 | Morton's Hope, or, The memoirs of a provincial. |  |
MORTON'S HOPE.
BOOK I.
Malvolio. “Not yet old enough for a man, nor young
enough for a boy; as a graft is before 'tis a peasecod, or a
codling when 'tis almost an apple; 'tis with him e'en standing
water between boy and man. He is very well favoured,
and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think his mother's
milk were scarce out of him.”
Twelfth Night.
1. CHAPTER I.
MY AUNT.
I am of honest parentage,—with this, if I obeyed
the dictates of my own judgment, I should dismiss
the subject.
The prejudices, however, of a respected relative,
now deceased, made an early impression upon
my mind; and although, to say the truth, there
were obstinate symptoms of a carpenter, among
my immediate ancestry, yet my aunt, who was
fond of heraldry, was not to be deterred by such
trifles from vindicating the antiquity of her race.
She elbowed her way accordingly through the
mob of operatives, who are apt to encumber the
path of a genealogically-inclined American, with
vast adroitness; and at last, after some trouble,
settled herself to her satisfaction at the end of
a line of reputable, nay, I may add, of showy
ancestors.
Fostered by her care, our family, which to all
appearance, was but a scrub of its species, flourished
like a Banian.
Hence it will be seen, that if I had believed
all the legends and traditions which she had
carefully collated, I might now have much entertaining
matter to relate, concerning the ancient
history of the Mortons.
I own, however, it always seemed to me a
little absurd, if my ancestors had been such eminent
people as she supposed, that nobody in the
world should ever have heard of them. It is
very certain that if they were in reality as illustrious
as she would have it, they always kept it
to themselves. She was the only person I ever
heard of who interested herself at all in the matter.
The delight, however, which she took in
her favourite subject was ineffable. It was
amusing to see her hopping and chattering like
a bobalink from twig to twig of the above-mentioned
family-tree; but unfortunately when she
was fairly perched upon the top, there was no
possibility of bringing her down again into the
regions of common sense.
Accordingly the information I derived from her
was, after all, of no great value. It seems pretty
certain, however, that the Mortons had always
an unlucky facility for getting on the wrong
side. In Cromwell's time they were said to have
estate; and just as the tide was turning, they
seemed to have turned too, and so lost the other.
The Roundhead gentleman of one generation
soured into a Puritan in the next. The Puritan
dwindled into a dissenter, and the dissenting clergyman,
after having in vain endeavoured to
learn Dutch, and smoke meerschaums with the
Congregationalists of Leyden, finally shipped himself
for America, and landed in the merry month
of November on the genial shores of Newfoundland.
Fortunately the climate proved even too
severe for the frigid constitution of the Nonconformist—for
if my respectable ancestor had not
thought proper to remove to a trifling distance
from the Arctic regions, where he first landed, it
is probable that his descendant would have been a
white bear by this time, instead of the compiler
of this pleasing autobiography.
Of my father, I shall, after this chapter, have
very little to say, at least till a future period.
There was a mystery about him which I was
a long time unable to solve. He walked in a
cloud, and there seemed to be a mark upon his
forehead. My mother, I never knew; for she
died in my infancy. But in order to put an
end to this unnecessary branch of my subject,
I may as well mention that I consider my maternal
lineage more illustrious than my paternal
ancient and royal race. As, however, her birth
belonged to the description of those
“At which the herald smiles,”
from it.
Not to keep you in suspense; she was an Indian
princess. Her family was of the best blood
of the Six Nations, and the tombs of the last
of her forefathers, who were converted to Christianity,
may still be seen, upon a lovely plain in
one of the sweetest spots of New-England.
The race, however, has of late fallen into decay;
and ill-natured acquaintances have even
gone so far as to affirm in my hearing, that
they have met with Sachems of the Uncas family
in the kitchens of certain opulent parvenus.
One evening, late in the Autumn of the year
1760, I was sitting in the parlour of my uncle,
Joshua Morton, with whom, I trust, the reader
will soon become better acquainted. It was at his
villa, some ten miles from Boston; a huge and
grotesquely constructed palace of clap-boards and
shingles.
I was then about six years of age, and on
the evening I speak of, was amusing myself
with an occupation, which was considered among
the prominent proofs of my infant talents. I
an exhibition of a puppet theatre. Probably there
is not a child in ten, that has not manifested
the same uncommon genius in the same uncommon
way; but the plays that I enacted, and
the wonderful characters that I invented or selected,
were the constant themes of admiration
for my uncle and aunt, and the rest of my
relations. I was considered a prodigy of dramatic
talent—mechanical ingenuity—epic invention—the
Lord knows what. On this occasion,
I was representing an ingenious comedy, of which
I recollect nothing but that the devil and French
king were the two most prominent characters.
It was during the war of Great Britain with
France, and as my uncle was a staunch loyalist,
this extraordinary effort of invention was hailed
as a proof of his nephew's incipient patriotism,
as well as a purely intellectual phenomenon.
As I was repeating my drama over and over
again for the old gentleman's gratification, the
report of a pistol was heard from without. My
uncle jumped up; a crackling of leaves near the
house betrayed the hasty steps of a stranger; they
came nearer; presently one of the windows,
which reached to the ground, was thrown violently
open, and a stranger suddenly sprang into
the room nearly oversetting my uncle in his haste.
2. CHAPTER II.
TWO BROTHERS.
I had never seen the personage who made his
appearance so unceremoniously. I never saw him
again for years, but the first impression he made
upon my mind was indelible. He was tall, and
dressed in a sort of mixture of the military and
the Indian costume. He had no hat, and a torrent
of auburn hair fell over his shoulders half
way to his waist. His eyes were large and blue,
and soft as a woman's; his face was regular,
but the lower part was almost entirely concealed
by immense mustachios and beard. He had a
red uniform coat with the British button, together
with leather leggins and moccasins; a
blanket was hung round his left shoulder, and a
rifle was in his right hand. As he entered the
room, he was about to address my uncle, who
seemed to regard him with a look of surprise
and horror, when suddenly his eyes lighted upon
me. To my utter dismay, he bounded towards
me like a tiger, and his eye gleamed with joy.
He caught me in his arms, pressed me to his
a moment I hung motionless in his embrace, still
holding the devil firmly by the tail, in an ecstacy
of astonishment and fear. Presently, I began to
roar with anger and to cuff my new acquaintance,
with all the impotent malice of an infant's
rage. Finding his situation uncomfortable, the
stranger strode towards the window, with evident
intentions of taking me with him. He was
intercepted, by my uncle, who advanced toward
him with a pistol in his hand.
Upon this, the stranger, smiling with perfect
sweetness, stopped suddenly, and said, “Joshua
Morton, lest you should seek further to intimidate
me, the only way in which you can possibly excite
the evil spirit, which towards you at least, has
long been dormant within me, I will release the
child.” The stranger's voice was like a silver
clarion, and the tones haunted my memory for
years. As he finished, he placed me gently on
the ground.
“Joshua Morton,” continued he, advancing
close to my uncle, “I have long dismissed all
thoughts of violence towards you and yours. I
came here, through a thousand dangers, actuated
by a single hope. For the love of God, grant
me the child!”
My uncle seemed almost suffocated with conflicting
emotions. For an instant, as he yielded
seemed to hesitate; but suddenly his hatred and
anger again obtained the mastery. “Serpent —
vulture — fiend!” he exclaimed, “you are even
more hateful to me in this aping of forbearance —
I hate you less when you are at least not hypocritical.
Why should the wolf fear to show his
fangs, however smeared with blood?”
“Morton — Morton,” replied the other, “I am
not what you think me, — guilty I am — bloodstained
— damned. But I was not always what
fate, circumstances, nay, what you yourself have
made me. — Every day, every hour, I become
worse — I feel my heart freezing within me —
give me something to love — indeed, indeed, I
am not quite a fiend!”
“Do not prate to me of love. If you would
soften me, speak to me, as you are.—Do I not
know you full of hate and of deceit?—Have I
not found you subtle as a serpent—and ferocious
as false? Will you ask of me something that
you can love — of me, who know every line of
your history?”
“One day you will discover how much of that
history was false — but I scorn to explain. All
that for a moment can reconcile me with my
nature, is that I do not pardon myself. I know
myself too deeply laden with crimes that are
my own, to care to cast off the imputation of
aches with the burden, but I have strength to
bear all till the end. One day — you will learn
how much you have wronged me — you will
discover when it is too late, that you might still
have loved me — have still reclaimed me to virtue,
if not to happiness. But I am willing in
part to atone for my own follies and crimes, by
wearing the brand of those I was incapable of
committing — if I had time I would even now—”
A gun was fired at a slight distance from the
house. It seemed to be a signal for the stranger,
for he resumed, hastily and earnestly—“Morton—Morton—I
have but an instant's time—oh!
do not drive me back into myself. Grant my
prayer—give me something external, around which
my affections may cling. My heart is crushed—
but not dead. Give me the child—Let me still
love—Pity me — for the love of our mother, pity
me.”
“If you were writhing in the last agony at
my feet,” replied the other, “I would not reach
forth my hand to wipe the death sweat from
your face. If you hung before me on the cross,
I would not moisten your throat with one single
water-drop. If with your expiring voice you sought
me for forgiveness, I would not soothe the parting
pang by one merciful look. Is it you — is it
Maurice Morton that asks for pity — the criminal
which is dearest to me, that dares to ask for pity?”
“If I were not criminal, should I ask to be forgiven?—Is
it not because I am a wretch, that I
sue for compassion? If I were not guilty, should
I fear myself? I ask not to be restored to happiness—not
even tranquillity — nor peace. I ask
for the child, that I may once more know a human
feeling. I say not a word in extenuation
of my crimes; but hear me swear that I do not
hate you. You rejected my love, which still renewed
itself for you: you have answered my
entreaties with curses—my repentance with scorn—
my love with hatred.—Be it so. Be it so. I
have retreated into myself—for years I have not
known one human sympathy—the blessed tone
of my native tongue has not once penetrated my
ear. I have been leagued with savages, with
desperadoes, with demons; and I have dwelt in
the wilderness with beasts, and with men more
savage than beasts. But even now I have not
quite lost all feeling of humanity. If I could be
protected from myself, I might yet become a man.
My time is expiring — an instant and I must
be gone. Pity me, Morton. Do not drive me
back into my own heart. It is filled with spectres
that scare me — it is a fearful dungeon filled
with every thing foul and frightful; and I have
let me take the child.”
He turned again towards me. “Hold,” cried
my uncle, “every word has passed idly by me.
Not a sound from your deceitful lips can ever
again penetrate my heart. Every cold, heartless,
hypocritical lie, has been told entirely in vain.
Begone! or remain an instant longer at your
peril—you know too well the penalty!”
At this instant, a third gun was discharged
almost close to the house, and the stranger threw
himself half frantic at my uncle's feet: “Hear
me—hear me!” he almost yelled, as he grovelled
on the ground, — “save me — save me from this
abyss! I hang suspended over the gulf of hell.
By the mother who nestled us both in her bosom—
by the father who held us both on his knee—
by the love they bore us both—by the love you
once felt for me — by the hundred benefits you
heaped upon me when a child, nay more, by
the blessed name of —” A smothered whoop
sounded close to the house, a step was heard,
and presently a dark form appeared at the window.
The stranger sprang to his feet, cast one
last imploring look at my uncle, read his sentence
in his rigid look, clasped me once more
convulsively in his arms, and vanished through
the window.
As soon as he was gone, my uncle fell upon
the sofa in a paroxysm of tears. Those who
suppose from the scene which has passed that
he was of a stern nature will be mistaken. He
had succeeded, at the expense of much real
agony, in maintaining the iciness of demeanour
which his judgment told him was his imperative
duty. But it is only the soft and liquid in
nature that can freeze; and my uncle's heart
was as gentle as a girl's. The iceberg melted
into a torrent, and Joshua's heart found relief
in a flood of tears.
As for me, I soon blubbered myself asleep on
the floor.
I may as well remark that the eccentric individual
in the blanket, was no less a personage
than my father.
3. CHAPTER III.
MORTON OF “MORTON'S HOPE.”
My uncle Joshua had been bred a merchant.
He had been, however, engaged in trade but a
few years, and with indifferent success. When
my grandfather died, Joshua and my father
were the only surviving children; and as the
latter, by his erratic course of life, and various
and sundry misdemeanours, which at present I
shall only hint at, was no great favourite with
any one, it was considered highly reasonable by
every body, but the person most interested, that
the scapegrace should be disinherited, and the
bulk of my steady old grandfather's fortune go
to his eldest son, Joshua.
Joshua of course left off trade. His disposition
and tastes were literary and scientific. He had
received a tolerable education for the provinces,
and he now took himself off to the Old World
to complete it.
He remained many years in England and
upon the Continent; cultivating the arts and
sciences, pursuing various whimsical schemes,
much the same sort of life, which an indolent
man of easy fortune and respectable talents is
apt to lead, in any age or country. He returned
to his native province a few years before my
birth, resolutely repulsed all advances of matrimonial
alliances from the most distinguished
colonial families, the Deputy Governor's and
innumerable members of the Council among
the number; built himself a huge castle of
pine planks and shingles, which he dignified
with the title of Morton's Hope, and there shut
himself up with his schemes and oddities. He
had been disappointed in an early passion, and
had become shy of women. He had had two
sisters, Miss Plentiful Morton, who had married
a schoolmaster from Passamaquoddy, and died
about a year before his return, leaving an
enormous progeny, every one of whom he religiously
hated; and Miss Fortitude Morton,
who had remained in single blessedness, and
whom he now took with him to the Hope, as
his housekeeper. My aunt, Forty, was the
genealogical relative whom I have spoken of in
the first chapter. As for myself, I shall not
now relate the singular course of events which
made me the third inmate of the Hope; suffice
for the present, that I was adopted by my uncle
at a very early age.
