University of Virginia Library

8. CHAP. VIII.

Twelfth Night.

The proposed sail was unavoidably deferred until the
9th of September, during which time our young friends
were almost constantly together. The night chosen for
the expedition was rich in autumnal beauty. It was
one of those calm, delightful evenings, when the soul
bathes itself in stillness, and thoughts pure as an infant's
dreams come crowding on the heart. Nature, like an
oriental beauty, seemed to repose on her magnificent
couch, amid the sparkling and bubbling of fountains,
the perfume of flowers, and the varied witchery of
music. At such seasons the chords of feeling are
lightly touched, as if fanned by the wings of some
passing seraph, and they vibrate only to what is calm
and holy. Selfishness, prejudice, and passion, have no
entrance there; and man is, for a while, what God
designed him, a rich-toned instrument thrilled by the
slightest influence of heaven. This capacity for refined
pleasure exists, more or less, in every mind,—not like
the Apollos and Dianas, which Aristotle supposed to be
concealed in the unhewn marble, waiting for art to
fashion them; but like the music of the winds, waked
by the faintest breath into an existence as delicious as it

is fleeting. But though all may worship at the shrine of
nature, it is not given to every one to enter the holy of
holies and withdraw the veil. Such souls as Lucretia's
alone can feel the full force of its softening and mysterious
power. Her mind, vigorous as an eagle's wing,
and rapid as the streams of Chili, had been early left to
her own guidance. Under such circumstances, imagination
had become her favourite region; but the glowing
climate that brought the weeds to rank luxuriance,
did not scorch the beauty of the flowers. She was wont
to examine every thing in the illusive kaleidoscope of
fancy, which forms broken glass and tinselled fragments
into as beautiful and regular combinations as polished
diamonds and pearls bedded in gold. Had nature only
been seen under this bright delusion, it would have
been well. It was no harm that the mighty cavalcade
of worlds, wheeling through the desert realms of space;
the hills in their broad and mellow sunshine; the rivers
laughing and leaping in their joyous course; and the
western sky warmly blushing at the bright glance of her
departing lover, should speak to her a language deeper
than poetry; but at that susceptible age, when the
affections are fully developed while the judgment remains
in embryo, more dangerous objects are often
invested with the rainbow-robe of romance. In our
maturer years we laugh at the eager hopes and intense
fears of youthful love; but ridicule cannot disarm the
mischievous power, and intellect frequently struggles in
chains which it cannot burst. To search out all the
involutions of a woman's heart,—to describe all its
fluctuations from embarrassed consciousness, to friendship
apparently careless, or tenderness poorly disguised,
would be more difficult than to trace the intrigues of
statesmen, or the rise and fall of empires; and were
the task well performed, it would make a very silly
appearance in print. Suffice it, therefore, to say, that
the burthen was sufficiently heavy to the foolish heart
which carried it; and that Lucretia joined the evening
party with no small portion of sadness. Grace, likewise,
came with wounded delicacy and conflicting feelings.
Not that her better disciplined mind yielded to the infatuation
which held such undivided sway over her impetuous
friend; but her shrinking modesty was alarmed
lest others should suppose it so.

Somerville had read the “Rape of the Lock” to
her and Lucretia, and had afterwards presented her
with the elegant little volume. All the passages he admired
were marked with a pencil, his observations written
in the margin, and the book carefully placed in a
small ebony writing desk, to which her brother alone
had access. Henry had most unfortunately left the
drawer open when his friend came to make arrangements
for their aquatic excursion. He discovered all,
before Grace entered,—and the liquid radiance for
which his eye was remarkable, expressed unrestrained
tenderness and exultation.

Pride, delicacy, feelings as yet without a name, in
short, every thing that could create a tempest in woman's
heart, was at once active. Face, neck, and
hands were covered with blushes,—but her reception

was formal even to coldness; and in a few moments
she retired to her own room. There she succeeded in
believing that respect for Somerville's talents had alone
influenced her conduct; and her only fear was, that he
would not be quite so sure of it as herself. The novice
reasoned well, and resolved well;—nevertheless the
blind guest had gained admittance, unbidden and unknown,
with a wedding-garment stainless as the drifted
snow.

