University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

Massinger.

The day set apart for the nuptials of John Wilmeter and
Anna Updyke finally arrived. The ceremony was to take place
in a little church that had stood, time out of mind, in the
immediate neighbourhood of Timbully. This church was colonial
in its origin, and, while so much around it has undergone
vital changes, there stands that little temple, reared in honour
of God, in its simplicity, unpretending yet solid and durable
architecture, resembling, in all these particulars, the faith it was
erected to sustain. Among the other ways of the hour that are
worthy of our notice, the church itself has sustained many rude
shocks of late — shocks from within as well as from without.
The Father of Lies has been roving through its flocks with
renewed malice, damaging the shepherds, perhaps, quite as much
as the sheep, and doing things hitherto unheard of in the brief
annals of American Ecclesiastical History. Although we deeply
regret this state of things, we feel no alarm. The hand which
first reared this moral fabric will be certain to protect it as far as
that protection shall be for its good. It has already effected a
great reform. The trumpet is no longer blown in Zion in our
own honour; to boast of the effects of a particular discipline; to
announce the consequences of order, and of the orders; or, in
short, to proclaim a superiority that belongs only to the Head
of all the churches, let them be farther from, or nearer to, what

are considered distinctive principles. What the church is now
enduring the country itself most sadly wants, — a lesson in
humility; a distrust of self, a greater dependence on that wisdom
which comes, not from the voices of the people, not from the
ballot-boxes, not from the halls of senates, from heroes, god-likes,
or stereotyped opinions, but from above, the throne of the
Most High.

In one of those little temples reared by our fathers in the
days of the monarchy, when, in truth, greater republican simplicity
really reigned among us, in a thousand things, than reigns
to-day, the bridal party from Timbully was assembled at an early
hour of the morning. The company was not large, though it
necessarily included most of the nearest relatives of the bride and
groom. Dunscomb was there, as were Millington and his wife;
Dr. and Mrs. McBrain, of course, and two or three other relations
on the side of the bride's father, besides Mildred. It was
to be a private wedding, a thing that is fast getting to be forgotten.
Extravagance and parade have taken such deep root
among us that young people scarce consider themselves legally
united unless there are six bride's maids, one, in particular, to
“pull off the glove;” as many attendants of the other sex, and
some three or four hundred friends in the evening, to bow and
curtsy before the young couple, utter a few words of nonsense,
and go their way to bow and curtsy somewhere else.

There was nothing of this at Timbully, on that wedding-day.
Dunscomb and his nephew drove over from Rattletrap, early in
the morning, even while the dew was glittering on the meadows,
and Millington and his wife met them at a cross-road, less than
a mile from McBrain's country-house. The place of rendezvous
was at the church itself, and thither the several vehicles directed
their way. Dunscomb was just in time to hand Mildred from
her very complete travelling-carriage, of which the horses were
in a foam, having been driven hard all the way from town.

Last of all, appeared Stephen Hoof, driving the very respectable-looking
Rockaway of Mrs. McBrain—we were on the point of
writing his “master,” but there are no longer any `masters' in
New York. Stephen, himself, who had not a spark of pride,
except in his horses, and who was really much attached to the
person he served, always spoke of the doctor as his “boss.”
Jack Wilmeter, somewhat of a wag, had perplexed the honest
coachman, on a certain occasion, by telling him that “boss” was
the Latin for “ox,” and that it was beneath his dignity to be
using Pill and Pole-us (Bolus) to drag about “oxen.” But
Stephen recovered from this shock in due time, and has gone on
ever since, calling his master “boss.” We suppose this touch
of “republican simplicity” will maintain its ground along
with the other sacred principles that certain persons hold on to
so tightly that they suffer others, of real importance, to slip
through their fingers.

Stephen was proud of his office that day. He liked his new
mistress—there are no bossesses—and he particularly liked Miss
Anna. His horses were used a good deal more than formerly,
it is true; but this he rather liked too, having lived under the
régimes of the two first Mrs. McBrain. He was doubly satisfied
because his team came in fresh, without having a hair turned,
while that of Madam, as all the domestics now called Mildred,
were white with foam. Stephen took no account of the difference
in the distance, as he conceived that a careful coachman
would have had his “boss” up early enough to get over the
ground in due season, without all this haste. Little did he understand
the bossess that his brother-whip had to humour. She
paid high, and had things her own way.

