University of Virginia Library

THE
MYSTERIOUS
STATE-ROOM;
A TALE OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

1. CHAPTER I.

Among the numerous wild and thrilling romances of which the valley
of the South-west has been so often the scene, and which have,
hitherto, escaped the avidious pen of the tourist and story-writer, is
the one which I have chosen for the subject of the following sketch.
Though not strictly Radcliffean in its tone and aspect—for there are
no castles and dungeons thereaway, in which to lay terrific chapters—
yet it may involve sufficient of the romantic to entitle it to preservation.

It was one of those autumnal evenings of the South when Heaven
itself seemed to have descended and enthroned herself with banners of
fire and crimson, and curtains of golden light upon the piles of gorgeous
clouds that lay heaped up in the West, a mass of glory and
splendor too intense for the eye to gaze upon! The majestic flood of
the Mississippi rolled on reflecting from its dark and steely surface a
hue like purple. The centurial trees that lined its shores, were gently
waving their ocean surface—the red sunlight glancing along their green
and billowy tops as if from wave to wave of a vast and heaving deep!

A small but beautiful city, roof rising above roof, terrace above terrace,
with trees picturesquely mingling with, exposing and half concealing
the white dwellings, slept upon the hill-side facing the west. A rich
roseate tint was suffused over it, and the red fire from the setting sun
illumined its windows, so that it looked like a city in flames; each
dwelling a smouldering furnace within, yet, all burning with smokeless,
unconsuming conflagration. Such it seemed indeed, to be to our eyes,
as we approached it from the south, on board that most imperial steamer
the `Empress.' Every passenger stood on deck enjoying with unlimited
expressions of admiration the whole magical and gorgeous scene;
not even excepting the ruder portion of the motly and diverse assemblage
that composed our number, many of whose faces were animated
with the enjoyment which even simple and uncultivated taste is ever
ready to administer to every man who will open his senses to its influence.

We had left New Orleans the morning before with a large and and
agreeable party of passengers, and we were to stop at Vicksburg,
the city before us, to take in another, for whom the best, because it was
the largest and sternmost, state-room had been reserved to this time
There existed, therefore, among a bevy of lovely women on board,
married and single, who had been particularly anxious to obtain this
desirable room for some of their own party, probably because it was
not obtainable, not a little curiosity to learn who the individual was
that had thought him or herself of so much importance as to send to
New Orleans to pre-engage a passage, and the best accommodations.
Among these ladies were two remarkably lovely girls, cousins, on
their passage to Lexington, of which beautiful city one was a resident;
the other being a native of Louisiana, and on her way to make her
cousin a visit. They were under the protection of the charming Kentuckian's
father, a fine old gentleman, and an admirable specimen of
the high chivalric school, characteristic of his state. They were the
life and joy of our cabin party; and seldom has Heaven given such
charms to please, and fascinations to win. Never were two young ladies
so different in person, who were so like in spirit. The elder cousin,
Louise Claviere was a Creole of proud French descent. Her hair was
dark as the plumage of the raven, and worn with a simple polished braid
entwined around her fine head. Her complexion is indiscribable. Its
rich tone has no name. It was like the lotus leaf, pure as snow, and almost
dazzling but for a soft voluptuous shade, living and glowing over it

