 | THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. Sketches |  |
3. THE FAMILY PORTRAITS.
The beautiful, unchang'd,—from Time's rude theft
Guards the fresh tint of childhood's polish'd brow,—
And when Love yields its idol to the tomb,
Doth snatch a copy.—
Love of Fame, has been called by philosophers,
the universal passion. The desire of adhering to
the memory of those we love, is an integral part of
our nature. We need not turn to the costly mausoleum,
or the pyramid on the sands of Africa, to
prove this “longing after immortality.” It is equally
illustrated, though on an humbler scale, by the
boy, who climbs a tree, to carve his initials on its
trunk,—the student, who defaces the college precincts
with multiplications of his nomenclature,—the
guest, who graves it upon the grotto of his host,
—the traveller, who inscribes it in the Alpine Album.
Yet there is one modification of this sentiment, at
which I have ever marvelled, viz,—the bequeathing
of our bodily presence to posterity, in a style calculated
to disgust, or alarm them. When I have gazed
at Family Portraits, whose ugliness and quaintness
of costume, scarcely the deepest reverence for their
to be exhibited to one's unborn relatives, in a
deformity which nature never gave. It is but a
doubtful compliment to the master of an ancient
mansion, to be obliged to contemplate the founder
of his house, perhaps the architect of its fortunes,
expanded with angular joints, and an idiotic physiognomy,
over several square feet of canvas; and
awkward flattery to a blooming belle, to be told that
the demure, ill-arrayed, and hideous beings, who
stare at her from their frames, as she hurries through
some unfrequented apartment, are her progenitors.
Yet there are remedies for such mortifications,—a
refuge in garrets,—a deposit among lumber,—the
teeth of rats,—the voracious perforation of worms.
So that those worthies, who in their prim and protracted
sittings to the artist, trusted to have been honored
as the Lares and Penates of their descendants
for ever, to have been produced as the Egyptian
brings forth his embalmed ancestor, to preside at the
banquet, and be the chief ornament of the festival,
may esteem themselves happy, should their effigies
escape utter annihilation.
Why I have been led to this train of moralizing,
the sequel of my sketch will unfold. The opening
of its simple drama is in Boston, about the year
1722. According to the most authentic statistics,
it then comprised a population not exceeding 10,000,
and sustained three weekly newspapers. The exciting
objects which now occupy the community,—
power of steam,—had then no existence. Had any
speculator in the wildest excursion of his brain, ventured
to present such visions to the grave politicians
of that day, his reception would have been much
like that of Columbus, when before the University
of Salamanca, he broached his theory of an undiscovered
world, amid frowns and threats of the Inquisition.
Still, there was at this period, no paucity of subjects
for conversation: and the most engrossing one,
was the contested system of Innoculation for the
Small Pox. Divines attacked it from the pulpit,
styling it, “an invasion of heaven's prerogative, a
most sinful lacking of faith, a high-handed doing of
evil, that good might come.” Lady Mary Wortley
Montagu had first ventured to naturalize this Turkish
practice in the person of her only son; and Dr.
Boylston, of Boston, who hazarded the experiment
upon his son and servants, with a happy, result, was
pronounced by an historian of the day, “the first
physician in the British dominions, that had dared
such a deed.” Among the few firm advocates of
the system of innoculation, at this period, was Dr.
John Ranchon, a native of France. He had resided
a number of years in Boston, and being in possession
of a competent estate, had withdrawn from the
labors of his profession. Still he could not but survey
with deep anxiety the ravages of that terrible
disease, which during the year 1721, had swept
population.
But, de facto, our business is with this same Dr.
Ranchon, and circumstances which transpired in his
family, more than with any dogmas he might adopt
respecting the science of Esculapius. The cause of
his emigration to this country, was the expected vengeance,
consequent upon a clandestine marriage.
Louisé Beauchamp, whom he loved, and whose rank
was higher than his own, had been immured by her
relations in a convent, to prevent their anticipated
union. But her favorite brother, Edward Beauchamp,
favoring the pretensions of the lover, an elopement
ensued, and the parties immediately embarked for
this New World. The young and beautiful wife,
after the residence of a few years in Boston, gave
birth to an infant daughter, and died. The bereaved
husband, in devotion to this little orphan, and occasional
intercourse with the natives of his own country,
passed most of his time, and gradually found
solace. A colony of Huguenots, who, after the revocation
of the Edict of Nantz, had formed a settlement
at Oxford in Massachusetts, and were driven
thence by an incursion of the Indians, had fixed
their permanent residence in Boston. Among these
he found kindred spirits, and extended to them every
office of kindness and hospitality.
At the period of which we now speak,—the year
1722,—he had arrived at his grand climacteric, with
robust health, and an unbroken constitution. He
approaching to sternness, yet modified by native
benevolence. Though somewhat unpopular, from
his strong prejudices and disregard of courtesy, he
was still treated with deference by some who respected
his professional skill, and by more who rendered
homage to his wealth. Especially as it became
generally known, that he had an only daughter, fair,
and approaching woman's estate; the discerning
beaux were particularly assiduous in their attentions.
He was by no means indifferent to the flattery of
marked politeness, though his simplicity of heart
induced him to consider it as a spontaneous tribute
to his merits. Yet he could not avoid sometimes
remarking, in his curiously laconic style, to Beauchamp,
who continued a member of his household,—
“These young fellows are better bred than their
fathers. The coming of so many French people
to live here, has been a great advantage, no doubt.”
His brother, more a man of the world, and skilful
in decyphering its motives, would reply—
“Indeed, the young men of the city seem to bow
lower, as your daughter Mary rises higher. They
carefully proportion their attentions to her increasing
stature, and comfortable expectations. Ever since
her fourteenth birth-day, a rapid improvement in
their manners has been visible. Your cane cannot
drop in the market-place, but half-a-dozen white
hands with rings and ruffles, are thrust forth to seize
and restore the precious treasure to its venerable
without a single shrug of compassion from these
exquisites. Doubtless, my good brother, your fame
was never fully understood, until Mary became its
interpreter. Happy father! whose beautiful daughter
has no employment for her tongue, so agreeable
as to publish his excellencies.”
But to Dr. Ranchon, who continued to view Mary
as scarcely emancipated from the nursery, and who
daily addressed her by his favorite appellation of
“baby,” the hints of Beauchamp were altogether
unintelligible. He still persisted in the course which
he had originally adopted, of sending her to the
most expensive schools, asking her once a week
how her music and French came on, and praising
every flower or landscape which she produced, however
carelessly executed. Within a year or two,
since her uncle had reminded him that she was as
tall as her mother, he had begun to inquire if she
knew what went to the composition of a pudding,
and whether she could “foot up an account neatly,
in pounds, shillings, and pence?” This new class
of interrogatories he usually interlarded with—
“Well! well! shan't marry, except to a genuine
Huguenot!—remember that!”