Anna thought Stephen had never driven so fast as he did
that morning. The doctor handed her from the carriage, leading
her and his wife directly up to the altar. Here the party
was met by John and his uncle, the latter of whom facetiously

styled himself the “groomsman.” It is a ceremony much more
easily done than undone—great as the facilities for the last are
getting to be. In about five minutes, John Wilmeter and Anna
Updyke were pronounced to be “one flesh.” In five minutes
more, Jack had his sweet, smiling, happy, tearful bride, in his
own light vehicle, and was trotting away towards a pretty little
place in Westchester, that he owns, and which was all ready to
receive the young couple. The ponies seemed to understand
their duty, and soon carried the bride and bridegroom out of
sight.

“Them's awful trotters, them nags of Mr. Jack Wilmington's,”
said Stephen, as the double phaeton whirled away from the church
door, “and if Miss Anny doesn't disapprove on 'em, afore long,
I'm no judge of a team. I'm glad, however, the young gentleman
has married into our family, for he does like a hoss, and
the gentleman that likes a hoss commonly likes his vife.”

His remark was overheard by Dunscomb, though intended
only for the ears of the counsellor's coachman. It drew an answer,
as might have been foreseen.

“I am glad you approve of the connexion, Stephen,” said the
counsellor in his good-natured way. “It is a great satisfaction
to know that my nephew goes among friends.”

“Fri'nds, Sir! Admirers is a better tarm. I'm a downright
admirer of Mr. Jack, he 's sich tastes; always with his dog, or
his gun, or his hoss, in the country; and I dares to say, with
his books in town.”

“Not just all that, Stephen; I wish it were so; but truth
compels me to own that the young rogue thinks quite as much
of balls, and suppers, and tailors, and the opera, as he does of
Coke upon Lyttleton, or Blackstone and Kent.”

“Vell, that's wrong,” answered Stephen, “and I'll uphold
no man in vot's wrong, so long as I can do better. I know'd
both them racers, having heard tell on 'em at the time they vos

run, and I've heard good judges say, that timed the hosses, that
Kent come in neck and neck, if justice had been done. Mr.
Jack will rectify, and come to see the truth afore long—mattermony
will do that much for him. It's a great help to the seekers
arter truth, is mattermony, sir!”

“That is the reason you have so much of it at Timbully, I
suppose,” returned Dunscomb, nodding familiarly towards his
friend the Doctor, who had heard all that was said. “If matrimony
rectifies in this way, you must be three times right at
home, Stephen.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the coachman, nodding his head in
reply; “and when a body does better and better, as often as he
tries, there's no great harm in trying. Mr. Jack vill come
round, in time.”

“I dare say he will, Stephen, when he has sown all his wild
oats; though the dog pretends to like the Code, and what is
more, has the impudence to say he understands it.”

“Yes, sir, all wrong, I dares to say. But Miss Anna will set
him right, as a righter young lady never sat on the back seat of
a coach. I wish, now we're on the subject, 'Squire Dunscomb,
to hear your ra'al opinion about them vild oats; vether they be
a true thing, or merely a fancy consarning some vegetable that
looks like the true feed. I've often heard of sich things, but
never seed any.”

“Nor will you, Stephen, until the doctor turns short round,
and renews his youth. Then, indeed, you may see some of the
grain growing beneath your feet. It is doctor's food.

“Meshy, and good for the grinders of old hosses, I dares to
say.”

“Something of the sort. It's the harvest that age reaps from
the broad-east of youth. But we are keeping Mrs. McBrain
waiting. Stephen will take one less back with him, than he
brought, my dear lady.”

“I trust not. Mr. McBrain has given me reason to hope for
the pleasure of your company. Your nephew has carried off
my daughter; the least you can do is to come and console
me.”

“What is then to become of that dear, but unfortunate young
lady?” glancing towards Mildred.

“She goes with her relatives, the Millingtons. Next week,
we are all to meet at Rattletrap, you know.”

The next week the meeting took place, as appointed.