like sunlight glowing warm upon marble. The color of her cheek was
not set, but was ever beautifully coming and passing away with every
emotion. With the uplifting of the bending lids of her dark rich eyes,
it would suffuse her cheek, but as delicately as if a rose leaf had been
laid near, and the light had poured through upon it. Her brow
was arched and black, and of exquisite workmanship. Never did I
conceive before the beauty that dwelt in a woman's eye-brow. It was a
study, not for a painter, but for the spirit of beauty herself. Her eyes
I have spoken of Deep as wells that at noonday reflect the heavens
with its stars, they seemed themselves to be a heaven of love and delight.
It was impossible to meet their dark dangerous gaze! The eye
dropped suddenly before them worshipingly, while the heart bounded
with emotions strange and powerful. No woman I have seen, ever
possessed like her the wonderful power of beauty. It was a wand which
she had but to wave to command men's homage—a talisman which she
had but to lift to enchain their hearts—a spell which she only had to
exert, and which lay in every glance, look and motion, to overpower
the soul, and fill the mind with awe and adoration. Beauty in itself ever
irresistibly and instinctively commands adoration. The first man's sin,
says the Buddha theology, was the worship of the woman whom God presented
to him in all the freshness of glowing beauty instead of her Creator.
This principle is still existing in the human mind. Every lover
adores the object of his attachment in degree and it is, perhaps, only because
no woman exists (can be supposed to exist) so beautiful as Eve,
who, of necessity, united in her person all the perfections of feminine
loveliness, that she is not now made an idol. If any woman could
command the homage of men, and also the admiration of her own
sex, it was Louise Claviere. Her beauty did not consist in the
chaste, yet voluptuous outline of her face; nor the round and divinely
sculptured cheek and throat; nor in the majestic grace of
her neck and superb bust; nor the sweet majesty of her whole figure; but
rather, these were the glorious fashioning and setting of the shapely
casket which contained the bright and intelligent mind. She seemed
to be created to love, and dispense joy and happiness. Every generous
and lofty feeling dwelt in her bosom—tenderness and pity filled her
glorious eyes, ready to yield their sympathy. She was a woman whose
fate promised to be unalloyedly happy or unalloyedly miserable—who
would love when her heart should be interested, either good or evil,
and love with undying devotion. Her cousin Genevieve, was, on the
contrary, a sweet, graceful, laughing blonde, with a frank, open face,
a bright blue eye, long, soft brown hair, a mischievous pouting mouth,
and a cheek like the bridal of the lily and the rose. Her figure was
petite, and her motions free and light as the doe in its wild freedom.
Her cousin was twenty, but she was two years younger, and not so tall
by three inches. She was a true child of nature. She knew no evil,
and therefore did not know that it existed. She was as guileless as a
child. She would have been just the same as she was if man had never
fallen. I could not but sigh as I gazed on her joyous and happy
face, in which one could read her heart with all its emotions, like an
open book, to think how soon care and sorrow would trace their lines
and shadows upon it. Her heart seemed to be full of love and generous
emotion for all her race. I could conceive an angel, if one came
to dwell on earth awhile, to be like her. There was visible, a shade
of thought in her eyes I perceived, at times, and I observed that her
bright lips would sometimes gently compress when in repose, as if beneath
all her sweet and gentle grace, she possessed a spirit quick and
sensitive; and one which, if called into exercise by a generous appeal
to her sympathies, would act with decision and prompt determination.
I could see that she posessed no moral fear; that her soul was courageous.
It is thus, the gentlest and most delicate women sometimes
present opposites in their composition. In man, firmness and decision
of character are oftener united with physical power; in women it is
usually reversed. Genevieve, the lovely, laughing, enchanting girl of
seventeen, had a bold and fearless spirit. Hitherto, her existence had
flowed from her heart as its source. She scarcely knew that she possessed
a spirit—a spirit that, when once called into action, would unfold
to her a new power and character, of which she knew not she was
the possessor.

2. CHAPTER II

As we approached the sun-illumined city, I was standing beside Genevieve
and Louise on the light columned verandah, called `the Guard,'
which surrounded the boat and formed a commodious and agreeable
place of promenade. She had in her hand a volume of Bryant's Poems,
and had just finished reading aloud his superb address to `The Water
Fowl,' and for the last ten minutes had been speaking in a most animated
and sprightly manner, giving a just and sensible, yet playful critique
upon the styles of thought of the different poets of America. If
I was delighted at the sparkling wit and humor she evinced, I was
charmed to discover in her a deep vein of sentiment which, as she alluded
to some `holy passages of holy thought,' as she expressed it, in
Willis' earlier pieces, softened into that tenderness of feeling which
has ever been to me proof that a true woman is religious by nature.
What is taste in man, is in her elevated religion; ever presenting a
grateful and promising soil for the immortal germ of Christianity to
take root and grow heavenward.

