 | Tales of the border |  |
THE SPY.
A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION.
Although the title which we have chosen for
this volume, would seem to confine us, in the
selection of our scenes, to an imaginary line
which forms the boundary of our settled population,
yet, in fact, the limit which it imposes refers
rather to time than place, for ours is a moving
frontier, which is continually upon the advance.
What is now the border, has but recently assumed
that character, and if we trace back the
history of our country to its earliest period, in
search of the stirring scenes attendant upon a
state of war, we shall find ourselves rapidly travelling
towards the shores of the Atlantic. There
has been a point in the history of every state in
the Union, when a portion of its territory was a
wilderness, and a part, at least of its settlements,
subjected to invasion; and there have been more
extensive districts which were thinly settled,
and but little frequented by strangers, and
where all the vicissitudes and adventures of the
border life were experienced by the inhabitants.
It is this circumstance which renders the whole of
our broad empire so rich in materials for the
novelist—for every part of it has been the seat of
war, or the scene of border conflict, and there is
scarcely a spot where some tradition of a romantic
character may not be gathered. I hope, therefore,
that the following legend will not be considered
as inappropriately grouped with the others
which form this little collection.
In a secluded neighbourhood, on the banks of
the romantic Susquehanna, stands a large old-fashioned
brick house, which, at a period previous
to the revolutionary war, was a very important
mansion, but has now a mean and dilapidated
appearance. It was, when erected, the only respectable
building in the whole region of country
in which it stands, and was thought to be a noble
specimen of architectural skill and magnificence.
It was surrounded by a very large plantation, appropriated
chiefly to the culture of tobacco and
corn, and studded in every direction with little
cabins inhabited by negroes. A fine garden, an
extensive orchard, and a meadow, in which a
number of high-bred horses sported their graceful
easy fortune.
He was indeed, as I learned from tradition, a
very wealthy and excellent old gentleman. His
portrait, which I used to gaze at with admiration
in my childhood, still hangs in the ancient hall,
and sufficiently denotes the character of the original.
It is that of an elderly robust man, with a
fine high forehead, and a mild, though firm expression
of countenance. One would pronounce
him to have been an unsophisticated man, who
had mingled but little with the world, but whose
natural understanding was strong. He was a
grave, taciturn person, of even temper, and of
benevolent and hospitable feelings. His eye was
remarkably fine—a large blue orb, full of mildness
and love—but with a quiet self-command about it,
and a dash of something which said that the owner
was accustomed to be obeyed. He was dressed
in a snuff-coloured suit, of goodly dimensions; the
coat single-breasted, and without a collar, and the
wrists ornamented with hand-ruffles.
The portrait of the good lady, which hung by
that of her lord, exhibited a stately and very
beautiful woman, dressed in all the formal finery
of that age. Her complexion was delicately fair,
her mouth exquisitely sweet, and her eye proud—
but whether that pride arose from the consciousness
of her own beauty, or of her dominion over
cannot, at this distance of time, pretend to determine.
It is whispered, however, that although
Mr. B.—for this designation will serve our present
purpose—ruled his dependents with absolute
authority, and influenced the affairs of the neighbourhood,
yet Mrs. B. usually carried her points.
I shall not attempt to describe the lady's dress, as
I am unlearned in those matters. If Mrs. Hale,
or Mrs. Child, or Mrs. Sigourney, or Mrs. Hentz,
or Miss Leslie, or Miss Sedgewick, or Miss Gould,
or any other of the hundred and one Mistresses or
Misses of our country, who
delicate subject, it might be treated with ability,
and the fair writer would luxuriate among the
folds and ruffles of that curious specimen of the
ancient costume; suffice it, however, to say that
the venerable matron in question wore the hoop,
the stays, the close sleeves, and the high head-dress
ornamented with trinkets, which were common,
among well-born dames, in those aristocratic
times. There was altogether, in addition to her
surpassing beauty, an air of pride, a lady-like elegance,
and a matronly dignity, about this lady,
which showed that she thought, and had a right
to think, well of herself; and which gave her a
and all others who might choose to submit
to her sway.