“Here I am,” cried Dunscomb, “truly and finally a bachelor,
again. Now for the reign of misrule, negligence, and bad house-keeping.
Sarah has left me; and John has left me; and Rattletrap
will soon become the chosen seat of discomfort and
cynicism.”

“Never the last, I should think,” answered Madame de Larocheforte,
gaily, “as long as you are its master. But why
should you dwell alone here, in your declining years — why may
I not come and be your housekeeper.”

“The offer is tempting, coming, as it does, from one who cannot
keep house for herself. But you think of returning to
Europe, I believe?”

“Never—or not so long as my own country is so indulgent to
us women!”

“Why, yes—you are right enough in that, Mildred. This is
woman's paradise, in a certain sense, truly; though much less
attention is paid to their weakness and wants, by the affluent,
than in other lands. In every Christian country but this, I believe,
a wife may be compelled to do her duty. Here she is free
as the air she breathes, so long as she has a care not to offend in
one essential. No, you are right to remain at home, in your
circumstances; that is to say, if you still insist on your mistaken
independence; a condition in which nature never intended your
sex to exist.”

“And yourself, sir! Did not nature as much intend that you
should marry, as another?”

“It did,” answered Dunscomb, solemnly; “and I would have
discharged the obligation, had it been in my power. You well
know why I have never been a husband — the happy parent of a
happy family.”

Mildred's eyes swam with tears. She had heard the history
of her grandmother's caprice, and had justly appreciated the
wrongs of Dunscomb. This it was not difficult for her to do, in
the case of third parties, even while so obtuse on the subject of
her own duties. She took the hand of her companion, by a
stealthy and unexpected movement, and raised it still more unexpectedly
to her lips. Dunscomb started; turned his quick
glance on her face, where he read all her contrition and regrets.
It was by these sudden exhibitions of right feeling, and correct
judgment, that Madame de Larocheforte was able to maintain
her position. The proofs of insanity were so limited in the
range of its influence, occurred so rarely, now she was surrounded
by those who really took an interest in her, and this not for the
sake of her money, but for her own sake, that her feelings had
become softened, and she no longer regarded men and women as
beings placed near her, to prey on her means and to persecute
her. By thus giving her affections scope, her mind was gradually
getting to be easier, and her physical existence improved.
McBrain was of opinion that, with care, and with due attention
to avoid excitement and distasteful subjects, her reason might
again be seated on its throne, and bring all the faculties of her
mind in subjection to it.

At length the time for the visit of the young people arrived.
Anxious to see happy faces assembled around him, Dunscomb
had got Mildred, the McBrains, and the Millingtons, at Rattletrap,
to do honour to the bride and groom. Good Mrs. Gott had
not been overlooked, and by an accident, Timms drove in at the

gate, just as the whole party, including Jack and his blooming
wife, were sitting down to a late breakfast. The counsellor welcomed
his man of all work, for habit renders us less fastidious
in our associations than most of us imagine.

Timms was very complimentary to both of the young couples,
and in a slight degree witty, agreeably to his own mode of regarding
the offspring of that effort of the imagination.

“What do you think of Williams's getting married, 'Squire
Dunscomb?” the attorney asked. “There's a man for matrimony!
He regards women and niggers as inferior beings.”

“Pray how do you regard them, Timms? The women only,
I suppose?”

“Oh! dear, no, 'Squire; as far as possible from that! I reverence
the ladies, without whom our state in this life would be —”

“Single — I suppose you wish to say. Yes, that is a very
sensible remark of yours — without women we should certainly
all get to be old bachelors, in time. But, Timms, it is proper
that I should be frank with you. Mildred de Larocheforte may
manage to get a divorce, by means of some of the quirks of the
law; but were she to be proclaimed single, by sound of trumpet,
she would never marry you.”

“You are sharp on me this morning, sir; no one but the lady,
herself, can say that.”

“There you are mistaken. I know it, and am ready to give
my reasons for what I say.”

“I should be pleased to hear them, sir — always respect your
reasoning powers, though I think no man can say who a lady
will or will not marry.”

“In the first place, she does not like you. That is one sufficient
reason, Timms —”

“Her dislike may be overcome, sir.”

“Her tastes are very refined. She dislikes her present husband
principally because he takes snuff.”

“I should have thought she might have discovered her feelings
on that subject, before she went so far.”

