 | CHAPTER XIV. A New-England tale, or, Sketches of New-England character and manners. |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And e'en devotion!
A few days after Erskine's departure, Mrs.
Harvey entered Jane's room hastily,—“Our village,”
she exclaimed, “is the most extraordinary
place in the world; wonders cease to be wonderful
among us.”
“What has happened now?” inquired Jane,
“I know not from your face whether to expect
good or evil.”
“Oh evil, my dear, evil enough to grieve and
frighten you. Your wretched cousin David Wilson
has got himself into a scrape at last, from which
all the arts of all his family cannot extricate him.
You know,” she continued, “that we saw an account
in the New-York paper of last week, of a
robbery committed on the mail-stage: the robbers
have been detected and taken, and Wilson, who it
them.”
“And the punishment is death!” said Jane, in
a tone of sorrow and alarm.
“Yes; so Mr. Lloyd says, by the laws of the
United States, against which he has offended.
Mr. Lloyd has been here, to request that you,
dear Jane, will go to your aunt, and say to her
that he is ready to render her any services in his
power. You know he is acquainted in Philadelphia,
where David is imprisoned, and he may be
of essential use to him.”
“My poor aunt, and Elvira! what misery is
this for them!” said Jane, instinctively transfusing
her own feelings into their bosoms.
“For your aunt it may be,” replied Mrs. Harvey,
“for I think nothing can quite root out the
mother; but as for Elvira, I believe she is too
much absorbed in her own affairs to think of David's
body or soul.”
“I will go immediately to my aunt; but what
has happened to Elvira?”
“Why Elvira, it seems, during her visit to the
west, met with an itinerant french dancing-master,
who became violently enamoured of her, and who
did not sigh or hope in vain. She probably knew
his vocation would be an insuperable obstacle to
her seeing him at home; and so between them
they concerted a scheme to obviate that difficulty,
by introducing him to Mrs. Wilson as a french
physician, from Paris, who should volunteer his
services to cure her scrofula, which, it is said, has
way of a decoy, he was to go upon the usual quack
practice of `no cure no pay.”'
“And this,” exclaimed Jane, “is the sick physician
we heard was at my aunt's?”
“Yes, poor fellow, and sick enough he has
been. He arrived just at twilight, last week on
Monday, and having tied his horse, he was tempted,
by seeing the door of the chaise-house half
open, to go in there to arrange his dress previous
to making his appearance before Miss Wilson.
He had hardly entered, before old Jacob coming
along, saw the door open, and giving the careless
boys (whom he supposed in fault) a reversed blessing,
he shut and fastened it. It was chilly weather,
you know, but there the poor fellow was obliged
to stay the live-long night, and till Jacob, sallying
forth to do his morning chores, discovered him
half-starved and half-frozen. But,” said Mrs.
Harvey, “you are prepared to go to your aunt,
and I am detaining you—you may ask the sequel
of Elvira.”
“Oh no, let me hear the rest of it; only be
short, dear Mrs. Harvey, for if any thing is to be
done for that wretched young man, not a moment
should be lost.”
“My dear, I will be as short as possible, but
my words will not all run out of my mouth at once,
as they melted out of Gulliver's horn. Well, this
poor french doctor, dancer, or whatever he is,
effected an interview with Elvira, before he was
seen by the mother; and though no doubt she was
she overlooked it, and succeeded in palming him
off on the old lady as a foreign physician, who had
performed sundry marvellous cures in his western
progress. Mrs. Wilson submitted her disease to
his prescription. In the meanwhile, he, poor
wretch, as if a judgment had come upon him
for his sins, has been really and seriously sick, in
consequence of the exposure to the dampness of
a September night, in his nankins; and Elvira has
been watching and nursing him according to the
best and most approved precedents to be found in
ballads and romances.”
“Is it possible,” asked Jane, “that aunt Wilson
should be imposed on for so long a time?
Elvira is ingenious, and ready, but she is not a
match for her quick-sighted mother.”