Then patting her cheeks, as the blood mantled
higher in them, would bid her be a “good baby.”
This injunction respecting marriage, though it might
seem to be given in a trifling manner, was nevertheless
decided. It was founded on the old gentleman's
and was understood by his family to rank among
those few positive commands of the Doctor's which
it was never safe to disobey.
Mary, from the blind indulgence which had almost
invariably entered into her education, would have
been in imminent danger, had it not been for a large
share of native good sense. This, however, was
inadequate effectually to control passions naturally
ardent, or to eradicate vanity which, had her looking-glass
been broken, would still have gathered nutriment
from the flattery of her school-companions.
She possessed symmetry, though not delicacy of
form, a profusion of raven hair, a clear, brown complexion,
quickened by a bright bloom, and a dark,
piercing eye. The expression of her countenance,
varying as she spoke, would have rendered her peculiarly
interesting, had not her striking features
betrayed some consciousness of their own power, and
the curl of her rose-tinted lip betokened haughtiness.
Still, few could look upon Mary Ranchon in the
early blush of womanhood, without repeating the
glance; though the more judicious were compelled to
temper their admiration with pity, for her early loss
of maternal culture. Her self-exultation was held
considerably in check, by the penetrating eye of her
uncle, whom she knew to be a better judge of
female elegance than her father, and whose keen
sarcasms she exceedingly dreaded.
Beauchamp, though not under the guidance of that
of the sex, if unadorned by wealth or beauty,
still possessed that acute perception of propriety,
courtesy, and accomplishment, which springs from
intercourse with the more elevated ranks of society,
and is sometimes rendered even more watchful by
an acquaintance with the abandoned. Love for his
niece prompted him to permit no error in manner,
no consciousness of beauty which might weaken its
effect, to pass without the lash of his satire. Finding
herself the object of such close criticism, a salutary
restraint was laid upon a deportment which
would otherwise have been wholly without control;
and while she shrank from the wit of Beauchamp,
she respected his judgment. She could not but perceive
that the partiality of her father often moved
him to countenance, or even to applaud in her, actions
and expressions which conscience told her deserved
reproof. Sometimes when she quitted the
room covered with blushes of chagrin and anger,
because some questionable deed or opinion had been
placed in a strong light by her uncle's bold raillery,
the kind-hearted old gentleman would say—
“Seems to me, Ned, you are rather too sharp with
the girl—pretty clever body, after all.”
“The misfortune is, my sapient Doctor, that she
is altogether too clever for thy straight-forward honesty.
She compasseth thy path, and thou knowest
it not. Thy astronomy is baffled by the “changing
Cynthia in the female heart.” Thou wert never
I only keep a brotherly watch over thy interests.
Why, baby Mary, as you call her, with her hot-house
politics, would bring a plant to perfection,—
germ, flower, and fruit,—while thou wert learnedly
puzzling over its botanical genus.”
The truth was, that Mary had already permitted
herself to be addressed in the language of love. Its
foundation had been in a thoughtless emulation, a
proud determination not to be outdone, as many
young ladies at the boarding-school where she attended
as a day-scholar, were boasting of the gallantries
of their admirers. Yet as he who tampers with
flame is not always certain of being able to extinguish
it, she found that what had begun in vanity,
threatened to end in pain. The man whose attentions
she encouraged, scarce knowing that she did
so, was her senior by more years than she had numbered,
and no novice in the science of entrapping
the affections. She knew little respecting him, except
that he was called Patten, to which the title of
Captain was appended,—that his exterior and style
of conversation were imposing,—and that he was
extravagantly praised for elegance of dress and manner,
by her giddy associates. But she was also
apprized that he was a native of Ireland, and consequently,
without the line of her father's demarcation.
She continually promised herself that should the
affair take the form of serious declaration, to repulse
all proposals and be governed solely by filial duty.
she knew it not. Her lover readily perceived that
she had too much feeling for a coquette, and decided
to protract his operations, until by inducing her to
accept, under the mask of friendship, those attentions
which belong to love, her generosity or her gratitude
should at length render her unable to repel his serious
advances.
His design was to possess himself of her fortune,
and he saw no practicable avenue to this point, but
through her affections. He therefore made his approaches
with that combination of perfect respect
and tender observance, against which the heart of a
female is seldom proof. The prohibition of her father,
which had reached him by the voice of rumor,
rendered his visits at the house inadmissible. Hence
their interviews were limited to the school which
Mary attended, where they were imprudently connived
at by her governess. She feared even to accept
him as a companion in a walk or ride, lest Beauchamp,
who was a man of leisure, and continually
traversing the streets, should detect the acquaintance.
Yet, though her lover was fully sensible of the advantage
which he had gained, in persuading her to
accept concealed attentions, she could not long persist
in such a course without self-reproach. She endured
the remorse of a generous mind, which, finding
itself involved in the mazes of duplicity, gradually
loses the power of retracing its path. Sometimes
she resolved to reveal the whole to her father,
saw her lover, and the resolution vanished before his
powers of fascination. With the simplicity of a
first-love, she began to regard his protestations as
truth, to believe that his felicity was indeed at her
disposal, and that her smile or frown was to be the
arbiter of his destiny. She became uneasy thus to
trifle with the happiness of one so perfectly subservient
to her wishes, and who constantly assured her
that he would rejoice to lay down life for her sake.
Should any grave female within the safe precincts
of single blessedness, condemn this credulity, as
peculiar weakness of mind, let her retrace the annals
of her own romantic days, and inquire if there
is no vestige of sympathy with Mary; and though
she may not have partaken in her follies, let her ask
if she rose wholly superior to her delusions.
Captain Patten now supposed that he had gained
an eminence from whence the attack might be successfully
opened. He pressed for permission to solicit
her father to sanction his addresses. This was
what she could not grant,—but ah! the dismission
which she had always promised herself should meet
such a proposal, was withheld by the hesitancy of
her traitorous affections. Angry at her want of
decision, she yielded to all the miseries of mental
conflict,—like the man who, half a convert to piety
and half the servant of sin, “resolves, and re-resolves,—then
dies the same.” The tumult of her
spirits created a temporary indisposition, and she confined
a waiting-maid, who had attended her mother in her
removal from France, and since her death had gradually
elevated herself into the office of house-keeper,
and humble companion to her young mistress,
endeavored to divert her chagrin by such conversation
as would best have dissipated her own.