“Not as they manage matters in Europe. There, the suitor
is not permitted to kiss his intended, as so often happens among
ourselves, I fancy; and she had no opportunity of ascertaining
how unpleasant snuff is. You chew and smoke, and she will
endure neither.”

“I'll forswear both, rather than not be agreeable to dear
Mary Monson.”

“Ah! my poor Timms, I see you are deeper in this affair than
I had supposed. But I shall turn you over to Mrs. Gott, who
has promised to have an explanation with you, and who, I believe,
will speak by authority.”

Timms was not a little surprised to see his old master very
unceremoniously leave him, and the sheriff's wife occupy his place.

“'Squire Timms,” the latter commenced, without a moment's
hesitation, “we live in a very strange world, it must be admitted.
Gott says as much as this, and Gott is commonly right. He
always maintained he never should be called on to hang Mary
Monson.”

“Mr. Gott is a very prudent man, but he would do well to
take more care of his keys.”

“I have not been able to find out how that was done! Mary
laughs when I ask her, and says it was witchcraft; I sometimes
think it must have been something of the sort.”

“It was money, Mrs. Gott, which kept Goodwin concealed
to the last moment, and brought about half of all that happened.”

“You knew that Peter Goodwin was alive, and hid up at Mrs.
Horton's?”

“I was as much surprised, when he entered the court, as any one
there. My client managed it all for herself. She, and her gold.”

“Well, you have the credit of it, Timms, let me tell you, and

many in the county think it was very well done. I am your
friend, and ever have been. You stood by Gott like a man, at
his election, and I honour you for it. So I am about to give
you a great proof of my friendship. Give up all thoughts of
Mary Monson; she'll never have you.”

“What reasons have you for saying this?”

“In the first place, she is married already.”

“She may get a divorce. Besides, her present husband is
not a citizen. If I go to the senate, I intend to introduce a bill
to prevent any but citizens getting married. If foreigners want
wives, let them be naturalized!”

“You talk like a simpleton! Another reason why you should
not think of Mary Monson is that you are unsuited to be her
husband?”

“In what particular, I beg leave to ask?”

“Oh! in several. You are both too sharp, and would quarrel
about your wit, in the very first month,” returned Mrs. Gott,
laughing. “Take my advice, Timms, and cast your eyes on
some Duke's county young woman, who has a natur' more like
your own.”

Timms growled out a dissent to this very rational proposition,
but the discussion was carried on for some time longer. The
woman made an impression at last, and when the attorney left
the house, it was with greatly lessened hopes for the future, and
with greatly lessened zeal on the subject of the divorce.

It was singular, perhaps, that Mrs. Gott had not detected the
great secret of Mary Monson's insanity. So many persons are
going up and down the country, who are mad on particular subjects,
and same on most others, that it is not surprising the intelligence
and blandishments of a woman like Mildred should
throw dust into the eyes of one as simple-minded as Mrs. Gott.
With the world at large, indeed, the equivoque was kept up, and
while many thought the lady very queer, only a few suspected the
truth. It may be fortunate for most of us that writs of lunacy

are not taken out against us; few men, or women, being under
the control of a good, healthful reason at all times, and on all
subjects.

In one particular, Mad. de Larochefort was singularly situated.
She was surrounded, in her ordinary associations, with newly
married persons, who were each and all strenuously resolved to
regard the relation in the most favourable point of view! Perhaps
there is nothing on earth that so nearly resembles the pure
happiness of the blessed, as the felicity that succeeds the entire
union of two hearts that are wrapped up in each other. Such
persons live principally for themselves, regarding the world at
large as little more than their abiding place. The affinity of
feeling, the community of thought, the steadily increasing confdence
which, in the end, almost incorporates the moral existence
of two into one, are so many new and precious ties, that it is not
wonderful the novices believe they are transplanted to a new and
ethereal state of being. Such was, in a measure, the condition
of those with whom Mildred was now called on to associate most
intimately. It is true, that the state of the doctor and his wife
might be characterized as only happy, while those of the young
people amounted to absolute felicity. Mildred had experienced
none of the last, and very little of the first, on the occasion of her
own marriage, which had been entered into more as a contract
of reason, than a union of love. She saw how much she had
missed, and profound was the grief it occasioned her.