Louise Claviere, however, was absorbed in contemplating the glories
of the sunset, and gave no heed to the eloquent words of her cousin,
which my ears received like a revelation. I could not help mentally
comparing them as they stood together. The beauty of Louise was
intellectual and physical; its effects intoxicating; its power most dangerous
both to its possessor and its victim. The beauty of Genevieve
was grace and spirituality, a divinity seemed to breathe through her
form; its effect was touching and tender, acting on the finer sensibilities
of the heart of the observer; its power was to elevate and purify.

But enough of the poetry attached to our heroines. I have written
the above descriptions, in the vein they are given, at the suggestion of
a fair creature, scarce less beautiful herself than Louise, scarce less

divine than Genevieve, who insists that the description would be untrue
if anything was taken from it; and as she was a fellow passenger
and saw them, and well knew them both, her opinion is entitled to
reverence. I shall therefore leave the pictures as they are, and go into
the action of my story.

We were about a leauge from the town, when the captain, who was
a fine hearted gallant gentleman, came aft to the `guard,' where we
stood, and bowing courteously, said with a smile:

`We are now at Vicksburg, ladies, and the mystery of our state-room
will be solved.'

`You shall be put down in my journal, Captain Wardham,' said Genevieve,
laughing, `as a very obstinate and self-willed captain, and I'll
make the printers be sure and put those words in italics! Will you tell
me, now, who is coming on board here?'

`I do not know, fair lady,' answered the polite officer, bowing low,
`it was engaged by a person in New Orleans, who said it was by the
directions of the governor of Virginia. This is the extent of my
knowledge, but you will soon know.'

`I wonder if it be true the governor of Virginia is to be the passenger
with us from this place?' said Louise, suddenly speaking in a voice
the richness of the tone of which thrilled the ear. `I should like it
very much if he were—for he is young and intellectual I am
told.'

`Is he married, cousin?' archly asked Genevieve.

`No.'

`What then can he want of a state-room in the ladies' cabin? I
shall insist on his not occupying it, particularly if he is so elegant and
youthful withal,' answered Genevieve, laughing in a manner that showed
her resistance was not very much to be feared, if he should prove young
and handsome, `all governors,' she added, `should be old and married
too.'

`He belongs to one of the noblest cavalier families,' said Louise
with animation, speaking rather to herself than to her cousin. `I
would like to see one of the blood of the Stanleys, to which it is said
he belongs.'

`I care more for the heart, than the blood that heaves it,' said
Genevieve. But look! we are close by the town! The mystery of
the state-room will soon be cleared up!'

The steamer rapidly approached the city of terraced roofs, and at

length touched the pier as the shades of evening deepened the purple
drapery of the skies. After half an hour's detention, during which,
night, with its `lesser lights,' had taken the place of day, there was
heard the wheels of a carriage rapidly driven to the pier-head. The
ladies were all standing out upon the `guard,' anxiously listening.

`They are come,' cried the captain in the tones of a man who had
been a long time impatiently waiting to start, get ready to cast off
there, men.'

`Ay, ay, sir,' was the cheerful response of the mate; and a man
with a lantern in his hand sprung to each of the hawsers that confined
the boat.

The carriage steps were now heard rattling, as they were thrown sharply
down. By the faint and uncertain glimmer of lanterns moving to
and fro, we could discern three persons alight and advance towards the
boat. One of them seemed to be an invalid, as he was wrapped in an
ample cloak, and was supported by two others. They advanced to the
gangway plank forward, and we lost sight of them, hidden by the intervening
wheel-house.

`Now we will know,' cried Genevieve, retiring from the guard to
the ladies' saloon through which the strangers were to pass.