But to our story. It was during the most
stormy period of the revolution, and Squire B.—
for he was a magistrate—and Mrs. B. were both
stanch whigs. Net “young whigs,” nor modern
whigs—but the good old republican rebellious
whigs of the revolution. They had given two
gallant sons to their country, who were then fighting
under the banners of Washington; and were
training up the remainder of a large progeny in
the hatred of tyranny, and the love of independence.
The neighbourhood in which they lived
was obscure, and thinly settled; there was no public
house of any description within many miles;
and genteel strangers, who happened to pass along
towards night-fall, were generally, on enquiring
for lodgings, directed to the house of Squire B.,
where they were always sure of a cordial reception,
and a gratuitous and most hospitable entertainment.
So far from considering such a call as
an intrusion, this worthy couple deemed it a great
compliment; and would have thought themselves
slighted, had a reputable stranger visited the
neighbourhood without making their house his
home. And a most agreeable home it was to a
weary wayfarer. There was kindness without
bustle, and profusion without any affectation of
honoured friend, and an invitation to remain another
and another day, was usually accorded to
him. Indeed, when one of these chance guests
happened to be more agreeable than ordinary, the
hospitable Marylander never allowed him to depart
in less than a week, nor then without a present of
a bridle, a saddle, or perhaps a horse.
It was, as we remarked before, during a perilous
time of the revolution, when the hearts of our patriot
ancestors were filled with doubt and anxiety,
that a solitary traveller rode up one evening to the
door of Mr. B. Several negro boys ran to meet
him; one opened the gate, another took his horse
by the bridle, and a third prepared to seize upon
his saddlebags. The stranger hesitated, looked
cautiously around, and enquired timidly for Mr. B.
“Ole massa in de house, readen he book;” answered
one of the young Africans.
“Do you think I can get permission to spend
the night here?”
“Oh yes, massa, for sartin. All de quality
stops here.”
The stranger still paused, and then alighted
slowly, and paused again, as if conscious of the
awkwardness of intruding without invitation into
the house of one to whom he was entirely unknown.
The appearance of the portly owner of
the mansion, who now presented himself at the
he began, rather bashfully, to make the explanations
which appeared to be necessary.
“I have ridden far to-day,” said he, “I am
tired, and my horse almost broken down—I am
told there is no tavern in the neighbourhood—and
was directed here—but I fear I intrude.”
“Glad to see you,” interrupted Mr. B. “come,
sir, walk in—the boys will take care of your
horse—you are quite welcome; do ye hear, boys,
rub down that nag, and feed him well—no apologies
are necessary, sir—make my house your
home, while you stay in the country—come, sir,
walk in”—and so the old gentleman talked on
until he had got his guest fairly housed, stripped
of his overcoat and spurs, and seated by the fire,
on one side of which sat the lady of the house, enthroned
in suitable state, in a high-backed arm
chair, while her consort placed himself in a
cushioned seat in the other corner. A group of
handsome daughters were clustered round the
worthy dame, like the bright satellites of a
brighter planet—seated on low stools, that they
might learn to sit upright without leaning, and
sewing away industriously under the supervision
of the experienced matron. In the back ground,
immediately behind the ladies of the family, sat a
number of neatly dressed negro girls, carding,
knitting, and sewing—in the process of being
order that, when old, they should not depart from
it. These were intended for household domestics,
or for personal attendants upon the young ladies,
and were carefully taught all the thrifty arts of
female industry. Not the least remarkable circumstance
which was calculated to attract the eye
of a stranger, was the scrupulous neatness of the
apartment, the stainless purity of the uncarpeted
floor, which was as polished, and shining, and almost
as slippery, as ice, with other evidences
which attested the vigilant administration of an
admirable system of internal police.
The arrival of an unexpected guest caused no
disturbance in the well regulated household of
Mrs. B., whose ample board was always spread
with such a profusion of eatables, that the addition
of a company of grenadiers, to her already numerous
family, would hardly have been an inconvenience.
But there were certain little hospitalities
requisite for the honour of the house, and to teach
the traveller that he was welcome; the good lady,
therefore, very formally laid aside her knitting
and retired, while a servant added several logs to
the fire. Mr. B. produced a pipe, in which he
sometimes indulged, and having filled it with
tobacco, presented it to the stranger, who, being a
contemner of the poisonous weed, declined smoking;
and the host, for want of something to say,
with a basket of apples, fresh from the orchard,
for it was October, and this fine fruit was in its
perfection; and presently the lady of the mansion
made her appearance, followed by a servant bearing
upon a waiter a curiously ornamented silver
bowl, filled with toddy, made by her own fair
hands—for no other less dignified personage than
herself was ever permitted to discharge this most
sacred of all the functions of hospitality. Squire
B., as was the invariable custom, approached the
bowl, and having stirred the delicious beverage
with a spoon, tasted it, in order that he might
have an opportunity of complimenting his good
dame, as he called her, and of remarking, with a
wink, that it “was made strong to suit the ladies.”
Then taking the bowl in both hands, he presented
it first, with a formal bow, to his lady-wife, who
touched her fair lips to the brim, then to each of
his daughters, beginning with the oldest, who
successively “kissed the bowl,” as Goldsmith
hath it, and lastly to the guest, who did ample
honour to its refreshing contents. Such was the
ceremony invariably observed by this worthy
couple, towards their most cherished friends, and
as invariably extended to the stranger who sought
a shelter at their fireside. Such were the primitive
and courteous habits of our venerable forefathers
and foremothers, in those days when there
reception always included a social cup. They had
no newspapers, nor periodicals, neither albums, nor
scrap-books, nor any of the modern devices for destroying
the monotony of an idle hour; and the
bowl must have been found an able auxiliary in
dispelling the dullness of a country fireside.
In the meanwhile, the female part of the company
were endeavouring to read something of the
stranger's character in his countenance; and as
they were too well-bred to stare him in the face,
adopted the feminine expedient of stealing a
glance occasionally, when his attention was turned
another way. In this hasty perusal they found
more to excite, than to satisfy, their curiosity; for
the person before them possessed a set of features,
in which different emotions were so strangely
blended, as to baffle the penetration of such inexperienced
observers. He was so young as to
render it doubtful whether he had more than
merely reached the years of manhood. He was
tall and raw-boned; his large ill-shaped limbs
were loosely hung together, and his manners were
awkward. His face was singularly ugly, being a
collection of angular prominences, in which the
chin, nose, cheek-bones, and forehead, seemed
each to be ambitious of obtruding beyond the
other. But it was an intelligent face, with lines
of thought and observation too strongly drawn
about the muscles of the mouth, and the corners of
the eye, a lurking expression of humour, which
showed itself, particularly when a local phrase, or
a word susceptible of a different meaning from
that in which it was intended to be used, dropped
in his hearing. Under an assumed gravity, and
an affected air of unconcern, there was a watchfulness
which could not be wholly concealed, though
it betrayed itself only in his eye, which rolled suspiciously
about, like that of a cur, who, having,
contrary to a standing rule of the house, intruded
into the parlour, gazes in every face to learn if he
is welcome, and watches every movement as if
under a sense of danger. Every attempt to draw
him into conversation upon subjects connected
with the politics or news of the day, was fruitless;
he seemed to be entirely ignorant, or stupidly
careless, in relation to the principles and the
events of the great controversy which agitated the
colonies. On other subjects, of less dangerous
import, he spoke well and freely, uttering his
opinions in brief, pointed, and sententious remarks,
sometimes dropping a sly joke, but always relapsing
immediately into his gravity; and shortly after
a plentiful supper, he begged permission to retire,
which was cheerfully accorded by those who began
to be weary of vain efforts to entertain one, who
seemed determined to commune only with himself.