It would be very difficult for me to sketch the
character of my uncle, and on the whole I shall
not attempt it. It seems to me that every one
must have known him, and to explain his character
seems to be like explaining any one of
the natural phenomena, which we assume as
being known instinctively by every one. A few
of his leading characteristics may be, however,
traced in as many lines. He was a bundle of
contradictions, or rather he was through life
possessed with the desire of preaching what he
never once thought of practising. He was the
most kind-hearted man in the world, and he
invariably talked like an ascetic; he was idle,
self-indulgent, luxurious, and would talk to you
by the hour, of the necessity of industry, comment
on his mercantile career, and recommend
Spartan diet, and penitentiary soup, when you
knew he ransacked the country for luxuries for
his table. He was indefatigably charitable, but
always railed against the pernicious practice of
alms-giving, and would praise what he called
the dignified policy of the ancient nations, who
gave the poor and the aged to the dogs, instead
of locking them up in hospitals. I have known
him brow-beat a pauper who asked an alms,
and make a speech to him, on the necessity
of industry, till the beggar was fairly worried
out of his patience, and have then seen him
any one else would have done, out of pure
soft-heartedness.
In short, he made amends as he thought, for
doing just what he chose, and allowing every
body under his charge almost every kind of
indulgence, by preaching the most rigid and
ascetic doctrines. If you heard him praise a
person, you might have been sure that he was
the very reverse of himself in every particular;
if you heard him recommend any line of conduct,
or praise any particular doctrine, you would be
sure that he would act directly contrary in
every respect. If you heard him animadvert on
any sort of extravagance, he was certain not to
rest till he had been guilty of it himself. It
may be easily inferred that in regard to all
matters touching my education and management,
he was likely to be absurdly rigid in theory,
and as ridiculously indulgent in practice. I may
add to all this, that my uncle's head was constantly
full of some scheme, or some “theory,”
(to use a favourite phrase of his own) which
occupied most of his attention for a short time,
and then was thrown aside forever. Sometimes
they were good, sometimes preposterous, and sometimes
indifferent; but they were always thrown
aside for others before they had time to ripen.
As for my aunt Fortitude, she was the reverse
maintained a great influence over him. She
was, as we have seen, most eminently conservative
in her political principles, and it was lucky for
her that she was, from the very conformation
of her character, conservative in every thing.
Joshua would have burned down his house, or
baked me in a pasty, if he had taken it into
his head that either was necessary for the furtherance
of any theory, or scheme, that might have
employed him; but Fortitude was always ready
to resist any very extravagant innovations. She
managed with the most consummate skill, gave
him his head, when she saw that he would
kick up his heels and play the devil if she did
not, but generally succeeded in breaking him in
at last. She never argued with him or anybody;
if necessary to dispute, her only instrument was
contradiction. She met her antagonist half way,
knocked him down with a flat denial, and then
left him to pick himself up as he could. With
her brother, Joshua, she lived in the main in
perfect amity; she humoured him in his whims,
except when she thought it absolutely necessary
he should be checked. When he mounted any
one of his hobbies—and he kept a stud of them
—she contented herself with getting out of the
dust.
Morton's Hope stood, as I have said, some
Like most New England country-seats, even to
the present day, it was nothing more than a
huge deal box. It was very spacious, with
wide entries and large parlours; for if a man
chooses to live in a packing case, he may at
least have room. There was a smart colonnade
at one end which rose to the third story, and
supported a small portico, placed there, apparently,
for no reason but that the columns might have
something to support,—and a huge flight of
marble steps at the other, led up to a wooden
terrace, which ran round the whole edifice, and
was stuck round with a miscellaneous collection
of broken-nosed statues, purchased at auction,
and at a bargain. Joshua had studied the fine
arts in Italy, and resolved that he would make
his house a model of a villa: he accordingly
occupied himself for six months previous to the
erection, by a careful perusal of Scamozzi and
Palladio, drew two or three dozen plans, and
just as the architect called upon him to execute
his designs, he became possessed with an absurd
mania for the useful, turned his back upon the
architect, left his villa at sixes and sevens, and
commenced erecting a miniature cotton factory
on a brook that ran through his estate.
This happened to be at the exact epoch when
the first and imperfect attempts in this species
in the old country; and my uncle was always
peculiarly interested in any new display of human
ingenuity. So great, too, were his emulation
and his industry, that his own efforts outstripped
the progress actually made at that period; so
that even at a later day, he would have been
considered no contemptible cotton-spinner.
The architect accordingly had the whole business
of building to himself, and in due time completed
what he supposed to be a copy of the Temple
of Theseus at Athens; and was proceeding to
make it as uninhabitable on the inside as it was
preposterous on the out, when he was confronted
on the threshold by Fortitude, who insisted that
the house was intended as a dwelling-place, and
who accordingly took care that it should be
arranged in conformity to such intentions. In
consequence, the house was comfortable enough,
and Joshua contented himself with declaiming
about the villas of Vicenza and the palaces of
Michael Angelo.
As the Grecian taste had been entirely consulted
in the erection of the mansion, it was thought
proper to construct the stables upon a Gothic
model. Unfortunately, however, as my uncle's
enthusiasm had cooled before the completion of
the establishment, the stables were left to the
architect's discretion; and as Fortitude, who was
upon the contracts, there was consequently only
as much Gothic put upon the stables as the
builder could afford for the original price.
Thus both the Grecian temple and the Saxon
cathedral presented on the whole a much more
pretentious than complete appearance.
The house stood at the base of a conical hill,
the centre of a considerable range, which occupied
most of the Morton estate. Immediately behind,
and around it, rose a primeval forest, which
Joshua protected with a paternal care, and which
stretched as far as eye could reach. I was
accustomed to run wild in these woods for the
first and happiest years of my life;—I shall never
forget their magnificence:—and since I have
been a sojourner in the Old World, I have
learned to prize and admire the forests of the
New.
It was a stately congregation of maples, chestnuts,
and evergreens. Above your head a canopy of
the densest and most variegated foliage almost
shut out the sun, and allowed only its chequered
beams to slant in upon a twilight as solemn
and mysterious as a Druid's wood. Below, the
decayed leaves and branches formed a supernaturally
rich mould, rife with vegetation, from which
sprang flowers and berries, and creeping vines, in
endless succession.
As you wandered through it, you saw no
sights, and heard no sounds save those of Nature.
The dried branches crackled under your feet,
the music of a thousand birds resounded through
the boughs; the lizards shot to and fro in the
patches of sun-light, and the robins went hopping
and whistling about in the shade almost at your
feet; the squirrel chattered complacently to himself
as he sat on the top of a tree and dropped his
nut-shells on your head; the misanthropic cat-bird
poured out a moody note or two as you intruded
on his privacy;—and towards evening, under
the shadow of an ancient stump, you might
even catch the retiring form of some anchorite
raccoon, as he made his frugal supper of roots
and herbs, at the door of his cell. At twilight,
a golden shower of fire-flies illuminated the air,
the whip-poor-wills sang a few staves of their
lackadaisical ditty, and the slender notes of half
a dozen tree-toads piped out in faint accordance
with the sonorous croak of a whole swimming
school of frogs in a neighbouring marsh. On the
skirts of the forest, the Anisippi, a full and rapid
brook, describing many evolutions, and passing
in front of the house, threw itself in a series
of natural cascades through a deep dingle brim
full of rocks, moss, tall weeds, and flaunting
wild flowers; thence it went sputtering and singing
to itself towards the meadows below, gradually
Joshua's cotton factory, before it lost itself in the
ocean.
I could ramble through this forest for ever — but
as my readers are not so familiar with its charms,
and have not so many associations connected with
it, I will stop before I have quite exhausted their
patience; hoping that the present chapter has
fulfilled the purpose of making them a little
acquainted with my uncle and aunt, and the domain
of Morton's Hope.
4. CHAPTER IV.
THE PAGODA.
Close by the cascade of the Anisippi, and on
the brink of the little dell which I have described,
stood the Pagoda. This was a summer-house
in the Chinese taste. It contained a large tea-room,
with one or two chambers, and was christened
in honour of the Emperor of China. — The
room was furnished coolly and comfortably with
straw sofas and couches, while a huge figure of
a mandarin, with pipe, moustachios, and tea-caddy
complete, sat rolling his head about on a sort of
throne, at one end of the room, and looked like
the presiding deity of the place. So far all was
in keeping, but Joshua had got tired of China
before he completed the apartment, and had in
the most incongruous manner completed the furniture,
by thrusting into it a collection of casts
from celebrated statues, and copies from celebrated
paintings, which he had procured in Italy, for
the purpose of making a private gallery. There
were the Aurora, the Transfiguration, and the
Beatrice Cenci, half-a-dozen Cleopatras and Sibyls,
of copies, for Joshua had a taste in pictures,
and could descant to you upon them an hour
by Shrewsbury clock; but as for his gallery, it
was likely to remain for ever an appendage to
the tea-room. The statues were orthodox also:
the Borghese Gladiator “fought his battles o'er
again” in one corner, and the Laocoon struggled
in the coils of what Fortitude, with more historical
accuracy than she knew of, called the seaserpents,
in the other; the mandarin, with a face
of decent gravity, sat lolling his head complacently
to and fro, from the Venus de Medici on
one side, to the Niobe who was protecting her
child from the hurtling arrow on the other;
while the elegant cause of her dismay, the naked
dandy of the Vatican, stood very much in everybody's
way, with his threatening hand stretched
toward the tea-table.
One day — I was then some dozen years old
—my uncle had taken me out with him, to give
me what he called my first theoretical lesson in
the art of riding. I had been allowed to run
wild all my days, and had ridden at pleasure
every horse, cow, and pig on the estate, so that
I considered myself an adept, and felt insulted
at the proposal. Joshua had prepared himself
for six months beforehand, by a diligent perusal
of the Duke of Newcastle and Geoffrey Gambado
ride, we came to a low rail-fence, and Joshua,
first ordering a halt, took his note book from his
pocket, and commenced reading the duke's instructions
on the topic of leaping, accompanied
by a running commentary. He signified his intention
of clearing the fence in the most approved
style, and told me to lead the way, mentally resolving,
I suppose, if there seemed to be any difficulty,
to keep himself out of the scrape. As for
me, I was mounted on a double-jointed pony,
called Pocahontas, in honour of my paternal
family, and we scrambled over the fence without
any difficulty. My uncle, attired in a bob-tailed
seersucker coat, and pepper-and-salt small-clothes,
was perched on the top of a tall camelopard of
an animal, which had about as much agility as
a clothes-horse. He was determined not to be
outdone; pricked towards the fence; the horse
stumbled clumsily against the rails — floundered,
and my uncle, describing a parabola through the
air, alighted in a thicket of barberry bushes, with
his arms and legs bruised to a jelly, and the bob-tailed
seersucker torn to rags. I picked him up,
as well as I could, and with the assistance of some
labourers, carried him home.
The next afternoon he was sitting in the Pagoda,
when Fortitude began briefly advising him
to despatch me to school.
“I'm sick at the sight of him — he's doing no
sort of good — learning nothing, and for ever in
mischief; why don't you send him to school?”
“A school is an improper place for him,” said
my uncle; “I tell you he knows more than all
the schoolmasters in New England already.
Where can he gain more instruction than here,
under my own peculiar superintendence?”
“Well,” said Fortitude, “it's particular that
you should consider yourself a proper schoolmaster
for him. Do you teach him every thing as systematically
as you do riding?”
“Psha!” said Joshua, wrathfully, “I will not
talk with you on that subject. It was always a
theory of mine, that women were incapable of
an opinion on any matter connected with horsemanship;
but as to the boy's education, why,
where can we do better?—a boy with his imagination,
his brilliancy of intellect — than in this
very room, surrounded by the fairest works of
genius which have illuminated the world. Why,
Fortitude, why,” continued Joshua, getting oratorical
— “why is it that the Greeks were the
most refined, the most cultivated of the ancient
nations?—Because, Fortitude, the images of their
gods, of their deified heroes, of their living fellow-citizens,
embalmed in the deathless beauty of
sculpture, stood ever and around, inciting them to
emulation and to equal heroism. Why—why is
world, and are the tutors of the whole school
of art? Because religion has taken art to her
bosom—because the rudest peasant, as he bends
before the shrine of the Madonna, beholds the
seraphic features of a Raphael's creation looking
down upon him, as if from heaven. Because
beauty is the chosen handmaid of divinity. Yes—
yes — I am determined that my nephew shall,
as far as in my power lies, reap the advantage
of this theory of mine. I am determined that
visions of immortal beauty shall melt and mingle
with the earliest dawnings of the intellect; that
they shall form a brilliant halo around the sunrise
of his soul.”
Joshua was becoming very enthusiastic, and
very eloquent, when he was interrupted by Fortitude,
who observed that she had hitherto seen
very little effects of the fine arts upon Uncas; but
only some of his influence upon the specimens
in the room; “for instance, his intercourse with
the naked creature in the corner has not been
very beneficial to one party,” said she, pointing
to the fighting Gladiator.
This was very true. My uncle, a few years
previous, when I was very young, was possessed
with a curiosity, something like that of king Psammeticus,
to see whether works of art would not
have a manifest effect on the infant that was
locked me up in the Pagoda, and marched off
with the key in his pocket. When he returned,
after half an hour, he found that I had vented
my rage, at being imprisoned, on the objects
within my reach. I had assaulted the Niobe,
tooth and nail; kicked Apollo; and when he
entered, he found me in personal conflict with
the Borghese Gladiator, the consequence of which
to Chabrias (as Lessing proclaims him to be) had
been the loss of three fingers of his sword-hand,
and a fraction of his nose, which I had reached
by means of the mandarin's pipe-stem.
“Psha!” said Joshua again — “you take a
delight in annoying me. Was it my fault that
the statues were not of stone, which would have
been good, or bronze, which would have been
better, and would have then resisted the boy's
attempt at assault and battery. Besides, recollect
how young he was; other children would have
been frightened to death; you see he was excited
to deeds of arms.”
