University of Virginia Library

1. NORMAN LESLIE.

1. CHAPTER I.

A brilliant January morning broke over the
beautiful city of New-York. Her two magnificent
rivers came sweeping and sparkling down into her
immense bay, which, bound in like a lake on every
side with circling shores, rolled and flashed in the
unclouded sunshine. The town itself rose directly
from the bosom of the flood, presenting a scene of
singular splendour, which, when the western continent
shall be better known to European tourists,

will be acknowledged to lose nothing by comparison
with the picturesque views of Florence or Naples.
Her tapering spires, her domes, cupolas, and housetops,
her forest of crowded masts, lay bristling and
shining in the transparent atmosphere, and beneath
a heaven of deep and unstained blue. The lovely
waters which washed three sides of the city were
covered with ships of all forms, sizes, and nations;
delighting the eye with images of grace, animation,
and grandeur. Huge vessels of merchandise lay
at rest, in large numbers, all regularly swayed
round from their anchors into a uniform position by
the heavy tide setting from the rivers to the sea.
Others, leaning to the wind, their swollen and
snowy canvass broadly spread for their flight over
the vast ocean, bounded forward, like youth, bright
and confident against the future. Some, entering
sea-beaten and weary from remote parts of the
globe, might be likened, by the contemplative, to
age and wisdom, pitying their bold compeers about
to encounter the roar and storm from which they
themselves were so glad to escape: and yet, to
carry the simile further, even as the human mind,
which experience does not always enlighten or adversity
subdue, ready, after a brief interval of idleness
and repose, to forget the past, and refit themselves
for enterprise and danger. Hundreds, whose
less perilous duties lay within the gates of the harbour,
plied to and fro in every direction, crossing
and recrossing each other, and enlivening with delightful
animation the broad and busy scene. Of
these small craft, indeed, the waves were for ever
whitened with an incredible number, in the midst
of which thundered heavily the splendid and enormous
steamers, beautifully formed to shoot through
the flood with arrowy swiftness, their clean bright
colours shining in the sun, bearing sometimes a
thousand persons on excursions of business and
pleasure, spouting forth fire and steam like the
monstrous dragons of fable, and leaving long tracks
of smoke on the blue heaven. Among other evidences
of a great maritime power, reposed several
giant vessels of war,—those stern, tremendous
messengers of the deep, formed to waft, on the
wings of heaven, the thunderbolt of death across
the solemn world of waters; but now lying, like
fortresses, motionless on the tide, and ready to bear
over the globe the friendly pledges or the grave
demands of a nation which, in the recollection of
some of its surviving citizens, was a submissive
colony, without power and without a name. You
might deem the magnificent city, thus extended
upon the flood, Venice, when that wonderful republic
held the commerce of the world. In a
greater degree, indeed, than London, notwithstanding
the superior amount of shipping possessed by
the latter, New-York at first strikes the stranger
entering into its harbour with signs of commercial
prosperity and wealth. In the mighty British metropolis,
the vessels lie locked in dockyards, or half
buried under fog and smoke. The narrow Thames
presents little more than that portion actually in
motion; and, in a sail from Margate to town, the
vast number are seen only in succession; but here,
the whole crowded, broad, and moving panorama
breaks at once upon the eye; and through a perfectly
pure and bright atmosphere, nothing can be
more striking and exquisite.

It was a frosty winter morning, and the general
splendour of the scene was heightened by the fact
that, for some days previous, a heavy fall of snow
had come down silently and thickly from heaven,
without wind and without rain. The whole picture
was now glittering with tracts of stainless white.

The roofs were hidden beneath fleecy masses.
The trees were cased with brilliant lustre, and held
out their naked branches sparkling in the sun.
The shores, sloping down to the water's edge,
leaned brightly to the beams of morning. Even
the waves themselves bore on their bosoms, urged
gently along, and dashed ever and anon against
each other, thick cakes of snow-covered ice, which
had drifted down from the rivers, but yet not in
sufficient quantities to interrupt the navigation.
The roar and thunder of the town could be heard
from the bay, as the hundreds of thousands of her
citizens awoke to their accustomed occupations.
The shouts of artisans and tradesmen, the clink of
hammers from the thronged and busy wharves and
shipyards, the inspiring “heave-yoes” with which
the brawny tars cheered their labours amid the
mass of shipping (itself a city), the clanging of
hoofs, the shuffling of feet, the ringing of bells, the
clash of voices, and all the medley of sounds peculiar
to the newly-awakened concourse of a vast and
growing population, rose cheerfully on the air.
Wherever the eye wandered, it met only scenes of
bustle, haste, gayety, and earnest occupation.

But if the exterior of the city presented so lively
a picture, the interior was yet more inspiriting.
Broadway, the principal street, was now the centre
of one of those gay and giddy scenes known only
to the inhabitants of cold countries, and which to
many offer greater attractions than the odoriferous
vales and plains of Italy or Asia. True, those
romantic climes where the human race enjoy a
temperature so mild and pleasant as to permit of
their almost dwelling in the open air even in the
coldest season, have, in their softer charms, something
unspeakably sweet and alluring. Those evergreen
valleys, those luxuriant hills, those rich

slopes, clothed with the most gorgeous fruits and
the tenderest and deepest verdure, and, more than
all, those gentle and transparent skies, seem beneficently
designed for man in his more uncivilized
state, or for the poor. It must be delightful for the
penniless, the aged, and the houseless, unable to
procure clothing or fuel, to find the dawn ever
diffusing a genial and balmy warmth over nature.
The tenant of the rude and scantily furnished hut
flings open his window and admits the fragrant
sweets. Mere day is to them a gift and a blessing;
the sun is their cloak and their fire. Those
old Italian landscapes, with the warm yellow light
gleaming deliciously in through an open casement,
are finely characteristic. But are we not apt to
magnify the advantages of this universal and perpetual
blandness of heaven? True, the half-clad
fisherman flings himself carelessly down, and sleeps
upon the beach; the beggar lies stretched against
a sunny wall, drying the night-dews from his tattered
garments, and partaking in peace the slumbers
which he could not enjoy beneath the less
benignant influence of the stars; the wrinkled and
time-stricken dames, “the spinsters and the knitters
in the sun,” bring their work in front of their
cottages, and, to see them, the pilgrim from a
northern clime fancies them happy as the children
of Eden. But I doubt whether the vigorous and
enlivening joys of winter are not more conducive
to health and happiness. An Italian vale, breathing
its sweetest odours, and sparkling under its pleasantest
sunshine, is but a dull picture compared with
Broadway on the bright morning after a heavy fall
of snow. No scene can be more full of life and
action. Every thing appears in a whirl of delight.
A spirit of joy and impulse hangs in the air, pervades
all the city, and pours its fires through the
veins of every living creature. The exhilarating
atmosphere braces the limbs, quickens the step,
flushes the cheek, fills the eye with lustre, puts aside
care, thought, and dulness, and produces a high
state of animal enjoyment. Those old snowstorms
have unfortunately of later years made their merry
visits less frequently. The fleecy world now descends
in smaller quantities, and disappears in a
shorter period. I can fancy the rising generation
smiling when we, of the old school, lament the
forms and fashions of the last century. The young
rogues, peradventure, may be amused by wondering
what value we can attach to a powdered queue
or a plaited wristband; but, by this hand! when
the elements themselves alter and remould their
usages—when seasons roll in different shapes, when
honest old Winter, instead of striding forward, as
was his wont, wrapped in cloak and fur, his cheek
glowing with the cold, and the sparry icicle glittering
around his cap and beard, steals forward with
only a fashionable mantle and an umbrella—
Heaven save the mark! we may well lament. I
cannot write calmly of those glorious old snowstorms.

One of them had now descended upon New-York,
and the inhabitants, as the day advanced,
seemed conscious of no other earthly object than the
enjoyment of sleighing. Countless throngs of the
wealthiest and most fashionable were gathered into
that broad and beautiful street, which extends three
or four miles in a line straight as an arrow, its long
vista of elegant houses remarkable for their uniform
aspect of affluence and comfort, and presenting, in
their extreme neatness, and, particularly, in the
beauty of their entrances, a striking contrast to the
street views of Paris, with only two exceptions,
and to those of other continental cities without any.

Its world of lovely women were abroad. Such
rosy cheeks, such melting eyes, as passed up and
down that dazzling day! Hundreds of sleighs,
drawn sometimes by one horse and sometimes by
four, darted by each other with the swiftness of a
bird's sweep; the princely horses, fired with the
air and the scene, neighing, tossing their heads,
champing their bits, and leaping on their way, mad
as Bucephalus, every mother's son of them—the
bells around their necks ringing out a music as
merry and soul-stirring as the blast of a trumpet.
An amusement so heartily entered into by the
wealthy classes soon assumes an artificial hue of
taste. The choice of horses became a matter of
the utmost ambition, and the sleighs were wrought
into every form devisable by an elegant or a fantastic
fancy. Now swept by a painted boat, and
now a classic chariot: here darted a pearly shell, fit
to bear Venus over the waves; and there, an ocean
car, from which father Neptune might have appropriately
guided the dolphins and winged horses
of the sea. Nowhere are there more lovely women
than in those American cities. They contribute
largely to the fascination of this exciting sport; and
neither at the ball, nor the theatre, nor the midnight
revel, do they appear more beautiful than here.
Their graceful and glowing faces float by with a
rapidity which prevents all criticism, if not all
comparison. The gaze is bewildered with an endless
succession of lovely lips and radiant smiles,
and eyes which the young and sensitive of the
other sex, with the fidelity characteristic of ardour
and youth, might remember for ever, but that
each succeeding glance heals the wound received
from the last. In the midst of this gay and noisy
scene, the pedestrians along the spacious sidewalks
found their interest so much excited by
the vast number, variety, and beauty of the equipages,
and their charming groups, that the pavements,
in their long extent, were lined with animated
spectators—some lounging slowly onward, as
if reluctantly withdrawing from such a pleasing
spectacle, while many remained stationary, watching
each bright car as it went ringing and flashing
by, and commenting upon each passing company.

“See, Leslie—look yonder!” cried a fashionably-dressed
young man to his companion, whose finely-proportioned
figure and extremely handsome face
had attracted more than one pair of those mischievous
eyes we spoke of. “Do you not see her?
There—behind the yellow sleigh—in that green
sea-shell, with those superb horses! Do you not
catch a glimpse of her now?—they have stopped
to address that party.”

“Yes,” said the other, “you are right. What a
queenly woman!”

“How she glows in this bracing air, and seems
to exult in the mere act of living! Her cheeks
put poetry to shame! I wish I were a painter,
Leslie.”

“There are painters a plenty,” rejoined Leslie,
“who would despair by the face of Mrs. Temple.
You must be a cunning artist indeed to catch that
smile—that air—that expression. To-day she looks
actually radiant. Those eyes must have made
hearts ache in their time.”

“They make mine ache yet,” said Howard.

“Is not that Flora, with her head turned away?”

The sleigh which they had been observing now
swiftly approached, and dashed by over the hard-pressed
snow, discovering a nearer view of a
gentleman and two ladies: the former a man of
style and ton, though somewhat advanced in years
—the ladies, an extremely fine-looking woman,

magnificently dressed, whose age one might scarcely
venture to suppose, so brilliantly did the charms of
youth and gayety linger around her person; the
other, a fair girl of exceeding beauty—her rich
complexion heightened by air and exercise—whose
bewitching smile and laughing blue eyes, having
already intoxicated half the Broadway exquisites,
boded no good to the susceptibilities of our young
loungers. Greetings were graciously interchanged
as they flew by; and the two friends uncovered
their heads, with that air of heartfelt homage with
which gay and ardent young men return the smile
and salutation of the loveliest of the reigning belles.

“I would I had lived in the days of good old
Greece,” exclaimed Howard, “when the chisel of
Praxiteles made marble breathe.”

“I had rather live in the good old town of Manahatta,
after a merry snowstorm like this,” replied
Leslie. “But why your wish?”

“That I might have Flora Temple wrought in
Parian for my gallery. To have that exquisite
Psyche face in marble—immutable—immortal
marble—never to be changed by sickness—by care
—by time. I would spend hours by it daily, worshipping.”

“Do you know, Howard,” said Leslie, “I think
that `Psyche face' of yours a very expressive
phrase?”

“And, pray, the why and the wherefore?”

“Because it illustrates the soul,” returned Leslie,
warmly, “which peculiarly marks the expression
of Miss Temple's face.”

“But look, yonder comes another!” said Howard.

“Old Mr. Romain and his daughter,” added
Leslie; “another subject for your Parian. But no
Psyche there.”

A stately creature, with a face that might have

been Cleopatra's in her girlhood, bowed smilingly
to the two young men, and directed to them the attention
of her father.

“After all,” exclaimed Howard, as they disappeared
amid the throng of sleighs, “I do not know
but those large eyes of Rosalie Romain's eclipse
them all.”

“She is one of your bewildering girls,” said
Leslie, “whom it would be prudent for such young
gentlemen as you to beware of.”

“Too late, my friend; your caution, as good advice
very often does, comes quite too late. Her
first smile is as fatal as Kate Kearney's. But, by-the-way,
Leslie, they say that you—”

“Nonsense—'tis not true,” interrupted Leslie;
“so they give you to Flora Temple—”

“Ha!” said Howard, affectedly, with a volume
of egotistical implication in the motion of his chin
(nothing more eloquent than your chin)—“as improbable
things might happen! But where is my
rascal? I bade him drive up and meet me as soon
as possible. The loitering scoundrel! I hope those
mettlesome fellows of mine have played him no
trick.”

“What is doing yonder?” said Leslie; “is some
one holding a levee in the open air this cold
morning?”

“I wager my life,” cried Howard, “that the
sleigh around which the others are all crowding so
eagerly contains that d—d French count.”

“His lordship, true enough, at full length,” added
Leslie, “coated like a Russian emperor, and showing
off those four fiery animals to everybody's admiration.”

“And envy,” said Howard. “That fop, now,
could marry any of those blooming belles at ten
minutes' notice.”

“You do your countrywomen injustice,” replied
his friend, dryly.

“But here comes the pretty Helen Mellerie, all
fur and feathers!” resumed Howard. “Truth to
say,” he continued, with that discriminating consistency
with which he seemed to judge of women,
always submitting to the eyes which attacked him
last, as men swear allegiance to the reigning monarch,
“truth to say, Helen Mellerie is beauty's
own.”

“And behind,” added Leslie, “how right gallantly
come up our old friends the Mortons!”

“And that pretty creature Maria Morton—she,
too, has a pair of eyes,” said Howard, sagaciously
striking his colours in advance, “not to be encountered
rashly.”

“Too insipid,” answered Leslie; “beauty, without
at least some sparkle of sense or heart, is such
a silly doll.”

“And yet,” said Howard, “wise men fall in love
with and marry it. But look—there comes your
own peerless sister, with your father, Leslie; and
what a magnificent pair of horses! I thought mine
passable, but really!”

“I bought them only yesterday,” remarked Leslie.
“They are chosen from every thing this side
the water; and, with all their fire and mettle, are
as kind in the harness as lambs,—Julia could drive
them. If I am extravagant in any thing, it is in
the love of that noble animal. There is nothing
on earth so striking as a beautiful horse.”

“Except a beautiful woman!” interrupted Howard,
with his eyes fixed full on the face of a lady,
who, on foot, and leading by the hand an uncommonly
handsome child, was attempting to cross the
street.