To convince Somerville that she really valued him
only as her brother's friend, Grace resolved to treat him
with marked indifference. Accordingly, when the boat
was drawn up to the wharf, she passed him, and gave
her hand to Doctor Willard. For an instant a deep
frown settled on the brow of the young Englishman,
but it immediately passed away; and giving his hand
to Lucretia, he sprang into the boat, and seated himself
by her side. Henry Osborne, ever mindful of those
ladies whose claims were the least, offered his services
to Miss Sandford; and Doctor Byles came after, saying
aloud,

There was an abundance of mirth, whether heartfelt
or not. Miss Sandford was in good humour with herself
and all the world (Doctor Byles always excepted);
and having a good stock of sense, and a talent at repartee,
she by no means diminished the pleasure of the
party: as for Doctor Byles, the fountain of his wit was
never known to be dry, though sage advice and dignified

admonition were frequently mingled with its playful
brilliancy or pungent sarcasm: Henry Osborne preserved
his usual calm, unostentatious, but perfectly delightful
manner: Doctor Willard, enthusiastic, and easily
excited, made no attempt to conceal the happiness
which Miss Osborne's unwonted kindness inspired:
Somerville talked with unusual volubility, and surpassed
even his own accustomed gallantry: Grace with difficulty
forced back her tears, yet she appeared uncommonly
cheerful;—while the flushed cheek, the
sparkling eye, and the unconscious deference of all
Lucretia's looks and actions, betrayed the subtle power
that produced them. The helms-man completed the
group; and to have judged by his antiquated dress, his
grey hairs, his closely fitted cap, his sonorous voice, and
his coarse but strongly marked features, one would
have supposed that Brewster or Standish was guiding
his rude skiff in the unfrequented bay of Plymouth.

As they passed “the gay young group of grassy islands,”
which decorate our beautiful harbour, Lucretia
observed, “How very lovely these little spots appear,
where the moon gleams through the dense shade, and
tinges the water with its brightness.”

“It is like a smile on the face when the heart is cold
and breaking,” said Grace.

“A metaphor from the lips of Grace Osborne, as I
live,” exclaimed Lucretia.

“You know what is the boon inspirer of poetry,” rejoined
Somerville, looking very archly at Miss Osborne.

He was thinking of Doctor Willard when he spoke;

but Grace, with a readiness that consciousness could
alone have produced, saw nothing but vanity and rudeness
in the insinuation.

An angry suffusion passed over her pale brow, and
she hastily turned to talk with the young physician. In
the evening light her confusion passed unnoticed by Lucretia,
who continued all exhilaration and romance.
She pointed out the tangled constellation of Berenice,
the brilliant beauty of Altair, and the royal circle of the
Corona Borealis. Then she talked of the graceful
gayety of Chaucer, the melodious versification of Pope,
and the witching simplicity of Goldsmith.

Her want of beauty was forgotten in her unaffected
eloquence; and Somerville looked at her with unfeigned
admiration, as he said, “What a pity you had not lived
in the days of chivalry, Miss Fitzherbert. How many
lances would have been lowered before the majesty
of—mind.”

“I think Miss Fitzherbert will prefer what she will be
sure to receive at the present day,” said Henry Osborne.
“I mean the homage due to a rational being,—that
homage which mind exacts from the intellectual, and
genuine goodness of heart from those who know how to
value it.”

“A very wise lecture, and very well delivered, Mr.
Osborne,” replied Somerville, bowing towards him with
a very comic expression; “but, after all, I only wish I
were a constellation, that I might be described with such
delightful enthusiasm.”

“You always are, when in the presence of ladies,”
rejoined Doctor Willard.

“Then he must be the Lyre,” said Doctor Byles.

“Captain Somerville,” said the aged steersman,
“I trust you will have grace given you—”

“If I guess aright, you could not have wished a thing
more to his mind,” interrupted the witty clergyman.

Miss Osborne blushed deeply, and the smile on Lucretia's
face was stiff and unnatural.

The pilot continued, “I trust you will have grace
enough, before you die, to relish the savoury discourses
of wisdom rather than the light conversation that appertaineth
to this world.”

“An excellent, though heretical writer hath told us,”
observed Doctor Byles, “that piety is like certain lamps
of old, which maintained their light for ages under
ground, but as soon as they took air expired. It is a
doctrine that the New Lights forget, my friend, though
it seems the old lights acted it out, generation after
generation.”

“If we are to keep our religion locked up from others,
what do you make of the command, `Let your light so
shine before men?' ” asked the pilot.

“If I read Scripture aright, that is the light of good
works,” was the reply.

“Very true,” rejoined the old man; “and therefore
we should strive to attain to perfect holiness.”

“Perfect holiness!” exclaimed the clergyman.
“You might as well talk of such a coin as a pound
sterling, or a French livre.”

“I don't understand what you mean touching the
comparison,” answered the steersman; “but I will

never sell my reason to any man, because he happens
to be more larnt than I am.”

“If you should set it up at auction, it would be a
poor pennyworth to him that bought it,” observed the
reverend doctor. “However you are made for your
place, and I for mine. Some must think, and some
must labour; some must rule, and some must be ruled.
For instance, young men, Governors Bernard and
Hutchinson are born to command, and you are born
to obey.”