It was already, in part, occupied by the female passengers whom cu
riosity had drawn thither to get a sight of the personage who had preengaged
the best state-room in the ladies' cabin, as he passed through
to take possession of it.[1] Louise took an easy and graceful position
quite at the extremity of the saloon, where her eye could command the
approach for its whole length. Genevieve seated herself at her feet on
an ottoman, with as innocent a look as if she had no curiosity in her.

At length they beheld approaching, through the magnificent cabin,
two gentlemen arm in arm, preceded by the captain, whose face wore
a serious expression, which Genevieve could not believe could have
existed there. As they advanced, every eye was turned enquiringly.
A general gloom seemed to be left behind them as they
moved.

`What can be the cause of the silent and earnest gaze with which
all regard him!' asked Genevieve breathlessly, of her cousin.

`Hush,' said the other with extraordinary energy, `I have no sense
but sight!'

The captain entered now the ladies' cabin, bowed silently and gravely
to the ladies, and the two gentlemen followed him. One leaned upon
the other. He who supported, or seemed to support his companion,
was a large, heavily built man, with a cool, determined look and
an eye of piercing blackness. He was wrapped in a white dreadnought
over-coat buttoned across his breast, and wore a fur hat with a
broad and flapping brim. He looked like a man of the world, and his
manner was sufficiently gentlemanly; yet, evidently, he was not a gentleman.
The other was a tall, elegant young man, not more than
twenty-four years of age. His face was exceedingly handsome, dark,
intelligent, and with an eye blazing with intellect. He was pale, very
pale; yet it was not from illness; his looks were sad to a painful and
touching degree. No eye that fell upon him was turned away without
the observer feeling an indefinable interest in him.

He walked slowly and with great difficulty beside his companion.
As he approached the spot where Louise stood, he lifted his hat with
a melancholy air without scarce raising his eyes, as if conscious of the
presence of beauty. Genevieve shrunk lest her own a second time
should meet his, and she dropped them to her feet; for she had caught
one full deep glance of his eyes as he entered, and it had penetrated
her soul; it was so full of sorrow, despair, and of voiceless yet eloquent
grief. From that moment, how intense and exciting was the interest
awakened in her virgin bosom for the unknown. She felt that
he was unhappy—how wretched she dared not ask herself. As he was
passing, Louise, whose dark eyes sought his, as she proudly and gratefully
felt in her inmost heart the homage he had offered her beauty, she
thought she heard beneath his cloak, as he put down his hand which
was closely enveloped in it, a sound, the idea of which made her heart's
blood leap. The man beside him addressed a sharp word at the same
time to him. She cast a suspicious glance at him. Half the truth
flashed upon her mind. The young man bowed his head and walked
forward, for he had insensibly stopped before her, and for a moment it
seemed (his whole form sank so depressingly) as if he would have
knelt at the feet of the cousins. They thought he would do so. Why,
they knew not. They pitied him. The first step he made, Louise
heard again the sound! It grated, too, on Genevieve's ears, it pierced
her very heart! She could have shrieked, but her voice, her life was

paralyzed! It was the clank of chains! Louise sprung forward, and
laid her hand upon his arm. He turned and looked in her face with
his large pitiful eyes full of gratitude. He read sympathy in her intense
gaze of eager inquiry and horror. She held him so that he
could not advance. With one hand she grasped him hard by the arm,
with the other she wildly threw open his collar! the cloak fell to the
ground! The pale and intellectual young stranger stood before her
chained and manacled like a felon!

(See Engraving.)

`What has he done?' she cried, commandingly, fixing her eyes upon
the other in whose custody he was. `Speak!'

`Committed a forgery,' answered the officer.'

`Oh, God! Oh, God!' she cried with impassioned and bitter feelings;
`that the divine form I have seen mingling in my dreams from
childhood, the reality of which I have sought in vain among mankind,
should at length appear to me as a chained criminal! Mysterious
dream of life! Why hast thou cast a spell over my heart, by
presenting ever this face and form for me to worship and love, yet
hiding these chains?'