The next morning the stranger's stiff and jaded
horse was pronounced to be unfit to travel, and he
cheerfully accepted an invitation to spend the remainder
of the day with his kind entertainers;
and when, on the following day, his host again
pressed him to remain, he again acquiesced. During
all this time he had but little intercourse with
the family. Mrs. B. was provoked at his taciturnity,
the young ladies were out of patience with
his want of gallantry, and the worthy squire was
puzzled what to make of him. The man was
quiet and inoffensive, but had not disclosed either
his name, his business, or his destination. He
sallied forth on each morning, and spent the whole
day in roaming about the woods, or along the picturesque
borders of the Susquehanna; and when
the negroes happened to encounter him, he was
usually perched on a log, or lying at his length on
the brow of a hill, with a pencil and paper in his
hand. These employments, so different from those
of their young masters, struck the honest blacks
with astonishment; and they failed not to report
what they had seen in the kitchen, from which,
the tale, with suitable exaggerations, soon found
its way to the hall, where the whole family agreed
in opinion that their guest was a most incomprehensible
and mysterious person.
When, therefore, on the third morning, he announced
his intention to depart, no polite obstacle
himself with thanking his guest for the
honour of his visit, and urging him to call again
whenever he should revisit the country. He took
leave with his characteristic awkwardness, and
was no sooner out of hearing than the whole
family united in pronouncing him a disagreeable,
unsocial, ill-dressed, incomprehensible, ugly, ill-mannered
person, who had no pretensions to the
character of a gentleman. An hour was spent in
this discussion, when a servant girl came grinning
into the hall with a pair of shabby, black-looking
saddlebags in her hand, which the stranger had
left in his chamber. Mrs. B. took them in her
hands, wiped her spectacles, and examined them
carefully, while her husband proposed to send a
boy on horseback to restore the property to its
owner. But Mrs. B. continued to gaze uneasily
at the saddlebags, turning them over, and pressing
them, to ascertain the character of the contents.
“Mr. B.,” said she, at length, “as sure as you
live, there are papers in these saddlebags.”
“Well, what then?” said the squire composedly.
“You are a magistrate, and this man is a suspicious
character.”
“What have I to do with his character, my
dear?”
“You are a justice of the peace, a whig, and a
friend to your country—this man is perhaps a spy,
open these saddlebags.”
The squire seemed startled, but shook his head.
“Well, my dear,” pursued the lady, “you
always think you know best—but how can you
tell that there is not another Arnold plot among
these papers? You know, Mr. B., that you hold
a responsible office.”
“I know, too, that I am a gentleman.”
“We all know that, my dear.”
“And did you ever know a gentleman to rob
the baggage of his guest?”
The lady looked disconcerted, for the last was a
home argument; her pride was even greater than
that of her husband, and her regard for the rites
of hospitality equal to his.
But what could a man be doing with papers in
his saddlebags, unless he was a spy, or some incendiary
agent of the royal cause? The fellow
had a hang-dog look, the saddlebags were suspicious
in their appearance, and the papers had a
dishonest rustle. There was treason in all his
actions, and tyranny in every tone of his voice.
Even the negroes had noticed that he was a bad
horseman, which was a sure sign of an English-man,—and
that he was mounted on a wretched
nag, which was evidence enough that the animal
was not his own, or else that he was not a gentleman.
The lady turned these matters in her mind, as
she tossed the saddlebags about in her hands.
“You may depend upon it, my dear,” said she,
“that this is a more serious matter than you have
any idea of.”
“Very likely,” replied the worthy man.
“What shall we do?” she exclaimed.
“Let one of the boys gallop after the gentleman
with his saddlebags,” replied the husband, composedly.
“I am surprised at you, Mr. B. You know
not what treason may be in them.”
“If the devil was in them, or Arnold himself,”
replied the squire, with more than usual vehemence,
“he might stay there for me. The gentleman
asked the hospitality of my roof, he came
as a friend, and it shall not be said that I treated
him as an enemy.”
“Then, Mr. B., if you have no objection, I will
open them myself.”
