 | CHAPTER VIII. Home as found |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
Gentle Octavia,
Let your best love draw to that point, which seeks
But to preserve it.
Antony and Cleopatra.
We shall not say it was an accident that brought
Paul and Eve side by side, and a little separated from
the others; for a secret sympathy had certainly exercised
its influence over both, and probably contributed
as much as any thing else towards bringing about the
circumstance. Although the Wigwam stood in the
centre of the village, its grounds covered several acres,
and were intersected with winding walks, and ornamented
with shrubbery, in the well-known English
style, improvements also of John Effingham; for, while
the climate and forests of America offer so many inducements
to encourage landscape gardening, it is the
branch of art that, of all the other ornamental arts, is
perhaps the least known in this country. It is true,
time had not yet brought the labours of the projector to
perfection, in this instance; but enough had been done
to afford very extensive, varied, and pleasing walks.
The grounds were broken, and John Effingham had
turned the irregularities to good account, by planting
and leading paths among them, to the great amusement
of the lookers-on, however, who, like true disciples
to calculate the cost of what they termed grading the
lawns, it being with them as much a matter of course
to bring pleasure grounds down to a mathematical surface,
as to bring a rail-road route down to the proper
level.
Through these paths, and among the irregularities,
groves, and shrubberies, just mentioned, the party began
to stroll; one group taking a direction eastward,
another south, and a third westward, in a way soon to
break them up into five or six different divisions.
These several portions of the company ere long got
to move in opposite directions, by taking the various
paths, and while they frequently met, they did not
often re-unite. As has been already intimated, Eve
and Paul were alone, for the first time in their lives,
under circumstances that admitted of an uninterrupted
confidential conversation. Instead of profiting immediately,
however, by this unusual occurrence, as many
of our readers may anticipate, the young man continued
the discourse, in which the whole party had
been engaged when they entered the gate that communicated
with the street.
“I know not whether you felt the same embarrassment
as myself, to-day, Miss Effingham,” he said,
“when the orator was dilating on the glories of the republic,
and on the high honours that accompany the
American name. Certainly, though a pretty extensive
traveller, I have never yet been able to discover that
it is any advantage abroad to be one of the `fourteen
millions of freemen.”'
“Are we to attribute the mystery that so long hung
over your birth-place, to this fact,” Eve asked, a little
pointedly.
“If I have made any seeming mystery, as to the
place of my birth, it has been involuntary on my part,
Miss Effingham, so far as you, at least, have been
concerned. I may not have thought myself authorized
but I am not conscious of aiming at any unusual concealments.
At Vienna, and in Switzerland, we met
as travellers; and now that you appear disposed to accuse
me of concealment, I may retort, and say that,
neither you nor your father ever expressly stated in
my presence that you were Americans.”
“Was that necessary, Mr. Powis?”
“Perhaps not; and I am wrong to draw a comparison
between my own insignificance, and the éclat
that attended you and your movements.”
“Nay,” interrupted Eve, “do not misconceive me.
My father felt an interest in you, quite naturally, after
what had occurred on the lake of Lucerne, and I believe
he was desirous of making you out a countryman,—a
pleasure that he has at length received.”
“To own the truth, I was never quite certain, until
my last visit to England, on which side of the Atlantic
I was actually born, and to this uncertainty,
perhaps, may be attributed some of that cosmopolitism
to which I made so many high pretensions in our late
passage.”
“Not know where you were born!” exclaimed Eve,
with an involuntary haste, that she immediately repented.
“This, no doubt, sounds odd to you, Miss Effingham,
who have always been the pride and solace of a
most affectionate father, but it has never been my good
fortune to know either parent. My mother, who was
the sister of Ducie's mother, died at my birth, and the
loss of my father even preceded hers. I may be said
to have been born an orphan.”
Eve, for the first time in her life, had taken his arm,
and the young man felt the gentle pressure of her
little hand, as she permitted this expression of sympathy
to escape her, at a moment she found so intensely
interesting to herself.
“It was, indeed, a misfortune, Mr. Powis, and I fear
who would feel a natural concern in your welfare.”
“The navy was my own choice; partly, I think,
from a certain love of adventure, and quite as much,
perhaps, with a wish to settle the question of my birth-place,
practically at least, by enlisting in the service
of the one that I first knew, and certainly best loved.”
“But of that birth-place, I understand there is now
no doubt?” said Eve, with more interest than she was
herself conscious of betraying.
“None whatever; I am a native of Philadelphia;
that point was conclusively settled in my late visit to
my aunt, Lady Dunluce, who was present at my birth.”
“Is Lady Dunluce also an American?”