“No, so it has proved in this case. The doctor
became better, and the patient worse; his prescriptions
have had a dreadful effect upon the
scrofula; and as the pain increased, your aunt became
irritable and suspicious. Last evening, she
overheard a conversation between the hopeful
lovers, which revealed the whole truth to her.”
“And what has she done?”
“What could she do, my dear, but turn the
good for nothing fellow out of doors, and exhaust
her wrath upon Elvira. The dreadful news she
received from David late last evening, must have
driven even this provoking affair out of her troubled
mind. But,” said Mrs. Harvey, rising and
going to the window, “who is that coming through
here?”
“Aunt has probably sent for me,” replied Jane;
and she hastened to open the door for her cousin,
who entered evidently in a flutter. “I was just
going to your mother's,” said Jane.
“Stay a moment,” said Elvira; “I must speak
with you. Come into your room,” and she hastened
forward to Jane's apartment. She paused
a moment on seeing Mrs. Harvey, and then begged
she would allow her to speak with her cousin
alone.
Mrs. Harvey left the apartment, and Elvira
turned to Jane, and was beginning with great eagerness
to say something, but she paused—unpinned
her shawl, took it off, and then put it on
again—and then asked Jane, if she had heard from
Erskine; and, without waiting a reply, which did
not seem to be very ready, she continued, “How
glad I was he fought that duel; it was so spirited.
I wish my lover would fight a duel. It would have
been delightful if he had only been wounded.”
Jane stared at her cousin, as if she had been
smitten with distraction. “Elvira,” she said, with
more displeasure than was often extorted from her,
“you are an incurable trifler! How is it possible,
that at this time you can waste a thought upon
Erskine or his duel?”
“Oh! my spirits run away with me, dear Jane;
but I do feel very miserable,” she replied, affecting
to wipe away the tears from her dry eyes.
Poor David!—I am wretched about him. He has
about Lavoisier. Every body has heard of mother's
cruelty to him and to me. Oh, Jane! he is
the sweetest creature—the most interesting being”—
“Elvira,” replied Jane, coldly, “I do not like
to reproach you in your present affliction; but you
strangely forget all that is due to your sex, by
keeping up such an intercourse with a stranger—
by ranting in this way about a wandering dancing-master—a
foreigner.”
“A foreigner, indeed! as if that was against
him. Why, my dear, foreigners are much more
genteel than Americans; and besides, Lavoisier is
a Count in disguise. Oh! if you could only hear
him speak French; it is as soft as an Eolian harp.
Now Jane, darling, don't be angry with me. I am
sure there never was any body so persecuted and
unfortunate as I am. Nobody feels for me.”
“It is impossible, Elvira, to feel for those who
have no feeling for themselves.”
“Oh, Jane! you are very cruel,” replied Elvira,
whimpering; “I have been crying ever since
I received poor David's letter, and it was about
that I came here; but you do not seem to have
any compassion for our sorrows, and I am afraid
to ask for what I came for.”
“I cannot afford to waste any compassion on
unnecessary or imaginary sorrows, Elvira. The
real and most horrible calamity that has fallen upon
you, requires all the exertions and feelings of
your friends.”
“That's spoken like yourself, dear, blessed
Jane,” said Elvira, brightening; “now I am sure
you will not refuse me—you are always so generous
and kind.”
“I have small means to be generous,” replied
Jane; “but let me know, at once, what it is you
want, for I am in haste to go to your mother.”
“You are a darling, Jane—you always was.”
“What is it you wish, Elvira?” inquired Jane
again, aware that Elvira's endearments were always
to be interpreted as a prelude to the asking
of a favour.
“I wish, dear Jane,” she replied, summoning
all her resolution to her aid; “I wish you to lend
me twenty dollars. If you had seen David's piteous
letter to me, you could not refuse. It is
enough to make any body's heart ache; he is
down in a dark disagreeable dungeon, with nothing
to eat, from morning to night, but bread and water.
