 | CHAPTER V. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
“Come, friar Francis be brief; only to the plain form of
“marriage.”
Much Ado About Nothing.
Major Lincoln had justly said, the laws regulating
marriages in the Massachusetts, which were
adapted to the infant state of the country, threw
but few impediments in the way of the indissoluble
connexion. Cecil had, however, been educated in
the bosom of the English church, and she clung
to its forms and ceremonies with an affection that
may easily be accounted for in their solemnity
and beauty. Notwithstanding the colonists often
chose the weekly festival for their bridals, the
rage of reform had excluded the altar from most
of their temples, and it was not usual with them
to celebrate their nuptials in the places of public
worship. But there appeared so much of unreasonable
haste, and so little of due preparation
in her own case, that Miss Dynevor, anxious to
give all solemnity to an act to whose importance
she was sensibly alive, expressed her desire to
pronounce her vows at that altar where she had
so long been used to worship, and under that
roof where she had already, since the rising of
the sun, poured out the thanksgivings of her pure
her husband.
As Mrs. Lechmere had declared that the agitation
of the day, and her feeble condition must unavoidably
prevent her witnessing the ceremony,
there existed no sufficient reason for not indulging
the request of her grandchild, notwithstanding it
was not in strict accordance with the customs of
the place. But being married at the altar, and
being married in public, were not similar duties,
and in order to effect the one and avoid the
other, it was necessary to postpone the ceremony
until a late hour, and to clothe the whole in
a cloak of mystery, that the otherwise unembarrassed
state of the parties would not have required.
Miss Dynevor made no other confidant than
her cousin. Her feelings being altogether elevated
above the ordinarily idle considerations
which are induced by time and preparations on
such an occasion, her brief arrangements were
soon ended, and she awaited the appointed moment
without alarm, if not without emotion.
Lionel had much more to perform. He
knew that the least intimation of such a scene
would collect a curious and a disagreeable
crowd around and in the church, and he therefore
determined that his plans should be arranged in
silence, and managed secretly. In order to prevent
a surprise, Meriton was sent to the clergyman,
requesting him to appoint an hour in the
evening when he could give an interview to Major
Lincoln. He was answered, that at any moment
after nine o'clock Dr. Liturgy would be released
from the duties of the day, and in readiness to
receive him. There was no alternative; and ten
was the time mentioned to Cecil when she was requested
to meet him before the altar. Major Lincoln
distrusted a little the discretion of Polwarth,
friend that he was to be married that evening, and
that he must be careful to repair to Tremont-street
in order to give away the bride; appointing
an hour sufficiently early for all the subsequent
movements. His groom and his valet had their
respective and separate orders, and long before
the important moment he had every thing arranged,
as he believed, beyond the possibility of a disappointment.
Perhaps there was something a little romantic,
if not diseased in the mind of Lionel, that
caused him to derive a secret pleasure from
the hidden movements he contemplated. He
was certainly not entirely free from a touch of
that melancholy and morbid humour which has
been mentioned as the characteristic of his race,
nor did he always feel the less happy because he
was a little miserable. However, either by his
activity of intellect, or that excellent training in
life he had undergone, by being required to act
early for himself, he had so far succeeded in quelling
the evil spirit within him, as to render its influence
quite imperceptible to others, and nearly
so to himself. It had, in fine, left him what we
have endeavoured to represent him in these pages,
not a man without faults, but certainly one of
many high and generous virtues.
As the day drew to a close, the small family
party in Tremont-street collected in their usual
manner to partake of the evening repast, which
was common throughout the colonies at that period.
Cecil was pale, and at times a slight tremor
was perceptible in the little hand which
did the offices of the table; but there was a
forced calmness seated in her humid eyes
that betokened the resolution she had summoned
to her assistance, in order to comply with
the wishes of her grandmother. Agnes Danforth
look, of more than usual meaning, betrayed
what she thought of the mystery and
suddenness of the approaching nuptials. It would
seem, however, that the importance of the step
she was about to take, had served to raise the
bride above the little affectations of her sex; for
she spoke of the preparations like one who owned
her interest in their completion, and who even
dreaded that something might yet occur to mar
them.