“Ah, Mademoiselle! if you were but in Paris, with
that beautiful face, and that air so graceful, so degagée,
you would have no time for such terrible fits
of ennui. Why, you would be followed by more
adorers than could stand upon the common. Not
such dowdies as you see in this country, who dare
not look at or speak to a young lady, when they
meet her. Oh Mon Dieu! I had rather have a lodge
in the crookedest part of the Rue St. Denis, than
the grandest house in the whole of this mean village
of Boston. I certainly have seen nothing fit to eat
or drink, since I came to this vile America. I am
sure I should never have become such a perfect rack-a-bone,
if anything could have been found here, which
a lady ought to eat. Why, dear Mademoiselle, if we
were only in France, you would have been presented
at court by your mother's relations, long before
this,—and think what a stir you would have made
among the princes of the blood! Now here you sit
moping, day after day, like a creature shut up in a
pound. I am absolutely afraid you will lose your
senses, and I cannot see you suffering as you do,
without thinking of some beautiful lines of a great
Once I could say them all by heart, and sing them
too, but I have lost my memory, and my voice, and
every thing else, since I have been obliged to breathe
the dull, heavy air of Boston. Why, your father
invites nobody to visit at the house, but a parcel of
half-starved Huguenots. I wonder which of them
he proposes shall swallow you alive. I hope I shall
not live to see the day. Your mother would have
looked a deal higher for you. She was the right
sort, you may depend. But she grew melancholy
after coming to this land of wild beasts, and was not
the shadow of her former self. You can judge a
little by Beauchamp, how she once looked. He has
not the air of these yankee bodies.”
“Did my mother resemble Beauchamp?” inquired
Mary, yawning, and desirous to turn the channel of
discourse from herself.
“Something between Monsieur Beauchamp and
yourself,” replied the waiting-maid, “would be more
as she was in the height of her beauty. She was
like Venus, in that picture in your uncle's chamber,
where Paris (I believe it was he who built
the city of Paris,) is choosing between three goddesses.”
“Why did not my father have her portrait taken?”
“He did, several years before your birth. I always
told him that nobody but one of the court painters
from France was fit to do it. But he must needs
patronize the jackasses of this country. So there the
her husband, day after day, till she was ready to
faint with disgust. But when it was done, O Lord!
—the thoughts of it drive me mad. It was so bolt
upright, so stiff, staring, and with such an abominably
silly expression, so entirely out of character,
holding in one hand a huge bunch of pinks and
marigolds, and in the other, a book, looking vastly
like a bible, which was quite as much out of character
too, for she had too much good sense to put her
eyes out, with poring over dull, godly books.
“When Beauchamp saw the production, he told
the painter to take it with him to the devil; but your
father thought it had better be hung up a while for
the colors to mellow. At last it proved rather too
bad even for him, though he did not say much about
it. One day, I smelt smoke, and an awful odour of
oil, and ran into the dining-room, screaming,—
`Lord, Sir! the house is on fire.' What do you
think I saw, but that vile picture, split all to pieces,
and laid on the fire, burning with a terrible flame,
and the old gentleman thrusting it in further with his
cane, never speaking a word, or so much as turning
his head towards me.”
“How old was my mother, when she left her
native country?”
“Just your own age, my sweet Mademoiselle,
about sixteen. I never saw any mortal being so
resplendent as she was, the night of her escape from
the convent. Down she came by a ladder of ropes
weak head dizzy to look up at. Monsieur Beauchamp
held it firm, and carried her in his arms to
the carriage which waited in a dark thicket at the
end of the avenue. There was I in it, and your
father standing near, and the two postilions drove
like lightning till we reached the coast, where a priest
performed the ceremony, and we all embarked without
a moment's delay. When she was first brought
to the coach, she was as white as your robe, but as
soon as she found herself out of the clutches of the
nuns and their tribe, and safe with me, and her
lover, and her brother, she dazzled like a wreath of
rubies and diamonds. If she had not shown her
Beauchamp blood, and ran away just at that time,
she would have been moped to death in a convent,
just as you are likely to be in your own father's
house.”
This episode touched a chord that vibrated painfully,
for Mary's lover at their last interview had
urged her to an elopement, and though she had rejected
the proposal with spirit, it still remained as a
thorn in her memory, as a thing to which she ought
never to have listened.
“Dubelde,” said she, “I wish for rest. You forget
that your tongue has been in motion without
cessation, these two hours.”
“Two hours!—Oh mon Dieu!—It is just five
minutes by my watch, since I came up from ordering
Bridget about the ragout. The stupid wretch!—
in this country, that would not turn the stomach of
a horse. Why, we had scarcely been here a month,
when I sent to the market for some frogs, thinking
to make a pasty myself, to tempt your mother's
palate, for she was even then beginning to pine away
with starvation. Would you believe it!—the beast
of a servant never returned till night, and then came
bringing a huge pot of vile, fat toads, for which he
said the market-man must have six livres, having
spent most of the day in hunting them. Your poor
mother was not the shadow of herself, for years
before you were born. And you are in the same
way, I perceive. All your charming naivete quite
gone. You cannot even bear a few minutes' discourse
with a friend. Ma foi!—But how can I wonder,
when I am so changed myself? My nerves have
been shattered by hearing of the horrid Indian savages
of this country. And my eyes,—it does not
become me, to be sure, to tell what was said of them
in France,—but one might be apt to think that time
had changed them. No such thing,—it's more sorrow,
and weeping after Paris. More than once,
when I have been walking on the Louvre, a great
Prince, brother to Louis the king, has bowed to me.
I suppose he mistook me for one of the Duchesses.
But you must not speak of that, Mademoiselle. Lord!
I dare say you did not so much as hear me, for you
are dying with sleep.”
Mary was relieved by the absence of her waiting-woman,
thought to magnify her consequence by a strain of
discontentment, and expatiating on the superior advantages
of a former situation. Dr. Ranchon received
immediate information from her, that her young
mistress was in a fixed consumption, and that nothing
but a voyage to France could possibly restore
her. Credulous, and prone to agitation, where his
daughter was concerned, he ransacked his library
for authors who had written upon this disease, collected
his antiquated manuscripts to search for cases
within the range of his own practice, and turned the
whole current of his thoughts and conversation upon
the phthisis pulmonalis.
A few evenings after the communication of this
intelligence, as Dubelde was assisting her young
lady to retire, she began in a whimpering tone to
upbraid her want of confidence.
“Madelaine,” she exclaimed, “what have I concealed,
which was proper for you to know?”
“Alas! every thing,” replied the querulous damsel.
“Have I not carried you in these arms whole
years, and accompanied your mother in her flight
across the tossing ocean? And now to be treated
like an underling. Ah, mon cœur! She never
would have done so. Why, here is the story of
your love, and your marriage that is to be, all over
town, and I never to be told a breath of it.”
“All over town!—Explain yourself,” said Mary,
letting her long and beautiful hair fall uncurled over
on the side of the bed, her night-robe flowing in loose
and graceful drapery around her.