“She is; never having quitted the country until after
her marriage to Colonel Ducie. She was a younger
sister of my mother's, and, notwithstanding some jealousies
and a little coldness that I trust have now disappeared,
I am of opinion she loved her; though one
can hardly answer for the durability of the family ties
in a country where the institutions and habits are as
artificial as in England.”
“Do you think there is less family affection, then, in
England than in America?”
“I will not exactly say as much, though I am of
opinion that neither country is remarkable in that way.
In England, among the higher classes, it is impossible
that the feelings should not be weakened by so many
adverse interests. When a brother knows that nothing
stands between himself and rank and wealth, but the
claims of one who was born a twelvemonth earlier
than himself, he gets to feel more like a rival than a
kinsman, and the temptation to envy or dislike, or even
hatred, sometimes becomes stronger than the duty to
love.”
“And yet the English, themselves, say that the services
rendered by the elder to the younger brother,
and the gratitude of the younger to the elder, are so
many additional ties.”
“It would be contrary to all the known laws of feeling,
and all experience, if this were so. The younger
applies to the elder for aid in preference to a stranger,
because he thinks he has a claim; and what man who
fancies he has a claim, is disposed to believe justice is
fully done him; or who that is required to discharge a
duty, imagines he has not done more than could be
properly asked?”
“I fear your opinion of men is none of the best, Mr.
Powis!”
“There may be exceptions, but such I believe to be
the common fate of humanity. The moment a duty
is created, a disposition to think it easily discharged
follows; and of all sentiments, that of a continued and
exacting gratitude is the most oppressive. I fear more
brothers are aided, through family pride, than through
natural affection.”
“What, then, loosens the tie among ourselves, where
no law of primogeniture exists?”
“That which loosens every thing. A love of change
that has grown up with the migratory habits of the
people; and which, perhaps, is, in some measure, fostered
by the institutions. Here is Mr. Bragg to confirm
what I say, and we may hear his sentiments on
this subject.”
As Aristabulus, with whom walked Mr. Dodge, just
at that moment came out of the shrubbery, and took
the same direction with themselves, Powis put the
question, as one addresses an acquaintance in a room.
“Rotation in feelings, sir,” returned Mr. Bragg, “is
human nature, as rotation in office is natural justice.
Some of our people are of opinion that it might be
useful could the whole of society be made periodically
to change places, in order that every one might know
how his neighbour lives.”
“You are, then, an Agrarian, Mr. Bragg?”
“As far from it as possible; nor do I believe you
will find such an animal in this county. Where
go, as long as we can hold on, sir; but, beyond this,
we like lively changes. Now, Miss Effingham, every
body thinks frequent changes of religious instructors,
in particular, necessary. There can be no vital piety
without keeping the flame alive with excitement.”
“I confess, sir, that my own reasoning would lead
to a directly contrary conclusion, and that there can
be no vital piety, as you term it, with excitement.”
Mr. Bragg looked at Mr. Dodge, and Mr. Dodge
looked at Mr. Bragg. Then each shrugged his shoulders,
and the former continued the discourse.
“That may be the case in France, Miss Effingham,”
he said, “but, in America, we look to excitement as
the great purifier. We should as soon expect the air
in the bottom of a well to be elastic, as that the moral
atmosphere shall be clear and salutary, without the
breezes of excitement. For my part, Mr. Dodge, I
think no man should be a judge, in the same court,
more than ten years at a time, and a priest gets to be
rather common-place and flat after five. There are
men that may hold out a little longer, I acknowledge;
but to keep real, vital, soul-saving regeneration stirring,
a change should take place as often as once in
five years, in a parish; that is my opinion, at least.”
“But, sir,” rejoined Eve, “as the laws of religion
are immutable, the modes by which it is known universal,
and the promises, mediation, and obligations
are every where the same, I do not see what you propose
to gain by so many changes.”
“Why, Miss Effingham, we change the dishes at
table, and no family of my acquaintance, more than
this of your honourable father's; and I am surprised
to find you opposed to the system.”
“Our religion, sir,” answered Eve, gravely, “is a
duty, and rests on revelation and obedience; while our
diet may, very innocently, be a matter of mere taste,
or even of caprice, if you will.”
“Well, I confess I see no great difference, the main
object in this life being to stir people up, and to go
ahead. I presume you know, Miss Eve, that many
people think that we ought to change our own parson,
if we expect a blessing on the congregation.”
“I should sooner expect a curse would follow an
act of so much heartlessness, sir. Our clergyman has
been with us since his entrance into the duties of his
holy office, and it will be difficult to suppose that the
Divine favour would follow the commission of so selfish
and capricious a step, with a motive no better than
the desire for novelty.”