“If I were superstitious, and had faith in
omens, Lincoln,” she said, “the hour and the
weather might well intimidate me from taking
this step. See, the wind already blows across
the endless wastes of the ocean, and the snow is
driving through the streets in whirlwinds!”
“It is not yet too late to countermand my orders,
Cecil,” he said, regarding her anxiously; “I
have made all my movements so like a great
commander, that it is as easy to retrograde as to
advance.”
“Would you then retreat before one so little
formidable as I?” she returned, smiling.
“You surely understand me as wishing only to
change the place of our marriage. I dread exposing
you and our kind cousin to the tempest, which, as
you say, after sweeping over the ocean so long, appears
rejoiced to find land on which to expend its
fury.”
“I have not misconstrued your meaning, Lionel,
nor must you be mistaken in mine. I will
become your wife to-night, and cheerfully too;
for what reason can I have to doubt you now,
more than formerly! But my vows must be offered
at the altar.”
Agnes perceiving that her cousin spoke with a
suppressed emotion that made utterance difficult,
gaily interrupted her—
“And as for the snow, you know little of Boston
girls, if you think an icicle has any terrors for
them. I vow, Cecil, I do think you and I have
been guilty, when children, of coasting in a hand-sled,
down the side of Beacon, in a worse flurry
than this.”
“We were guilty of many mad and silly things
at ten, that might not grace twenty, Agnes.”
“Lord, how like a matron she speaks already!”
interrupted the other, throwing up her eyes and
clasping her hands in affected admiration; “nothing
short of the church will satisfy so discreet a
dame, Major Lincoln! so dismiss your cares on her
account, and begin to enumerate the cloaks and
over-coats necessary to your own preservation.”
Lionel made a lively reply, when a dialogue of
some spirit ensued between him and Agnes, to
which even Cecil listened with a beguiled ear.
When the evening had advanced, Polwarth made
his appearance, suitably attired, and with a face
that was sufficiently knowing and important for
the occasion. The presence of the captain reminded
Lionel of the lateness of the hour, and,
without delay, he hastened to communicate his
plans to his friend.
At a few minutes before ten, Polwarth was to
accompany the ladies in a covered sleigh to the
chapel, which was not a stone's throw from their
residence, where the bridegroom was to be in readiness
to receive them, with the divine. Referring
the captain to Meriton for further instructions,
and without waiting to hear the other express his
amazement at the singularity of the plan, Major
Lincoln said a few words of tender encouragement
to Cecil, looked at his watch, and throwing his
cloak around him, took his hat, and departed.
We shall leave Polwarth endeavouring to extract
the meaning of all these mysterious movements,
from the wilful and amused Agnes, (Cecil
in his progress towards the residence of the
divine.
Major Lincoln found the streets entirely deserted.
The night was not dark, for a full moon was
wading among the volumes of clouds, which drove
before the tempest in dark and threatening masses
that contrasted singularly and wildly to the light
covering of the hills and buildings of the town.
Occasionally the gusts of the wind would lift
eddying wreaths of fine snow from some roof,
and whole squares were wrapped in mist as the
frozen vapour whistled by. At times, the gale
howled among the chimneys and turrets, in a steady,
sullen roaring, and there were again moments
when the element appeared hushed, as if its fury
were expended, and winter, having worked its
might, was yielding to the steady, but insensible
advances of spring. There was something in the
season and the hour peculiarly in consonance with
the excited temperament of the young bridegroom.
Even the solitude of the streets, and the hollow
rushing of the winds, the fleeting and dim light of
the moon, which afforded passing glimpses of sunrounding
objects and then was hid behind a dark
veil of shifting vapour, contributed to his pleasure.
He made his way through the snow, with
that species of stern joy, to which all are indebted,
at times, for moments of wild and pleasing
self-abandonment. His thoughts vacillated between
the purpose of the hour, and the unlooked
for coincidence of circumstances that had clothed
it in a dress of such romantic mystery. Once or
twice a painful and dark thought, connected with
the secret of Mrs. Lechmere's life, found its way
among his more pleasing visions, but it was
quickly chased from his mind by the image of her
who awaited his movements in such confiding
As the residence of Dr. Liturgy was on the
North-end, which was then one of the fashionable
quarters of the town, the distance required that
Lionel should be diligent, in order to be punctual
to his appointment. Young, active, and full of
hope, he passed along the unequal pavements with
great rapidity, and had the satisfaction of penceiving
by his watch, when admitted to the presence
of the clergyman, that his speed had even
outstripped the proverbial fleetness of time itself.