`Cousin,' cried Genevieve, alarmed at the wild impassioned pathos
of her look and language, `what has come over you? Come with me.
This is no scene for either of us.'

Louise suffered herself to be led to her room by her cousin, and the
manacled young man who had produced upon her mind such an extraordinary
effect, was led to the state-room prepared for him in the
after cabin, as well for its privacy as for its greater security.

`Dearest cousin, what could you mean by exposing yourself in such
a way?' said Genevieve, kissing her forehead as she reclined her burning
and throbbing temples on her shoulder. `Poor young man,' and
Genevieve sighed.

`Do you know, Genevieve,' said Louise, lifting her head and looking
full upon her cousin with a bright and almost unearthly gaze—so
brightly beautiful and glorious were her eyes at this moment, `do you
know that I have seen that same face and figure in my dreams since I
was a child! I know not what led me, as he came on board, to expect
some extraordinary event, but I did so. I have felt ever since I
left New Orleans an indescribable sensation that my happiness was in
some mysterious way connected with the person who was to occupy

that state-room. I see now that my presentiments were not unfounded.
Did you see him, how suffering he looked when he first came in?
I felt, as I gazed upon him, that my heart was breaking. I felt the
moment had come when all my dreams were to be realized. I had
seen him in the same cloak, too, and with him the same stern looking
man.'

`In your dreams, cousin?'

`Yes—no longer than last night I thus beheld him; but in the dream
he smiled upon me, but I heard no clanking of chains. If I had died
for it, I could not have resisted casting aside his cloak.'

`Why did you do it, cousin? My heart bled for him as he stood exposed
in chains before all eyes through your cruel act.'

`I had seen him in my dreams,' she said hoarsely, and with strong
feeling, `cast aside this cloak and beneath was his bridal garb. I beheld,
too, the stern man changed to a priest, and instead of the saloon
of this steamer, I was in a church before an altar which was enwreathed
as if for a bridal. I flung aside his cloak, for I would know the
worst, and I beheld chains instead of bridal wreaths—a manacled felon
instead of a happy and glorious bridegroom.'

`And did you love him in your dreams, cousin?'

`Yes—with all a woman's love. I do believe, sweet Genevieve,
there were correspondences between our spiritual natures. Did you
see, he would have knelt to me as to one his soul held kindred ties
with, but for him who dragged him onwards.'

`And if you loved him—I mean, cousin, in your strange dream—
you now hate him that you find the reality is unworthy of your love?'

`Cousin Genevieve, you little know me or the strength of woman's
affection! I have learned to love the same pale handsome youth in my
dreams till my heart, waking, has assented to that it gave and pledged
while in sleep. Day by day my mind has dwelt upon his image, till I
had no love but for him, whether it were to be he was ever to remain
visionary or prove real!'

`And did you ever expect the form of your dreams would prove to be
a real person, cousin Louise?' asked Genevieve, whose wonder was excited
by this narration.

`Yes, oh yes! I have long fed my love with hopes, that it would one
day be rewarded!'

`And this night you have seen him in truth?'

`But oh, in what guise manacled and fettered!' she cried, burying
her face in her hands.

`'Tis strange you have had such a dream! I tremble, there seems
something supernatural about it. You were always a strange girl,
cousin. And this is the secret of your repeated refusals of such numerous
and desirable offers of marriage!'

`No other reason, Genevieve. I firmly believed I should one day
see the real individual whom I never dreamed without communing
with!' she said with animation.

`Wonderful!' said Genevieve, shuddering.

`It is to you wonderful, sweet cousin, but not to me,' she said sadly.
`It is a peculiarity of our race to dream of events personally interesting
to us. My grandfather, Colonel Claviere, foretold the time and minute
circumstances of his own death, and that of Louis XIV. My
grandfather saved his own life by placing men to arrest an assassin,
whom he had seen in a dream, approaching his chamber to take his
life! The assassin came at the hour named, and was slain at the door
as he was entering. My father was not only a seer, but foretold by
dreams the exile of his family to America, and the hour and mode of
his own death, which took place four years afterwards by a cannon-ball,
at the battle of New Orleans. Is it wonderful, then, that I should
dream of one whom I was destined one day to see?'