“Then I shall fail in answering the end for which I
was made,” rejoined Doctor Willard. “What difference
is between the duke and I? No more than between two
bricks, all made of one clay; only it may be one is
placed on the top of a turret, the other in the bottom
of a well, by mere chance. If I were placed as high
as the duke, I should stick as fast, make as fair a show,
and bear out weather equally.”

“Oh dear,” exclaimed Doctor Byles, “I am in a
sad predicament, between new lights and new fires.
One nailing heresy with a text, and the other sanctioning
treason with the odd ends of a play.”

“I tell you what, Doctor Byles,” said the pilot,
“some folks do say you are a good man; and them
who know you, tell that you have more religion than
you seem to have. If so be this be true, you can't in
earnest deny that the New Lights and the Quakers are
the only people that have `put off the old man.' ”

“I don't know how far they have put off the old
man,” rejoined the minister; “but of one thing I am

certain,—they keep his deeds. Since New Lights are
so numerous, it is desirable we should have more new
livers; and as for the Quakers, `they come to the
gospel not as law, but as a market, cheapen what they
like best, and leave the rest for other customers.' ”

“The book where you found that, likewise tells you,
that `some people think their zeal lukewarm unless it
reduce their charity to ashes,' ” retorted Miss Sandford.

“ `One man among a thousand have I found; but a
woman among all those have I not found,' complains
Solomon; and he complains with reason,” said Doctor
Byles. “What have you to do with subjects above
your understanding, Madam Sandford?”

“Above my understanding!” echoed the offended
maiden; “I can tell you I began the controversy with
zeal, and stuck to it with perseverance.”

“Aye, no doubt you stuck like a fly in a glue-pot,”
retorted the Doctor. “Forward you could not stir, by
reason of weakness; and the subject matter was too
thick for you to dive into.”

“Heard ever any body the like of that?” said Miss
Sandford. “There is no use in talking with you, Doctor
Byles; but tell me in earnest, what can you prove
against the Quakers?”

“I know the secret of your taking up in their defence,”
answered the Doctor. “There was a friend Isaac, or a
friend Jacob, that once spoke soft words to thee, and
told thee that thy voice was more pleasant to him than
the sound of rivulets,—yea, than the voice of spring;
and you never could be grateful enough to him for the
unexampled favour.”

“True, there was—”

“Well, I don't want to hear the story. Tell it to
those who believe in love and ghosts. What do I know
of the Quakers! Haven't I attended their meetings?
I once heard a wise thing there. After having sat a
long time and said nothing, one was moved to speak
from Scripture; and he rose up, and said, `Oh ye
fools! when will you be wise?' and down he sat again;
and sat it was in Latin, as well as English. At another
meeting, I heard nine women speak; and all the sense
could have been packed in a robbin's egg. One of
their wise ones took for his text, `Art thou better than
populous No.' Every body knows that No means
Egyptian Alexandria; but his inward light taught him
that No was the eighth preacher of righteousness, and
he was called populous, because the whole world was in
his ark. Another said he was sent on a long journey by
the spirit, and when he returned, he told that the man
was not at home. `Thou fool,' said his wife, `dost
thou suppose the Lord would send thee to a man who
was not at home?' Another came to me, and would
fain inquire for Mr. Churchman; but the name being
profane in his eyes, he asked for Mr. Steeplehouseman.”

“You seem to be fighting shadows,” said Somerville,
since there are no Quakers here.”

“Only the ghost of Miss Sanford's only lover,” answered
the Doctor.

“I could set you right in that particular, if I had a
mind,” said Miss Sandford.

“Nobody ever supposed you had a mind,” retorted
Doctor Byles. “However, I never knew an old woman
that was not beautiful when she was young; I never
knew a woman that could not have been married if
she wished it; and I certainly never knew one but that
wished it, if she could.”

“But, concerning the Quakers,” observed Henry
Osborne,—“since there is so little of the genuine spirit
of religion in the world, is it worth while to throw any
away, because we find it diluted?”

“No man would be more unwilling to wound a really
tender conscience, than myself,” returned the clergyman;
“but when I see these foolish and blind guides
pretending to lead mankind, I lose all patience. But
come, my friend,” said he, turning to the boatman, “I
am willing to join in a psalm with you, though I did
hear one of your New Light preachers read: `He
rode into Jerusalem on the soal of an ass;' from which
he no doubt drew the certain conclusion that he had a
soul. But come let us sing a few verses; it will sound
well on the water.”

“You are a master hand for a minister,” observed the
pilot; “but folks do say you are better than you seem.”
Then, taking a psalm book from his pocket, he began,
“Let us sing a psalm of David.”