The reverend gentleman was in his study, consoling
himself for the arduous duties of the day,
with the comforts of a large easy-chair, a warm fire,
and a pitcher filled with a mixture of cider and ginger,
together with other articles that would have
done credit to the knowledge of Polwarth in spices.
His full and decorous wig was replaced by a
velvet cap, his shoes were unbuckled, and his
heels released from confinement. In short, all his
arrangements were those of a man who, having
endured a day of labour, was resolved to prove
the enjoyments of an evening of rest. His pipe,
though filled, and on the little table by his side,
was not lighted, in compliment to the guest he
expected at that hour As he was slightly acquainted
with Major Lincoln, no introduction
was necessary, and the two gentlemen were soon
seated; the one endeavouring to overcome the embarrassment
he felt on revealing his singular errand,
and the other waiting, in no little curiosity,
to learn the reason why a member of parliament,
and the heir of ten thousand a year, should
come abroad on such an unpropitious night.
At length Lionel succeeded in making the
astonished priest understand his wishes, and paused
Dr. Liturgy had listened with the most profound
attention, as if to catch some clue to explain
the mystery of the extraordinary proceeding,
and when the young man concluded, he
unconsciously lighted his pipe, and began to
throw out large clouds of smoke, like a man
who felt there was a design to abridge his pleasures,
and who was consequently determined to
make the most of his time.
“Married! To be married in church! and
after the night lecture!” he muttered in a low
voice between his long drawn puffs—“'tis my
duty—certainly—Major Lincoln—to marry my
parishioners”—
“In the present instance, as I know my request
to be irregular, sir,” interrupted the impatient
Lionel, “I will make it your interest also.”
While speaking he took a well-filled purse from
his pocket, and with an air of much delicacy
laid a small pile of gold by the side of the silver
spectacle-case of the divine, as if to show
him the difference in the value of the two metals.
Dr. Liturgy bowed his acknowledgments, and
insensibly changed the stream of smoke to the
opposite corner of his month, so as to leave the
view of the glittering boon unobstructed. At the
same time he raised the heel of one shoe, and
threw an anxious glance at the curtained window,
to inquire into the state of the weather.
“Could not the ceremony be performed at the
house of Mrs. Lechmere?” he asked; “Miss
Dynevor is a tender child, and I fear the cold air
of the chapel might do her no service!”
“It is her wish to go to the altar, and you are
sensible it is not my part to question her decision
in such a matter.”
“'Tis a pious inclination; though I trust she
knows the distinction between the spiritual and
the temporal church. The laws of the colonies
are too loose on the subject of marriages, Major
Lincoln; culpably and dangerously loose!”
“But, as it is not in our power to alter, my
good sir, will you permit me to profit by them;
imperfect as they are?”
“Undeniably—it is part of my office to christen,
to marry, and to bury; a duty which I
often say, covers the beginning, the middle, and
the end of existence—but permit me to help you
to a little of my beverage, Major Lincoln—we
call it `Samson,' in Boston; you will find the
`Danite' a warm companion for a February night
in this climate.”
“The mixture is not inaptly named, sir,” said
Lionel, after wetting his lips, “if strength be the
quality most considered!”
“Ah! you have him from the lap of a Delilah;
but it is unbecoming in one of my cloth to meddle
with aught of the harlot.”
He laughed at his own wit, and made a more
spirituous than spiritual addition to his own glass,
while he continued—
“We divide it into `Samson with his hair off,'
and `Samson with his hair on;' and I believe
myself the most orthodox in preferring the man
of strength, in his native comeliness. I pledge
you, Major Lincoln; may the middle of your
days be as happy as the charming young lady
you are about to espouse may well render them;
and your end, sir, that of a good churchman, and
a faithful subject.”
Lionel, who considered this compliment as an
indication of his success, now rose, and said a few
words on the subject of their meeting in the chapel.