“Then, again,” said Fortitude, not caring to
pursue her triumph on this point; “then again,
there's this profane stage-playing which you encourage
him in. Pious children ought not to
be taught such wicked doings,” said Fortitude,
who was as Puritanic as a pilgrim.
“Ridiculous woman!” said Joshua, “are you
in the early period of the English—”
Fortitude cut short a long historical oration
on the subject of the drama, by exclaiming,
“Well, pious or not; 'tis sinful to waste so much
money on your green-house, and then turn all
the exotics out of doors into the snow bank, to
make the green-house a theatre for Uncas.”
“Why, the fact is, Fortitude, that I found the
green-house business too expensive, and so I
thought it a good opportunity to get out of the
scrape, and the room being vacant, why, you
know Uncas's theatre might do as well there as
any thing.”
“You might have done what I begged you,
and made a family portrait gallery. I'm sure
there would have been room enough.”
“Family fiddlesticks! Where the devil are
the portraits to come from? Except the profiles
of Plentiful's children, done by Josiah Brewster,
and the portrait of my brother Jeroboam, with
the sextant under his arm, and the spy-glass in
his pocket, done at Rotterdam, when he commanded
the `Amiable Jezabel;' I don't know
where you would find materials for your gallery.”
Here Joshua obtained the mastery. It was
one of Fortitude's weak points, and he knew it,
and he went on chuckling and laughing, and
he was tired. Nobody, however, that knew my
uncle, will be surprised when I tell them, that
the very first thing he did the next day, was
to purchase a quantity of fancy portraits at auction,
which he made room for by thrusting a
parcel of stuffed monkeys and pickled alligators,
which he called his cabinet of natural history,
into the garret, and depositing the pictures in
their place.
Just at this crisis I entered the room with a
petition to my uncle, to attend the performance
of a play which I had on hand. Ever since my
puppet-show days I had been flattered into the
belief that I was wonderfully gifted with the
dramatic talent, and now at the mature age of
twelve, I considered myself second to no one in
the world as author, actor, and stage-manager.
Notwithstanding the warm eulogium which my
uncle had just been making upon every thing
connected with the drama, it will not be considered
singular that, instead of granting my request,
he instantly began a harangue upon the
pernicious effect of stage plays. After reading me
a long lecture, he concluded by declaring with
the most rigid expression of countenance, that he
entirely disapproved of all such proceedings, and
before he had time to finish, I had bounced out
of the room in a huff.
5. CHAPTER V.
VASSAL DEANE.
In spite of my uncle's oration, I went on with
the preparation. The day came, the actors were
assembled, and we determined to perform. I
went to my aunt Fortitude with an invitation,
but she repulsed me with horror. I then hunted
high and low for my uncle. I was near giving
him up, when I heard him sneeze in his dressing-room.
I pushed open the door, and there he
was, surrounded by all the maid-servants and
sempstresses of the house, engaged in making
what I immediately recognized to be a royal
costume for Polonius. He looked marvellously
ashamed of himself as I came in, and tried to
shuffle into his pocket a roll of written paper
which was lying near. I caught it, however, and
found it was neither more nor less than a prologue
for our play, written by himself; and all
this after his oration to me on the pernicious
effects of stage playing! I was used to such inconsistencies,
and ran down stairs in high glee, and
my uncle soon sneaked down after me, rallied
theatre, where he took his place in a dignity
chair which I had provided for him, in the first
row of the audience seats. He had given up all
idea of acting, and I promised to spout the prologue.
I have no intention of detailing the events of
the performance, and in fact I recollect almost
nothing about it. The play I remember was
Hamlet, and in a fit of unusual modesty, I believe
I contended myself,—besides the principal
character which was mine of course,—with only
the characters of Ophelia and the grave-digger
in addition. Hamlet was dressed in boots and a
red military coat, and Ophelia in an old morning
gown of my aunt's, with a garland of dried apples
on her head. The only good acting was that of
Polonius, which was represented by a fat, foolish
boy, who made grimaces and squinted naturally,
and thus embodied in his own person all the comic
talent of the company.
I should not even have mentioned the whole
affair, except for the purpose of introducing Vassal
Deane, and early friend of mine. This was a
boy whom I always respected, and of whom for
many years I was almost in awe: yet he was
not a boy of brilliant talents, at least according
to the general acceptation of the phrase. Nobody
ever called him a genius; he never wrote plays,
any apparent effort, to obtain a complete ascendancy
over the mind of every body about him.
Of mine, he very soon obtained the mastery. He
was a boy some four years older than myself,
rather short, but compactly built, with no pretensions
to beauty, inexpressive features, light
coloured eyes, and flakes of cotton-coloured hair.
He was remarkable at this early age for great
bodily strength, and a phlegmatic and composed
demeanour. At moments when others were excited,
his countenance and manner were composed
and inscrutable.
He had taken no part in the play, but was
there by my particular request, as auditor and
critic.
While the rest of the boys were squabbling
and boxing each other's ears, as they hunted
through the confused green-room for their every
day's clothes, I approached Deane, full of elation
at my success. He was standing quietly whistling,
with his hands in his pockets.
“Well, Deane,” said I, rubbing my hands conceitedly,
“don't you think it went off pretty well?”
“Not I,” said he gravely, without taking his
hands from his pockets.
“Why,” said I, a little mortified, “don't you
think we all acted pretty well?”
“No, I don't,” he replied.
“But,” said I, pushing the point, “don't you
think it was a remarkably brilliant way of amusing
ourselves?”
“If you ask my advice, I think it was all
damn'd nonsense.”
“You are envious,” said I; “if you acted as
well as my uncle Joshua thinks I do, you would
think differently.”
“You know no more of acting than I do, and
your uncle Joshua is an ass.”
“You lie!”
Hereupon Deane took one of his hands out of
his pocket, and calmly knocked me down.
He was a great deal bigger and stronger than
I, but I picked myself up, and tried to show
fight;—so he knocked me down again.
“I suppose you will listen to reason now,” he
continued, composedly, after I had got on my legs
again, and given up the point. “So I will tell
you that all I do and say is for your good. I
like you very well (he was pleased to add;) but
the fact is, you are getting to be an ignorant
and conceited little jackanapes; and instead of
having been brilliant, as you call it, you have
been making an ass of yourself this afternoon.”
The plain-spoken truths of my friend (for he
was my friend) began to carry conviction to my
mind. With the quick revulsion of a childish
temper, I felt convinced that I had not only not
that I had been making a fool of myself—that
they had been laughing at me instead of applauding—that
I was a laughing-stock—a butt—a
dolt—an ass—an idiot. My checks grew hot—
I clenched my fists—I glared about me like a
maniac—I stamped in a frenzy. Seeking something
to vent my rage upon, my eyes lighted
on the squinting buffo; I sprang upon him most
gratuitously, and floored him in a twinkling. He
scrambled out of my way, and I then sprang
like a tiger upon the inanimate monuments of
my folly. I kicked over the scenes, smashed
the lamps, demolished the palace, trampled on
the dried apples, and tore the ghost's winding-sheet
to pieces. After nearly exhausting myself
in this manner, I threw myself on the floor,
roaring and kicking like a madman.
After a moment or two, the busy fiend again
urged me to my feet. I danced about for an
instant, and then swept down stairs like a simoon,
at the imminent peril of my neck, and to the
total discomfiture and overthrow of a house-maid,
who was trudging up with a pail of water.
Thence I rushed out of the house, and never
stopped till I had thrown myself upon the ground,
sobbing and panting with mortification and rage
in the very thickest thicket of the forest.
The young philosopher remained talking composedly
to himself in the dark.
6. CHAPTER VI.
MORTIFICATION FISK.
After this adventure, I requested my uncle to
send me to school. I had got to be a lubberly
boy by this time, and even Joshua was tired
of me; so that I found no difficulty in obtaining
permission.
After remaining a requisite number of years
at school, I was removed to College. Here I
should likewise have continued the usual term,
but for an unlucky adventure.
Some members of my class amused themselves
one night with setting fire to the college chapel.
This was a little gingerbread cathedral of pine
boards, in the Gothic taste, and painted in fancy
colours. Its architecture was considered so admirable,
and its destruction so heinous, that the
strictest measures were taken to punish the perpetrators.
As, moreover, the incendiaries had
aggravated their offence by tarring and feathering
six tutors who had endeavoured to extinguish
the conflagration, the crime was considered the
most desperate one in the annals of the college.
Fancy, then, the rage of the Reverend Mortification
Fisk, (at that time the most influential
and hard-hearted of the professors) when he found
himself unable to discover the criminals.
Not having it in his power to punish the culprits,
he resolved to wreak his vengeance on the
spectators; and as I had unfortunately been taken
with a bucket of water in my hand, in the
very act, as they said, of aiding and abetting
at the fire, the faculty resolved upon my expulsion.
I accordingly returned to the Hope, whither
a detailed account of the affair, together with a
bill of damages for the whole expense of the
cathedral, had preceded me.
The bill and the letter, however, much to the
disgust of the Reverend Mortification Fisk, remained
unpaid and unanswered. Joshua, who
was as arbitrary as the ace of trumps, resolutely
refused to pay the slighest attention to the animadversions
of the faculty.
I found that the whole affair occasioned but
very slight annoyance; for it afforded him an
opportunity for a little oratorical display, of which
he was very fond.
Accordingly, after having made me an oration
the first morning of my return, in which
he condemned our whole system of education,
Padua and the gardens of Plato, he became
good-natured by his own eloquence, and dismissed
the subject forever.
7. CHAPTER VII.
CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE.
For the next two years I remained at the Hope.
Joshua had become more full of projects than
ever. The resolutions passed in Boston a year
or two previous, recommending, in consequence
of the imposition of extravagant duties on imported
articles, the attention of the colonists to
domestic manufacture had had their effect upon
him. He devoted himself assiduously to his
cotton-mill, and he had besides already instituted
a soap-boiling establishment and a starch manufactory.
As for me, I heard or heeded nothing
of the events that were going on around me.
The air was already murky with the gathering
clouds of the revolution; but retired within my
own childish egotism, I was unconscious of the
coming storm.
I was always a huge reader; my mind was
essentially craving and insatiable. Its appetite
was enormous, and it devoured too greedily for
its health. I rejected all guidance in my studies.
I already fancied myself a misanthrope. I had
and strove with all my might to become a cynic.
I read furiously. To poetry, like most infants,
I devoted most of my time. I had already revelled
in the copious flood of modern poetry, and
I now thirsted for the fountains whence the torrent
had gone forth. I was imbued with the
common passion for studying, as I called it, systematically,
and my next step was antiquarianism.
From Spencer and the dramatists, I got
back to Chaucer and Gower. If I had stopped
here, it would have been well enough; but these,
though rude, I found already artists. From
Chaucer and Gower I ascended through a mass
of ballads, becoming ruder and more unintelligible
at every step, to the first beginning of English
vernacular poetry, and still determined to thread
the river to its source. I mounted to the Anglo-Norman,
and was proceeding still farther, when I
found myself already lost in a dismal swamp of
barbarous romances and lying Latin chronicles.
This Slough of Despond I mistook for the parent
lake, and here I determined to fix. I read the
wild fables of Jeffrey of Monmouth with real
delight, and the worthy friar introduced me to a
whole fraternity of monks. I forced or fancied
myself into admiring such grotesque barbarians
as Robert of Gloucester, Benevil, and Robert
Mannyng, and quoted some hideous couplets from
Hampole, as the very prosopopeia of a graceful
lyric. I got hold of the Bibliotheca Monastica,
containing a copious account of Anglo-Norman
authors, with notices of their works, and set seriously
to reading every one of them. I fell into
the common error of boyish antiquaries, and admired
as venerable that which was only old, and
persuaded myself into considering that as quaint
and beautiful, which was merely grotesque and
rude. I had not learned that art, in its earlier
stages, is interesting as matter of history, but its
monuments useless in themselves; and that to
consume time and labour in mastering the monastic
and fossil remains of the barbarous age of
poetry, was as absurd as for an amateur of the
fine arts to fill his museum with wooden statues
in the manner of Dedalus, or of paintings in the
style of the early Pisans.
One profit of my antiquarianism was, however,
an attention to foreign languages. Having mounted,
in my literary inquiries, to the confluence of
the English and French languages,—to the fork
where the two rivers flow into each other, I found
myself obliged to master the French before I
could get any farther. As I was on the subject,
I applied myself to several others; but my literary
studies in other languages were as falsely directed
as in my own. In French I occupied myself
Spanish, with the oldest ballad-mongers; in Germany,
neglecting the wonderful and stupendous
fabric of a single century which comprised most
that is brilliant in that literature, I confined myself
to the Heldenbuch and the Niebelungen Lied,
and to the farcical productions of the ancient
tinkers and tailors. As for the Italian literature,
it was too classic and too finished for my taste,
and I returned from them all to the barbarians
I loved.
After floundering for a time in this stagnant
pool of literature, I had at last the good sense to
extricate myself, and with my wings all clogged
as they were, I set off upon a higher and more
daring flight. From the modern poets I ascended
to the ancients, and from Latin I got to Greek.
It was a blessed transition! When I read the
odes of Pindar, and the immortal dramas of æschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles, I felt as if I had
ascended to the iced mountain-tops of poetry,
and felt in a purer and sublimer atmosphere.