“O, that air of astonishment is vastly becoming,”
replied Dubelde; “only it brings rather too fine a
color over the brow, for a lady already so far gone
in a hectic. There was I, and your poor father,
fretting ourselves to death about asses' milk, and
how to make you put on flannel, and he was distracted
to have a monstrous blister laid upon your
breast, though I told him he might as well undertake
to persuade you to have your head cut off. But after
all, it seems that you are likely to let the doctors
alone, and die a natural death at last, since all this
alarm is only an affair of the heart, as Monsieur
Beauchamp says.”
“My uncle!—What does he know of this strange
story of yours?” inquired Mary with evident alarm.
“Nothing that I know of,” answered Dubelde,
“and he never would have heard it from me, had
you but seen fit to honor me with your secret. I
have had grander love-matters than yours, brought
me for advice, I assure you, young lady. I have had
experience enough too, in such sort of things myself,
(forcing a sigh)—to be a counsellor. But courting
is nothing in this country to what it is in France.”
“How did you obtain the information of which you
speak?” asked Mary.
“How did I obtain it?—Oh, to be sure!—What
if I should take it into my head to be as close-mouthed
it in the streets, where it is in every body's mouth
for aught I know. I saw the man with my own
eyes, Madam. He is a perfect Adonis. I had never
expected to see such grace and symmetry in this
land of savages. He is the very picture of the prince
who bowed to me on the Louvre, only he is rather
more em-bon-point, and his shoulders a trifle broader.
But such life and spirit, ma foi!—and such a fine
dress,—a perfect courtier too, in speech and voice.”
“Speech and voice!—Of whom are you undertaking
to prate?”
“Why, of Captain Patten. Who did your ladyship
suppose? I should not have mentioned his
voice, to be sure; I only meant to have said, what it
would be if he had spoken, for high-bred gentlemen
always abound in fine words. I had been walking up
Winter-street, for a little airing, as you know I have
been moped to death in your chamber for more than
this whole week, and I saw him coming down the
mall. I could do no less than just stop to admire him,
for I thought he must be some foreign prince. Who
is that? says I. Why, don't you know? says they. It
is Captain Patten, Miss Mary Ranchon's admirer.
You don't say so? says I. Oh, the wedding-dresses
are all made, says they, and she is going to settle
on him the whole of her mother's fortune, because
that is at her disposal. See, he wants to speak to
you, says they.”
“Says who?” interrupted the young lady, indignantly.
“Why, they that was with me, to be sure. People
need not be so mighty inquisitive unless they
could contrive to show a little more frankness themselves.
Well, as I was saying, I stopped one moment,
and he came directly up. Such a bow I have
not seen, since I turned my back on dear Paris.
`Mademoiselle Madelaine Dubelde, I presume,' said
he. Lord! how should he know my name. I was
abashed at such politeness, and felt my cheeks redder
than a piony. `You are, I understand,' he went
on, `a particular friend of that paragon of beauty
and loveliness, who holds my heart as the fowler
holds the pierced bird. Commend me most favorably
to her clemency, and say' ”—
“Dubelde,” rejoined Mary, with all her father's
sternness, which she well knew how to assume,—
“either speak the truth, or leave my presence.”
The narrator, regarding her eye for a moment,
and perceiving that her tissue had been woven with
too little art, and that falsehood could not elude the
quick penetration of her mistress, laid aside the flippancy
which had hitherto marked her recital, and
thus proceeded,—
“Since a slight embellishment so much offends
your delicate nerves, I will give you the plain fact. I
was accosted, as I came from the market, by a fine-looking
man, who, after mentioning his name, and
inquiring earnestly after your health, begged me to
deliver you this letter, and suddenly vanished among
the crowd.”
“I shall not take the letter.”
“As you please, Madam. I shall just lay it on
your dressing-table. It will do no harm there, I
trust. It is a mere complimentary note, I dare say,
and sealed just like the court billetdoux.”
Mary desired to be left alone, and throwing herself
upon her couch, ruminated painfully. She was
confounded at the rashness of Patten, in thus revealing
himself to Dubelde, and felt there was great
hazard in trusting one so naturally indiscreet, and
whose confidence she had taken no care to propitiate.
Again she recalled the circumstances of her last
interview with her lover, and blamed herself as the
cause of his precipitation, by the anger which she
had testified at his solicitation to elopement, and by
her subsequent seclusion from him. Sometimes she
condemned herself for evincing too much spirit; then
for not assuming enough to reject him utterly.
Still she was determined not to read his letter.
What could he possibly say in it, more than he had
said? A tumult of thought banished sleep until
midnight. She rose to extinguish the lamp which
beamed too strongly upon her eyes. The letter lay
near it upon her toilette. It was sealed with a head
of Venus. The writing was elegant. What harm
could arise from just looking at its contents? Would
it not be wiser to read it, and then inclose it in a
note, commanding him to forget her? Perchance,
thus reasoned our mother, when beneath the fatal
tree in Paradise, “she plucked, she ate.” The
took the letter, and twice restored it to its place, ere
she broke the seal. She perused it, and it fell to the
floor. Reclining her head upon her hand, while her
luxuriant tresses fell around her like a veil, she contemplated
its pages with an air of vacancy, and with
scarcely a connected thought, until advancing dawn
admonished her to retire. She rested her throbbing
temples upon the pillow, but no slumber visited her.
The bitterness of self-reproach, and the collision of
love with duty, rendered her an object of commiseration.
The letter contained ardent protestations of
attachment,—deprecated the misery which the rumor
of her ill-health had caused him,—conjured her
to suffer him to remove the veil which had so long
concealed his faithful love, and ventured to urge that
if her father should prove inexorable to his prayers,
she would not shrink from a step which many of the
most excellent of her sex had taken, nor condemn
to eternal despair, a heart devoted to but one object
with unalterable fidelity. Nothing was written
which had not been previously adduced, but the arguments
seemed to gather strength by condensation.
An eye accustomed to the vernacular of love-epistles
would have discovered in this, more of studied arrangement
than of artless passion, with somewhat
of that style which betrays expectation of success.
But to a novice, with an advocate in her own bosom,
the appeal, if not irresistible, was at least dangerous.
It rendered the writer an object of more undivided
the thoughts of an innocent heart, is like
the conqueror who cuts off the channels of supply
from a besieged citadel. Madelaine found her young
lady in the morning, changed both in appearance
and manner, and with rapture listened to the request
not to divulge her secret.
“Never fear me, my sweet Mademoiselle,” she
answered: “it is safe as in your double-locked casket.