The divine, who manifestly possessed no great
to the whole proceeding, which were,
however, soon overcome by the arguments of
the bridegroom. At length every difficulty was
happily adjusted, save one, and that the epicurean
doctor stoutly declared to be a serious objection
to acting in the matter. The church fires were
suffered to go down, and his sexton had been
taken from the chapel that very evening, with
every symptom on him of the terrible pestilence
which then raged in the place, adding, by its danger,
to the horrors and the privations of the siege.
“A clear case of the small pox, I do assure you,
Major Lincoln,” he continued, “and contracted,
without doubt, from some emissaries sent into the
town for that purpose, by the wicked devices of the
rebels.”
“I have heard that each party accuses the
other of resorting to these unjustifiable means of
annoyance,” returned Lionel; “but as I know
our own leader to be above such baseness, I will
not suspect any other man of it without proof.”
“Too charitable by half, sir—much too charitable!
But let the disease come whence it will,
I fear my sexton will prove its victim.”
“I will take the charge on myself of having
the fires renewed,” said Lionel; “the embers
must yet be in the stoves, and we have still an
hour of time before us.”
As the clergyman was much too conscientious
to retain possession of the gold without fully entitling
himself to the ownership, he had long before
determined to comply, notwithstanding the secret
yearnings of his flesh. Their plans were now soon
arranged, and Lionel, after receiving the key of
the chapel, took his leave for a time.
When Major Lincoln found himself in the street
again, he walked for some distance in the direction
deserted way, in order to discover an unemployed
soldier, who might serve to perform the
menial offices of the absent sexton. He proceeded
for some distance without success, for
every thing human seemed housed, even the
number of lights in the windows beginning to
decrease in a manner which denoted that the
usual hour of rest had arrived. He had paused in
the entrance of the dock-square, uncertain where
to apply for an assistant, when he caught a
glimpse of the figure of a man, crouching under
the walls of the old turreted ware-house, so often
mentioned. Without hesitating an instant,
he approached the spot, from which the figure
neither moved, nor did it indeed betray any other
evidence of a consciousness of his proximity.
Notwithstanding the dimness of the moon, there
was light enough to detect the extreme misery
of the object before him. His tattered and thin
attire sufficiently bespoke the motive of the stranger
for seeking a shelter from the cutting winds
behind an angle of the wall, while his physical
wants were betrayed by the eager manner in
which he gnawed at a bone that might well
have been rejected from the mess of the meanest
private, notwithstanding the extreme scarcity
that prevailed in the garrison. Lionel forgot
for a moment his present object, at this exhibition
of human suffering, and with a kind voice
he addressed the wretched being.
“You have a cold spot to eat your supper in,
my friend,” he said; “and it would seem, too, but
a scanty meal?”
Without ceasing to masticate his miserable nutriment,
or even raising his eyes, the other said,
in a growling voice—
“The king could shut up the harbor, and keep
out the ships; but he hasn't the might to drive
March!”
“As I live, Job Pray! Come with me, boy, and
I will give you a better meal, and a warmer place
to enjoy it in—but first tell me; can you procure
a lantern and a light from your mother?”
“You can't go in the ware'us' to-night,” returned
the lad, positively.
“Is there no place at hand, then, where such
things might be purchased?”
“They keep them there,” said Job, pointing
sullenly to a low building on the opposite side of
the square, through one of the windows of which
a faint light was glimmering.
“Then take this money and go buy them for
me, without delay.”
Job hesitated with ill-concealed reluctance.
“Go, fellow, I have instant need of them, and
you can keep the change for your reward.”
The young man no longer betrayed any indisposition
to go, but answered, with great promptitude
for one of his imbecile mind—
“Job will go, if you will let him buy Nab some
meat with the change?”
“Certainly, buy what you will with it; and furthermore,
I promise you that neither your mother
nor yourself shall want again for food or clothing.”
“Job's a-hungry,” said the simpleton; “but
they say hunger don't come as craving upon a
young stomach as upon an old one. Do you
think the king knows what it is to be a-cold and
hungry?”
“I know not, boy—but I know full well that
if one suffering like you were before him, his
heart would yearn to relieve him. Go, go, and
buy yourself food too, if they have it?”
In a very few minutes Lionel saw the simpleton
at his bidding, with the desired lantern.