`'Tis strange! I have heard something of all this! I fear for myself,
for I share the same blood!' said Genevieve, with a sad expression.

`It will do thee no harm.'

`I tremble at the idea,' she replied, shuddering, and turning pale.

`Nay, be not childish; I need your aid!' said Louise with animation,
speaking in a low impressive tone.

`How?'

`This young man's fate and mine are united by destiny; and he
must not lie degraded in chains.'

`He is guarded—a prisoner.'

`I will free him!'

`He is guilty.'

`Never! but were he guilty, were his hands stained with blood, I
love him, and will share his fate, or make him free! Do you believe
him guilty?'

`I cannot; but—'

`Bless you, Genevieve, for that! He is not guilty; I will ask him,
and he will say nay! Truth and innocence are written on his forehead.
The being my soul has loved, with whose spirit my own has
been in communion for years, guilty? no! I spurn the thought! Genevieve,
he must be freed!'

`I would help you, cousin; but he is chained and closely guarded.'

`I care not. I will seek him. I will question him. I will fathom
his soul. I will prove him innocent. I will know from his own lips
wherefore he is manacled and held thus a prisoner. Genevieve, watch
up with me to-night!'

Genevieve pressed her cousin's hand in silent assent, and Louise,
kissing her, remained a few moments buried in deep thought. Genevieve
also sat thoughtful, her mind awed by the revelation of the mysterious
dream which had given cast and character to her cousin's whole
life. She looked at her dark and beautiful face, and felt a superstitious
fear at being alone in her presence. This feeling, however, reflection
enabled her to throw off from her spirit, when she remembered that,
save her singular power of dreams, she was in all else like herself. They
remained in their state-room till near midnight together; during which
Louise related to her more in detail the history of her spiritual love!

The young stranger was taken to the reserved state-room, and placed
there by the stern officer who held him in custody. A heavy chain was
then passed over the two transverse chains that connected his manacles
and his fetters, and secured to a strong iron bolt in the deck The
officer then took his station outside without securing the door, knowing
that his escape, thus heavily chained, was impossible; besides the boat
was under way in mid-river.

3. CHAPTER III.

The prisoner, when the door was closed on him, sat upon the side
of his berth and buried his face in his hands. Tears trickled through
the fingers and fell upon his chains. He was agitated; his chest heaved,
and his whole form seemed wrung with mental anguish. All at once
he ceased his outward expression of emotion, and removed his hands
from his face. It was deathly pale.

`Yes, yes, I am a felon! The proud and high spirited Preston
Randolph is a chained felon! That I should ever have seen these hands
thus bound! Yes, I am a forger! The act of one moment I must
expiate on the gallows! Yet, if ever man had excuse for crime, I
have! And am I the villian these chain would mark me? No, I am
not stained with guilt! My soul is not black! One act of my life is
not to make me all at once a villain! I am innocent in thought and
motive! I had no intention of wrong! It was circumstances that
made the guilt, and not the act! Oh, that I could prove to the world
the integrity of my heart, spite the dishonesty of my hand! I could
then again lift my head up among men. But now, no one pities; all
men scorn. Crime, or the suspicion of it, destroys the link that binds
men to their species. All sympathy dies! No, I err there! Woman's
heart bleeds for the unfortunate—ay, for the guilty—for the
basest, if he be penitent! Heaven forgives and receives the penitent,
so does woman! I could have knelt at the feet of those divine creatures,
as I passed through the saloon. I read sympathy in every lovely
lineament! One of them looked to me like an angel form I once
beheld in my dreams! I was overpowered by the sight of her! Did
I see her in reality? Am I not dreaming now? Oh, that I were, that
I were!' and the youth hung his head despondingly upon his breast.

