the same moment he heard her say,
in an under-tone, to the old gentleman her companion,
“My dear sir, assist me from this room,—my
head grows dizzy, and I feel a deathlike sickness.”

Chevillere was upon his feet in an instant, and
assisted the lady to rise; by this time, the old gentleman
having taken her other arm, they carried
rather than led her into one of the adjoining apartments,

where, after depositing their beautiful burden
upon a sofa, Chevillere left her to the care of
the hostess, who had followed, and returned to the
breakfast-table.

Let us describe a country breakfast for the uninitiated.
At the head of the table was a large
salver, or japanned waiter, upon which was spread
out various utensils of China-ware,—the only articles
of plate being a sugar-dish and cream-pot.
On the right of this salver stood a coffee and teaurn,
of some composition metal, resembling silver
in appearance. At the other end of the table,
under the skilful hands of the host, was a large
steak, cut and sawed entirely through the sirloin
of the beef. Half-way up the table, on either side,
were dishes of broiled game, the intermediate
spaces being filled up with various kinds of hot
bread, biscuit and pancakes (as they are called
in some parts of the north). This custom of eating
hot bread at the morning and evening meal, is
almost universal at the south. Immediately in the
centre stood a pyramid of fresh-churned butter,
with a silver butter-knife sticking into the various
ornaments of vine-leaves and grapes with which
it was stamped.

To this fare Chevillere found his friend Lamar
doing the most ample justice, nor was his own
keen appetite entirely destroyed by the temporary
indisposition of the lady who had so much excited
his curiosity and his sympathy. He could have
congratulated himself on the little occurrence

which had given him some claims to a farther acquaintance,
and doubtless could have indulged in
delightful reveries as to the fair and youthful
stranger,—had not all his gay dreams been put to
flight by the boisterous laughter and meager attempts
at wit of the other travellers. As he returned
towards the table, the one whom we have
more particularly described elevated a glass, with
a golden handle, to his large, full, and impudent
eye. Chevillere returned the gaze until his look
almost amounted to a deliberate stare. The
“bloods” looked fierce, and exchanged pugnacious
looks, but all chance of a collision was prevented
by the return of the hostess. Notwithstanding the
disagreeable qualities of most of the guests at the
table, Chevillere found time to turn the little incident
of the sudden indisposition and its probable
cause several times in his own mind; and, as may
be well imagined, his mental soliloquy resulted in
no injurious imputation upon the youthful lady,—
there was evidently no trait of affectation.

At length the meal was brought to a close,—not
however, before the driver of the mail-coach had
wound sundry impatient blasts upon his bugle,—
general joy seemed to pervade every remaining
countenance after the departure of the coxcombs.
Both the northern and southern travellers, who
were journeying northward, and who had breakfasted
at the inn, were soon likewise plodding along
at the usual rate of weary travellers by a private
conveyance.