Authorship :: :: University of Virginia Library

My good fellow, cried I, that will never do; you could not
well choose a time so bad, nor or a spot so bad for breaking a
horse. But the boy would not regard me, and the horse
after two or three plunges, threw down his head, and fixed
his fore feet and stood stock-still. I did not care much for
that; I was more afraid of his running back over the precipice,
or setting off at full speed for the declivity before him,
where he would have met with no check nor barrier on his
way into the sea.

The devil take the horse! cried the boy, he 'll break somebody's
neck yet, afore he 's done.

You 'd better leave the gig, I answered. He may start before
you know it, if you stay there.

Well Philip, what is the matter? cried a voice from a
window that overlooked the spot.

He won't move a step, Sir, all I can do or say.

No—have you tried the whip?

I gives 'im a little o' the whip now an' then Sir; but he
don't care a straw for it.

No—

No Sir; never seed him behave so afore in all my life.

Stay where you are; don't move, don't strike him, I 'll be
with you in a moment. My good Sir! speaking to a fellow
near me who had been very busy, I beg you to keep out of
the way. The horse will do well enough in a moment or two
if you let his ear alone,—whoa there, whoa!

Before you could have counted five, the stranger was on
his way toward the gig, into which he leaped immediately,
without a sign of trepidation or hurry.

Get down, Philip, get down my good fellow, and keep
out of the way, said he, gathering up the reins with a light
free arm—whoa boy, whoa; give me the whip,—and whatever
you see me do, don't interfere; now is the time to cool
his courage. Whoa, there—whoa—

Before I could move or speak, and before a soul of us
could interfere, the animal reared in the shafts, turned short
round with a giddy whirl, and sprang off toward the edge of
the cliff before me.

One solitary cry from the house, and though it was followed
by scream after scream, she who uttered that cry was immediately
still as death. But such was the power and self-possession
of the driver, that he steered away in a sort of
continued circle so as to avoid the cliff, and with it every
other danger, till he passed near me; when seeing that the
horse had a disposition to go straight forward, although his
head was brought round so as to touch his left-shoulder, and
that he leaned away, so that if I took the outside edge of the
circle, it would be safe and easy for me to stop him, if I
could once get hold of the reins—I knew my own strength—
I determined to get hold, and if the reins did not give way, I
knew that I could pull the creature down upon his knees, if
it were necessary. Hardly had I conceived the idea, when
a good opportunity occurred,—he passed near me, and after
a short run, by the side of the gig, I succeeded in catching
the loose rein without checking the peculiar action of the
horse, though he bore me along with him at every leap, till
I heard some one say, in a loud angry voice, Let him go Sir!
what the devil do you mean! let him go, I say!

It was not in my power to let him go, till I saw the whip
raised over me, and a female running toward us with her
bonnet off, and her garments flying in the wind.—I have
no recollection now of what I said in reply, or of what I did—
I only know that if the man had struck me with a whip, I
would have driven him over the precipice or led him over it;
I only know that I flung awry, that I fell on my face, that I
heard a tremendous outcry, and that when I leaped upon my
feet, I saw the gig running on one wheel in a narrow circle;
the horse leaning quite as much over on one side as they do
in the riding-school, the driver bending forward with his arm
over the creature's back, one of the reins dragging on the
turf, and a female before me with her lips apart and her
black hair flying loose—Great God! I never did see any
thing so beautiful or so grand!

Oh save him! save him! cried she, with a voice that
made me willing to risk my life on the spot.

I will save him! said I. And I did save him. But I had
more trouble than I expected; for though the man was willing
enough to be saved now, and the horse giddy with his
career, both were obstinate as death, and I had a narrow
escape after all. But I did save him—I did—and I believe
the woman would have kissed me, if I had not checked her
as she ran up to me with tears in her eyes, and caught my
hands, and held them to her heart.

Very fair, upon my word! You have a deal of courage Sir,
and you a deal of gratitude Mary—whoa, whoa, whoa!
said the stranger, with a look which I knew not how to understand,
so much was there in it of what I should have called
sheer pleasantry at another time, with so much of that
grave inflexible manner which appeared habitual to him.
He stood brushing his coat sleeve as he spoke, and holding the
horse by the head-gear.

Oh, I am so happy! she added, going up to him and
throwing her arms about his neck—so happy dear, that I
could kiss the whole world for joy—you, and him, and every
body else in it.

Well then, if that be the case child, the sooner we are off
the better, said he—pushing away her thick hair with a smile
as he spoke, and whispering a word in her ear, at which I
saw her start and color to the eyes, saying—

Edward—I cannot bear such levity.

Pho pho; then if you won't, another will: Sir, we
must be better acquainted. Will you go with my wife
to the house where she can get her veil, and say what she
desires to say to you, for your manly behaviour to me, after
my strange mistake—

What mistake Sir?

No matter now—will you be so kind as to go with her?

I hesitated—

Or will you stay here and hold my horse?

I would rather stay here and hold your horse—but I see
little need of that now, said I, piqued at the familiarity of his
manner. It was just as if we had been brought up together—
as if we had known each other at school. Your servant is
coming this way.

Is he—I am glad of it; he 'll do better.

Sir!—

Mary dear; run forward—I 'll be with you directly; I
must have a word or two with this man—he is determined
to pick a quarrel with me, any body may see that.

A quarrel! O Sir! I entreat you—

Pho pho, Mary, don't be afraid—you have nothing to fear.
I know the temper of my man; make yourself easy.

What the devil do you mean, Sir?

Pshaw, let her escape first, if you are what I take you to
be—a gentleman.

I could bear this no longer. Sir, said I, with a very dignified
air, I will thank you for your card—here is mine.
Your behaviour to me is of a nature—

To require explanation—very true—very true; there's my
card—I know what you mean to say, and there 's what you
require—an explanation.