“No, no,” said the Doctor, displaying a piece of
writing,—“Let us sing a song of—Mather Byles”

The piece was well written, and those who knew his
character, did not doubt that the warm devotion it expressed
was perfectly sincere; still, the scene was irresistibly

ludicrous, even to the sober-minded Henry
Osborne. A smile went round when he first announced
his own production; and it could not but increase as he
proceeded,—for, at the end of every verse, he patiently
waited for his companion, who, with prolonged cadence
and nasal twang, brought up the demisemiquavers that
lingered most lamentably in the rear. The gayety of
the young people would have met with severe rebuke,
but just as the hymn was finished, Fort William, with
the red cross flag streaming from its summit, was seen
reflected in the unbroken surface of the water; and
scarcely had the oar ruffled its undisturbed beauty,
when a group on shore arrested their attention.

“The stamped paper has arrived,” exclaimed Henry
Osborne.

“And the infernal cargo is to be lodged at the castle,”
said Doctor Willard, springing on his feet.

“I know that the paper has not yet arrived,” replied
Somerville.

“And I will add my testimony to the same effect, if
the word of a tory can be believed,” said Doctor Byles.

“No one doubts Doctor Byles, when he condescends
to speak in earnest,” answered Henry Osborne; “but I
acknowledge I have great curiosity to know what those
people are collected for.”

“Let us go on shore,” said Somerville. “If the ladies
have any fear, I can order the guard out, in the
name of my uncle.”

The ladies would not acknowledge any fear, and the
proposal was readily accepted. Henry Osborne turned

to give his hand to Lucretia,—but Somerville had already
offered his services. Grace, too, unconsciously
glanced that way, before she took the proffered arm of
Doctor Willard, but suddenly retreated, when she met
the penetrating dark eye of the young officer. At a
convenient distance they paused, and watched the motions
of the party they wished to reconnoitre. Six men,
with bibles fastened on their necks by silken cords, stood
around a large hole, from which four others were trying
to raise something, by means of large iron levers. In
the midst of them stood Mr. Townsend, with his cap
pushed far back, and his spectacles on, examining the
rising treasure with intense earnestness.

“There is money in the case,” whispered Doctor
Byles; “else he of the clenched fist would not be
here.”

Something seemed to sink instantly; and the crow-bars
fell heavily upon the sand.

“Confound the voice that spoke,” exclaimed the miser.
“A week's labour is lost, and twenty thousand
crowns, and twelve ingots of gold.”

“How do you know the value of treasure you never
examined?” asked Somerville.

“That would be easier to tell, than why you come
here at midnight, to meddle with a poor old man, trying
to gain an honest penny to buy his bread,” said he;
and he looked at the sand which covered the lost chest,
till he sobbed with all the impotence of childish dotage.

“Step a little nearer, if it pleases you, Miss Fitzherbert,”
said Somerville.

The old man turned pale. “Is there a Fitzherbert
here,” muttered he; “no wonder that —”

“Strike the bar down, and ascertain its depth,”
interrupted Somerville, without regarding what he said.

“Young man,” said Mr. Townsend, “your services
an't asked. If there is money, it is of my finding.”

“It belongs to the crown, of course,” said the Englishman,
“if no owner is proved.”

Before the old man could reply, the bar was thrust
forcibly into the sand; but no metal echoed to the blow.

“There never was a chest here,” said one.

“We have been prying up a good-for-nothing rock,”
observed another.

“But where, in the devil's name, is the rock?”
asked a third.

As he spoke, a struggling was seen in the sand, and
a deep, low groan was heard. The ladies uttered a cry
of horror; the miser clasped his skeleton hands; and
the eyes of all present seemed starting from their
sockets. Again the mournful sound was heard, as if
from the very centre of the earth; and no longer attempting
to conceal their fear, the ring suddenly broke
up, and every individual departed. There was indeed
something terrific in the scene. The loneliness of the
hour, the gaunt figure of the miser, the mysterious silence,
that dismal and inexplicable groan, and that unaccountble
struggle in the sand, all conspired to produce a
dreadful effect upon their highly excited minds. However
fear and wonder gradually subsided. Doctor Byles
and the pilot joined in expressing their abhorrence of

such profane use of the Bible, Miss Sandford dwelt
long on her favourite theme of modern degeneracy, and
the conversation at length became as general and as
lively as before. Lucretia sought her pillow with a head
full of cheerful visions; Miss Sandford related the adventure
to Governor Hutchinson, and when she retired
to rest, she drew the coverlet over her face, quick as
thought, lest the growling spirit should appear at her
bed-side; and as Grace extinguished her light, she
gently wiped away a tear, after vainly attempting to
account for the capriciousness of Somerville.