I found that the perfection of poetry was in the
perfection of art. It seemed strange to me that
these were ancients. I could hardly realise that
the men, from whose clutches I had just rescued
myself, had lived centuries after the Greeks, and
Greece itself had died. I could not understand
that a nation had so nearly reached perfection
the magnificent mausoleum which art and poetry
had reared upon the grave of Greece; but
I was bewildered with the reflection that it covered
a mouldering corpse. I read the name and
the glorious epitaph, and could not realise that
all below were only bones and dust. The mortifying
truth, that a bound was set to human intellect,
now forced itself for the first time upon my
mind. I saw that Greece had been born, and
had illumined the world, and then had died and
been buried; and that, centuries after, other nations
had arisen only to do the same. I felt, as
I occupied myself with the study of Greece and
her literature, as if I had been transplanted to a
deserted planet, filled with cities and temples,
and palaces indeed, but whose inhabitants had
all died — which still revolved and shone in the
universal system, but in which there was no
life.
I could have revelled in Grecian poetry for
ever, but I had become possessed with the ridiculous
desire of arriving at the beginning or the
source of poetry. I forgot that its source was
the human heart, just as the source of heat, in
all climates and all ages, is the sun. I sought
for the beginning of poetry. I might as well have
sought for the beginning of the circle. From
Greece I got to Asia. I studied the history of
of the necessity of examining them for myself.
I already fancied myself learned, and in the
course of a breakfast conversation, in which I
already manifested considerable contempt for my
aunt Fortitude's intellect, I announced to Joshua
my intention of studying Hebrew and Chinese,
and requested a tutor. My uncle, being a little
startled at this index to the copiousness of my
studies, saw fit to catechise me a little, and
finding me as deplorably ignorant on all necessary
subjects as I was intensely learned on matters,
in his estimation, not worth a half-penny,
begged me seriously to turn my attention to history.
The ground-work of my early character was
plasticity and fickleness. I was mortified by this
exposure of my ignorance, and disgusted with
my former course of reading. I now set myself
violently to the study of history. With my turn
of mind, and with the preposterous habits which
I had been daily acquiring, I could not fail to
make as gross mistakes in the pursuit of this
as of other branches of knowledge. I imagined,
on setting out, a system of strict and impartial
investigation of the sources of history. I was
inspired with the absurd ambition, not uncommon
to youthful students, of knowing as much
as their masters. I imagined it necessary for
and, imbued with the strict necessity of judging
for myself, I turned from the limpid pages of
the modern historians, to the notes and authorities
at the bottom of the page. These, of course,
sent me back to my monastic acquaintances,
and I again found myself in such congenial company
to a youthful and ardent mind, as Florence
of Worcester, and Simeon of Durham, the venerable
Bede, and Matthew Paris; and so on to
Gregory and Fredegarius, down to the more modern
and elegant pages of Froissart, Hollinshed,
Hooker, and Stowe. Infant as I was, I presumed
to grapple with masses of learning almost
beyond the strength of the giants of history. A
spendthrift of my time and labour, I went out
of my way to collect materials, and to build for
myself, when I should have known that older
and abler architects had already appropriated all
that was worth preserving; that the edifice was
built, the quarry exhausted, and that I was, consequently,
only delving amidst rubbish.
This course of study was not absolutely without
its advantages. The mind gained a certain
proportion of vigour by even this exercise of its
faculties, just as my bodily health would have
been improved by transporting the refuse ore of
a mine from one pit to another, instead of coining
the ingots which lay heaped before my eyes.
was a constant want of fitness and concentration
of my energies. My dreams of education
were boundless, brilliant, indefinite; but, alas!
they were only dreams. There was nothing accurate
and defined in my future course of life.
I was ambitious and conceited, but my aspirations
were vague and shapeless. I had crowded
together the most gorgeous, and even some of
the most useful and durable materials for my
woof, but I had no pattern, and, consequently,
never began to weave.
I had not made the discovery that an individual
cannot learn, nor be, every thing; that
the world is a factory in which each individual
must perform his portion of work:—happy enough
if he can choose it according to his taste and
talent, but must renounce the desire of observing
or superintending the whole operation.
My passion for self-instruction was carried to
an enormous and unwholesome excess.—From
scorning all assistance and inquisition from the
friends about me, I even dared to deride the
learning and the labour of the master minds of
literature. From studying and investigating the
sources of history with my own eyes, I went a
step further; I refused the guidance of modern
writers; and proceeding from one point of presumption
to another, I came to the magnanimous
ought to know it, unless I wrote it for myself.
I knew now where the stores lay, and I could
select and arrange according to my own judgment.
I abjured allegiance, accordingly, to the
graceful moderns, to immerse myself in the barbarous
learning of the darker ages. I voluntarily
dashed down the lantern, for no other purpose
but that I might grope by myself in the
dark. It would be tedious and useless to enlarge
upon my various attempts and various failures.
I forbear to comment upon mistakes which I
was in time wise enough to retrieve. Pushing
out, as I did, without compass and without experience,
on the boundless ocean of learning, what
could I expect but an utter and a hopeless shipwreck?
Thus I went on, becoming more learned, and
therefore more ignorant, more confused in my
brain, and more awkward in my habits, from
day to day. I was ever at my studies, and
could hardly be prevailed upon to allot a moment
to exercise or recreation. I breakfasted with a
pen behind my ear, and dined in company with
a folio bigger than the table. I became solitary
and morose, the necessary consequence of reckless
study; talked impatiently of the value of
my time, and the immensity of my labours;
spoke contemptuously of the learning and acquirements
mysterious hints of the magnitude and importance
of my own projects. In a word, the
youth, who at fifteen, confessed himself a sated
libertine, was, at seventeen, transformed into a
most intolerable pedant.
In the midst of all this study, and this infant
authorship, the perusal of such masses of poetry
could not fail to produce their effect. Of a youth
whose mind, like mine at that period, possessed
some general capability, without perhaps a single
prominent and marked talent, a proneness to
imitation is sure to be the besetting sin. I consequently,
for a large portion of my earlier life,
never read a work which struck my fancy, without
planning a better one upon its model; for
my ambition, like my vanity, knew no bounds.
it was a matter of course that I should be attacked
by the poetic mania. I took the infection
at the usual time, went through its various
stages, and recovered as soon as could be expected.
I discovered soon enough that emulation is
not capability, and he is fortunate to whom is
soonest revealed the relative extent of his ambition
and his powers.
My ambition was boundless; my dreams of
glory were not confined to authorship and literature
alone; but every sphere in which the
intellect of man exerts itself, revolved in a blaze
solitude, and dreamed such woundrous dreams!
Events were thickening around me which were
soon to shake the world, — but they were unmarked
by me. The country was changing to
a mighty theatre, on whose stage, those who
were as great as I fancied myself to be, were to
enact a stupendous drama in which I had no
part. I saw it not; I knew it not; and yet
how infinitely beautiful were the imaginations
of my solitude! Fancy shook her kaleidoscope
each moment as chance directed, and lo! what
new, fantastic, brilliant, but what unmeaning
visions! My ambitious anticipations were as
boundless as they were various and conflicting.
There was not a path which leads to glory, in
which I was not destined to gather laurels. As
a warrior, I would conquer and over-run the
world. As a statesman, I would re-organize
and govern it. As a historian, I would consign
it all to immortality; and in my leisure
moments, I would be a great poet and a man
of the world.
In short, I was already enrolled in that large
category of what are called young men of genius,
— men who are the pride of their sisters,
and the glory of their grand-mothers, — men of
whom unheard-of things are expected, till after
long preparation, comes a portentous failure, and
apprentices and attorneys' clerks.
Alas! for the golden imaginations of our youth.
They are all disappointments. They are bright
and beautiful; but they fade. They glitter
brightly enough to deceive the wisest and most
cautious, and we garner them up in the most secret
caskets of our hearts; but are they not like the
coins which the Dervise gave the merchant in
the story? When we look for them the next
morning, do we not find them withered leaves?
8. CHAPTER VIII.
CERTAIN COLONIAL MATTERS.
One evening in June, 1768, there was a riot
on Hancock's Wharf. Every one knows that
this was the period in which the exorbitant taxes
on various foreign articles had begun to excite in
the colonists much enmity towards the mother
country.
Unfortunately, the instruments, by which the
dictates of a mistaken policy were enforced, only
increased the difficulty, the comptrollers and custom-house
officers were impertinent, and took pains
to make themselves noxious to the merchants.
From the commencement to the conclusion,
there was something respectable in the American
revolution. It was not a local tumour, swelling
into a convulsion of the whole system; it was
not a sudden row by the rabble, nor an ebullition
of Jacobinism. The government began by
thrusting its fingers into the pockets of the
wealthy merchants, and as such as attack is sure
to irritate even the most peaceably disposed, it
was not singular that these gentlemen, after
to the last measure left them, and took the
law into their own hands. In short, the whole
matter was not sans-cullotism, but, on the contrary,
a sober resistance to arbitrary measures
made by decent substantial burghers in velvet
small-clothes. It was, however, very natural that
the other and lower classes of society—the gentlemen
out at the elbows, namely, who have every
thing to gain and nothing to lose by a revolution,
and who are, consequently, always ready
for a squabble,—should choose to side with those
who, possessing a stake in society, were yet
ready to risk every thing upon the cast.
As I said, one wet evening in June, 1768, there
was a row on Hancock's Wharf. The custom-house
officers had seen fit to seize a sloop belonging
to John Hancock, which was lying there.
So far all was well enough; it was their duty—or
they considered it so—to make the seizure, and
the owner had no intention of opposing the
measure. A ship of war, however, happened to
be lying in the stream, and one of the officers
of the customs thought proper to make signals to
her captain, who accordingly sent his boats to
the sloop. The fast was cut very unnecessarily,
and sloop carried under the guns of the frigate.
This impertinent exercise of power irritated a
parcel of loungers on the wharf, and a few pebbles
Some of the sailors, at this tried to mount on
the wharf and attack the townsmen. Two of
them got their hands to the uppermost plank,
and were endeavouring to scramble upon the
wharf, when a gentleman-like-looking young
man, in a rough great-coat, who happened to be
standing near, coolly put out his foot and kicked
their hands till the men lost their hold and dropped
back into the boat. At the word of the
commanding officer the business was finished, and
the boats rowed back to the frigate. Upon this
the little tumult subsided, and the custom-house
gentlemen, after having been hustled a little,
made the best of their way home.
Now the son of the collector, who happened to
be present, was a saucy young man: he observed
that the mob was dispersing, and the evening
growing dark, and thought it a safe opportunity
to exert a little authority, so he bustled up to the
gentleman in the great-coat, whose person was
unknown to him, but who happened to be the
reader's acquaintance, Vassal Deane. He was
sitting composedly upon a cask, glancing now at
the frigate and now at the mob on the shore.
“A chilly evening for the season?” said the
collector's son.
The other looked carelessly at him a moment,
nodded assent, and began to whistle.
“I dare say you find your wrapper comfortable
even in summer?” resumed the collector.
This interesting observation seemed to exite
little emotion in the mind of the person addressed,
who continued to whistle without making a
reply. The collector's son was nettled, and he
resumed in a little squeaking tone of authority,
“Let me advise you to follow the example of
the rest of the mob, and go about your business,”
said he.
“I never take advice,” said the other, without
even looking at him.
“Then I must command you,” said the stripling,
looking ferocious, and putting his hand on
the breast of the other's coat. “Go home, instantly?”
“You should never lay your hands on a gentleman's
dress,” said his antagonist, slightly rapping
the intrusive knuckles, with a little stick
he held in his hand.
The youth lost command of himself, and again
attempted to lay hold of the other. “Do you
know who I am?” said he in a rage. “I am
the son of Mr. Tomkins, the collector!”
“And you seem to be as great a puppy as
your father. But you are getting troublesome,
and as you will not go home, you must take
the consequences;” so saying, he lifted up the
young man as if he had been a kitten, carried
the wharf, and then quietly dropped him overboard.
It was nearly low tide, the water had
retreated, and the pugnacious Tomkins, was left
sticking breast-high in the mud. His roars for
assistance attracted the attention of several of
the crowd, who had watched with great satisfaction
this scene from its commencement to its
conclusion. They answered his supplication with
jeers and coarse witticisms.
By this time the mob had again increased.
The gentleman in the mud was generally recognized,
and a proposition to follow up the joke
by an attack on the comptroller-general's house,
which happened to be hard by, met with universal
applause.
The multitude swept on to the house, and
sticks and stones began to fly in profusion, half
a dozen windows were smashed in, the inmates
were alarmed, and presently the comptroller appeared
at the door, and demanded a parley.
Half a dozen blackguards, having no relish for
discussion, rushed forward to seize him. In a
moment the unfortunate comptroller would have
been torn into twenty pieces, when suddenly
Deane sprang to his assistance. Acting with
promptitude and irresistible energy, he beat down
the assailants before they were aware of his
attack, thrust the master of the house inside the
to face the multitude.
The foremost assailants, disappointed of their
prey, turned furiously upon him. Deane, nothing
daunted, faced them, with his back against the
door, and with a perfectly composed manner,
exclaimed in a voice, whose clear and commandingnotes
notes rang through the whole assembly:
“For God's sake, no violence! The youth
in the dock came there by his own impertinence,
and is sufficiently punished. The comptroller is
innocent — he has done his duty — and the first
man who assaults this house, deserves the penalty
of the law.” Then, moderating his voice
to a placid, temperate, but resolute and impressive
tone, he continued, “In the name of reason,
what has this comptroller done? Why are
you here assembled, magnanimously pelting his
doors with pebbles, and breaking his window
frames with sticks? Are you men? Have you
heard of certain arbitrary measures of the government?
— are you aggrieved? — do you feel
yourselves insulted by stupid and unreasonable
rulers? Very well, very well. Is this the way for
men to right themselves? What is this comptroller?
Why is he selected as the mark of your
noble indignation? Is he your ruler? Is he a
tyrant or a tool? Shame on ye, shame! that ye
come here like squabbling children to vent your
of husbanding your wrath till with it you
can annihilate the master. Are you dull, noisy
clowns, or are you reasonable and determined
citizens? I tell you to be quiet. Waste not
your energies on tools! If ye are men, there
will be work enough for men. The thunderclouds
are now hanging over us; the very air
is sulphurous and unwholesome; but the light
is breaking forth, and I tell you to mark my
words. There shall be work enough. Be quiet
now. Go home and wait. Waste not your
wrath on windows and doors; I tell you there
is a throne we know of, that ye shall crush —
a sceptre stretched over our heads that ye shall
break as easily as I now break this staff.”
And so saying, he snapped his walking-stick
in two, and with this practical metaphor he
concluded his oration, and descended from the
steps.
The crowd had been composed, convinced,
and a little ashamed, and they greeted the orator
with murmurs of applause. Some of the
nearest grasped his hand warmly, and after he
had repeated his advice to disperse, they gradually
separated.
As soon as the last straggler had disappeared,
the comptroller came down-stairs, opened the
door a little, peered stealthily out, and seeing
looking at the moon with his hands in his
pockets, — cried, “Sir, sir, a word with you, if
you please.”
“Sir, a whole history,” said the other, quoting
Hamlet, and walking up the steps.
The comptroller had not heard Deane's oration,
or perhaps his gratitude would not have
been so unbounded; he knew only that Deane
had constituted himself his champion at a critical
moment, and he wished to be civil.
“Have the kindness to walk into the house,
my excellent young friend,” said he. “Let me
beg you to join me in a bottle of particularly
fine Carolina Madeira, that I may have the
opportunity to express my obligations to your
bravery more at length.”
“Thank you,” said Deane, “I never drink
Madeira, especially with custom-house officers —
spare your compliments I beseech you; and if
you are anxious for a companion, let me recommend
to your notice, a young gentleman
whom you will find in the mud underneath the
lower end of Hancock's wharf;” so saying he
turned on his heel, wished the comptroller politely
good evening, and strode off.
“It begins to work,” he muttered to himself;
“there will be rare doings in a year or two.
to show the metal we are made of.”
As he went home, he took a bundle of printed
bills from the pocket of his over-coat, and
busied himself for half-an-hour in affixing them
on conspicuous places, in the principal streets.—
They were notifications for the “Sons of Liberty”
to meet the next day at Liberty Hall, at
ten in the morning.
When this was done, he went quietly home
to bed, and repaired to the appointed place the
following morning. The concourse was, however,
so great, and the weather so stormy, that
the multitude adjourned to Faneuil Hall. Here
a legal meeting was moved and appointed by the
select-men, to take place at three o'clock in the
afternoon.
At the appointed time the crowd again assembled,
but in such overflowing numbers, that they
were obliged to adjourn to the old South Church.
Here many of the most respectable citizens
calmly addressed the assembly. The whole meeting
was conducted with decency and propriety;
and on motion of Deane, a petition to the Governor
was unanimously adopted, and a committee
of twenty-one appointed to present it. Of
this committee, Deane, young as he was, was
nominated chairman.
The petition, after a declaration of rights and
injuries, concluded with the following words:—
“The town is, at this crisis, in a situation as
if war was formally declared against it. To
contend with our parent state, is an idea of
most shocking and dreadful extremity: — but
tamely to relinquish the only security we and
our posterity retain for the enjoyment of our
lives and properties, without one struggle, is so
humiliating and base, that we cannot support the
reflection.
“We apprehend, sir, that it is at your option,
in your power, and we would hope in your inclination,
to prevent this distressed and justly
incensed people from effecting too much, and
from the shame and reproach of effecting too
little.”
This petition, like most petitions, had little
effect: it was graciously received, and graciously
forgotten. The members of the House of Representatives
for the time proposed a series of spirited
resolutions, and just as they were going to act
upon them in a spirited manner, the Governor
thought proper to dissolve the House in consequence
of a regal command.
A few months after this, viz. September 30th,
1768, “six ships of war sailed into the harbour,
and anchored round the town; their cannon
regular siege.
“At noon, on Saturday, October 1st, the 14th
and 29th regiments, a detachment from the
59th, and a train of artillery, with two pieces
of cannon, loaded, on Long Wharf, then formed
and marched with insolent parade, drums beating,
fifes playing, and colours flying, up King's
Street; each soldier having received sixteen round
of shot.”
9. CHAPTER IX.
DIDACTIC.
It was about a year after these events, that I
one day paid a visit to Deane. We had seen
each other very little since college days, although
a warm friendship which had immediately succeeded
the unfortunate termination of my dramatic
career, had never subsided on either side;
our courses had, however, of late years, been distinct,
and, in fact, I had been so much of a
hermit, that I had seen no one.
I entered his room late in the afternoon, and
found it vacant: as I had been assured that he
would probably soon return home, I sat down
to await his coming. While I was waiting, I
had leisure to examine the apartment. Deane
had been an orphan for some years, and had
inherited a small independence from his parents
His apartments consisted of simply a study and
a chamber, into the former of which I had entered.
It was a tolerably large room, and furnished
plainly and comfortably. Its condition
One side was entirely occupied from the
floor to the ceiling, with a set of dusty bookshelves,
on which were heaped a mass of rusty
looking volumes, almost entirely on subjects connected
with the law. On the table were a
pile of boxing gloves, half a dozen fencing
foils, and a mass of heterogeneous books of all
shapes and sizes.
I took up some of them, which seemed to
have lately occupied his attention. A small
and much-thumbed copy of Juvenal, was stuck
as a mark in a large folio treatise on Artillery.
The Memoirs of Monk, Duke of Albemarle, a
copy of Cæsar, and a volume of Peere Williams's
Reports, lay together in a heap, surmounted by
the Memoirs of Faublas. A delicate-looking billet
doux, directed in a lady's hand to Deane, projected
from a copy of Ferguson's Surveying,
which, with half a dozen other mathematical
works, completed the collection on the table.
A drawer was left carelessly open, which
seemed to be stuffed full of papers in Deane's
hand-writing, and a miniature of a young and
exquisitely beautiful female dangled by its chain,
as if caught by accident to the handle of the
drawer. Over the fire-place was a picture of
the armorial bearings of Deane, wrought in a
sort of embroidery, and on the mantel-piece
instruments, a pair of spurs, and a diamond
ring, apparently of some value.
I had hardly finished my survey, when Deane
made his appearance. He seemed glad to see
me; shook my hand heartily, and without further
preface, began in his sententious way.
“You are going abroad, I hear?”
“Yes; I have nearly made up my mind,”
said I.
“When?”
“Early in the spring.”
“Why?”
“Because,” said I, “I am weary. I hardly
think I shall ever return. To say the truth, I
wish I was any sort of thing but a provincial,—
a colonist. If I had been born any where else,
if I had been placed in a fit sphere of action, I
might have been something. But I am convinced,”
continued I, pathetically, “that I am
not made for this age, or this country.”
“What the devil are you made for?” said
Deane. But checking himself, he muttered
“The usual silly cant of the indolent and the
dreaming. There will be plenty for you to do,”
he continued, aloud, “and plenty to interest
you, in the affairs of the country.”
“Ah! I take no interest in these provincial
squabbles. A few months, and they will be
rights.”
He seemed not to heed my answer — mused
a moment, and then resumed, “Yes — you may
as well go. You will perhaps return — there
will be a country to return to. The sin is,
that we are not national. Our thoughts from
childhood cross the ocean every instant. How
many centuries will pass before the infant America
is weaned from its mother Europe? But
yet why should we regret it? We are Europeans
— transplanted Europeans Politically, we
shall soon become a distinct nation — socially
and morally, we shall continue to be Europeans.
And why not? Were not the Syracusans
and the Agrigentines, Greeks? Did not
Pindar flourish at the court of Hiero?”
“Well,” said I, with great magnanimity,
“perhaps I may some day return. One cannot
resist a sneaking regard for the place of
one's nativity. But, after all, Europe is the only
place for a gentleman to live in.”
“For God's sake,” he replied, “endeavour to
rid yourself of such plebeian notions as fast as
you can. Do not confound yourself with the
grovelling and the vulgar-minded, who think
themselves in the dark unless their farthing
candles are lighted at a court-chandelier. Let
us endeavour to emit the light ourselves, not
satellites of an orb above us. Let us
understand our mission. Leave to the imitators
— the ordinary herd, to ape the manners, and
hanker after the refinements which, even if they
were born to them, they would lack the intellect
to appreciate.”
He laid his finger on my shoulder, and assumed
a grave demeanour as he continued,
“Morton, remember this. If you have any ambition,
any desire for distinction, its field and its
satisfaction must be sought for in your own
neighbourhood. The material out of which one
must carve the statue of his reputation must be
sought for in the earth beneath his feet — the
only quarry of enduring marble you will find
in the soil of your country. Study your age —
study your country — and investigate and work
upon the materials you find. It is only the
imbecile who complain of their unfitness for
their age or country; — the master spirits seize
the times, and mould them to their will.”
“Well, well,” said I, beginning to be bored
with this homily. “Time enough;—time enough.
We are both young—there is no hurry.”
“There again,” said he, quietly. “There is
another vulgar error. I tell you, Morton, that
the only difference between intellects, between
characters, between men, is simply the difference
think — any one knows what one ought to do
to become great. But few act — few do. A
catalogue of actions is the only history and the
only biography worth heeding. If you tell me
that a man is clever — is a genius — I shall ask
you simply, what has he done? To do is the
only proof that I will accept of genius. No hurry
— no hurry, you say — very well. But recollect,
that while you are shivering and hesitating
on the brink, another will have breasted the
waves, and crossed the torrent; — while you are
bundling and sharpening your arrows, another
will have struck the deer.”
As I got up to go, I was surprised that
Deane looked pale. I asked him if he was ill.
He said no; but believed that he had been
bleeding a little. I asked for an explanation,
and he showed me his arm, which was bound
with his pocket-handkerchief. There was a
sword-wound directly through the fleshy part of
his shoulder, and the handkerchief was saturated
with blood.
“What, in the name of wonder, have you
been about?” I asked.
“Nothing of note,” said he. “A scuffle in
the British Coffee-house in State-street. You
have probably heard of the offensive introduction
of my name in a paper lately published
of this, the other day, I denounced
the whole set of them as liars. This evening
I came into the coffee-room; I found one of the
commissioners sitting there with a parcel of his
friends. An altercation ensued. I knocked him
down. His friends took his part, and a few of
the by-standers sided with me; there were, however,
a dozen to one against us. Young Tomkins,
a youth who owes me a grudge for having
stuck him in the mud one day, joined with
half a dozen officers in an attack. Some of
them drew their swords. There was a scuffle.
We were, of course, overpowered. I received
this cut. We were finally thrust from the
house. No matter, a day of reckoning will
come.”
“Do you know from whom you received the
wound?”
“Yes, perfectly well — from a certain Captain
Carew of the 29th. His hour will come; —
there is no hurry. I pride myself upon my
good memory.”
The conversation lasted a little longer; but the
topics remained the same. The Old South clock
struck twelve as I passed through the deserted
streets to my home.
10. CHAPTER X.
THE GOVERNOR'S BALL.
It was about this time that a number of balls
were given by the Governor and the leading
members of the Council, as well as by the
officers of the regiments quartered in the town.
My uncle, after a great deal of talk about the
rights of man, and sacred privilege of representation
had ended as he began, by warmly espousing
the Royal cause.
As has been seen, I meddled little with politics.
Whatever bias I had, was on the Tory
side of the question. As for the gaieties of the
town, however, I mingled but little with them.
My character was still pulp-like and undetermined.
The infant's cartilage had not yet hardened
into the bone of manhood. I was of the
age, when a youth imagines it magnanimity to
despise society; — when a sullenness of demeanour
is mistaken for superiority of character. I
thought that my spirit walked not with those of
other men; but I had not yet learned that it
stronger spirits. I had not learned that an unsocial
deportment was a proof of imbecility, and
not of romantic superiority, and that the talent
for society is nearly allied to the most dignified
and most robust qualities of character. I was
yet a boy. I had studied a little and thought a
little; but I had not yet felt or done.
There is a flood of passion, which sooner or
later sweeps over each human soul, sometimes to
refresh and fertilize, sometimes to overwhelm and
destroy. It is not till the tide has flowed and
ebbed, till the character has felt the full force of
love, of passion, and has again been deserted
and left bare, that we can learn what parts of
it were firm; that which has resisted the shock
and remained on the beach unshattered, may
bid defiance to a future storm. The tideless Mediterranean
of the mind which succeeds, swells
not beyond its natural limits; and even if the
retiring waves have left nothing but sand and
sea-weed, still it is better. That which could
not resist the flood had better have been swept
away, and then you may build, regardless of a
future storm. Man loves — passionately loves but
once.
I was destined soon to feel. In compliance
with a request from my uncle Joshua, that I
ball at the Governor's.
I wandered through the rooms, listened to the
fiddles, looked apathetically at the various lovely
forms which flitted by me, conversed with an
acquaintance or two, and was already excessively
bored, when, turning accidentally to an inner
room, my attention was arrested suddenly. It
was a woman, a girl more lovely than any I
had ever dreamed of. I was startled. She was
standing near a column, and gazing vacantly
round the room. As I entered we were
close to each other — our eyes met — the vacant
look disappeared; the casual glance became
on both sides by a sort of fascination, a full,
earnest, almost an impassioned gaze. It was
but a moment, — the lady coloured slightly, and
dropped her eyes. A vague, delicious sensation
stole around my heart — I stood in a spell.
I awoke in a moment from my trance, and
found myself standing on the Governor's toes.
“If you are ready,” said he, smiling.
“Certainly,” said I, politely, and I shuffled
off.
The people still danced and supped, and
danced again. I heeded it not. I wandered
up and down in a dream. My imagination was
as violent as is usual at my age; something
had been given it to work upon, and it wrought.
heart, and I almost feared to look at them
again. I revelled in the feeling that she was
near me, and it was enough; I yielded without
a struggle to the spell of my first love. The
music resounded through the brilliant halls, and
sparkling eyes and lovely forms floated by me
in the dance. I thought of her, and there
was intoxication in the very air. I thought of
her, and the music breathed bewilderingly in
my ear, stole into every fibre of my system,
and caused my heart-strings to vibrate responsively
back.
I was startled from my reverie by the conversation
of an indifferent acquaintance; when it
was ended, I looked around. Not seeing her,
as I thought I must the instant I lifted my eyes,
I gazed wildly and rapidly round. In the twinkling
of an eye, I had scanned the features of
every woman there — I found her not. My
heart, that was so buoyant, changed to lead.
I felt it sink in my bosom. The scales fell
from my eyes; the enchantment of the scene
was broken; the fiddles were no longer archangels'
lyres. The spermaceti candles no longer
illumined a hall as dazzling as Aladdin's palace.
There was no medium in my youthful
nature between rapture and despair, otherwise I
should not have been so miserable, because, as
only gone into the next room. I marched into
it, and there she was, — let me describe her.
Her profuse hair was as black as night, and
dividing simply on her forehead, was drawn
backward and knotted behind with a wreath
of snow-white flowers. A single ringlet depended
from behind the tiny and transparent ear,
towards the exquisitely moulded throat.
The mould of her features was faultless. I
held my breath lest all should be dissolved, and
the phantom float away. The low forehead,
the delicate, decided brow, the perfect nose, the
short lip, the sculptured chin, the matchless
shoulders, the snowy bosom, the softly swelling
proportions of the whole form in earliest womanhood,
the fairy foot, the dazzling arms, the
liquid, noiseless motions, all passed in quick
review before me, and I lingered over each individual
charm, lost in a delicious intoxication.
But all vanished — all was forgotten as she
once more raised her eyes, and I felt my heart
leap and tremble as I once more gazed upon
them. I glided up close to her, without feeling
or knowing that I moved, and it seemed,
as I looked, that my thoughts could penetrate
through those cloudless depths into the very bottom
of her soul.
In the course of these proceedings, our eyes
of a gentleman who stood near, and say something
in a quick low voice, while at the same
time she looked earnestly, almost inquiringly towards
me. I fancied that the sudden fascination
had been mutual, and took it for granted
she was saying something sweet about the youth
that had enslaved her. I was mistaken — she
was only asking the name of the booby who
had been gaping at her for the last ten minutes.
I felt conscious of the impropriety of my
behaviour, and so I inquired of Captain Carew,
who was near me, the name of the lady.
“Miss Mayflower Vane — a confounded little
rebel,” was the answer.
“Please to introduce me.”
After my introductory bow, I remained standing
in the third position. Having nothing to
say, I began gracefully to twirl my thumbs.
“I will thank you to leave staring at me, as
if you were an Indian, and try to amuse me,”
said Mayflower.
“I am an Indian,” said I; and, pleased to
find myself on such an interesting topic as
myself, I began to talk; and I explained to
her the dignified descent on which I prided
myself.
After this we got on. She told me she detested
the government, and only came to these
were in love with her.
From talking of other people, we came to
talking of ourselves; and from talking of her,
we got to talking of me. She thought proper
to flatter me, and there was the mischief. It
was all over with me. I dare say she was
only making a fool of me, but I took it all for
sincerity.
Ah! — flattery is a sweet and intoxicating
potion, whether we drink it from an earthen
ewer, or a golden chalice; but when we inhale
it fresh and sparkling from the red lips of
beauty, it changes in the bosom to the subtlest
poison. Woman — beautiful woman — a woman
like Mayflower Vane, is used to flattery, and it
is harmless to her. She forgot that though she
could feed harmlessly on poison, it might not
be so with me. Flattery from man to woman
is expected; it is a part of the courtesy of
society; but when the divinity descends from
the altar to burn incense to the priest, what
wonder if the idolater should feel himself transformed
into a god!
Mayflower was an anomaly. She had a
heart, but she was a coquette — a natural coquette.
The mischief was, she did not know
she was one. Her admiration and her interest
were easily excited, and she had a natural desire
not for the sake of wearing them, and displaying
them, but for their own sake. Her heart
was overflowing, and she loved the whole world.
Her swift affections swarmed from her heart like
bees, but only to return at night to their fragrant
home, more sweetly laden than ever.
After I returned from the Governor's I found
I could not sleep, so I sat up, scribbling sonnets
till day-break. I threw myself then on my bed
and slept. The syren, memory, seized her lyre,
and sang the honied words of flattery, which
had already charmed my ear. I slept — and
that most musical of mortal voices still sounded
in my ear, and attended my dreams to the divinest
harmony.
11. CHAPTER XI.
LOVE AND CALICO.
I awoke in love. In tropical hearts a passion
shoots up to perfection in a single night, like a
flower. The elements of my whole nature were
inflammable, and love was the torch which was
now to light them into a beacon fire to guide
and guard my whole existence, or to a devouring
flame which was to consume and destory,
— I heeded not which; but the flame
was lighted, and the fire glowed. My whole
nature, to its lowest depths, was illumined.
Feelings and hopes, which had long lain dormant
in my bosom, now crept out like torpid
insects, to warm themselves in the genial influence
of my love. My whole character seemed
to alter suddenly — to acquire impulses and qualities,
natural, indeed, but which had never shewn
themselves before.
I have no wish to linger on the details of
this period of my life. Suffice — I saw Mafy
very often, and became desperately in love.
and thought herself partly in love with me.
Besides, her imagination was excited, for I told
her I was a genius, and wrote her a great
quantity of verses.
By a singular combination of circumstances,
Mafy came to make a visit at Morton's Hope.
It is not necessary to explain any more, than
that her father, who was an old friend of my
uncle's was obliged to make a visit of business
to the southern provinces, and as he was anxious
that his daughter should not be exposed to
the fatigues of rapid journeying at this inclement
season, he appointed my uncle her temporary
guardian.
When I heard this from Mafy's own lips, I
trembled for joy. I could hardly believe that
the Hope was to be turned into such a paradise.
It was true, and she came.
She came — and my doom was sealed. Could
it be otherwise? Was it not necessary that I
should give myself up, blindly, recklessly, to my
passion, — being daily, hourly, by the side of
that enchanting woman? Was it unnatural,
too, that in spite of her reason — in spite of
my extreme youth, and the childishness of my
character, she began to return a passion which
was enforced with such unchanging vehemence.
She did return it, and I was happy. She
that moment I felt myself an immortal. Swiftly
flew those hours; they flew — but their
wings were woven from the plumage of paradise.
Unheard and unheeded falls the foot of
time in the summer of our love, for his steps
are muffled with flowers. Alas! alas! — how
soon these flowers fade!! — and how soon comes
the season when his every footstep is painfully
distinct, as he strides over the crumbling leaves,
and the decayed and crackling branches! and
alas! the last season of all, when his progress
is again unheard, but because his path is covered
thick with snow.
Mafy loved me, and I was satisfied. There
was an occasional fit of abstraction, and once
or twice I found her in tears; but, in general,
she was gay and happy. I had put my whole
destiny in her hands. I had poured forth to
her the whole suppressed tides of my inmost
nature. Every hope, wish, aspiration — all the
hoarded ingots of my heart — I gave — recklessly
gave — to her keeping.
We were ever together in that blessed retirement.
She made me speak gravely, and look
definitely at the things which had been going
on around us. I have said she was a rebel,
and she made me one in a moment. She could
mould me as she wished. There was my bane.
woman cannot pardon in her lover a strength
of character inferior to her own.
“Did you make Uncas go without his dinner
to-day, uncle Joshua, that he is so ill-natured?”
cried Mafy, one evening. The old gentleman
heard or heeded not the question. He was standing
in the corner of the room. Before him was
an immense box, in which he had arranged all
sorts of wheels and cylinders, and shuttles —
had supplied it with water from a cistern —
causing an artificial river and dam, and waterfall:
in short, it was a whim to which the
recent events in the colonies had made him rather
more constant than he otherwise would
have been. And as the gout and the bad
weather had kept him from his great establishment
in the Anissippi, he had been employing
himself a month in constructing a calico factory,
with which he could amuse himself within
doors.
“A plus B divided by C, raised to the N
power, are equal to an unknown quantity represented
by X. Now, if the unknown quantity
be the Piston No. 1, and 2 minus Z, be,
—,” cried Joshua, reading from a book of
problems, and referring to his machinery.
“Lord, Joshua,” cried Forty, “I wish you
could be cured of that provoking habit of reading
If there are forty people in the room that know
nothing of the subject, you insist on lugging
them all in by the ears to your assistance.
Now, what do you suppose, I, or Uncas, or that
little provoking Mafy—”
“You shan't abuse Mafy,” said the old gentleman,
drawing himself up with great dignity,
“and moreover, you are not to suppose that
every one has as little taste or talent for abstract
science as yourself. The fact is, you do
not at all appreciate the immense advantage
you might have derived from a continual intercourse
with a man like myself — a man, who
has devoted himself, I may say, to the cause of
science, and—”
“There's Hiram the carpenter coming in;
so you'd better talk science with him,” answered
Forty, leaving the room on business of the
family.
The old gentleman and his confederate went
off to the calico, and were soon buried deeply
in mathematical calculations.
“Now, come with me to the piano,” said Mayflower,
“and I will sing the pretty song you
wrote for me.”
And we went, and she sang the pretty song
I wrote for her, and twenty others that I had
written for her, and twenty more that I did
together, and had become very sentimental, and
I had got hold of her hand under the piano,
and was kissing it diligently. “Dearest Mayflower,”
said I—
“Come here both of you,” said Joshua, suddenly
marching up, and seizing Mafy by the
arm. “Come directly — there is one cogged
wheel, and one wheel without cogs, the theoretic
adaptation of which I did not explain to
you yesterday. I will do it now; and I have
had the cistern filled with water; and Hiram
the carpenter is come; and I shall set the
whole system in motion. You shall see it, both
of you. What can be more delightful?”
“Damn the carpenter and the cogged wheels,”
muttered I, in a pet, at being interrupted at
such an interesting moment by such an annoying
proposal. It is on such trifling occasions
that a man seldom entirely commands himself,
and a woman always. Woman is trained so
early to concealment of feeling, that she slips
on a decent outward demeanour as easily as a
glove.
“Hush, Uncas,” said Mafy, “you must go.
Perhaps you are not aware that uncle Joshua
is as much in love with me as you. I am
not sure which I shall decide for. How should
you like me for a step-mother?” So she smiled
soon over head and ears in the mill-pond,
while I solaced myself with a fit of sulks in a
corner.
After this business was over, and we were
left alone, I pressed my suit. The vehemence
of my boyish eloquence, my prayers, and my
passionate tears, softened her soul. She took a
slight ring from her finger, and we broke it
between us. She tied my fragment to a tress
of her hair, and hung it round my neck. She
kissed me fondly, and promised to be mine for
ever.
That raven braid — that broken ring, lie now
before my eyes. They are all that remind me
of thy plighted love, Mayflower.
12. CHAPTER XII.
A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
I was just preparing to return home, after a
few weeks' absence, — my heart full of hope
and happiness, — when the following letter was
put into my hands: —
“You are going to hate me. I am prepared
for it. Alas! you have too much cause.
What shall I write? My thoughts are wild
and fluctuating as the sea, and my reason is
tossed about at their mercy. My brain is whirled
round by conflicting passions, till it is sick
and giddy. You have often complained of my
coldness, my abstraction; but could you have
dreamed of the extent of my crime? Never.
I have only made you the victim of a foiled
attempt at self-sacrifice. Dearest Uncas, I do
not ask you not to hate me. I implore your
curses; but, at least, hear me to the end. I
have but a word to say.
“When we first met, I looked upon you as
a boy — a serious thought of you never crossed
my brain. My imagination was touched
with the fantastic passion of a child, — nothing
more. By and by, I began to realize the intenseness
and reality of your passion. The
depths of your nature were revealed to me. I
saw all that was good, and all that was fearful
in your character. It terrified me to reflect that
I, a weak woman, held your whole existence in
my hands. I am not vain; and it was always
difficult for me to believe that I could
work that mischief, which I know is but too
often wrought by woman. But I began to feel
that I had been unwittingly trifling with a passion
and a character, both beyond their own
control and mine. I felt that I had wronged
you, and I felt too, that I could indeed be the
cause of unhappiness to one so young and so
gifted.
“It was then that I thought of reparation, —
it was then, that to cure one error, I committed
one ten thousand times greater. It was then,
that by a fatal mistake, I determined to atone
for my coquetry, by a still greater crime, and,
in a moment of hesitation, weakness, self-reproach,
despair, I plighted myself to you; I
vowed to love you when I knew I loved you
not. I then began to struggle with myself. I
ascribed to my heart, impressions traced only
upon my fancy. I endeavoured to distort my
admiration for you into love. Fool, that I was,
not to know, that the moment a woman begins
to reason, she has either never loved, or
has ceased to love.
“Ah! if I could believe you would hate me,
I should, I think, be happier. For God's sake,
do not, do not forgive me. It is my only
prayer. If you do, I shall be miserable indeed.
“But I hesitate, — I linger, — the worst is yet
behind. Why do I now feel that I can never
love you as I hoped, as you deserve, as you
will be loved and worshipped, I know and prophecy,
by some being superior to me in body,
heart, and mind. I will tell you, — for I know
you have the nerve to bear it. Listen, and
shrink not. I love another. Yes; I love, — I
am pledged to another. I have broken all my
vows, and with your parting kiss hardly cold
upon my lip, I have given myself to another.
Will you know that other's name? You know
him well. It is your friend, Vassal Deane!
There, I have driven the arrow to your heart.
One single word more. Do not allow yourself
a ray of hope. There is no hope for you. I
have never loved you, — not an instant. I
wished to make reparation. I strove to sacrifice
myself. I have, at last, met the man who has
disclosed me to myself, — who has revealed to
me the deep and awful feeling of which I always
deemed myself capable, but never realized
till now. Passion has slumbered within me always;
but it dreamed, — it dreamed, — but it
has at last awaked. I tell you, Uncas Morton,
that I adore him. If you should descend to
the lowest depths of my soul, you would find it
filled to overflowing with the blessed light of
his love.
“I dare say all this to you. It is at least,
a consolation to me to know that you have
already begun to hate me. At least, I have
never sought to palliate my own conduct. Farewell,
Uncas, dearest Uncas; I shall never cease
to pray for your happiness; but I do not ask
you to forgive me, either in this world or the
next. Hate me, — hate me, — I implore you.
I read it through without flinching. The
paper dropped from my hands. I began to
whistle, as if nothing had happened. For an
instant, not an emotion was excited in my
mind. I walked mechanically to the door, and
locked it. I sat down, and remained a moment
in a stupid bewilderment. Suddenly the whole
my mind. I read my fate by the conflagration
of my ruined hopes, — and then I cried aloud
in my agony, — I tore my hair, — I threw myself
upon the ground, — I blasphemed Mayflower,—I
poured out execrations—I raved myself
into a frenzy, — I fell alternately from delirium
to exhaustion, and from exhaustion to delirium.
At last, I was worn out. I lay on the ground,
motionless, hopeless, helpless; panting like a
struck deer, writhing like a crushed worm, under
the weight of one horrible, sickening remembrance.
Hour after hour, I lay in that
room in a trance, and felt each moment as it
passed, enter my heart like a barbed arrow
dipped in memory's poison. With the break
of the morning, a light shot through my brain;
the demon stirred within me. Pride roused itself
like a lion in my breast, and love shrank
away like a scourged slave. I thought of revenge,
and I became calm and happy. I determined
to return, to discover my rival, and
to pluck out his heart, and then to annihilate
Mayflower by my scorn.
I went down stairs, and breakfasted like a
famished vulture. I then set out immediately
for home.
It was evening when I arrived in Boston.
I went immediately to her house. It was at
same square with the Governor's, where I had
met her first. The house is standing now. A
large three-story wooden building, with an open
enclosure, and two or three trees before it. I
rang the bell, — Miss Vane was out, — engaged,
— in short, I could not see her. I gnashed
my teeth, and turned from the door. I perceived
that there was a light in Mafy's own
parlour, and that the shutters were not closed.
I climbed into one of the trees, and looked in.
There was a light cambric shade on the window,
so that I could not distinguish clearly;
but I sat in the tree, hoping to see my beloved.
By-and-by there came a shadow on the
window, — my heart palpitated, — I knew that
shadow, dearer to me than the reality of all
the world besides. Presently there came another
shadow, and the second was not that of a female
figure; and the two shadows approached
nearer and nearer, — they came close, — they
joined, — they intermingled — they remained long
entwined, — then the quick, indistinct hum of
eager and passionate words, sounded faintly on
my ear; and then, as the shadows separated,
I heard a light laugh; I mistook it not, —
'twas Mafy's; but that most musical laugh
rang in my ears like a demon's cry. I felt
transfixed, — I sat motionless, — straining my
all. Again the shadows approached, again the
murmured accents of love jarred upon my ears,
— the male figure came close to the window,
— I thought I recognised it, — it stretched out
its arms. I saw a head resting on a shoulder.
I sprang from the tree and saw no more.
And I stood there, had seen it all and
breathed. It was indeed Mayflower, and I had
seen her in another's arms. The thought was
maddening, my brain seethed, my blood boiled,
every nerve quivered, the air felt thick and
choking, — I was growing mad.
I turned from the place, — it was snowing
violently — I heeded it not, — I determined to
walk the ten miles to Morton's Hope. The
storm drove furiously in my face, as I proceeded,
— I welcomed it, — I was fleeing from
my own horrible thoughts. Those kisses were
ever hissing in my ears like adders' tongues, —
I staggered blindly on through the savage tempest.
At last I became wearied, my feet were
clogged, my knees trembled; I sank in the
snow; I wrapped my cloak placidly round me,
and placed my head upon a drifted heap; I
hoped that my hour was come. Alas! I courted
Death, and he spurned me. The fever of
my heart was proof against the elements. Instead
of growing torpid, I felt my brain again
devouring thoughts came on again in full cry,
and I sprang to my feet, and fled like an
Acteon before them. On, on I drove, faster
and faster; I reached the Hope, burst open the
door, ascended to my own room. As I passed
in, with a lighted candle in my hand, I suddenly
confronted myself in the glass, — It was
my ghost! — I was horror-struck: — pale with
watching, haggard with fatigue, with jaws fallen,
lips livid, teeth chattering, the unexpected
apparition to myself of myself, (a thing startling
to every one,) was frightful. I thought I
saw my wraith, and, half frightened, half exhausted
and bewildered, I sank heavily on my
bed, and slept a long and dreamless sleep.
13. CHAPTER XIII.
MY UNCLE'S FETE.
When I awoke, it seemed as if I had only
slept three minutes. It was day-light, however,
and I felt no inclination to sleep.
I rang the bell, and learned from the servant
that Joshua had been absent a few days, and
was expected this afternoon; that Fortitude was
confined to her chamber with the rheumatism;
and that to-day being my uncle's birth-day,
there was to be a ball, in commemoration of that,
and of the approaching marriage between Mayflower
and Vassal Deane.
Being sufficiently refreshed, I walked out into
the air. The snow-storm which I have commemorated,
had left but few traces: there was,
however, an enormous quantity of snow and
ice still left upon the ground. It was one of
those warm, dissolving days, not uncommon in
the early part of March. A southerly wind,
and a thawing sun, had caused the surface of
the country to glisten; and I heard the twittering
of a thousand streams under the prodigious
masses of snow and ice which the winter had
accumulated, and which were now sinking beneath
the sun. The atmosphere was bright
and glorious, the air was flooded with light, as
if there were some magnificent festival in Heaven,
and its supernatural brilliancy blazed
through the sky.
I had not walked far, when I perceived a
small cavalcade making its way to the Hope.
Joshua, attired in a brown wrapper, and furred
boots, an India handkerchief round his neck,
and a bear skin cap on his head, led the procession,
mounted on the reader's acquaintance,
Sleepy Solomon. Mayflower and Deane riding
side by side, completed the party. Joshua, as
the servant told me, had taken it into his wise
head to give a fête, in honour of his own birth-day.
The festivities were to conclude with a
ball and illumination, and he had brought from
town a quantity of squibs and Congreve rockets
for the occasion.
He was a singular figure, as he jolted up and
down upon the gigantic horse. His wrapper,
with one yawning pocket filled to the brim with
the fire-works that were to explode that evening,
and the other stuffed with a brown paper
parcel of passion-flowers, which he had purchased
heavily against his horse's flanks. Under his
arm he clutched a bundle of flannel petticoats,
purchased in town for Aunt Fortitude, and
with one hand he jerked testily his horse's head
at every tormenting jolt, while in the other
fluttered the newspaper, which, with his spectacles
bobbing down to the tip of his nose at
every step, he was most preposterously endeavouring
to read aloud for the edification of the
lovers.
“It is a favourite theory of mine,” said he,
turning back towards his auditors with a sublime
countenance, “that one should accustom
oneself to do as many things at a time as possible.
Cæsar, you know, could read, write, and
dictate to a dozen all at once; — and you see
that I, without pretending to be as great a man
as Cæsar, can rein a restive horse, carry as
many bundles as a baggage-wagon, and read
these proceedings of the General Court, all at
once, while each of you have enough to do to
keep your seats on your horses.”
Just as he concluded this vain-glorious speech,
his horse stumbled heavily in a rut. Joshua
pulling awkwardly at the bridle with one hand,
flapped the paper in his eyes with the other.
The horse, resenting this insult, kicked up his
heels, and Joshua, alarmed, dropped newspaper,
with both hands.
Upon this I advanced from a thicket, picked
up the bundles, and greeted Joshua, who had
already tumbled from his horse, with surprise at
my unexpected apparition. I nodded hastily to
Deane, — avoided Mafy's eye, who was anxiously
seeking to catch mine, and saying I
would meet them all at the house, turned from
the road.
They were not more than four or five miles
from the Hope. The Anisippi, swollen beyond
its limits to a quarter of a mile's breadth, was
still frozen hard, and Joshua had been hitherto
in the habit of riding across the ice, which
shortened the distance a mile. The present
thaw, had, however, lasted so long, that he was
averse to crossing it at present; and, observing
that the ice had already began to look blue and
thin, he advised them all to ride round by the
bridge.
Mayflower, however, at the moment I had
left the party, had ridden rapidly forward alone,
probably wishing to collect herself for the approaching
interview with me.
She did not hear Joshua's advice, and thinking
the ice strong enough to support an army,
she touched her pony with the whip, and dashed
on to it. She was already half-way across, before
all perceived that the ice in the centre looked
very thin, and we stood, waiting breathlessly
for the issue. It began to tremble. It was too
late to recede; to rush rapidly forward, was
her only chance. She hesitated, — she checked
her horse, — the ice began to heave and sink
in a wide undulating circle; it was already too
late, — the horse became frightened and restive,
— refused to obey the whip, — backed, reared,
and then stood shivering from head to foot.
Again the ice bent fearfully, — and the stream
was heard curdling distinctly below, — the whole
frozen sheet of the river swayed back again to
its level, — again the horse started forward, —
the ice sunk again, deeper than ever, — deeper
and deeper still, — then a crashing sound throughout
the whole surface, and then it broke into
a hundred pieces, and rider and horse were
seen struggling in the liberated waves. A cry
of horror burst from every mouth. Mayflower
clung almost senseless to the horse's neck. He
swam blindly and desperately forward. The
broken cakes of ice clogged across his path. In
an instant he reached a point, where the river,
making a rapid bend, was suddenly compressed
into a narrower and deeper current. Here the
violence of the torrent had long before swept
away the ice, which bound it only in the
herself, and fell from the horse. All this was
the work of an instant.
At the first bursting of the ice, I had sprung
to her assistance, and thrown myself, half frantic,
into the waves. She was borne up awhile
by her dress. The current whirled her round
and round, and hurried her rapidly down. I
swam madly after her, — I gained upon her, —
the bend in the river and a thicket of elder
bushes hid her from my sight. On the other
side of the thicket, the stream became very
narrow. Deane, whose coolness and self-possession,
had never for a moment deserted him,
had galloped round to this point, dismounted,
seized a rail from a Virginia fence, and standing
on the bank, waited a few seconds. The
current bore her straight towards him; another
instant, and she would have been swept away;
he thrust the rail dexterously before her, —
she grasped it with the convulsive clutch of
a dying person,—she touched the brink. Deane,
leaning forward, seized her in his arms, and
drew her upon the bank of the river without
wetting the soles of his feet. They gathered
round her, seeking by various means to revive
her. In the meantime I was drowning.
In the confusion of the moment, I had been
forgotten. Joshua had seen me spring into the
agony. There was no answer. A death-like
silence succeeded. I had sunk for a moment,
cramped with the cold, and exhausted with my
frantic exertions. I rose close to the ice; I
grasped it feebly with both hands; they were
slipping; — in an instant, I should have sunk,
and been borne under, when Deane, perceiving
my situation, rushed to my assistance, and
caught me by the arm. I exerted myself with
my remaining strength, and he succeeded in
dragging me out. I tottered to the bank, and
sank down exhausted. I recovered, however,
almost instantly. I had been chilled and half
frozen; but my frame was vigorous, and in a
few minutes I was able to stand. They were
all bent upon resuscitating Mafy.
A long time she lay, pale and rigid as a
beautiful statue. They chafed her temples, and
did every thing customary on such occasions,
with but little success. At last, Joshua, who
had heard of burnt feathers, and was a subscriber
to the Humane Society, determined on
lighting the plumes of her bonnet, and burning
them under her nose. He extracted his tinder-box,
and began composedly to strike a light.
Crack! crack! crack! — A tremendous explosion
succeeded. A Catherine's wheel whizzed out of
his pocket, and the camlet wrapper was a sheet
and they exploded a few hours too soon.
Deane, who was to be the hero of every scene
that day, caught up the flannel petticoats, which
lay providentially near, and wrapping them
round Joshua, hugged him closely in his arms.
The old gentleman lost his equilibrium, and
they fell, and rolled together on the ground.
The fire was extinguished, and no harm was
done; but their faces were blackened by the
smoke, and they presented a most absurd appearance
as they sprawled together on the earth,
locked together in a close embrace, and enveloped
in the graceful drapery of the red petticoats.
In the meantime, I had hung over Mafy,
despairing; forgetting all that was past, and
seeing only that she, who was dearer to me
than life, lay dying before my eyes. I chafed
her temples, — I pressed her to my heart, — I
kissed her pale mouth, her forehead, her eyes.
When suddenly, — perhaps benefited by the various
applications which had been tried, or perhaps
aroused from her torpor by the discharge
of Joshua's artillery, — she half unclosed her
eyes, and stretching her arms faintly towards
me, she murmured, “God bless you, dearest
Vassal,” and closed them again.
The words stabbed me to the heart. I had
thing but my despair, — every thing, but my
still unchecked and undiminished love. The
words recalled my awful, hopeless state; they
recalled my vow of revenge. I commanded myself
instantly, — called the attention of the rest
to Mafy's improved situation, — said that I would
hurry to the house for assistance, and then
mounted one of the horses, that I might get
home and change my dress.
In the meantime a litter of rails was formed,
and Mayflower, nearly resuscitated, was borne,
with the assistance of some labourers, slowly towards
the Hope.
Mafy did not recover from the effects of this
adventure till the next day. During all this
time, with the exception of a long interview
with Joshua, in which we decided I should
immediately leave America to complete my education,
I kept myself locked up in my room.