He petitions for a little money so earnestly,
it would make your heart bleed to read his letter.
Mother declares she will not send him a
dollar.”
“How do you intend sending the money to
him?” asked Jane, rising and going to her bureau.
“Oh!” replied Elvira, watching Jane's movements,
“you are a dear soul. It is easy enough
getting the money to him. I heard, this morning,
that Mr. Harris is going on to the south; he
starts this afternoon. I shall not mind walking to
his house, though it is four miles from here; I
deliver the money himself. It will be such a relief
and comfort to my unfortunate brother.”
There seemed to be something in Elvira's eagerness
to serve her brother, and in her newly
awakened tenderness for him, that excited Jane's
suspicions; for she paused in the midst of counting
the money, turned round, and fixed a penetrating
look upon her cousin. Elvira, without appearing
to notice any thing peculiar in her expression,
said, (advancing towards her,) “Do be quick,
dear Jane; it is a great way to Mr. Harris's; I
am afraid I shall be late.”
Jane had finished counting the money.
“Twenty dollars, is it, dear?” said Elvira, hastily
and with a flutter of joy seizing it. “There
are five dollars more,” she continued, looking at a
single bill Jane had laid aside; “let me have that
too, dear; it will not be too much for David.”
“I cannot,” replied Jane; “that is all I have
in the world, and that I owe to Mrs. Harvey.”
“La, Jane! what matter is that; you can have
as much money as you want of Erskine; and besides,
you need not be afraid of losing it; I shall
soon be of age, and then I shall pay you, for mother
can't keep my portion from me one day after
that. Then I will have a cottage. Lavoisier says,
we can have no idea, in this country, how beautiful,
a cottage is, à la Française. Do, dearest, let me
have the other five.”
“No,” said Jane, disgusted with Elvira's importunity
and levity, and replacing the note in her
world, and you must be contented with it.”
Elvira saw that she should obtain no more. She
hastily kissed Jane; and after saying, “Good bye,
my dear, go to mother's, and stay till I come,”
she flew out of the house, exulting that her false
pretences had won so much from her cousin. At
a short distance from Mrs. Harvey's she joined her
lover, according to a previous arrangement between
them.
Lavoisier had procured a chaise from a neighbouring
farmer, which was principally devoted to
the transportation of its worthy proprietor and the
partner of his joys to and from the meeting-house
on Sundays and lecture days, but was occasionally
hired out to oblige such persons as might stand in
need of such an accommodation, and could afford
to pay what was `consistent' for it.
“Allons—marche donc!” said the dancing philosopher
to his horse, after seating Elvira; and
turning to her, he pressed one of her hands to his
lips, saying, “Pardonnez-moi,”—adding, as he
dropt it, “tout nous sourit dans la nature.”
Elvira pointed out the road leading to the
dwelling of a justice of the peace, a few miles beyond
the line which divides the State of Massachusetts
from that of New-York. They arrived
at this temple of Hymen, and of petty litigation,
about eleven in the morning. The justice was at
work on his farm; a messenger was soon despatched
for him, with whom he returned in about thirty
lovers.
“Dey say,” said Lavoisier, “l'amour fait passer
le temps, but in l'Amerique it is very differente.”
The justice took Lavoisier aside, and inquired
whether there were any objections to the marriage,
on the part of the lady's friends.
“Objections!” said Lavoisier, “it is the most
grande félicité to every body. You cannot conceive.”
On being further interrogated, Lavoisier confessed
that they came from Massachusetts; and
being asked why they were not married at the
place of the lady's residence, he said that “some
personnes without sensibilité may wait, but for
mademoiselle and me, it is impossible.”
Elvira being examined apart, in like manner,
declared that her intended husband's impatience
and her own dislike to the formality of a publishment,
had led them to avoid the usual mode and
forms of marriage.