“Did you get any food,” said Lionel, motioning
to Job to precede him with the light—“I trust
you did not entirely forget yourself in your haste
to serve me?”
“Job hopes he didn't catch the pestilence,” returned
the lad, eating at the same time voraciously
of a small roll of bread.
“Catch what? what is it you hope you did not
catch?”
“The pestilence—they are full of the foul disorder
in that house.”
“Do you mean the small-pox, boy?”
“Yes; some call it small-pox, and some call it
the foul disorder, and other some the pestilence.
The king can keep out the trade, but
he can't keep out the cold and the pestilence
from Boston—but when the people get the town
back, they'll know what to do with it—they'll
send it all to the pest-housen!”
“I hope I have not exposed you unwittingly to
danger, Job—it would have been better had I
gone myself, for I was innoculated for the terrible
disease in my infancy.”
Job, who, in expressing his sense of the danger,
had exhausted the stores of his feeble mind on the
subject, made no reply, but continued walking
through the square, until they reached its termination,
when he turned, and inquired which way
he was to go.
“To the church,” said Lionel, “and swiftly, lad.”
As they entered Corn-hill, they encountered
the fury of the wind, when Major Lincoln bowing
his head, and gathering his cloak about him, followed
the light which flitted along the pavement
in his front. Shut out in a manner from the world
by this covering, his thoughts returned to their
former channel, and in a few moments he forgot
was soon awakened from his abstraction by perceiving
that it was necessary for him to ascend
a few steps, when supposing he had reached the
place of destination, he raised his head, and unthinkingly
followed his conductor into the tower
of a large edifice. Immediately perceiving his
mistake, by the difference of the architecture
from that of the King's chapel, he reproved the
lad for his folly, and demanded why he had
brought him thither.
“This is what you call a church,” said Job,
“though I call it a meetin'us'—It's no wonder you
don't know it—for what the people built for
a temple, the king has turned into a stable!”
“A stable!” exclaimed Lionel. Perceiving a
strong smell of horses in the place, he advanced
and threw open the inner door, when,
to his amazement, he perceived that he stood
in an area fitted for the exercises of the cavalry.
There was no mistaking the place, nor its
uses. The naked galleries, and many of the original
ornaments were standing, but the accommodations
below were destroyed, and in their
places the floor had been covered with earth, for
horses and their riders to practise in the cavesson.
The abominations of the place even now offended
his senses as he stood on that spot where he
remembered so often to have seen the grave and
pious colonists assemble, in crowds, to worship.
Seizing the lantern from Job, he hurried out of
the building with a disgust that even the unobservant
simpleton had no difficulty in discovering.
On reaching the street his eyes fell upon the lights,
and on the silent dignity of Province-house, and he
was compelled to recollect, that this wanton violation
of the feelings of the colonists, had been practised
“Fools, fools!” he muttered bitterly; “when
ye should have struck like men, ye have trifled
as children; and ye have forgotten your
manhood, and even your God, to indulge your
besotted spleen!”
“And now these very horses are starving
for want of hay, as a judgment upon them!”
said Job, who shuffled his way industriously at
the other's side.—“They had better have gone
to meetin' themselves, and heard the expounding,
than to set dumb beasts a rioting in a place
that the Lord used to visit so often!”
“Tell me, boy, of what other act of folly and
madness has the army been guilty?”
“What! hav'n't you heard of the old North!
They've made oven-wood of the grandest temple
in the Bay! If they dared, they'd lay their
ungodly hands on old Funnel itself!”
Lionel made no reply. He had heard
that the distresses of the garrison, heightened
as they were by the ceaseless activity of the
Americans, had compelled them to convert many
houses, as well as the church in question, into
fuel. But he saw in the act nothing more than the
usual recourse of a common military exigency. It
was free from that reckless contempt of a people's
feelings, which was exhibited in the prostitution
of the ancient walls of the sister edifice,
which was known throughout New-England,
with a species of veneration, as the “old South.”
He continued his way gloomily along the silent
streets, until he reached the more favoured
temple, in which the ritual of the English
church was observed, and whose roof was rendered
doubly sacred, in the eyes of the garrison,
by the accidental circumstance of bearing the
title of their earthly monarch.
| CHAPTER V. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston | |