University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Thus the time was passed during the voyage, without
any incident of special importance. I must not omit to
mention one circumstance, however, which surprised me.
When we reached Pittsburgh, I beheld, among the deck
passengers, with his deer-skin trunk on his own shoulder,
and in the act of stepping on shore, my Jew competitor,
Moses!

“Is it possible you are here, Moses?” said I, coming up
with him as he trudged along the wharf.

“To pe sure it's me,” said he.

“What, have you removed your store from Hanover?”

“No inteet!” exclaimed he, chuckling; “I'm going on
for goots.”

“But whom have you left behind to sell those you have on
hand?” I inquired, never having seen any partner or clerk
in his store, nor having had any intimation of his purpose
to go east.

“I left a man—a goot man in my blace. He is von of
my bartners, from down te river,” said he, in a whisper.
Why he lowered his tone, I could not conjecture, for all
who were nigh us at that moment were strangers, and besides,
the drays vibrated about us like muttering thunder.

“But you did not intend to go east until very recently,
did you?”

“Yes inteet—I vanted to go a month sooner, put vanted
you to start first.”

“And why did you want me to start first?”

“Because ve never vant our combetitors to know anyting
apout our movements—ve alvays ket te atvandage py tat
bolicy.”

“But you gained nothing by it this time?” said I, triumphantly.

“Yes I dit,” said he, quickly. “You pait dwenty tollar
bassage to dis blace—I pait only vive. I prung Palogna
sassengers and grackers in my chest, and bait a voman
dwo shilling for all my coffee.”

“Do you always take a deck passage, Moses?”

“Oh, no. Sometimes I go in te capin, and dake my
chest of jewerly to beddle on—put dis time I saw you dere,
and den dook teck bassage. But dere were more teckers
dan capin men, tis dime.”

“And did you make anything out of the deckers?”

“Te goots I solt on te bassage, (his jumble of Dutch
and Welsh increasing as he became more animated,) gost
me vorty tollar—dey prought me von huntret and tirty.
My pusiness is to pe alvays at pusiness, everyvere. On
te steampoats dey ton't make us bay licenze.”

I turned away from Moses with rather unpleasant fore-bodings
for the future. How was it possible for me to
contend with such a competitor? My only hope lay in
the fact that the Jews were proverbially a restless, roving
class, and that Moses might, perhaps, soon find a better
location than Hanover. If he should not go from Hanover,
I determined that I would remove to some point in the interior,

where Elijah had informed me the Jews rarely intruded.
The Shylocks prefer to be on the navigable streams,
where it is always convenient for them to take passage for
“parts unknown,” should their necessities or inclinations
render it expedient for them to do so.

In due course of travel, we reached Philadelphia, and
put up at the City Hotel, Third street above Market. Most
of the Missourians stopped there at that time. Moses was
not of our company. I had not seen him since parting
with him on the wharf at Pittsburgh. It was probable he
was peddling on foot on the highway to the east.

Now I was in a new sphere, and everything I beheld
was novel to my delighted eyes. It was true I was born
in a neighboring city; but, as I had left it when only six
years of age, I had lost all remembrance of it. There may
have been indistinct memories of long streets, church spires,
and ship masts; but they seemed like the dim visions of
early dreams. Now, all I beheld was reality, and I seemed
to gaze upon another world—a bright and happy one. And
even at this day, though I have grown familiar with all its
streets, places, and with hundreds of its people; and although
I have walked the streets of most of the cities of our Union,
and of the great cities of Europe, still, whenever chance or
business takes me back to Philadelphia, I always enjoy a
renewed realization of my first transports, and set it down,
without hesitation or reservation, as the most beautiful, the
most cleanly, and the most pleasant city in the universe.
I entered in the night, the last city I had seen being sombre
Pittsburgh. The next morning the sun had risen in splendor
in a clear sky. There was an exhilaration in the air, there
was a cheerful expression in the faces of the men, and
something like the freshness of angelic beauty in the delicate
features of the women. Such were my impressions

then—and these impressions have not been wholly dispelled
by the lapse of time.

I must not omit to state here a very interesting fact.
Although I could not remember anything I had seen at the
age of six years, I could distinctly remember what I had
tasted. The first plate of oysters I devoured, notwithstanding
I had not even seen any since I was a child, had as
familiar a taste to me as though I had eaten them the day
before.

It was Saturday night when we arrived; and when the
church bells were rung the next morning, it seemed to me
that I recognized the sound. I went to St. Peter's. This
was the first time I ever heard the service of the Episcopal
Church. Whether it was the knowledge that Blanche preferred
that church that inclined me to go thither, or mere
chance that directed my steps, is now a matter of no consequence
whatever: but that the imposing solemnity of the
ceremonies, the beauty of the Litany, and the spiritual expositions
of the minister, made impressions on my heart
and mind which have never since been removed, and
which I hope will never be eradicated, is a truth of more
importance to me. When the sermon was over, I mingled
with the retiring congregation as I returned up Third Street.
Then the debates we had on the steamer, as we descended
the broad Mississippi, occurred to me, and I felt a considerable
degree of mortification, when I contrasted my
threadbare apparel with the very neat clothes of all the
young men around me. The next morning before breakfast,
acting upon the hints I had received, I set out in quest
of a new suit, ready made, not wishing to endure the delay
of being measured by a tailor. At that time, establishments
where ready made clothes could be purchased, were few
and far between, and I was reluctantly compelled at last

to deal with a Jew. At the present time we find clothing
houses as plenty as blackberries, with Christian proprietors.
And why not keep ready made coats, &c., as well as boots,
hats, bonnets, &c.?

After breakfast, I set out in company with Elijah Sage,
for whose sagacity I had conceived a profound respect, although
I condemned his notions about royalty. We first
entered the hardware house of Y. S. & K., where, following
Elijah's example, I deposited my money, to guard against
the “light-fingered gentry,” as they are mildly termed.

I did not ask—my timidity and bashfulness sealing my
tongue—if there was a letter for me from Norfolk. One
was handed me from Joseph, post marked Pike Bluff, where
an office had been established; but I held it unopened in
my hand, while Mr. S. looked over the large number that
had arrived for the western merchants. On perceiving
the direction of my eyes, he announced that no other letter
had come for me. No doubt I was pale. I was so
agitated by this disappointment, that my hand trembled
violently, and after making one or two awkward and ineffectual
efforts to open Joseph's letter, I withdrew rather
precipitately and returned alone to my room at the hotel.

Joseph's letter contained a proposition, similar to the one
he had made his partners, when he had visited the city the
year before. His terms were reasonable, and I embraced
them. I then became sole proprietor of the store in Hanover.
Isaac was to remain with me, while Joseph was to
write to Kentucky for another brother. Poor brothers in
our family were not useless appendages. If there had
been twenty of us, it would have been all the better in the
end.

This letter I replied to without delay, and then set out

in the direction of the dry-goods houses, and left my letter
of reply in the counting room of R. & Co., a celebrated
establishment, whence it was sent with their own letters to
the post-office. I informed them of the nature of its contents,
and as they approved of my determination, and
readily proposed selling both myself and Joseph whatever
goods we wanted, I felt like one fully initiated into all the
privileges and immunities of a regularly established western
merchant. The imprimatur of several of the leading
houses was sufficient. It was a common saying that the
man to whom they would sell at all, needed no special
recommendation to be enabled to get goods, on time, from
any of the other firms along the street. But it will be seen,
in the sequel, that some of these houses, in their eagerness
to follow in the wake of the old leading establishments, were
destined, in river parlance, to “run against a snag.”

Having, in the course of a fortnight, completed my purchases,
collected most of my bills, and distributed my
money, I began to make arrangements to set out on my return,
not without many pangs at the thought that I had no
intelligence from Norfolk. I was walking slowly down
Market street, on the north side, where the noon-day sun of
March imparted a warmth, almost as inspiriting as our
Missouri sun (which has not quite an equal anywhere in the
world), when Mr. S. called me into his counting-room and
placed a sealed epistle in my hand. Its wax was stamped
with the impression of a dove, holding an olive or some
other kind of leaf in its beak, and underneath was the motto
“Hope on.” The superscription was in the hand of Blanche.
How I felt it would be in vain for me to attempt to describe.
How I looked, no doubt Mr. S. could tell—and I believe he
did tell.

“That's from your brother, is it?” he asked; “perhaps

he sends some news from the west?” I hesitated, and he
continued, “I did not observe the post-mark—perhaps it's
not from him. I beg your pardon.” I tried to make some
careless observation in reply, but could not—the half-conceived
idea dying upon my tongue. I grew more and more
embarrassed, and putting the letter hastily in my pocket, retreated
in confusion to my room. Even when I was alone,
with my door locked against intruders, my perturbation
was slow to abate. I seemed to be suspended in air, while
the tumult and commotion in my breast almost bereaved
me of my senses. At last I asked myself the question
what it all meant. Was I deliriously in love? Even with
all these symptoms about me, I was not fully aware of the
true depth of my passion. I was conscious of the deep
interest inspired by Blanche, and of my affection for her;
but I did not know that it could subject me to such excesses.
Yet I remembered what a flurry all her letters had produced
in my head and veins; and hence it was some time before
I ventured to open her letter. If the mere sight of it had
thrown me into such spasms, perhaps its perusal might be
more than I could safely bear. So I spent several minutes
in conjecturing its contents, and determining in my mind
what I should do, provided she said this or that. Finally,
I broke it open, and here is every word it contained.

Upon reading this, the fire of my passion was somewhat
quenched. I did not float on a sea of bliss. In short, I
could not clearly define its exact import. Merely a “passing
visit!” Why, Norfolk was some two hundred miles
out of my way! Such a visit, under such circumstances,
would be rather an unusual step for merely “careless”
friends. But still it was suggested at that time by Blanche.
I thought I understood the caution in regard to her uncle,
and I must own that I felt no disposition to have a “hostile
collision” with him. It was the last word of the epistle that
bothered me most. There was no mark of punctuation at
the end of “Remember,” which was followed immediately
by “Blanche.” The interpretations and readings of Malvolio
occurred to me more than once as I strove to find her
meaning. It might be that she designed to impress more
forcibly her injunction in regard to her fiery uncle; or it
might relate to the promise she required me to record in
heaven: in this case it would be a strange expression, unless
it was to be considered in the category of “lovers' vows,”
for promises merely of friendship are generally supposed
to take a contrary direction; and then it might mean for
me to remember Blanche. That was the most congenial
interpretation; and to forget her was altogether out of the
question. Among a variety of conflicting conjectures the
latter meaning seemed to have preponderance, and so I resolved,
in obedience to the magnetic attraction which drew
me thitherward, to set out for the south the next morning.

During the passage, I formed a thousand romantic and
precautionary schemes to see Blanche without encountering
her terrible uncle. But they were all dispelled as we
rounded Old Point, and were assailed by a violent storm.
I became horribly ill, and it must be admitted that once
I wished myself back again in Philadelphia, whither I
had promised to return before departing for the west.
If the reader has ever been made ill by the motion of the
waves at sea, I need not apologize to him for forgetting,
during a brief interval, the attractions of Blanche.
This kind of illness is a most prompt and effectual cure of
love. Let any one who desires to be cured, or to cure
others, try the experiment; and if it does not prove to be
a perfect remedy, then I may be set down as never being
in love, and a mere impostor, instead of a bonâ fide victim
of Cupid's shafts. To those who have never ventured on
the realms of old Neptune, any farther explanation might
be incomprehensible.

The sun was declining low in the west when we entered the
mouth of the James river, and the vast expanse of troubled
waters was beautifully gilded with its last golden rays.
When we landed, it was not difficult for me to find the hotel
indicated in the letter, and thither I had my trunk (which
should have been left in Philadelphia), conveyed. My name
and place of residence were engraven on the plate of my
trunk, and so the barkeeper immediately transcribed it literally
on the register, which lay open on the counter, exposed
to the gaze of every one whose curiosity might lead
him to read it.

After tea I walked out in quest of the church that had
been named; and after some search succeeded in finding it.
There was no farther impediment to the realization of my
desires, excepting the services, which seemed to be particularly

“long drawn out,” with scarcely a particle of “sweetness”
to one of my impatience. But there was an end of this
suspense, as there must be of all things, and I followed my
unconscious guide to the place of her abode. I waited a few
moments, after the door closed behind her, before I rang the
bell. When I did ring, I was ushered in by a colored female
servant, whom I had never seen before of course, but who, to
my inexpressible surprise, exclaimed, “Iz dis Massa Short-field?”
I promptly told her it was, and she as promptly
conducted me to the parlor door; and with an expressive
smile, which disclosed two faultless rows of ivory, made a
motion for me to enter. I did so, and she closed the door
behind me and retreated. I stood in a flood of light, emitted
by a capacious lamp on the centre-table. But the
spirit of light herself, (if it be not profanation so to express
myself,) the indubitable Blanche, stood before me. For a
moment we both might have seemed to be stricken blind,
and in our very awkward attempts to consummate a hearty
shake of the hand, we came nigh perpetrating a more delicate
encounter. At length, when mutual consciousness
returned, we found ourselves standing face to face, and
speechless, like a brace of idiots. I held her by one hand,
and she held me by the other, while we gazed deeply in
each other's eyes. Finally, her cheeks, which had been
as white as her snowy dress, assumed the deepest dye that
a rush of blood could give it, and at the same instant mine
began to burn and tingle. We relaxed our grasps, and sat
down. Again, like simpletons, we did little more, for
many precious moments, than gaze at each other. When
we parted last, I was but a stripling, and Blanche a mere
girl, a few months my senior. She was now a graceful,
stately woman—her form, of perfect symmetry, fully developed—while
her dress, adapted to the fashion of the day,
was so contrived as to exhibit her faultless proportions
to the best advantage. I now felt an awe, an exceeding
reserve in her presence, that I had never before experienced.
She perceived my surprise and embarrassment, and
a lurking smile indicated the pleasure she felt on producing
such an effect. For my own part, I also had somewhat
changed. I had grown much taller, and now could pass
muster for a man. I had also paid especial attention to
my exterior accoutrements, and was dressed in the latest
style. My voice, too, had changed from the squeaking
notes of the goslin to the full intonation of the gander.
All this did not seem to be offensive to her—nevertheless,
the free, unreserved manner of her girlhood was gone.
She did not term me simply “Luke”—it was now “Mr.
Shortfield.” Nor could I shape my tongue to utter simply
“Blanche”—it was “Miss Blanche,” though not Miss
Beaufort.

I will not detail the conversation which passed between
us, simply for the reason that I do not remember a word that
was uttered. But the ideas that were conveyed, and the
sentiments expressed, as well by the tongue as those unuttered
by the eyes, can never be obliterated from memory.
She was glad to see me—to see that I had improved; and
hoped I would be successful in every undertaking, and that
we would continue to be friends, and meet again—but never
said a word about love. Nor did I, nor could I for worlds
have made a declaration in words. But no doubt every
look, every motion betrayed my passion—while she disclosed
enough to satisfy me that I was anything rather than
indifferent to her. When I told her I would travel to the
east again in about a year, she made no hesitation in proposing
that I should again visit her, and promised that she
would direct a line to me in the same manner as the last,

informing me of the place of her abode. All this was a
dangerous procedure for merely “passing friends,” but
neither of us seemed to be aware of the consequences
likely to ensue. We were preparing a theme to occupy
our thoughts for a “twelvemonth and a day,” which would
grow more interesting the more it was dwelt upon.

It was eleven o'clock when I prepared to depart. When
I rose Blanche rose too, and extended her hand, which,
for want of sufficient confidence, I did not press. I suppose
we stood nearly an hour. Both of us seemed to
have found our speech at parting, with a vengeance. But
still we did not talk of love by name; we only breathed
under its overwhelming influence. Knowing her devotion
to the Church, I had bought her a beautiful prayer-book;
and when I presented it, she presented me with a
still more beautiful one. She was delighted to hear that I
had been pleased with the church services—and I was rejoiced
to hear her animated expressions of approval. At
last we parted, but not without an agreement that I should
take a final leave of her in the morning, before setting out
on my return to the north.

That night I dwelt among the cherubim and seraphim in
my dreams, with an occasional damper to my visions in
the interposing form of an evil genius—the dreaded uncle,
whom I had really never seen. The next morning, when
I met Blanche according to appointment, there seemed to
be an expression of care, if not of sadness, visible on her
features. Certainly the red of the preceding evening had
succumbed to the prevailing white again. And when we
shook hands for the last time, I might have perceived a
lurking moisture in her eyes, had there not been too much
of a mist in my own.

I had not been long in my room at the hotel, before a

servant opened my door, and said a gentleman in the parlor
below wished to see me. I walked down, and beheld a
stranger walking backwards and forwards in the room indicated,
which I entered. I sat down on a sofa, waiting
for him to address me, if he was the one who desired to
see me. The servant had not announced my name, being
called away before we reached the door, and I began to
reflect whether the gentleman before me, who was very
composedly surveying my exterior at every turn he made,
was the individual who had desired my presence there, and
who he was, what he wanted, &c. I now began to gaze
at him. He was about fifty years of age, tall, straight,
neatly dressed, and every point and motion indicating the
high-bred gentleman. At last he paused and rang a bell,
the string of which hung down at the mantle-piece, near
which I was sitting. The servant I had just seen appeared,
bowing and apologizing. I did not hear the words that
passed; but when the servant retired, the gentleman approached
the place where I sat, and after a renewed scrutiny
of a few moments, thus spoke:

“You are Mr. Shortfield, I believe, whose arrival yesterday
I find on the register of this hotel?”

“The same, sir, at your service,” I replied, returning
his inquisitive gaze. He seemed to be somewhat astonished
at the promptitude of my reply, and the anticipatory phraseology
of it. But it must have pleased him, as he relaxed
the severity of his expression, and assumed an air of polished
politeness and profound respect.

“Who I am, and the nature of my business with you, sir,
will be expressed in a note, which a friend I have in the
next room will deliver to you.”

Saying this, he bowed, and withdrew. He had not been

gone more than five minutes, before his friend came in,
holding the note specified in his hand.

“I have the honor to deliver this note for my friend,
Mr. Beaufort!” said he, seating himself, in accordance
with my invitation, on the sofa.

I was stricken with the rigidity of a polar blast. I could
hardly close my fingers on the epistle he placed in my
hand. He marked my consternation; but not desiring, by
the sudden prostration of my nerves, to have any good sport
spoiled, he strove to encourage me when I had run my
eye over the contents of the note, which ran thus:

“It is a mere bagatelle, of frequent occurrence,” said
Col. S.; “very seldom is any harm done. Have you any
acquaintances in the city?”

“No,” said I.

“No matter,” he continued; “any gentleman will act
in your behalf, and with perfect honor. I have only to

hint at the circumstance among some high-toned gentlemen,
and either of them will tender his services.”

“This is a matter,” said I, my thoughts being now
somewhat better collected, “requiring grave consideration.
I must reflect upon it. I will give you my answer an hour
hence.”

“Very well, sir,” said he, rising; “I will be punctual.”
He withdrew, and I retired to my room.

When alone, I was, very naturally, filled with indescribable
emotions, and of course they are not to be described.
But it was necessary for me to make up my mind what
should be done in the premises. What I would not do,
was already resolved. I did not intend to fight—that was
certain. I now thought seriously of the region above, to
which I mentally appealed, as the depository of my sacred
promise. I felt that I could die for Blanche; but she had
considerately debarred me from fighting for her—and I am
bold to say, that it did not enter into my meditations to
commit a “breach of promise” on that occasion. I wanted
an adviser—but I desired one specially to indicate the
means of avoiding the gentlemanly entertainment to which
I had been invited. I knew no one in Norfolk, at all—
much less one in whose hands I could feel inclined to place
my life. So I determined to have it exclusively in my
own keeping. But still I felt an inclination to get out of
the scrape in a genteel manner, if that were possible. While
I was painfully engaged in trying to devise some means by
which this object might be accomplished, I was ever and
anon interrupted by the entrance of the grinning Pompey,
who placed card after card on my table, and stated that
the gentlemen were the first characters in the place, and
that they were all below, perusing the newspapers, and
awaiting my pleasure.

This state of disagreeable suspense and conjecture, mingled
with the production of a constant succession of new
cards, continued for some minutes, when it occurred to me
that there really was one gentleman residing in the city,
with whose name and fame I, in common with the whole
country, east and west, was acquainted. Although I had
never seen him, I resolved to apply to him for advice, and
so I dispatched to him the following note:

Mr. T. received my note politely, and accompanied the
bearer back to my room. By this time fifty minutes of the
prescribed hour had fled. When Mr. T. was seated, I mentioned
the fact to him, and he paused a moment to reflect
what should be done, during which time I took occasion to
look at him. He was of Herculean frame, with a large head;
all the features of his face remarkably prominent, and all
bearing the marks of extraordinary intelligence. He was
a giant in intellect, and thought only as a giant.

“Write the words down that I shall dictate,” said he;
“write them with a pencil on the back of this card.” Saying
this, he handed me one from his pocket. “Now write—
`I am consulting with the gentleman whose name is on this
card—when I am done, you shall hear from me again. L. S.'

Now, sir,” continued he, with dignified emphasis, “give
me frankly and fully the details of this affair.”

I did so in few words—but he seemed to comprehend the
whole case before I was half through with my narration.

“I see it all,” said he, his features relaxing into a smile;
“I see the whole length and breadth of it. And, young
man, I must inform you that my sympathies are on the side
of Beaufort. His is a family with a history to it. It may
be traced back some generations, without finding any of its
members descending below a certain level. I do not know
anything about you, and I suppose Beaufort is as ignorant
of your stock as I am; but it is not a name that one can
be familiar with at the mere mention of it. I have daughters
myself—and nothing could offend me more grossly,
or injure me more deeply, than for some Mr. Nobody to
attempt to form an alliance with my family. But as you
have paid me the compliment to select me as an adviser
in the present matter, I will give you my counsel. If
you do not wish to meet Mr. Beaufort, I will get you off
with honor. But if you were to fight him, it is my impression,
judging from your genteel appearance, that he
would like you well enough to consent to the match at
some future time.”

“But he might kill me, or —.” Here he interrupted
me by a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and then exclaimed:

“Pardon me—pardon my rude interruption; it was caused
by a mere fancy of my own, and should not have been suggested
by your ingenuous expression. You were proceeding
in a deliberate course of ratiocination, very natural to a
brave man in your circumstances, and my interference was
rude and unmannerly. Pardon it, and proceed.”

“Or,” I continued, “I might kill him.”

“That places you rectus in curiâ,” said he.

“In either event,” I proceeded, “an irreparable act will
have been committed. If I fall, I shall have no need for
his consent; if he falls, he cannot give it; and in either
case, the match, should such a thing be in contemplation,
would certainly not be consummated.”