At the sight of Leslie, his father had ordered the

glossy and steaming horses to the sidewalk. The
young foreigner Clairmont, who had been pointed
out by Leslie, drove up at the moment, and the lady
crossing with the child stopped in the middle of the
street, at the great peril of her life, and followed
the equipage with her eyes. At that instant a sharp
cry of terror burst suddenly from all quarters. A
pair of horses appeared approaching at full speed,
dragging the fragments of a broken and untenanted
sleigh, their manes streaming on the air, their ears
back, their heads stretched forward, with open
mouth and dilated nostril—the half-loosened traces
flying about their heels, dashing first to one side of
the street, then to the other—ungovernable, desperate,
and abandoned to all the wild madness of
flight. Each bound threatened the extinction of
some human life, or that the affrighted creatures
themselves would be dashed to pieces. As they
passed, a sympathetic fury ran through all the startled
horses around, which were with difficulty reined
in by their drivers. The foot-passengers rushed
precipitately to the wall. Men shouted, children
cried, women screamed, and all the gay mirth was
suddenly transformed to fear and horror. Scarcely
a moment had elapsed from their first appearance
till their arrival at the spot where stood Leslie and
his friend. All seemed to have escaped from their
perilous career but the lady with the child, who had
attracted the attention of Howard. Whether unconscious
of her imminent danger, or rendered by
it unable to move, she remained completely exposed;
and the crowd, at a glance, and with a burst
of new interest, saw the fiery and furious animals
plunging with headlong speed directly towards her.
Cries of “Stop them! stop them! Save the woman
and the child!” rung on the air; but, as is
generally the case in such emergencies, there were
found many more to suggest this counsel than to
execute it. Their destruction appeared inevitable;
and that stir, shudder, and hum, with which men
look on a bloody and terrible accident, broke from
the crowd, when Leslie sprang hastily forward,
grasping unsuccessfully at the reins of the fugitive
beasts, but dragging the mother and child almost
from beneath their hoofs. The lady, thus suddenly
rescued from the jaws of death, immediately swooned,
and was conveyed with the child into an adjoining
mansion. Attention to them would have been
more undivided, but for the catastrophe of one of
the animals from whose fury they were saved.
Starting aside from the grasp of Leslie, the finer of
the two leaped forward with an almost supernatural
effort, and the shaft of a gig entered into his body
directly through the ample chest, as a sword
plunged and buried to the hilt in a human bosom.
The noble creature uttered a scream painfully expressive
of agony and fear; and, bleeding, sweating,
foaming, trembling, and panting, came heavily
to the ground. A rush of people now closed in
upon them. The dying steed was at once disentangled
from his harness, the purple tide poured
forth in a dark red flood, crimsoning the pure snow,
and with each gush the pain of the superb animal
appeared more insupportable, while the vapour
curled from his reeking flanks. He struggled, and
snorted, and strove to rise and resume his winged
and fiery flight, and his immense and flashing eyes
turned gleaming upon the faces of the spectators,
as if soliciting aid, or, at least, compassion. But
presently his panting breast heaved with a feebler
motion. Weaker, and yet more weak, grew his
convulsive shudders, and his vain attempts to regain
his feet; till—drenched, quivering and gory—foam
on his lip—terror and despair in his eyes—he
stretched himself upon the ground in the last throes
of that dark crisis which must come alike to man and
beast. His fleet limbs stiffened; his asthmatic
breathings were silent; his broad and majestic chest
moved no more; the damp lips curled from the
large ivory teeth; the eyes stared, started, and grew
fixed and glassy; and that mighty form which but a
moment before had carried terror through the crowd,
lay now transmuted to a senseless clod. A silence,
as if a human soul had passed away, remained on
the circle of compassionate spectators.

Leslie inquired after the lady. She was yet invisible,
but, the physician informed him, had sustained
no serious injury. He caressed a few moments
the exceedingly beautiful little boy, who had
been severely but not dangerously cut upon the
forehead, and in whose eyes he found something
singularly sweet and expressive. Escaping from
the scene which might have awaited him had the
lady been recovered, he entered his father's sleigh,
accompanied by Howard, relieved John of the
reins, and, handling the long whip with the air of
one not unaccustomed to its use, he laughed away
the apprehensions of his father and sister, and dashed
in among the idle racers in the gay arena of
pleasure.