“You quite mistake the object, Miss Eve, which is
to stir the people up; a hopeless thing, I fear, so long
as they always sit under the same preaching.”
“I have been taught to believe that piety is increased,
Mr. Bragg, by the aid of the Holy Spirit's sustaining
and supporting us in our good desires; and I cannot
persuade myself that the Deity finds it necessary to
save a soul, by the means of any of those human
agencies by which men sack towns, turn an election,
or incite a mob. I hear that extraordinary scenes are
witnessed in this country, in some of the other sects;
but I trust never to see the day, when the apostolic,
reverend, and sober church, in which I have been nurtured,
shall attempt to advance the workings of that
Divine power, by a profane, human hurrah.”
All this was Greek to Messrs. Dodge and Bragg,
who, in furthering their objects, were so accustomed
to “stirring people up,” that they had quite forgotten
that the more a man was in “an excitement,” the less
he had to do with reason. The exaggerated religious
sects, which first peopled America, have had a strong
influence in transmitting to their posterity false notions
on such subjects; for while the old world is accustomed
to see Christianity used as an ally of government, and
perverted from its one great end to be the instrument
of ambition, cupidity, and selfishness, the new world
and to run into nearly as many errors in the opposite
extreme. The two persons just mentioned, had been
educated in the provincial school of religious notions,
that is so much in favour, in a portion of this country;
and they were striking examples of the truth of the
adage, that “what is bred in the bone will be seen in
the flesh,” for their common character, common in this
particular at least, was a queer mixture of the most
narrow superstitions and prejudices, that existed under
the garb of religious training, and of unjustifiable
frauds, meannesses, and even vices. Mr. Bragg was
a better man than Mr. Dodge, for he had more self-reliance,
and was more manly; but, on the score of religion,
he had the same contradictory excesses, and
there was a common point, in the way of vulgar vice,
towards which each tended, simply for the want of
breeding and tastes, as infallibly as the needle points
to the pole. Cards were often introduced in Mr.
Effingham's drawing-room, and there was one apartment
expressly devoted to a billiard-table; and many
was the secret fling, and biting gibe, that these pious
devotees passed between themselves, on the subject of
so flagrant an instance of immorality, in a family of
so high moral pretensions; the two worthies not unfrequently
concluding their comments by repairing to
some secret room in a tavern, where, after carefully
locking the door, and drawing the curtains, they would
order brandy, and pass a refreshing hour in endeavouring
to relieve each other of the labour of carrying
their odd sixpences, by means of little shoemaker's
loo.
On the present occasion, however, the earnestness
of Eve produced a pacifying effect on their consciences,
for, as our heroine never raised her sweet voice above
the tones of a gentlewoman, its very mildness and softness
gave force to her expressions. Had John Effingham
uttered the sentiments to which they had just listened,
but, under the circumstances, he preferred making
his bow, and diverging into the first path that
offered, followed by his companion. Eve and Paul
continued their circuit of the grounds, as if no interruption
had taken place.
“This disposition to change is getting to be universal
in the country,” remarked the latter, as soon as
Aristabulus and his friend had left them, “and I consider
it one of the worst signs of the times; more especially
since it has become so common to connect it
with what it is the fashion to call excitement.”
“To return to the subject which these gentlemen
interrupted,” said Eve, “that of the family ties; I have
always heard England quoted as one of the strongest
instances of a nation in which this tie is slight, beyond
its aristocratical influence; and I should be sorry to
suppose that we are following in the footsteps of our
good-mother, in this respect at least.”
“Has Mademoiselle Viefville never made any remark
on this subject?”
“Mademoiselle Viefville, though observant, is discreet.
That she believes the standard of the affections
as high in this as in her own country, I do not think;
for, like most Europeans, she believes the Americans
to be a passionless people, who are more bound up in
the interests of gain, than in any other of the concerns
of life.”
“She does not know us!” said Paul so earnestly as
to cause Eve to start at the deep energy with which
he spoke. “The passions lie as deep, and run in currents
as strong here, as in any other part of the world,
though, there not being as many factitious causes to
dam them, they less seldom break through the bounds
of propriety.”
For near a minute the two paced the walk in silence,
and Eve began to wish that some one of the party
would again join them, that a conversation which she
But no one crossed their path again, and without rudeness,
or affectation, she saw no means of effecting her
object. Paul was too much occupied with his own
feelings to observe his companion's embarrassment,
and, after the short pause mentioned, he naturally pursued
the subject, though in a less emphatic manner
than before.