“That is well argued,” replied the distinguished individual—“and
this whole business of duelling, except in
cases of peculiar aggravation, is but a vestige of barbarian
nonsense. But am I to infer that there is no `match' in
`contemplation?' ”

“I should have informed you of it, decidedly. Nothing
of the kind has been proposed by me, or entertained by
Blanche. We were schoolmates, and contracted a friendship
which has not subsided with subsequent years. We have
kept up a friendly correspondence at long intervals; and
this is the only visit I have made her since we first parted.
We have not uttered a word about love or marriage.”

“Pooh! nonsense!” said he, interrupting me again; “you
may not possibly be aware of it, to its full extent; but you
may take my word for it, that you are deeply, inextricably
in love with each other, and will continue to be, perhaps,
until death parts you. But, as you say you have no disposition
to be killed in a duel—”

“Or to kill her uncle,” said I.

“True—you said that, too, and in time,” he continued,
smiling—“and as you do not propose to carry off your
lady-love at this time, and will probably be absent a whole
year—during which time one of you, that is, one of the
three, may be removed by disease, in which event the difficulty
would be obviated—I think the best course to be pursued
is to postpone the whole matter for a twelvemonth.”

“But,” said I, “can you devise a feasible plan to accomplish

such a result? Mr. B. demands satisfaction peremptorily
and immediately.”

“To be sure I can devise a plan,” said he, taking up a
pen to compose a reply for me to the message.

While he was writing, Pompey came in with a note for
me. It was from Blanche. She wrote as follows:

I handed this epistle to Mr. T., who read it while I indited
a brief reply. I stated in my note, that it had never
been my intention to fight her uncle—and that it was now
my irrevocable determination not to do so. But that if any
rival aspired to her hand, and sought to deprive me of her
friendship and esteem, then life would not only be of no
value to me, but an intolerable burden, which I would be
desirous of getting rid of at his hands. I ventured to say
that.

“May I also read your reply?” asked Mr. T., laying
down the note he had been reading. I handed it to him,
and observed a slight frown on his brow as he perused the
concluding lines. He said nothing, however; but taking
up his pen, finished the reply to the challenge he had been
composing for me.

“Copy this, and send it to him,” said he. “It will be
sufficient. I am going across the bay this morning. Good
morning, sir.” And so he took leave of me and withdrew.

The following was the reply to the challenge which he
prepared for me.

That short reply did the business. Its contents, when
made known to those who had been informed of the pending
affair, seemed to be satisfactory. The gentlemen who had
so kindly tendered their services to officiate in my behalf,
as well as the other party, soon dispersed, and my departure
from the place, as may well be expected, was not long
delayed.

As the steamer ran down the river, I could not avoid
felicitating myself on my lucky escape. When we touched
at Old Point, I found a rumor was in circulation that the
meeting had taken place, and I was asked by one of the
gentlemen on the wharf if Mr. Shortfield had expired on
the field, or died afterwards at the hotel. That I was dead,
seemed to be a matter of certainty. I merely replied that
I had not been informed of the occurrence at all. The
questioner only stared at me incredulously.

When I reached Baltimore, I found my death announced
in the papers, and moreover ascertained that I
had disabled my antagonist, by shattering his pistol-arm.

When I arrived in Philadelphia, the papers had it that
we were both mortally wounded; and when I entered the
stores of my acquaintances in Market Street, they stared at
me as if I was a ghost. But the one who seemed to be the
most astonished—in fact, rather disappointed—was my old
friend Moses, whom I met at one of the principal dry-goods
houses. I lost no time in assuring the newspaper men
that I was alive and well—but they hesitated to contradict
the false report, because, as they alleged, I was a stranger
to them, and might be imposing on them with an interested
and partial version of the affair. I deemed it a most outrageous

thing to find my name in all the papers—coupled
with every variety of stigma for suffering myself to be
killed—when I was alive. I was contented, however, to
enjoy the reality of life, and had no desire to interfere with
the business of the reporters.