The justice, who derived the chief profits of his
office from clandestine matches, and who had
made these inquiries more because it was a common
custom, than from any scruples of conscience,
or sense of official duty, was perfectly satisfied;
and after requiring from the bridegroom the usual
promise to love and cherish; and from the bride,
to love, cherish, and obey; pronounced them man
and wife, and recorded the marriage in a book
containing a record of similar official acts, and of
divers suits and the proceedings therein.
The bride and bridegroom immediately set out
for the North River, intending to embark there for
New-York.
“These things do manage themselves better in
France,” said Lavoisier. “Les nôces qui se font
ici—the marriages you make here—are as solemn
que la sepulture—as to bury. Le Cupidon ici a
l'air bien sauvage; if de little god was paint here,
they would make him work as de justice. Eh
bien!” said he, after a pause, “chacun a son
métier; without some fermiers there should not
be some maîtres-de-danse, some professeurs of de
elegant arts: et sans les justices, you would not
be mon ange—you would not be Madame Lavoisier.”
Elvira was so occupied with the change in her
condition, and the prospect before her, that she
did not observe the direction in which they were
travelling; and by mistake they took the road
leading back through a cleft in the mountain towards
a village in the vicinity of the one they had
left.
As they ascended the top of a hill, their steed
began to prick his ears at the distant sound of a
drum and fife, which the fugitives soon perceived
to be part of the pride, pomp, and circumstance
of a militia training. The village tavern was in
full view, and within a short distance, and the
company was performing some marching evolutions
a little beyond. An election of captain had
just taken place; and the suffrages of the citizen
soldiers had fallen upon a popular favourite, who
was showing his familiarity with the marches and
counter-marches of Eaton's Manual. He had
been just promoted from the rank of first lieutenant;
and previous to the dismissal of his men,
which was about to take place, he drew them up
in front of the village store, when, according to
custom, and with due regard to economy, which
made the store a more eligible place for his purposes
than the tavern, he testified his gratitude for
the honour which had been done him by copious
libations of cherry rum, and of St. Croix, which
was diluted or not, according to the taste of each
individual. The men soon began to grow merry;
and some of them swore that they would not scruple
to vote for the captain for major-general, if
they had the choosing of that officer. The venders
of gingerbread felt the influence of the
good fellowship and generosity which the captain
had set in motion. A market for a considerable
portion of their commodity was soon
furnished by the stimulated appetites of the
men, and a portion was distributed by the more
gallant among them, to some spectators of the
softer sex, who were collected upon the occasion.
The happy pair in the mean time had arrived
at the tavern. Elvira's attention had not been
sufficiently awakened by any thing but the conversation
of her husband, to notice where she
was, until she was called to a sense of her embarrassing
situation by the landlord's sign, as it was
gently swinging in the wind between two high
sign-painting, the distinguished name of the
host, and the age of his establishment.
Elvira directed the Frenchman to stop and turn
his horse, which he did immediately, without understanding
the object.
“Eh bien!” said he, his eyes still fixed on the
young soldiers; “Il me vient une idée. I shall
tell you.” He went on to signify that he would
immediately offer to teach the art of fencing and
of using the broad-sword; that he would instruct
them “dans l'art militaire, à la mode de Napoleon;”
and that, after giving a few lessons, he would make
a tournament, in which he would let them see,
among other things, how Bonaparte conquered
the world; how the cavalry could trample down
flying infantry; and how the infantry, in such
circumstances, could defend themselves; and
that he would, in this way, make himself “bien
riche.”
During all this time, Elvira was collecting her
wits to know what the emergency required; and
as soon as Lavoisier's volley ceased, she begged
him to turn again, thinking she might best avoid
observation by seeking shelter in the tavern till
dark.
They immediately alighted, and Lavoisier, after
showing his bride to her apartment, descended
to give some orders about his horse; when, to his
astonishment, he was accosted by the jolly landlord,
whose name was Thomas, “Ha, mounsheer,
two years ago, when I kept house in York
state, and borried my chaise to go a jaunting, and
told me to take care of your trunk, that had nothing
but a big stone in it, till you came back. I
got my horse and chaise agin,” continued he, seizing
the astounded professor of the dancing and
military arts by the collar, “and now I'll take my
recknin out of your skin, if I can't get it any other
way.”