Now you will be well again,—at least I must
tell my master so, for he is in such a panic, that he
will be sure to lay on a blister as big as a Parmesan
cheese before night. But, Lord! how shockingly pale
you look! Just touch a little of my rouge to your
heautiful cheeks. Mon Dieu! how awfully obstinate
you are! It won't hurt your complexion,—you may
tell that by mine. It only keeps one from looking
like a downright fright. The finest complexions on
earth would be utterly ruined, by the vile easterly
winds that are for ever blowing here. I protest that
even mine is hardly fit to be seen now, though it
was so much admired in France. But, my lovely
creature, I am delighted that you have read that
charming letter;” bending towards it with intense
curiosity.
Mary, blushing at her faithlessness to her own
resolutions, snatched it from the carpet, and pressing
it together, hid it in her bosom. This was the
most wretched day that she had ever passed. Compelled
to counterfeit cheerfulness during the visits of
recovery, she reproached herself for duplicity, until
she loathed her very being. When she observed
his eyes resting upon her with affectionate solicitude,
she wished to throw herself at his feet, and acknowledge
that she was unworthy to be called his child.
Dreading the scrutiny of Beauchamp's glance, she
excused herself from his proffered visit, with the
promise of appearing below on the ensuing day.
The attentions of the waiting-maid were indefatigable,
and her exultation as extreme, as if she had
again been promenading the Louvre, and receiving
a bow from some imagined Prince. Her extravagant
praises of Patten would have excited suspicion that
she was bribed to his interest, had the mind of her
mistress been sufficiently at ease for clear investigation.
So much had poor Mary sunk in her own
opinion, that not only was the impertinence of the
menial tolerated, but even her suggestions accompanied
with some degree of influence.
“Why, an elopement is no such terrible thing, my
adored lady. Your mother did it before you, and
your father, of all men, would have no right to complain.
A few words before the priest, a short journey,
return home, with a shower of tears, would
appease the old gentleman, and then all set off together
somewhere,—to France, I hope,—Ah! how delightful.
But suppose, Mademoiselle, you dismiss this
elegant lover, as your heart does not seem very susceptible,
and so marry one of these starveling Huguenots.
sort of bodies. Well, there's no accounting for
tastes, and every one has a right to choose their own
den, as the bears say, in the fable. You'll be set to
work like an ox, and what good will your guitar or
your piano do ye, where no music but the whirling
of a spinning-wheel is desired or understood? You
can do it, I suppose, if you prefer it, and so have
nothing fit to eat, or decent to wear, and pine away
and die, like your poor dear mother. But if you
can't quite bring your stomach to that, what's to be
got by waiting? How long will it be, before Beauchamp
will hear this news in the streets? And how
long, think ye, will he keep it from your father? O,
mon Dieu! what a terrible storm will be then. Much
worse, than if you had eloped and got back again,
for then he would have to make the best of what
could not be helped, and there would be only a show
of anger with a yearning heart underneath, and so
delighted would he be to see you, that he would soon
drop his frowning mask, and in one month's time,
I promise you, would be proud of such a son-in-law.”
Mary did not admit the force of these arguments,
but she evidently listened to them, and on such a
point, “the woman who deliberates is lost.” That
night, as she was about to retire, exhausted for want
of repose, but with little expectation of enjoying it,
she was startled at the sound of a violincello, directly
under her window.
Alarmed lest the proximity of her uncle's chamber
should occasion her some embarrassing questions
respecting the serenade, she bent from the
window, and seeing the form of Patten indistinctly
by the light of the moon, motioned with her hand
peremptorily for him to retire. Still the strain continued
its impassioned melody. Bending lower from
the casement, she said in a tone scarcely audible,—
“Go!—I command you.”
He obeyed,—but again from a great distance, she
caught the echo of a different lay, which was a favorite
among her companions. Almost the words of
its chorus seemed to be articulated, so perfect was
the modulation:—
Remember him, who dies for thee.”
This occurrence effectually prevented her slumbers
for another night, and she rose with disordered
nerves, and a tremulous anxiety of spirit. Hearing
that she was expected in the breakfast parlor, she
hastily arranged her dress, and required repeated
assurances from Dubelde, that Beauchamp could
possibly know nothing of her secret, ere she ventured
into his presence. He met her at the staircase,
and taking her hand, led her into the breakfast-room,
but forbore any except general inquiries about her
health, and regarded her with so little scrutiny, that
she felt at ease, and resumed something of her native
hilarity. Dr. Ranchon was so delighted at her reappearance,
that he could scarcely take his repast,
mingled with occasional commendations of his own
medical acumen, and precise knowledge of her constitution.
After breakfast, at taking his cane for his
morning walk, he recommended her to retire to her
room, and compose herself after this first exertion
of strength, and to take a wine-glass of the decoction
of valerian, with a little hartshorn to temper the
effect of the sedative. At his departure, Beauchamp
drew her into the recess of a window, under pretence
of showing her a new volume of colored prints. He
amused himself for some time in pointing out the
elegant execution of the landscapes, and the life and
prominence which characterized the figures. While
she was admiring the plumage of a bird, which she
did not perceive was the Hibernian thrush, he covered
with her hand, all the letters of the name except
Hibernia, and said with marked expression,—“As
you are doubtless better acquainted with the ornithology
of that island, than your uncle, can you tell him
whether this is one of the songsters which warble in
the night?”
Then casting at her an oblique glance from beneath
his long eye-lashes, while his fine eyes seemed
to say, that her soul was open before him, he
added,—
“All birds understand not the word of command
from a fine lady, nor is the same one equally obedient
at all times, ma belle Marié.”
Compassionating the extreme confusion with which
and attempted to turn her attention to other designs
of the artist. But complaining of an head-ache,
which she really had, she disengaged herself, and
hastened to her chamber. Rushing by Dubelde, she
covered her face with her hands, exclaiming—
“He knows it!—he knows all!—Beauchamp has
discovered all!—I wish that I were hidden in the
earth.”
“Ma foi!” shrieked the chamber-maid, “and if
that is indeed the case, you have no time to lose.
This night must you be on your way, or Patten is
lost for ever.”
“This night!” said the infatuated girl, “seems to
be the only time, for I heard Beauchamp say that
he was to go to Milton-hill, on a party of pleasure,
and not return until to-morrow. So that it
would not be in his power to discover any movement
here, and probably he will have no opportunity to
inform my father before he goes. Oh! I would suffer
anything rather than encounter such another
harrowing, humiliating glance. That miserable
serenade has been the cause of all this.”
Madelaine exclaiming with delight,—“Now you
are yourself again,—your mother's child,”—hastened
to make necessary arrangements, acknowledging
that she had already held three assignations with
Patten on this subject. Mary permitted her to depart,
continually repeating to herself,—
“It is impossible that I should be more wretched
like that which a woman suffers, who has
given her affections where they can never be returned,—trusted
her earthly all to one frail bark, and
found the wreck total.