“None in the world, my dear, if you will take
the shame upon yourself.”
The worthy lady dropped the penknife with
which she was preparing to rip open the seams of
the unlucky saddlebags, and asked, “Do you
really think it would be wrong?”
“Decidedly so,” replied the husband.
At this juncture, the negro girl, who had been
prying about the leathern receptacle, discovered
the fact to her mistress, who exclaimed,
“Nay, then, I will see the inside! And as no
lock is to be broken, nor any breach committed,
we may serve our country, and, at the same time,
save the honour of our house.”
In a moment, the contents of the travelling convenience
were spread on the floor. From one end
was produced a scanty wardrobe, consisting of but
few articles; from the other, several handfuls of
manuscript. The eyes of the worthy lady glistened
as the suspicious papers came to light, and
her handsome cheek, on which the pencil of time
had not yet drawn a wrinkle, was flushed with
patriotism and curiosity.
“Now you see, Mr. B.,” she exclaimed, with a
kind of wife-ish exultation, “you see it is well to
listen to advice sometimes. Here's a pretty discovery,
truly!”
She now proceeded to open one of the manuscripts,
which was folded and stitched into the
form of a small book, and read aloud, “one
hundred and nineteenth psalm,”—“dear me,
what's all this?” “The beautiful and pathetic
passage which I have selected, my Christian
friends, for your edification”—“Why it's a sermon!”
“The devil can quote scripture, you know, my
dear,” said the squire, sarcastically,—“perhaps,
further.”
The remainder of the papers seemed to be of a
similar character; and the worthy couple were
fully satisfied of the clerical vocation of their late
visiter, when the lady inquisitor picked up a loose
sheet containing a copy of verses.
“A hymn, no doubt,” quoth the lady, “which
the worthy man has composed in his solitary rambles.”
“Read it for our edification,” returned the
squire.
“Do, mamma!” cried all the girls at once.
So the old lady began:
Where chaste Diana, with her vestal train”—
Here the door opened, and, to the utter confusion
of the whole company, the stranger stood
before them. It was a scene for a painter. There
sat the lady of the mansion, on a low chair, with
the unlucky saddlebags at her feet, and the contents
thereof piled up in her lap. Three beautiful
girls leaned on the back of her chair, looking
eagerly over her shoulder. The head of the
family, who sat on the opposite side of the fire,
had taken the pipe from his mouth, dropped his
elbows upon his knees, and was gazing and listening
with as much interest as any of the circle;
mouth open, surveyed the scene with surprise. In
the open door stood the stranger, quite as much
embarrassed as any of the party, who, on discovering
him, gazed at each other in mute dismay.
The dismal looks of the host and hostess, when
thus caught in the fact, were really pitiable.
They were a virtuous, honourable couple; above
fear, but keenly sensitive of shame. The lady
was of gentle blood and nurture, and was proud of
herself, her husband, and her family. The gentleman,
though he despised, and never practised
the little affectations and stratagems of pride,
valued himself on his gentility, and on never
doing any act beneath the dignity of a gentleman.
This truly respectable pair had travelled through
life together, and neither of them had ever before
had cause to blush for the act of the other; and
now, when they stood detected in the disgraceful
fact of opening the private papers of a guest, they
were covered with confusion. Squire B. was the
first to recover his composure; nor did he, like
our great progenitor, attempt to excuse his own
fault by saying “it was the woman.” On the
contrary, being a plain spoken man, and a lover of
truth, he at once disclosed the whole of the reasons
which led to this ludicrous procedure, only placing
himself in the position which had, in fact, been
occupied by his wife. He alluded to the perilous
more than once threatened its liberties, to his own
duty as a magistrate, and to the suspicious conduct
of the stranger—“Considering all these things,”
continued he, “our guest will not think it strange,
that we have pryed a little more curiously into his
private concerns, than would, under other circumstances,
have become our wonted respect for the
rites of hospitality.
“And yet,” resumed the old man, “I am grieved
particularly that a clergyman should have been
treated uncivilly in my house”—for the squire
and his dame were pillars of the church, and
revered the clergy.