Preston Randolph belonged to one of the best Virginian families.

He was the nephew of a wealthy gentleman who had disinherited his
son for marrying contrary to his wishes. Preston was then a student at
law in Philadelphia. His uncle sent for him to hasten to visit him.
On arriving he found him quite ill in bed. He however dictated a
will which by his direction, his nephew drew up, writing it down word
for word as it came from his lips. The will made him his sole heir.
A magistrate had been sent for to attest it, but had not arrived when
the dying man said he must sign it without delay or it would be too
late. Preston placed it before him and gave him the pen. His uncle
formed the two first letters of his name, `Francis Dayton,' when he was
seized with convulsions, the pen dropped from his hand, and he fell
back and expired.

For a moment Preston was overcome with grief and surprise; the
next instant he recollected that the will had not been signed. The
consequences flashed upon his mind. He yielded to the temptation of the
moment, seized the pen and completed with his own hand the signature!

Just as he had done so, the magistrate entered. He approached the
bed, and laid his hand upon the still warm temples. He then glanced
at the will and looked enquringly at Preston who held it in his hand.

`Just able to sign it,' said Preston handing it to him without
looking up. It was the first falsehood he had ever spoken.

`Um, um,' he said, `all right I wish I had been here a moment sooner.
But as I knew his intention to make you his heir, I will to stop
all objections, just attest it.'

This magistrate of easy conscience then affixed his name and official
seal to the instrument, and Preston Randolph Dayton became
possessor of the vast property of his uncle. There was, however, a
witness to this instrument whom they little suspected. It was a shrewd
attorney, whom the son of the deceased had sent to see if he could not
prevail upon his father to make, at least, some bequest in his favor.
He arrived a few moments before Preston commenced writing the
will, and walking across the lawn, came upon the gallery unobserved.
As he passed along towards the main entrance, his inquisitive curiosity
led him to peep in at the long windows which were trellised with
vines. To his surprise and satisfaction, through one of these he beheld
the invalid with Preston by his bedside. Unobserved, he heard
and saw all that transpired.

With the possession of this important secret he hastened away. He
let Preston take full management of the property, and then privately

charged him with the forgery, promising to compound with him for a
third of the estate. Preston, after the first alarm and surprise had
passed, refused to do it, and insulted him. The attorney then vowed
to expose him, when the guilty young man overcome with remorse,
shame, and fear of punishment, fled. He was, eventually, arrested at
Vicksburg; and on the requisition of the governor of Virginia, who
despatched officers for him, he was taken from prison, and now placed
in chains on board our boat.

It was, indeed, a hard lot for a noble youth like him. How great
and irresistable the temptation! Stronger principles would have
saved him this crime even at the expense of a vast fortune. But Preston
Dayton was ambitious, proud, and loved wealth for the power and
pleasure it conferred. The temptation offered itself—he embraced
it, and fell! His guilt was, it was true, unpremeditated. He intended
no fraud the moment before. He had really, only fulfilled his uncle's
intention. Yet, it would have been better if he had left it as it
was, with this intention so strongly apparent in the first two or three
trembling letters he had signed of his name. How eloquent it would
have spoken in a court of equity. But at all events, truth and integrity
are safest and best. Yet, to what man living would not the idea
have occurred to complete the unfinished signature? Many men,
good Christian men, who fear to do evil, though but the eye of God
is upon them, would have resisted the thought; but many, alas! too
many, would have done like Preston Randolph.

4. CHAPTER IV.

It was midnight, and all slept in the vast cabins, all on board the
immense steamer, save the watch on deck. But Louise and Genevieve
were awake, and so was the prisoner. Beside his door heavily
slept the officer, trusting to the chains to bind, and the waters to keep
his charge in safety. Softly Genevieve opened the door of her state-room
and stole forth into the cabin. The swinging lamp burned dimly
and cast a pale glare around. She crossed to the state-room of the
prisoner. She looked down and stealthily watched the stern countenance
of the slumbering guardian. His sleep was not feigned, it was
deep and heavy. She reached her arm across him and slipped a paper
up between the blinds, and hastily retreated.