Most persons will condemn our heroine, for listening
to the opinions, and employing the intervention
of so contemptible a woman as Dubelde. Let such
critics themselves beware of the first step in a wrong
course; for who can tell where the last may lead?
Most of us, when disposed to candor, can recollect
passages in our own history, where the commendations
of one whose judgment we might habitually
despise, if it happens to fall in with the current of
our partialities, has had some agency in determining
a doubtful and important choice. Dubelde was absent
at intervals during most of the day. Toward
its close, she brought a letter from Patten, expressive
of the most extravagant gratitude.
“Every arrangement is made,” said she. “All
that you have to do, is precisely when the clock
strikes twelve, to come down, looking like a goddess
as you do now, all arrayed for a ride in this fine
moonlight. Your lover meets you at the door of the
little summer-parlor, opening into the garden, leads
you through that into the next avenue, where a post-chaise
waits, and a servant on horseback. Then you
drive to Providence, get the ceremony performed,
and take an excursion just where your ladyship
pleases, until you are ready to come back and be
knees, with the old gentleman a little stern at first,
because he 'll feel obliged to be so, though he 'll be
panting, at the bottom of his heart, to cry welcome.
Lord! how much better is this, than one of the dull
weddings of this miserable country! Why, a funeral
is nothing to them for sadness. There sit the
bride and bridegroom, as starched and stiff as buckram,
and a parcel of friends who came only to stare
at them, and eat vile cake, and drink muddy wine,
till they are all as dull as asses. The parson too
pipes up such a doleful exhortation about honoring
and obeying, and then the old women snuffle and
cry, because they know what it means, and the young
ones hide their faces behind their fans, because they
wish to know. Then they all creep in mournful procession,
two and two, to congratulate the bride, with
such woe-begone faces, that she dreams of them in
her sleep, and screams out with the night-mare.
Mon Dieu! I could not survive, through such a stupid
scene. How much better to have a little life,
and motion, and spirit, and joy! And then to lay
your lover under such an obligation, when, in one of
these petrified marriages, ten to one but he 'll think
that he conferred one on you. But I 'm distracted
to run on so, when I 've all your wardrobe to put up
for your journey. Let me see: your crimson satin,
and your blue negligé, you 'll take by all means, and
you 'll need the pearl lutestring for a morning dress,
with shoes, and ear-rings, and ruffles, and so forth,
who knows but you 'll be robbed by the Indians.
Here 's the beautiful new brown tabby, that suits
your shape so exactly. You 'll ride in this, I trust,
with the Brussels lace tucker”—
“For heaven's sake,” exclaimed Mary, “say nothing
about clothes. I 'll go in the plainest dress I
have, and take one or two changes.”
“Ma foi!” shrieked Madelaine, “you 've lost your
senses. But so does every body, who 's in love. I
shall make bold to use my own judgment, and select
such things as are decent to wear. No good would
come from looking like a beggar, and disgracing your
lover at the very outset.”
“Prevent my father from coming to my room,
this evening,” said Mary. “I cannot endure to look
at him. Surely, surely, I am on a wrong course, or
it would not be so.”
“Now you 're getting into the dumps again,” replied
Dubelde. “Here, take your smelling-bottle, I
pray. Better do a thing gracefully, or not do it at all.
The old gentleman is safe enough. He 's got some
of the Huguenot bodies to une petité soupir with him,
and they 're telling old world stories with such eclat,
that they won't know what world they 're in, till the
dining-room clock strikes nine. Then they 'll be off
like the firing of a pistol, for they 're so superstitious
they durst not be out in the night. And your father
is always in such a hurry to get to bed, and Beauchamp
is out: what better could you possibly desire?
ghostly visage.”
Thus rattled on the interminable waiting-maid,
and Mary, whose object was to banish thought, felt
even her impertinence preferable to silence. Pride,
and a sense of decorum, would but a few days since
have strongly revolted against submitting to the guidance
of a menial; now the haughty spirit was passive
both to arrangements and to opinions which it
despised. “Bound on a voyage of awful length,”
the unhappy victim prolonged every hindrance that
detained her on shore. The last hour of probation
seemed as a few minutes, yet was almost insupportable.
She wished to fly from herself, to plunge in
the waters of Lethe,—to obliterate all the past,—to
forget even her own name and existence. There
was a settled misery in her countenance, which might
have awakened the obdurate to pity.
Thrice Madelaine repeated, “The clock has struck
twelve,” ere she heeded it.
“You mistake,” she replied, “it is scarcely past
eleven.” Fain would she have added,—“Ah! I
cannot go,”—but shame at exposing such indecision
to a servant, sealed her lips. At length she inquired,—
“Does my father sleep?”
“Lord bless me, my sweet Mademoiselle, are you
deaf, that you have not heard him snoring these three
hours, as steady as the fall of a mill-dam, and loud
as the screech of a trumpet?”
“And the servants?”
“All in their lofts, like swallows. I gave them
a swig of double-distilled, and I dare say, there 'll be
no such thing as getting them up in the morning.”
“And Beauchamp?”
“Ma foi!—Have you forgot he does not return to
night? This is your only time. Do you wish to wait
for his arrival, and so have your lover shot through
the heart, and be pointed at, and laughed at, all your
days? Oh! I know you 're not one of the sort, to
enlist and run away, at the first skirmish. Collect
your spirits, my princess. You are beautiful as the
moon, when she peeps from some silver cloud. You
have the very soul of the Beauchamps. You are
equal to what the poor spiritless creatures of this country
would be frightened to think of, but what is as
common in France as a jewel in the head of a Duchess.
Remember your mother did it before you,
when she was just about your age. Think of the
delight and rapture of your lover. Do you know
it is believed that he is some foreign prince in disguise?
and no more a Captain than I am? I 've no
doubt of it. I see a throne in his eye. Who knows
but you 'll yet hold the sceptre of Great Britain in
that lily hand.”
Unconscious of a word that was uttered, Mary
suffered herself to be led down the staircase, while
Dubelde, amid all her fidgeting, and pride of direction,
and fears lest they should not tread lightly,
could not avoid exclaiming with her native volatility,
reached the landing-place, they heard a gentle tap
at the glass door which led into the garden. It was
the black servant, come to see if all was ready, and
to convey the package to the carriage, which waited
at the avenue passing the foot of the garden. He
was admitted, and Madelaine ran hastily to the chamber
of her mistress, for the clothes which had been
prepared. At her return, she saw him setting down
a champaign glass, which, having stood near a bottle
upon a table in the recess, he could not resist the
temptation of filling, and decanting through his lips.