“You seem very happy,” she remarked one day to Anna, as
they were again threading the pretty little wood at Rattletrap—
“more than that—delighted would be a better word.”

“Jack is very kind to me, and the only complaint I have to
make of him is, that he is more fond of me than I deserve. I
tell him I tremble lest our happiness may not last!”

“Enjoy it while you may. It is so rare to find married persons
who are so completely devoted to each other, that it is
a pleasant sight to look upon. I never knew any of this, Anna.”

“I regret to hear it, dear mamma—it must be that you began
wrong. There should be a strong attachment before the nuptial
benediction is pronounced; then, with good hearts, and good
principles, I should think almost any woman might be content
with her fate.”

“It may be so,” returned Mildred, with a profound sigh; “I
suppose it must be so. We are created by God, to fulfil these
kind offices to each other, and to love our husbands; and there
must be something very wrong when different results follow.
For myself, I ought never to have married at all. My spirit is
too independent for matrimony.”

Anna was silent; for, possibly, she might have read “head-strong”
for “independent.” The most truly independent thinkers
are those who are willing to regard all sides of a subject, and
are not particularly wedded to one. Mildred was acute enough
to see that the beautiful young bride did not exactly like the
allusion she had made to her new character.

“You do not agree with me?” she demanded quickly, bending
forward to look into her companion's eyes.

“How can I, mamma Mildred! As I think no one, man or
woman, should have a spirit that disqualifies her for the duties
imposed by nature, which is merely the law of our great Creator,
how can I agree to your notion of so much independence. We
are not intended for all this independence, but have been placed
here to do honour to God, and to try to render each other happy.
I wish—but I am too bold, for one so young and inexperienced.”

“Speak freely, dear. I listen with pleasure — not to say with
curiosity.”

“I am afraid, dear mamma, that the great guide of human
conduct is not as much studied in France, as it should be. That
teaches us the great lesson of humility. Without humility we
are nothing — cannot be Christians — cannot love our neighbours
as ourselves — cannot even love God, as it is our duty, as we ought to do.”

“This is very strange, Anna, coming from one of your age!
Is it common for American girls to reason and feel in this way?”

“Perhaps not, though I hope more so than is commonly supposed.
You will remember what a mother it is my good fortune
to possess. But, since you really wish me to be frank with you,
let me finish what I have to say. I suppose you know, Mildred,
how much more you have to contend with than most of your sex?”

“Mons. de Larocheforte, you mean?”

“Not at all,” returned Mrs. John Wilmeter, slightly smiling.
“I put all thought of contention with a husband out of the question.
You know I have not been married long enough for that,
and I could almost hope that the first day of such a scene might
be the last of my life! John would cease to love me, if I quarrelled
with him.”

“You will be an extraordinary pair, my dear, if scenes, as you
call them, do not occasionally occur between you.”

“I do not expect faultlessness in Jack; and, as for myself, I
know that I have very many motes to get rid of, and which I
trust may, in a measure, be done. But let us return to the case
of a woman, young, well-educated, handsome, rich to superfluity,
and intellectual.”

“All of which are very good things, my child,” observed Mad.
de Larocheforte, with a smile so covert as to be scarcely seen,
though it betrayed to her companion the consciousness of her
making the application intended — “what next?”

“Wilful, a lover of power, and what she called independent.”

“Good and bad together. The two first, very bad, I acknowledge;
the last, very good.”

“What do you understand by independence? If it mean a
certain disposition to examine and decide for ourselves, under all
the obligations of duty, then it is a good thing, a very good thing,
as you say; but if it merely mean a disposition to do as one
pleases, to say what one likes, and to behave as one may at the
moment fancy, then it strikes me as a very bad thing. This independence,

half the time, is only pride and obstinacy, dear
mamma!”

“Well, what if it is? Men are proud and obstinate, too; and
they must be fought with their own weapons.”

“It is easy to make smart speeches, but, by the difficulties I
meet with in endeavouring to conquer my own heart, I know it
is very hard to do right. I know I am a very young monitress—”

“Never mind that. Your youth gives piquancy to your instructions.
I like to hear you.”