I felt rather odd in this part of our dialogue; I began to
wish I had been a little more wary; I had even some idea
of backing out, and was putting on a superior look for the
purpose, when happening to glance at the card which I held
in my hand, I forgot myself so far as to read the name
aloud—

Piper, said I—Piper—what Piper?

Peter Piper, said he.

I bowed—

Peter Piper, he repeated, with a look, which now that I
know his true character, appears to me to have been the beaudeal
of high comedy. Peter Piper—you have heard of
him perhaps?

Not that I know of Sir—good morning Sir.

No—Have you not heard the verses about him?

You are trifling with me Sir!

By no means. Peter Piper picked a peck o' pickled
pep—

Damnation, Sir—

What 's the matter now?

Are you laughing at me?

I—laughing at you—Lord bless you, no!

Good morning Sir; you shall hear from me—

Pho, pho, don't make a fool of yourself—

Sir—Sir—I will not bear this; I am going away, and if
you stop me again, I 'll knock you down.

Will you indeed?

I will indeed—

Then I shall not stop you again, though I confess I do not
see how you can knock me down, if I do stop you.

I say—Mr. Peter Piper—

Colonel Peter Piper, if you please, Brother Jonathan.

What!—I was thuaderstruck—Who are you!

Who am I—who—there 's my hand, Sir. I respect
you—I admire you. Go with me, and while I am teaching
you to respect me and admire me—to say nothing of my
wife—I shall do my best, Mr. C— H— (calling me by my
fictitious name) to cure you of some of your follies. Pho
pho—take my hand, will you?

No.

You 'll wish you had.

Colonel Piper—

Faugh! don't behave like a baby.

Colonel Piper, I say—

My name is not Piper—with a bow.

Not Piper!

No Sir.

Your card says Piper.

Very true—

What am I to suppose?

Whatever you please—another bow.

I will bear this no longer. What is your name, Sir?

Why—a—a—that depends very much upon circumstances.

Upon circumstances! How so—circumstances—what do
you mean Sir?

Lord Lord! How inquisitive you are—considering our
short acquaintance.

Fire and fury! what do you mean Sir? I will not be trifled
with.

No!

No Sir—no!

Very well—thrusting his hand into his bosom with an air
that provoked me beyond expression, though I recoiled a
step or two and prepared for the sight of a pistol or a knife.
You see that I am provided for whatever may occur—lugging
out as he spoke, not a knife nor a pistol, but a heap of
cards, no two of which appeared to be alike.

Sir, continued I, if you suppose—

Pho, pho, keep cool—I have a score or two of these about
me.

Keep cool?

You do not understand me, I perceive.

Understand you—no indeed, who on earth could understand
you?

Let me clear up the matter. My name as I have told you
before depends pretty much upon circumstances. I have
your card in my pocket now, along with forty more that I
have picked up much in the same way.

Well—

Well—if I should happen to meet with anybody else in the
humor that I found you in, I shall make use of your card—

Make use of my card! How Sir—in what way?

Oh, in several ways, but on such an occasion, I should
bow as much like you as I could, heave up my chest, and
pop your card into his hand.

The devil you would!

Oh yes—with a bow—that's my way.

I laughed in spite of my wrath. Who are you? said I,
what are you? I must know more about you.

Go with me to the house and you shall know more about
me.

To that house there?

No, to my house—to the cottage; you are out on a trip
to see the country I suppose?

I am—

I thought so. Rather a queer kind o' chap—

Sir!

And as we have nothing better to do, if you have a day
—or a week—to spare, and will put up with such a dinner,
and with such a bed as my wife can give you—

Your wife—

By the way, what do you think of her?

Oh, by Jupiter, but the man is mad! thought I, when I
heard this—I am satisfied now.

Pho pho, what are you afraid of? Will you go, or will you
not? We have no time to lose; the wind is up you see, and
it will be dark before we get home. What say you to the offer,
yes or no?

I hesitated. Give me your real name first.

What say you to the name of Molton?

Molton?

Ay, Edward Molton.

Gracious God—who are you!

Or if you do not like that, I have two or three more at
your service.

Two or three more?

Six or eight more to be made use of according to the part
I have to play.

Oh, ho! thought I. Have I trapped you, my gentleman,
caught you at last, hey; nothing but a stage-hero. No wonder
he is able to carry a joke through, page after page, as if
it were a scene out of a play.

For example now, said he, as I drew up—what say you
to the name of Echo?

Of Echo—zounds!

Or of Randolph, or Copely, or Peters, or Harwood?

Who on earth are you?

Don't swear—on earth I am what you would never guess.

Do you know me?

Yes.

Have you been over sea?

Yes.

In America, I mean?

Yes.

You stagger me. Perhaps you have been in New-England?

I have.

Bless my heart, when?

About a year ago.

Ah, perhaps you are an American yourself?—a native?

Perhaps I am not.

Very well, whatever you are, you have bothered me more
than I was ever bothered before, in all my life.

What say you now to my proposal—Yes or no?

Yes—yes—whatever may come of it, yes!

Very well. So much for knowing how to deal with you.
You authors are all alike.

Authors—

You are to be tickled as we tickle a trout.

And you players are all alike, you are to be dealt with
as we deal with a gudgeon.

Players!

Players! you are of the stage, arn't you?

No indeed—not of the stage where men play.

What are you then?—

That's none of your business, my dear Yankee.

What could I do? There was no knocking a man down
for a word, which while it was very bitter and very true,

might pass for a joke, by the manner in which it was delivered.
The question I put was that which a thorough-bred
Yankee would have put in the woods of New-England; but
then, with him it would have been either the first or the second
question after he fell in the way of a stranger, while with
me, it was the fiftieth or the hundredth.