The moment she observed him, forgetting her own
reiterated injunctions of breathless silence, she
shrieked—
“Mon Dieu! The black whale has swallowed all
my rings!—the ruby,—the beautiful emerald,—and
the turquoise that was given by,—Oh, Lord!—and
the superb hair-locket too! Did'nt that stick in
your throat, you insatiable hawk?”
The bereaved waiting-woman had thrown her
jewelry, en passant, into this casual place of deposit,
that her hands might be more at liberty in packing
for her mistress; for, since the access of years
had rendered them somewhat more lean and skinny,
the ornaments of her buxom youth were in continual
danger of escaping from her attenuated fingers,
when summoned to any active duty. Her distress
at the rifling of her most beloved treasures, quite
annihilated the unities of time and place, and her
scarce a moment to compute the probabilities of the
extent of its echo, ere the door from the dining-room
burst open, and Dr. Ranchon appeared in his nightdress,
advancing a long, rusty rapier. Suddenly
awakened, and anticipating no enemy but thieves,
he armed himself with great dispatch, and stood
forth, a formidable antagonist, with great personal
strength, and equal courage. Great was his astonishment
to find his daughter arrayed as for an expedition,
and fainting in the arms of Madelaine. The
negro, profiting by the moment of consternation,
dropped the package and vanished.
“What! in God's name, is the meaning of all
this?”—exclaimed the hoarse, harsh voice of the old
gentleman, raised to its upper tones.
“Oh! take her in your arms,—support her, my
dear master, till I run for some hartshorn, or she 'll
die,” screamed the waiting-maid, anxious to turn his
attention to an object that would disarm his rage,
and still more anxious to convey her own person out
of reach of the rapier. She soon saw him engaged
in loosing the ligatures of his daughter's dress, and
too much occupied with her situation, to inquire the
cause. Carefully measuring her distance, so as to
be out of the range of the weapon, she commenced
a plea of defence, forgetful of the impatience which,
a moment before, she had testified, to obtain some
remedy for her fainting lady,—
“Oh! that I had never seen this night,” she cried
her from leaving her poor, dear father. Hours
without number, have I set before her the deadly
sin of an elopement.”
“Who told you 't was such a deadly sin, you
meddling Jezebel?” vociferated the father.
Dubelde perceiving that in her haste she had touched
a key to which her master's feelings always angrily
vibrated, cried in a whining tone,—
“Oh no, my dear Sir!—not to elope with a proper
person, Sir, such as an honorable gentleman
from France; that would have been a glory to her,
as it was to her mother. But to run away with an
Irishman that nobody knows, that was the trouble.
She was set enough in her way, God knows. She
takes it from the Beauchamps. She was angry
enough to have struck me, for saying so much in
your favor, Sir.”
“So, you knew that my daughter was about marrying
an Irish devil, and never told me of it, you
infernal deceiver! Get out of my house!”—rising
with his unconscious burden, as if to force her from
the door. But reminded of Mary's situation, by the
lifeless weight with which she hung upon his arm,
he changed his purpose, and exclaimed,—
“Run!—fetch the hartshorn.”
“Mademoiselle has some drops in her dressing-case,
your honor, which always do better for her
than hartshorn. I'll bring them in one moment.”
She disappeared on the staircase, muttering to
herself,—
“I shan't break my neck with haste to accommodate
him. Get out of his house!—Indeed!—A vile
wolf! This is what people of my talents get, by
demeaning themselves to such vipers!”
She lingered as long as was convenient to herself,
but came down stairs with rapidity, saying—
“I thought I should never have found the phial.
Things are hid in such strange places now-a-days.”
But ere she arrived, she heard the old gentleman
speaking in a hurried but gentle tone to Mary, who
was slowly recovering from the air of the open
door.
“There! there! look up again! breathe better now,
baby?—don't swoon again, as soon as you see me.
A'nt angry—No, no—shall marry who you please
—did'nt mean you should marry a Frenchman
against your will.—No, no.—May have whoever
you wish, only let father know it.—That's all.—A'nt
angry the least in the world,—do speak one word,
baby Mary.”
This colloquy, or rather soliloquy, was terminated
by Beauchamp, who rushed in at the garden-door,
and as Mary feebly retired with Dubelde, still in a
state of doubtful consciousness, he exclaimed—
“Clumsily executed, by the gods! This same
elopement is a true Irishman's bull. A carriage in
full view, beneath a full moon, scarcely a stone's
throw from the house,—a tattling chamber-maid for
confidante and mistress of ceremonies, and a devilish
negro dispatched to receive the dulcinea. This
“How did you know anything of this affair, brother?”
inquired the old gentleman.
“How do we know that our visage is furnished
with a nose, instead of horns?” he replied. “Simply
by the use of the eyes. I am amazed that any one
could be in the house with that girl, and not perceive
her change of manner,—her suppressed sigh, swallowed
in a smile, like the whale gorging the prophet,
and compelled to cast him forth again, her efforts to
appear unconstrained, and her inability to be so.
None but a doating father could be blind to all this
parapharnalia; and none seeing it, and having been
once in Cupid's court, could doubt the author. My
eyes having opened the cause, my ears soon purveyed
sufficient testimony. What is committed as a
secret to school-girls is better published than if the
town-crier were employed. I have long had my eye
upon this jewel of a man, who imagined that he was
walking in darkness, and wasting at noon-day. Not
many days since, did I see this same Captain Patten
presenting a letter in the streets to the most discreet
and excellent Mademoiselle Dubelde.”
“Captain Patten! is that his name?—why did not
you inform me of all this, Beauchamp?”
“Frankly, because it would have done no good.
You would only have fallen into a passion, and by
forbidding Mary to see her lover, have blown up a
girlish fancy into an unconquerable flame. Were I
either the parents or some old maiden aunt to oppose
it. The passions excited by such a collision,
are Hymen's engines. The young lady views her
lover as a martyr, mistakes her own obstinacy for
love,—marries, and is undeceived. No, no, my
dear sir.—I have too much attachment for the sole
offspring of my favorite sister, to hazard such a result.
I preferred coming in with my countercheck
at the crisis, as the best method of discomfiting this
rascally Irishman, and of giving Marie, through the
mortification that must ensue, such a lesson upon
the misery of imprudence and duplicity, as will probably
save you from their recurrence.”
“But how did you discover the proceedings of tonight?”
inquired Dr. Ranchon. “I thought you
were out of town.”
“A mere bagatelle. I have not lost sight of your
mansion to-day. I was nearer to your daughter than
you, when the shriek of that abominable Madelaine
broke your trance. It was my intention to have received
the loving pair, when they should issue from
the woodbine porch, in whose purlieus I was very
fragrantly accommodated. Finding that an underplot
was accidentally got up in the house, I varied the
last act of the drama, and drawing my sword, proceeded
to seek an interview with Honey, ere his ebon
emissary should return to report the misadventure.