The stranger, happy in recovering his property,
most cheerfully admitted that his kind entertainers
had acted for the best.
“And now,” said the squire, “to complete our
reconciliation, I insist on your spending a week or
two with us. On Sunday next you shall preach
in our church, and in the meanwhile there are
several couples to be married, who have been
waiting until they could procure the services of a
minister.”
This invitation the stranger civilly but peremptorily
declined, and taking a hasty leave, retreated
to his horse.
Mr. B. accompanied him across the little lawn
in front of the house, and the stranger, before he
alone, sir, and some explanation is due to you. I
am not, as you at first supposed, a spy, but a native
born American, as true to my country as any
patriot who fights her battles. Neither am I a
clergyman, though I confess, to my shame, that I
have assumed that character. I am a student,
preparing for the profession of law, but the country
wants men in her armies; and although I have
removed from town to town, and from one neighbourhood
to another, I cannot escape the importunity
of recruiting officers, or the ridicule of my
friends, for not devoting these sturdy limbs of mine
to the common cause.”
“Really, young man, I cannot see why you wish
to evade military duty in such times as these.”
“The gifts of Providence are various,” said the
young man; “Washington was born a soldier,
and I was born—a coward!”
The elder gentleman drew back as if he had
seen a rattlesnake in his path.
“It is a melancholy truth,” resumed the young
man; “I have had a liberal education, my talents
are thought to be respectable, and I am gifted
with a fund of humour which enables me to mimic
whatever I see, and to convulse the gravest company
with laughter. Yet I am not happy; for
the fear of bodily harm is continually before my
eyes. I have an instinctive dread of death; the
my abhorrence; I covet fame; but the idea of
having a knife drawn across my throat, or a rusty
bayonet thrust through my body, curdles every
drop of blood in my veins.”
“This is an uncommon case.”
“It is uncommon, and therefore I bear it with
composure; courage is so ordinary a quality, that
it is no disgrace to want it. Cowardice is an
extraordinary gift, bestowed on susceptible minds,
—courage is a quality which man shares with the
bull-dog and the tiger. I was born a timid creature,
and no reasoning can cure my sensibility of
danger, and my abhorrence of death. I shrink at
the idea of pain, and suffer anguish in the contemplation
of personal exposure.”
“But why assume the character of a preacher?”
“Partly because I am willing to serve my country,
according to the nature of my gifts; but
chiefly, to be exempt from military duty, and safe
from danger. My garb protects me from my
enemies, as well as from my friends—from that
side which would make me a hero, as well as from
the others who would hang me up like a dog. To
avoid being a soldier, I have become a saint. I
go from camp to camp, and preach up rebellion to
our troops. I can declaim with fervour about
liberty, for I love it; and I can exhort others to
fight bravely, for none can talk so big as a coward.”
“But what if you fall in with the enemy?”
“To them I preach peace and good will towards
all men—with a secret prayer that they will practise
it especially towards myself. I carry a few
orthodox sermons with me, such as you have seen,
that suit any emergency. Those I make use of
when my auditors belong to the royal party; and,
if I do them no good, I am sure that I am doing
my country no evil. My patriotic efforts are all
extemporaneous. My ambition does not point to
martyrdom, any more than to military glory, and
I carry no seditious manuscripts. The recent
course of liberal studies, through which I have
passed, has imbued my mind with arguments in
favour of patriotism and military glory. I take
my text from the scripture, my sermon from the
classics. He who would disseminate the gospel of
peace, or promote the happiness of man, must imbibe
wisdom from the oracles of God; but for him
whose purpose is to promote bloodshed and perpetuate
war, the elegant productions of enlightened
Greece, and cultivated Rome, afford a copious
stream of reasoning and illustration.”
The young man extended his hand to his host,
thanked him heartily for his hospitable treatment,
mounted his horse, and rode slowly away—leaving
the whole family amused and puzzled with the
events of this singular visit.
| Tales of the border | |