“It was an old, and a favourite theory, with the Europeans,”
he said, with a sort of bitter irony, “that all
the animals of this hemisphere have less gifted natures
than those of the other; nor is it a theory of which
they are yet entirely rid. The Indian was supposed
to be passionless, because he had self-command; and
what in the European would be thought exhibiting the
feelings of a noble nature, in him has been represented
as ferocity and revenge. Miss Effingham, you and I
have seen Europe, have stood in the presence of its
wisest, its noblest and its best; and what have they to
boast beyond the immediate results of their factitious
and laboured political systems, that is denied to the
American—or rather would be denied to the American,
had the latter the manliness and mental independence,
to be equal to his fortunes?”
“Which, you think he is not.”
“How can a people be even independent that imports
its thoughts, as it does its wares,—that has not
the spirit to invent even its own prejudices?”
“Something should be allowed to habit, and to the
influence of time. England, herself, probably has inherited
some of her false notions, from the Saxons and
Normans.”
“That is not only possible, but probable; but England,
in thinking of Russia, France, Turkey, or Egypt,
when induced to think wrong, yields to an English,
and not to an American interest. Her errors are at
least requited, in a degree, by serving her own ends,
whereas ours are made, too often, to oppose our most
when stimulated by some strong and pressing moneyed
concern, and not often then beyond the plainest of its
effects.—Here is one, apparently, who does not belong
to our party.”
Paul interrupted himself, in consequence of their
meeting a stranger in the walk, who moved with the
indecision of one uncertain whether to advance or to
recede. Rockets frequently fell into the grounds, and
there had been one or two inroads of boys, which had
been tolerated on account of the occasion; but this
intruder was a man in the decline of life, of the condition
of a warm tradesman seemingly, and he clearly
had no connection with sky-rockets, as his eyes were
turned inquiringly on the persons of those who passed
him, from time to time, none of whom had he stopped,
however, until he now placed himself before Paul and
Eve, in a way to denote a desire to speak.
“The young people are making a merry night of it,”
he said, keeping a hand in each coat-pocket, while he
unceremoniously occupied the centre of the narrow
walk, as if determined to compel a parley.
Although sufficiently acquainted with the unceremonious
habits of the people of the country to feel no
surprise at this intrusion, Paul was vexed at having
his tête à tête with Eve so rudely broken; and he answered
with more of the hauteur of the quarter-deck,
than he might otherwise have done, by saying coldly—
“Perhaps, sir, it is your wish to see Mr. Effingham
—or—” hesitating an instant, as he scanned the stranger's
appearance—“some of his people. The first
will soon pass this spot, and you will find most of the
latter on the lawn, watching the rockets.”
The man regarded Paul a moment, and then he removed
his hat respectfully.
“Please, sir, can you inform me if a gentleman
called Captain Truck—one that sails the packets between
New-York and England, is staying at the Wigwam
at present.”
Paul told him that the captain was walking with
Mr. Effingham, and that the next pair that approached
would be they. The stranger fell back,
keeping his hat respectfully in his hand, and the two
passed.
“That man has been an English servant, but has
been a little spoiled by the reaction of an excessive
liberty to do as he pleases. The “please, sir,” and the
attitude can hardly be mistaken, while the nonchalance
of his manner “à nous aborder” sufficiently betrays
the second edition of his education.”
“I am curious to know what this person can want
with our excellent captain—it can scarcely be one of
the Montauk's crew!”
“I will answer for it, that the fellow has not enough
seamanship about him to whip a rope,” said Paul,
laughing; “for if there be two temporal pursuits that
have less affinity than any two others, they are those
of the pantry and the tar-bucket. I think it will be
seen that this man has been an English servant, and
he has probably been a passenger on board some ship
commanded by our honest old friend.”
Eve and Paul now turned, and they met Mr. Effingham
and the captain just as the two latter reached the
spot where the stranger still stood.
“This is Captain Truck, the gentleman for whom
you inquired,” said Paul.
The stranger looked hard at the captain, and the
captain looked hard at the stranger, the obscurity
rendering a pretty close scrutiny necessary, to enable
either to distinguish features. The examination seemed
to be mutually unsatisfactory, for each retired a little,
like a man who had not found a face that he knew.
“There must be two Captain Trucks, then, in the
trade,” said the stranger; “this is not the gentleman
I used to know.”
“I think you are as right in the latter part of your
remark, friend, as you are wrong in the first,” returned
no more two Captain Trucks in the English trade, than
there are two Miss Eve Effinghams, or two Mrs. Hawkers
in the universe. I am John Truck, and no other
man of that name ever sailed a ship between New-York
and England, in my day, at least.”
“Did you ever command the Dawn, sir?”