He was quite comfortably watching his horses, muffled
in a cloak, and did not perceive me, until I was
some secret impression of his cowardice, I had so
placed myself with regard to the gate opening on the
avenue, that his retreat should not be that way.
Father Jupiter! I had not anticipated that he was
so complete a dastard. I did look for two or three
passes at least. Yet nothing saw I, but a pair of
heels kicked up in flight. As he was about to leap
the wall, I overtook, and closed with him. But unfortunately
entangling myself in the cloak which he
threw off, I lost my sword, and we should have had
nothing but a wrestling match, in which my jewel,
being the most powerful man, would probably have
had the advantage. This also he avoided, for giving
a leap over the high wall, he threw himself `sheer
out of Eden.' Having regained my sword, I followed,
taking care to secure a pocket-book, which
in the scuffle had fallen from him. But finding it
was hopeless to pursue the bog-trotter, though I am
somewhat fleet at a race, I turned, and met his negro
servant driving off the chaise. I menaced the horses
with my sword, and ordered him to drive to the devil.
The rest you know, and now I have considerable
curiosity to see the contents of this fortune-hunter's
port-feuille.”
He produced a rather spacious red leather pocket-book,
in which were various receipts, papers, and
letters of little consequence. At length Beauchamp
discovered one in a female hand, considerably mutilated,
though one page continued legible, and bore
a recent date.
“Cork March, 17th, 1724.
“Surprised will ye be, my loving husband, to
receive a letter from me in Cork; but the last long
winter was so tediously cold, and our cabin by the
pool of Ballyclacklin so shackling and bad, that my
brother was fain for me to be removing to Cork,
where he kindly gives me the use of one half of his
own house. I don't wish to be complaining too
much of hard times, but would be right glad to see
your sweet face again, or to receive any little matter
you could send me, to help on with the children.
Dick has got to be a stout boy, and looks with his
eyes as you do, and little Biddy has learned from
him to say, `Arrah! when will that daddy of ours
be for coming bock agen?'—I had'nt heard where
you was for a year, or thereabouts, till last week,
Mr. Patrick Thady O'Mulligan, of this place, returned
from Boston, in America, bringing news that
you was there. He says, he was a little bother'd
at first, and came nigh not knowing you, because
you had taken a new name; something like Paten,
or Patin, and wore a marvellous rich dress of a regiment
officer. He says too, that at first you declared
it was not you, but he swore that he'd know your
father's son all the world over,—and then you told
him that it was you. Right glad was your loving
wife to hear that you was not drowned in the salt
sea, and”—
Here the epistle was torn across.—Beauchamp
had scarcely patience to complete its perusal.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, brandishing his sword, “that
the Powers above had suffered but three inches of
this blade to sound that wretch's heart!”
Dr. Ranchon traversed the room, raving in an
excess of passion. He clenched his hands, and ere
the reading was concluded, had vociferated more evil
wishes and epithets, than it would be either convenient
or fitting to repeat. Snatching the mutilated
letter, he exclaimed—
“Let her see it! Let her see it! Show her what
an infernal gulf she sported near.”
Then clasping Beauchamp in his arms, with a
violence that almost suffocated him, he said, half in
tears, “and you, you have saved us!” Beauchamp
placing his hand upon his brother's arm, as soon as
he could extricate himself from his powerful embrace
said,—“Stay! Enough has been done for safety.
There is yet sufficient time for suffering.—She cannot
bear all at once.—I should not be surprised,
were you to have occasion for all your professional
skill in her chamber, this fortnight. This revulsion
of feeling, call it what you will, vanity, lunacy, or
love, cannot be without physical sympathy. This
`last, unkindest cut of all,' must be softened to her,
as she can endure it. In the meantime send out of
your house that walking pestilence, in the shape of
a chamber-maid. A ship this week sails for France.
—Furnish part of its freight with her carcase, and
give thanks as the Jews did, when they were clear
of the leprosy.—If it sinks, so much the better.—
in the Rue St. Denis,—the height of her ambition,
where she will soon complete the climax of
her folly.”
Dubelde was accordingly dismissed, the fortune-hunter
vanished, and the prophecy of Beauchamp,
respecting Mary, was but too literally fulfilled.—
Long and severe sickness, with partial delirium,
were the consequences of her folly; and though her
firmness of constitution eventually prevailed, yet
she came forth with wasted bloom, scarcely the
shadow of her former self. This protracted period
of reflection and remorse was salutary.—The fabrics
of vanity wherein she had trusted, fell around her,
and her principles of action became reversed.—With
subdued pride and renovated feelings, she strove to
atone for her faithlessness to her father, and her forgetfulness
of her God.
In due time, she admitted the addresses of a descendant
of the Huguenots, one in character and accomplishments
altogether worthy of her affections.
His elevated mind, and susceptible heart, induced
her to cherish for him that mixture of gratitude,
esteem and confidence, which if it pretend not to the
enthusiasm of a first love, is something in itself far
better.
It is that state of feeling into which requited and
virtuous love eventually subsides; that pure and
self-devoted friendship which the author of the Spectator
has pronounced the “perfection of love.”
what wayward and romantic youth are often sceptical
in believing, that the illusion of a first love, in
all its charm and enthusiasm, is but misery, if unsanctioned
by duty, in comparison with that union
of hearts, which judgment approves, which piety
confirms, and whose crown is the smile and blessing
of a parent.
Perchance some of my readers, if haply any have
attended my lucubrations thus far, may marvel why
I have seen fit to entitle them family portraits. The
truth is, that two antiquated personages have for
several years been looking down upon me from their
ample frames, whenever I pass a particular part of
our mansion. One is a lady dressed in a brown silk,
with raven hair parted plainly upon her forehead, and
holding in her hand a snuff-box, with an aspect rather
grave than beautiful. The partner is a most portly
and respectable gentleman, with wig and ruffles,
pointing with a spy-glass to the distant Ocean, as if
in expectation of the arrival of some richly-laden
vessel. Both portraits are in far better taste than is
usual for those that bear the date of more than a
century: the hands in particular, which are allowed
to be some criterion of an artist's style, are elegantly
finished.
Having been divers times puzzled with inquiries
from visitants, respecting these venerable personages,
I set myself seriously to search our family records,
and you have seen the result, in the foregoing sheets.
have read daily lectures against coquetry and elopement
to her children, was no other than the once
celebrated Mary Ranchon, and that the gentleman
in such undivided proximity was that Huguenot
husband, who so greatly enhanced her happiness by
his love, and her respectability by his wisdom. Should
any person continue sceptical as to the truth of the
facts herein related, he may see, should he travel in
the land of steady habits, those same family portraits,
gratis, and be told the name of the husband of Mary
Ranchon.
Hartford, October, 1827.
| THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. Sketches | |