University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V

On the eve of the succeeding St. Mary's, a mounted cavalier rode
up to the gate of the convent De l' Sacre Cœur in Louisiana. He was
dressed like a Texan county gentleman, with a short horseman's
cloak, a broad Panama hat, a sword at his side, and pistols in his holsters.
He was of noble presence, with an exceedingly dark but handsome
countenance. He asked of the portress of the convent for permission
to see Louise Claviere, if such a person abode there. The
aged portress retired, and in a few moments Louise Claviere appeared
at the grate. The cavalier dismounted, and kissed the hand she extended
towards him.

`Lady, I have sought thee, having by deeds of honorable conduct
among men, won a proud and virtuous name, which under heaven, no
temptation will hereafter take from me. I know that thou didst free
me from chains because thou wert interested in me as a woman.'

Louise bent her head, and the changing light of her cheek showed
the pleased yet timid emotion that filled her bosom.

`I have thought only of thee since the hour these delicate fingers
labored for my freedom,' he continued. `That hour of liberty was
the hour of my heart's bondage. The hands that made my body free
bound my heart in stronger chains.'

`Why hast thou sought me?' she asked with mingled hope and fear.

`To ask you to unite your fate with mine.'

`Such is decreed my destiny, fair sir,' she said frankly; `I have here
remained to await thy coming, for in my dreams I have foreseen and
enjoyed this welcome hour. Now I know that thou lovest me, by not
forgetting me, I will freely unite my fate with thine.'

The same day the convent chapel witnessed their bridal; and the
happy pair, a few days after, took their way to Randolph Claviere's (for

that is the name he assumed) fair Texan domain which he had won by
courage, virtue and integrity—a far nobler and fairer estate than that
which he had criminally sought to enjoy in his native land. No man
hath so far fallen that he may not rise again.

The above story, though not written `i' the Cambyses' vein,' is
written in the exaggerated vein to which some American writers are
very partial; a blending of the false with the true; the supernatural
with the commonplace; the simple with the complex, and the sublime
with its converse. The skeleton or outline of the story is however,
actually true, and the incident of the liberation of a young and gentlemanly
forger by ladies took place three years since on a steamer upon
the Mississippi. We have adopted in writing it, to suit all tastes and
our own humor, a style which Renaud, speaking of his particolored
ice-creams, would call `a Harlequinade.' `But,' as Mr. Samuel Slick
very sensibly observes, `what is the care whether the shell be a smooth
or a shag bark, so there be meat in it after it be cracked!'[2]

(Note from J. H. Ingraham.)

Dear Sir—The accompanying letter and story, with the names of
persons and places alone omitted, are at your service for publication,
if you think they possess sufficient interest to entertain your fair readers.

My Dear I.—In my last letter from London I informed you that I
was on the eve of quitting town and spending a few weeks in the
country. From the date of my letter you will see that I am at C—
Castle, where it is my intention to sojourn for a month or so before
going into Scotland; and a delightful place of sojourn this is too! My
window commands some of the finest scenery—upland, vale, and
mountain—in all England. The Malverton Hills in the distance—appear,
seen through the blue haze, like purple clouds resting on the
green earth. Parks lawns, castles, and gentlemen's seats, arrest and
please the eye, wheresoever it falls. This English scenery! we have
nothing exactly similar to it in America, there is an old world look to it
that our young land has not. The rich green of the verdure—the oaks,
(that majestic old monarch of England's woods, which ballad, and
legend, and song have made immortal,) the upland and downland
swells—the princely castles—the baronial halls and picturesque villas

that fill the broad land, all give to the landscape a peculiar aspect that
is commonly and best defined as English.

I have now been at Castle C— a little more than a week; and,
what with riding and driving, hunting and fishing, dining and waltzing,
and reading and rambling, with some thirty very respectable ladies
and gentlemen, (most of whom my republican tongue has taught
itself to address as `my lord' and my lady,') to aid and abet in so doing,
passing my time pleasantly enough. At this season all London
is county-mad, as it is at other times town-mad. Noblemen and gentlemen
now turn their `seats' into free hotels for their frends and such
unfortunate wights as, by hook or crook, (owning no house out of
town, nor perhaps in,) can get themselves invited to `pass a week or
two' at some `friend's country-house.' Indeed, living at an English
nobleman's castle in the rusticating season is not very unlike the life
in one of our fashionable hotels at a popular watering place—the
White Sulphur Springs, perhaps, rather than Saratoga. The crowd,
to be sure, is not so great, and the company, of course, is select. But
the mode of killing time is quite similar in both instances—giving,
however, the balance of comforts and advantages to the side of the
noble entertainer. This is a delightful national custom, (if usages
peculiar to the higher classes alone, may strictly be termed national,)
and its tendency is to keep up the open-handed English hospitality,
though with something more style than was known to the olden
time. The good old fashioned hospitality of our fathers, (I say
our, for are they not ours as well as theirs?) is, I think, preserved
in its most delightful simplicity among the gentlemen of the
fox-hunting school, in which class may be found many

I have not given you the name or title of my entertainer. His style is
Francis Livingstone Catesby, Esquire, of C— Castle;—but by
courtesy he is usually called Lord C— of C— Castle, having
married the only daughter and sole heiress of the ancient title and
vast estates of the Earl of C—. There is a romantic story connected
with this young nobleman and his lovely bride, which got into
the American papers at the time of its occurrence, made a little noise,
then was rejected as incredible, and fell into oblivion. I will relate it
to you, and, as you are given to story writing, will put it in the shape
of a tale, as best likely to enlist your attention; and peradventure, one
of these days, it may serve you for a brace of volumes, should you by
any chance, run short for material. You may give it what name you
list—I shall call it simply a Story.