“Well, I will finish what I had to say. I have ever found
that the best assistant, or it might be more reverent to say, the
best mode of subduing error, was to comport ourselves with
humility. Ah! my dear mamma, if you could understand how
very strong the humble get to be in time, you would throw aside
your cherished independence, and rely on other means to secure
your happiness!”

Perhaps Mildred was as much struck with the circumstances
under which this rebuke or admonition was given as with the
advice itself. It had an effect, however, and Dunscomb coming
in aid of his niece, this singular woman was gradually drawn
from the exaggerated notions she had ever entertained of herself
and her rights to the contemplation of her duties, as they are
exercised in humility.

If there were no other evidence of the divine origin of the
rules of conduct taught by the Redeemer than the profound
knowledge of the human heart, that is so closely connected
with the great lessons in humility everywhere given in his
teachings, we conceive it would be sufficient in itself to establish
their claim to our reverence. If men could be made to feel how
strong they become in admitting their weaknesses; how clearly
they perceive truth, when conscious of gazing at its form amidst
the fogs of error; and how wise we may become by the consciousness
of ignorance, more than half of the great battle in
morals would be gained.

Humility was, indeed, a hard lesson for Mildred Millington
to study. Her whole life had been in direct opposition to its
precepts, and the great failing of her mind had a strong leaning
to a love of power. Nevertheless, there is a still, searching process
of correcting, so interwoven with the law of the New
Testament, as to be irresistible when brought to aid us, in the
manner prescribed by its own theory. No one knew this better
than Dunscomb; and he so directed the reading, thoughts and
feelings of his interesting charge, as to produce an early and a
very sensible change on her character. The tendency to insanity
is still there, and probably will ever remain; for it is not so
much the consequence of any physical derangement as of organization;
but it already promises to be so far controlled, as to
leave its unhappy subject, generally rational, and, for most of
her time, reasonably satisfied.

Dunscomb had several interviews with the vicomte — no-vicomte
— whom he found a much more agreeable person than he
had been prepared to meet, though certainly addicted to snuff.
He was made acquainted with the mental hallucinations of his
wife as well as with the fact of their being hereditary, when a
great change came over the spirit of his dream! He had
married to perpetuate the family de Larocheforte, but he had no
fancy for a race of madmen. Dunscomb found him very reasonable,
in consequence, and an arrangement was soon made, under
the advice of this able counsellor, by means of which Mildred
virtually became her own mistress. M. de Larocheforte accepted
an ample provision from the estate, and willingly returned to
Europe, a part of the world that is much more agreeable,
usually, to men of his class than our own “happy country.”
His absence has proved a great assistance to those who have
assumed the care of Mildred's mental state. As all the schemes
for a divorce have been discontinued,—schemes that could have
led to no strictly legal consequence,—and her husband has left
the country, the mind of Mildred has become calmer, and the

means have been found to bring her almost completely within
the control of her reason.

We have very little to say of the other characters. Timms is
still himself. He boasts of the fees he got in the great Mary
Monson case. His prospects for the state senate are far from
bad, and should he succeed, we shall expect to see him whining
about “republican simplicity,” abusing “aristocracy,” which in
his secret heart, means a clean shirt, clean nails, anti-tobacco
chewing and anti-blowing-the-nose-with-the-fingers, and aiding
anti-rentism. He is scamp enough for anything.

Williams is actually married, and, in reply to Timms's accounts
of the fees, he intimates that Peter Goodwin's ghost would not
have appeared, had he not “been choked off.” It ought to be
strange that these two men like to boast of their rascality; but
it is in obedience to a law of our nature. Their tongues merely
echo their thoughts.

The McBrains seem very happy. If the wife be an “old man s
darling,” it is not as a young woman. Dunscomb still calls her
“widow,” on occasions, but nothing can interrupt the harmony
of the friends. It is founded on mutual esteem and respect.

Michael and Sarah promise well. In that family, there is
already a boy, to its great-uncle's delight. The parents exult in
this gift, and both are grateful.

We care little for Jack Wilmeter, though a very good fellow,
in the main. Anna loves him, however, and that gives
him an interest in our eyes, he might not otherwise enjoy. His
charming wife is losing her superfluous enthusiasm in the realities
of life, but she seems to gain in womanly tenderness and
warmth of healthful feeling, precisely in the degree in which she
loses the useless tenant of her imagination.