The ball was put off till the next evening, and
Joshua, who had never suspected the love passages
betwixt Mafy and myself, had insisted
upon my opening the dance with her. Not a
soul had ever known of our engagement, or of
its termination; and as for me, I would have
died a thousand deaths rather than have divulged
it to a human being. This night I determined
to act; I determined to be joyous and
is painful. Chain down your heart for a moment,
and it will lie still in its fetters. Swallow
the first throb of your agony, and you
may dance on the grave of your mother. But
mistake not your feigned and frantic merriment
for joy. The serpent shrinks and coils itself
away, but only to meditate a new and more
venomous attack. Think not that you have
wrestled with your anguish till you have destroyed
it. It is a cowardly foe, and slinks
away when it is attacked; but wait only till
you are quiet or exhausted, or asleep, and see
if it does not return with a legion of fiends at
its back.
I entered the drawing-room — the company
were assembled — the fiddles were playing — all
was ready. I approached Mayflower — she was
pale and trembling. I looked her steadily in
the face, and my eye did not quail, nor my
lip tremble, nor my cheek blanch, nor my voice
falter, as I said, — “Believe me, dearest Mafy,
no one more sincerely sympathises with your
happiness than I. No one more entirely admires
the man of your choice than I. No one
knows or loves him better. Do not distress
yourself for the abrupt termination of our little
flirtation. Believe me that I was but too glad
to be released from my vows, even with a little
wound to my vanity. It was but a boyish
repented my rashness. Thank God! you
have saved me from its consequences.”
Mayflower looked anxiously in my eyes;
she seemed puzzled, and half vexed. She
ventured, however, to allude to the events of
yesterday, and began to express her gratitude
for my efforts in her behalf. I begged her,
rather peremptorily, I believe, not to mortify
me by recurring to so ridiculous a topic, and
then I began to caper. I was the whole evening
in extravagant spirits, and said innumerable
good things, which I have, unfortunately, forgotten.
I announced to every one that I was going
to leave the country in two or three days. I
was delighted with my success, and determined
to leave the room now that the ball was near
its conclusion, and I was at the height of my
gaiety and indifference. As I turned toward
the door, I felt some one touch my arm; it
was Mayflower. She addressed me with a quivering
lip.
“And will you leave your home, perhaps for
ever, without saying one kind word of forgiveness
to one who will weary Heaven with prayers
for your welfare?”
I turned — I gave her one look of hate —
quenchless, unforgiving hate, and then I turned
on my heel, and left the place.
I occupied myself two or three hours after I
left the room, in assorting and burning my
papers. I wrote two or three letters. It was at
last three o'clock in the morning. The ball
had long been over. The house was still as
death. I descended and walked a long time
upon the terrace. The night was calm and
bright. I looked upon the stars, and communed
long and deeply with myself. I felt
like one entranced. A strange and inexplicable
tranquillity filled my soul. I endeavoured to
analyse my feelings, but became bewildered in
the attempt. Suddenly an awful resolution
seemed to force itself against my own will upon
me. It was the thought of self-destruction. I
fought against it, but in vain. The resolution
had fixed itself upon my heart, and I felt that
my struggles were impotent against it. Still,
however, I was perfectly calm. It seemed that I
was impelled onward by an irresistible fate.
As I gazed upon the stars, it seemed that I
could read my terrible destiny in their bright
and mysterious rays. I abandoned myself to
an idea which I felt powerless to contend
with. I felt that I had but a few days to
live, and that strength would be given me to
bear up through the remaining scenes of my
short existence. I retired to my chamber at
last, and slept calmly as a child.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
A MARRIAGE AND A MASSACRE.
It was the morning of the 5th of March, the
day appointed for the marriage of Mayflower,
at which I had promised to be present. I
hurried through the town — I reached the
church — the bells were ringing merrily — I entered
with a stealthy step, and passed up the
most retired aisle — I placed myself in the broad
shadow of a column, and saw without being seen
— I was very near the altar. The bridal group
were assembled around it, and two forms were
kneeling at the altar.
A moment only, I tottered and leaned against
the pillar for support. It was but a moment —
the pang passed away, and I felt suddenly
composed. I had taken my resolution, and felt
fearfully calm. Motionless as a statue, I leaned
against the column, my eyes fixed calmly on
the bridal pair — I heard every question and
response — I saw the ring given, the hands
joined, the blessing pronounced. They rose —
was a little agitated. Suddenly her eyes lighted
upon me. It must have seemed a phantom
— none other saw me. She almost shrieked,
and turned as pale as death. I advanced
with a smile. She trembled. I took her hand
— it was icy cold. I kissed her lips — they
were as pale and rigid as marble. I then turned
from her, and with a manner almost too
boisterous for the solemnity of the occasion, I
shook hands heartily with Deane, wished him
and his bride all manner of joy, and bade them
all good morning as they left the scene.
I watched till the party had left the church,
walked quietly after, and stationed myself under
the portico. Two carriages- stood before
the door. The steps were let down, the bride
and bridegroom ascended one, the rest of the
party the other. The doors closed, the carriages
drove off. I stood till the last sound of
the retiring wheels died upon my ear. I
awoke from my trance, and found that I was
alone.
The resolution which had confirmed itself
while I was in church, I now hastened to execute.
I mounted my horse, and rode hastily
to Morton's Hope. I went to my room, took
my pistols, and walked quietly into the wood.
I sat down on a fragment of rock, took off
my bosom, and placed against it the muzzle
of the pistol. So far all was simple enough.
I, however, now made the discovery, that killing
oneself is the easiest matter in the world,
till you come to the final particulars. I found
these very troublesome. With a desperate effort,
however, I drowned reflection, and pulled
the trigger. The pistol flashed in the pan. I
sank upon the ground in a state of wonder at
my miraculous escape.
A moment after, I began to reflect: I began
to think myself a lucky fellow, at being
so well out of the scrape. I believe, that in
that minute portion of a second, which intervened
between the pulling of the trigger and
the trifling explosion of the pan, I had run
over all the thousand arguments against the
propriety of the measure; in that infinitesimal
fraction of time, I had seen unrolled before me
all the thousand charms, and delights, and realities
of life, just as it was too late, and my
unhappiness and its causes shrank up into nonentity.
Conceive of my delight on finding myself
alive after all.
“But a few months ago,” said I to myself,
“I wandered through these woods; I dreamed
of a future of glory and of joy; the sun-light
lay warm and beautiful on the path of my
were bright, the earth was green; the
flowers were gay, the birds sang merrily on
every tree. My heart was full of happiness
and hope; I had not then seen Mayflower, I
dreamed not of her existence; yet was my present
happy, my future glorious. Can the sun
shine no more? Will not the woods renew
their green? Will the flowers no longer bloom?
Have the birds forgot to sing? Have I no
longer a green world to rove through? Must
the gates of the future be barred upon me, because
I may not dwell in her arms?
“Fool! — if she sighs for your death, you will
not hear; if she weeps, you will not kiss away
her tears; if she dies, you will not be near her
in the grave.
“Buffoon! can you not feel that her grief,
if grief she feel, will pass from her heart, like
a breath from a mirror, and leave no trace.
Look beyond, — one year, — half-year, — three
months, and lo! she is laughing, and dancing,
and singing — and you have hardly rotted in
your grave.
“Try time, — try time: in one little year,
the arrow will drop from the wound, and your
heart will be whole. In one little year, you
would stand over the grave of such a love-sick
to scorn.
“Try time, — try time! Why this haste? —
why this unseemly haste? If, when you have
essayed Time's healing balsam, you find that
the worm decays not, if your purpose is still
unchanged, will there be then no more gunpowder,
no more poison, no more halters, in
the world? — away, then, with this unseemly
haste.”
I went through a long series of such pleasing
reflections: but, I dare say, I have given the
substance of them.
My love of life, and my fear of death, were
both great; it was this that saved me, as it has
hundreds, from voluntary death. My deliberation
weakened and destroyed my resolve, so I
put my pistols into my pocket, and walked
quietly into the house.
It will be seen, but, I hope, pardoned for the
present, that my nature, at this period, was
utterly void of any thing like morality, or even
regulation.
Unfortunately, the person whose influence
over me was greatest, was as deficient as myself.
His superiority was in his unconquerable
will; in his concentrated and admirable energy
of volition. If it be supposed that I recommend
him as worthy of applause for other
he was conspicuous, I shall indeed fail in
one of the principal objects of this history.
Under such a construction, the principles by
which I have been guided in the description
of characters and scenes, will have been set at
nought.
Power, without principle, is in all cases an
engine of evil rather than of good; and this
undeniable and universal law it is far from my
intention to combat or infringe.
As I came into my room, I saw a note, which
I had not opened before, — it was as follows:
“Come to me without fail at twelve to-day:
— I shall be in — Street. It is a matter
of life and death.
It wanted half-an-hour:— I rode furiously to
town, and reached — Street five minutes
before the time. Deane was already there.
“I have no time to lose,” said he, abruptly
seizing me by the arm, and hurrying me along
the street. “Look through this note; I received
it this morning.”
The note was as follows:
“Sir, — There are three things to be settled,
and they may be done at one time as well as
another — amicably, if you like — but certainly,
suddenly. Bring a friend — Major Dalrymple
will be with me. I know it is your marriage-day,
but I cannot wait. I know you too well
not to be sure that it will prove no excuse.
The hour is half-past twelve. The place, the
Providence House.
I looked up in perfect and profound ignorance.
“Ah! I see you are surprised!” said Deane;
“there is a long story — I have no time to tell
it yet. A love passage, (for you know that
Captain Carew was an unsuccessful suitor of
Mafy,) a political intrigue, and some other matters,
all mixed up together in the most incongruous
manner. You see I must have a friend,
and I know no one so tried, so firm as you.
I hardly know how the matter will end. You
will think it strange that I have left my bride
so soon; in fact, I left her at the house without
getting out of the carriage. The matter
brooks no delay; I deceived Mayflower with a
plausible lie, which will serve three hours. After
that — but first I will tell you briefly the whole
story. You must know that three weeks ago,
to those bells — see what a concourse of
citizens. I hear drums — cannons!”
We had reached State-street, it was thronged
with citizens; shouts and execrations rang
through the air. The dense mass fluctuated
hither and thither, but the direction seemed to
be toward the head of the street. We hastened
our pace. We came near the corner of Exchange-lane,
and nearly in front of the Custom-house.
It was the place where the main
guard was always stationed. There were a
large number of soldiers; they were hemmed
closely in by a vast and excited crowd of
townsmen. The plumes of several officers were
waving in the midst of the mob. There seemed
to be a tremendous excitement. Execrations,
threats, and taunts were showered upon the soldiers
by the citizens. An officer was struck
down in the crowd. A thousand hoarse voices
rent the air; a thousand confused and contradictory
orders were given by those in command.
The townsmen pressed upon, and insulted the
soldiers. The soldiers presented their muskets.
A crisis was approaching.
“Premature, stupid, heedless rabble, ever acting
like beasts from impulse, from instinct!”
muttered Deane between his teeth. “Can ye
not wait? Will ye, — must ye cast and crush
when ye might collect your might to
overturn and shatter it? Stay, I will try; perhaps
it is not yet too late.” He pressed forword.
“Fire, fire if you dare!” shouted a townsman
to the military.
The soldiers insulted — chafed — terrified —
maddened — bewildered — mistook the orders of
the officers. They raised their muskets — hesitated
a moment — fired — and the streets of Boston
were wetted with the first blood of the
revolution.
Deane was hurrying forward. As the soldiers
raised their muskets, he grasped my arm. As
they fired, his clutch became suddenly like an
iron vice. It slackened in an instant — I turned
to him — he had sunk upon the ground — a
ball had pierced his heart.
I dragged him to the British Coffee-house,
on the opposite side of the street. My best
friend lay dead, but I shed not a tear. Impelled
by a mysterious, but, as it now seems
to me, an inevitable impulse, I rushed straight
to the house of his bride. I felt greedy for
more horrors — I longed to glut myself with her
despair.
I opened the street-door, a light step bounded
down the staircase.
“Vassal dearest, dearest Vassal!” cried Mayflower,
with outstretched arms, and then seeing
me, she turned as pale as a ghost — “Morton
— Uncas Morton!” she faltered, with a bewildered
look.
“Vassal Deane is dead!” cried I.
“Where is my husband? — speak — quick —
Why does he not come? I have waited long,
too long. Why has he deserted his bride? My
brain has been filled with horrible forebodings,
and now my husband comes not; but my offended
lover.”
“Your forebodings were all just; I tell you
Deane is dead!”
She stared vacantly at me for an instant.
Suddenly she comprehended me, she sprang toward
me, caught my arm, and glared wildly
upon me.
“I tell you it is a lie, a foul, wicked lie!”
she shrieked. “Tell me, tell me it is a falsehood,”
she continued in the same tone, and
shaking me with both her hands with her utmost
strength.
I shook my head — I laughed outright — in
obedience to the promptings of the devil within
me. The whole horrible scene which, when I
think over it now, chills my very heart, struck
me then as ludicrous and trivial. It seemed to
me all a fiction.
My laugh appalled her, there must have been
something awful in my merriment, for she began
to tremble from head to foot. She lowered her
tone from anger to supplication.
“Say, say, dearest Morton, that it is false, that
it is a jest, to punish me for my heartless conduct
towards you! By the love which you vowed
to me — by the vows and the plight I have
broken — I implore, I conjure you, to relieve me
from this horrible fear. Say it is false — say so
— speak!”
She writhed upon the ground — she kissed my
feet — she raised her eyes streaming with tears
to my face — she heard me say once more in a
decided tone, “Vassal Deane is dead, — there is
no hope” — and then she sank upon the floor.
Her swoon was like death.
I summoned assistance for her in the house,
and vanished like an evil spirit.
The next night I was tossing upon the Atlantic.
| Morton's Hope, or, The memoirs of a provincial. | |