At this moment the new captain and a considerable
number of his merry men entered the house.
After they had learned the circumstances of the
case, from what passed between monsieur and the
landlord, one of them cried out, “ride him on a
rail—let him take his steps in the air!”
“He ought to dance on nothing, with a rope
round his neck,” said Thomas.
“No, no,” said a third, “he has taken steps
enough; that flashy jacket had better be swapped
for one of tar and feathers.”
“Messieurs, messieurs,” said Lavoisier, “je suis
bien malheureux. I am very sorry. H etoit mon
malheur—it was my misère to not pay monsieur
Thomas, and it was his malheur not to be paid. I
shall show you my honneur, when I shall get de
l'argent. Il faut se soumettre aux circonstances.
De honesty of every body depend upon what dey
can do. I am sure, every body is gentleman in
dis country. C'est un beau pays.”
By this time one of the corporals had set a skillet
of tar on the fire, and another, at the direction
the command of the party, had brought a pillow
from a bed in an adjoining room. The pillow
was very expeditiously uncased, and a sufficient
rent made in the ticking. The astonished
Français stood aghast, as his bewildered mind
caught a faint notion of the purpose of these preparations.
He changed his tones of supplication
to those of anger. “Vous êtes des sauvages!” he
exclaimed. “You are monstres, diables! You do
not merit to have some gentiman to teach la belle
danse in dis country.”
“He'll cackle like a blue jay,” said the corporal,
“by the time we get the feathers on
him.”
“They are hen's feathers,” said the lieutenant,
“but they'll do. Now ensign Sacket get on to the
table, and corporal you hand him the skillet of tar.
You Mr. Le Vosher, or whatever your name is,
stand alongside of the table.”
Monsieur believed his destiny to be fixed—“Oh,
mon Dieu!” he exclaimed; “le diable! qu'est
que c'est que ça? Vat you do—vat is dat?”
“Tar, tar, nothing but tar—stand up to the
table,” was the reply.
“Sacristie! put dat sur ma tête—on my head
et sur mes habits—my clothes; mes beaux habits
de noces—my fine clothes for de marriage! Oh,
messieurs, de grace, pardonnez moi; vous gaterez
—you will spoil all my clothes.”
“Blast your clothes!” said the corporal; “pull
them off.”
“Je vous remercie, tank you gentlemen;” and
he very deliberately divested himself of a superfine
light blue broad-cloth coat, an embroidered
silk vest, a laced cravat, and an under cravat of
coarser fabric. He prolonged the operation as
much as possible, making continued efforts to conciliate
the compassion of his persecutors, which
only added to their merriment.
At last all pretences for delay were over; every
voice was hushed. The ensign began to uplift
the fatal skillet, when all composure of mind
forsook the affrighted bridegroom, and he uttered
a loud hysteric shriek. Favoured by the general
stillness, Elvira distinctly heard his voice, and
knew at once that it betokened the extremity of
distress. She rushed to the rescue, screaming for
mercy. The men fell back, leaving their trembling
victim in the centre of the room. “Ah! ma chère,
quels bêtes!” he exclaimed, with a grimace that
produced a peal of laughter. One of the men
threw him his coat, another his vest; while the
corporal set down the skillet, saying, “If it had
not been for his gal, I'd have given him a wedding
suit.”
But we rather think monsieur would have been
released without the interposition of his distressed
bride, for a yankey mob is proverbially good-natured,
and the merry men had enlisted in the landlord's
cause, for the sake of a joke, rather than
ludicrous adventure was over—ludicrous to the
jolly trainers, but sad enough to the fugitive pair—
Elvira deemed it expedient to press their retreat.
Monsieur brought the chaise to the door, and they
drove away, amidst the loud huzzas and merry
clappings of the jovial company.
| CHAPTER XIV. A New-England tale, or, Sketches of New-England character and manners. | |