“The Dawn! That I did; and the Regulus, and the
Manhattan, and the Wilful Girl, and the Deborah-Angelina,
and the Sukey and Katy, which, my dear
young lady, I may say, was my first love. She was
only a fore-and-after, carrying no standing topsail,
even, and we named her after two of the river girls,
who were flyers, in their way; at least, I thought so
then; though a man by sailing a packet comes to alter
his notions about men and things, or, for that matter,
about women and things, too. I got into a category,
in that schooner, that I never expect to see equalled;
for I was driven ashore to windward in her, which is
gibberish to you, my dear young lady, but which Mr.
Powis will very well understand, though he may not
be able to explain it.”
“I certainly know what you mean,” said Paul,
“though I confess I am in a category, as well as the
schooner, so far as knowing how it could have happened.”
“The Sukey and Katy ran away with me, that's
the upshot of it. Since that time I have never consented
to command a vessel that was called after two
of our river young women, for I do believe that one
of them is as much as a common mariner can manage.
You see, Mr. Effingham, we were running along a weather-shore,
as close in as we could get, to be in the
eddy, when a squall struck her a-beam, and she luffed
right on to the beach. No helping it. Helm hard up,
peak down, head sheets to windward, and main sheet
flying, but it was all too late; away she went plump
ashore to windward. But for that accident, I think I
might have married.”
“And what connexion could you find between matrimony
and this accident, captain?” demanded the
laughing Eve.
“There was an admonition in it, my dear young
lady, that I thought was not to be disregarded. I
tried the Wilful Girl next, and she was thrown on her
beam-ends with me; after which I renounced all female
names, and took to the Egyptian.”
“The Egyptian!”
“Certainly, Regulus, who was a great snake-killer,
they tell me, in that part of the world. But I never
saw my way quite clear as bachelor, until I got the
Dawn. Did you know that ship, friend?”
“I believe, sir, I made two passages in her while
you commanded her.”
“Nothing more likely; we carried lots of your
countrymen, though mostly forward of the gangways.
I commanded the Dawn more than twenty years ago.”
“It is all of that time since I crossed with you, sir;
you may remember that we fell in with a wreck, ten
days after we sailed, and took off her crew and two
passengers. Three or four of the latter had died with
their sufferings, and several of the people.”
“All this seems but as yesterday! The wreck was
a Charleston ship, that had started a butt.”
“Yes, sir—yes, sir—that is just it—she had started,
but could not get in. That is just what they said at
the time. I am David, sir—I should think you cannot
have forgotten David.”
The honest captain was very willing to gratify the
other's harmless self-importance, though, to tell the
truth, he retained no more personal knowledge of
the David of the Dawn, than he had of David, King
of the Jews.
“Oh, David!” he cried, cordially—“are you David?
Well, I did not expect to see you again in this world,
though I never doubted where we should be, hereafter.
I hope you are very well, David; what sort of weather
aright, you worked your passage;—never at
sea before.”
“I beg your pardon, sir; I never was at sea before
the first time, it is true; but I did not belong to the
crew. I was a passenger.”
“I remember, now, you were in the steerage,”
returned the captain, who saw daylight ahead.
“Not at all, sir, but in the cabin.”
“Cabin!” echoed the captain, who perceived none
of the requisites of a cabin-passenger in the other—
“Oh! I understand, in the pantry?”
“Exactly so, sir. You may remember my master—
he had the left-hand state-room to himself, and I slept
next to the scuttle-butt. You recollect master, sir?”
“Out of doubt, and a very good fellow he was. I
hope you live with him still?”
“Lord bless you, sir, he is dead!”
“Oh! I recollect hearing of it, at the time. Well,
David, I hope if ever we cross again, we shall be
ship-mates once more. We were beginners, then, but
we have ships worth living in, now.—Good night.”
“Do you remember Dowse, sir, that we got from
the wreck?” continued the other, unwilling to give up
his gossip so soon. “He was a dark man, that had
had the small-pox badly. I think, sir, you will recollect
him, for he was a hard man in other particulars,
besides his countenance.”
“Somewhat flinty about the soul; I remember the
man well; and so, David, good night; you will come and
see me, if you are ever in town. Good night, David.”
David was now compelled to leave the place, for
Captain Truck, who perceived that the whole party
was getting together again, in consequence of the halt,
felt the propriety of dismissing his visiter, of whom,
his master, and Dowse, he retained just as much recollection
as one retains of a common stage-coach companion
after twenty years. The appearance of Mr.
aided the manœuvre, and, in a few minutes the different
groups were again in motion, though some slight
changes had taken place in the distribution of the parties.
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