Preston was sitting with his hands on his knees and his face buried
in his hands in deep and painful thought. He was calmly contemplating
suicide. He heard the paper fall at his feet. Hope gleamed
through the darkness of his destiny. He gathered his chains carefully
together that they should not clank, and picked it up. It read as
follows, in a delicate female hand.

`Guilty or innocent, thou art unhappy! There are friends near
thee who will aid thy escape. Prepare to receive whatever instruments
may be passed through the blinds, lest they fall, and the noise
wake your guardian.'

He pressed his lips to the note, and hope revived in his heart. In
a few moments afterwards, Louise Claviere was seen traversing with a
light step the silent cabins, wrapped in a cloak and hat she had taken
from one of the tables. She descended to the engine-room and secretly
obtained two files. With these she returned to her state-room,
having met only the watchman, who took her for one of the gentlemen
passengers who preferred walking on the guards to sleeping.

`Genevieve, I will take these to him,' she said to her cousin, who
felt almost as much interest in his escape as she did. `You will see,
that, if the officer wakes, he listen to you, rather than to us.'

`Yes,' said Genevieve, laughing, `I will try and amuse him if need
be—but let us be cautious and he may not wake. His sleep is that of a
tired man.'

Louise crossed the cabin lightly. Genevieve took a book and sat
on an ottoman close to the head of the officer. Louise softly opened
the door across his body, and entered the state-room of the prisoner.
He started with surprise. She laid her hand impressively upon his
arm, and placed a file in his hand. She closed the door and seated herself
silently at his feet, and commenced filing his iron fetters. She was
calm, quiet, resolute. Her look was elevated with high purpose. Was
it real? Was it a spirit that had come to aid his escape? He pressed
her hand gratefully to his lips, and took the other file and applied it to
the steel band of his manacles.

In two hours one of his manacles and a fetter released a hand and
foot. In two hours more he was freed from his chains! They were
then filed from the bolt. He knelt at the feet of his liberator. There
was an hour yet to day, and she asked him to tell her his crime. Briefly
he related to her what has already been narrated.

`Enough,' said she, `I knew thou hadst been greatly tempted. The
way is open before thee. Escape! If you do not swim, here is a life
preserver I have prepared for you. Let me buckle it about you. Now,
while it is yet dark, spring with your chains in your hands, and with a
loud clanking sound of them into the water, and swim ashore. It will
be thought you are drowned, as no man could swim with such a weight.
There will no pursuit be made for you, and under an other name, and
in another clime, you may live and be happy.'

`And to what glorious being am I indebted for life, liberty, and happiness?'
he said, kneeling at her feet.

`It matters not! Fly! If hereafter you should feel an interest
awakened in your breast for her who has liberated you, come on next
St. Mary's eve, and ask at the convent of the Sacred Heart for Louise
Claviere!'

With these words she opened the door, and pointed to the way of
escape ever the body of his sleeping keeper, and through the cabin to
the outer `guard.'

He pressed her hand to his heart, and that of the noble Genevieve—

who extended it to him—to his lips; and taking up his chains, as he
saw them both vanish into their state-room, he fled through the cabin
to the outer guard. The officer, awakened by the clanking, sprung
up, looked first into the state-room after his prisoner, then beheld him
flying along the cabin. He started in pursuit, giving the alarm, and
only reached the guard to see his prisoner spring with his chains into
the dark flood.

`Stop the boat!' he shouted aloud; but as she was already far beyond
the spot, he immediately countermanded the order; `no, no, it's
of no use; with twenty pounds of iron on him, he is gone to the bottom
like a stone!'

The boat kept on her way, and ere we reached Louisville, the prisoner
was forgotten. That some of the females in the cabin had connived
at his escape, and furnished him with the files, was very generally
believed, but suspicion was not fastened on the right persons.

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.