 | Koningsmarke, the long Finne |  |
7. BOOK SEVENTH.
1. CHAPTER I.
It is quite impossible for our readers to conceive
a tenth part of the yearnings we have endured
in the course of this work, in consequence
of not having been able, without committing
some unpardonable violence, to introduce to
their acquaintance and familiarity a single titled
person, for the purpose of giving dignity to distress,
and point to our jokes. The only man of
high rank, the honour of whose intimacy we enjoyed
in our travels abroad, was a certain Duke
Humphrey, with whom we occasionally dined.
But as, to say the truth, we can't declaim much in
favour of his dinners or his wine, we will not
trouble our readers with an introduction; for, to
be candid with them, his notice would confer no
great honour, the said Duke being generally surrounded
most part did not know where else to get a dinner.
This incapacity we consider a most serious
misfortune, inasmuch as novel writers, we mean
those who aspire to the notice and approbation
of the beau monde, may be said to be in the predicament
of certain insignificant people, who derive
their sole consequence from the company
they affect to keep, and to which they take occasion
to introduce their friends. These aforesaid
persons, by affecting great intimacy with people
of rank, retailing their jokes, and sometimes pretending
to disclose their most secret thoughts,
acquire the reputation of high ton, and greatly
excite the wonder and admiration of the vulgar.
We recollect a good-natured, good-for-nothing
sort of fellow of this kind, who made it his sole
business to introduce a certain great man, with
whom he was a kind of hanger-on, to all his little
acquaintance. By this means he managed to
attain to great consequence, in a certain circle,
and got numerous invitations to dinner parties.
Nay, he at last turned his great man to so good
an account, that a city heiress actually was
induced to marry him, solely on the score of having
it announced in the papers, that his great
bride.
We have endeavoured to make all the amends
possible for the absence of what constitutes the
quintessence of the interest arising from works
of imagination by the introduction of persons
coming as near to kings and nobility, as any that
are the natural product of our country. But,
after all, we are obliged to confess, that Indian
monarchs, provincial governors, nay, our good
friend William Penn himself, though the illustrious
founder of what may almost be called
an empire, are but poor substitutes for
dukes and earls, whose very titles tickle the
fancy so delightfully, that the reader seems all
the while swimming in an ocean of peacock's
feathers.
True it is, that we have a knight—not a knight
errant, but a genuine knight of James the First's
own dubbing, in reserve, as a sort of bonne bouche
for the last, in order to leave an agreeable impression
on the palate of the reader's imagination.
But, after all, what is a mere knight? they are so
plenty now-a-days in Old England, especially
ever since the battle of Waterloo, that the title
has not been able to entrap a single city heiress.
“Your thirty pound knights,” as an old dramatist
for their spurs, swarm exceedingly, and are uncommonly
anxious to make every rich plebeian
Joan they meet, a lady. Nay, not a few of the
species have lately infested our country, and, by
their actual presence, irretrievably robbed the
fashionable young ladies of one of their favourite
subjects of contemplation, by giving a clear demonstration
that, whatever a king, a duke, or a
lord may be, a knight is but a mere man with a
“Sir” to his name. Such as he is, however, we
beg the reader to make the most of him, when
he vouchsafes his appearance.
To confess the honest truth, we are, as has
been most likely discovered ere this, rather
new in the trade of novel writing, having been
partly induced to enter upon it, as people engage
in the tobacco or grocery line, from seeing others
prosper mightily in the business. But we shall do
better hereafter, having felt the want of a hero and
heroine of proper rank most sorely in the course
of this work. We take this opportunity of advertising
our friends, and the public in general,
that we have at present six new historical novels
on the anvil, one of which, we have contracted
with our bookseller to hammer out every twelvemonth,
and each of which shall contain one legitimate,
should be a sufficient number remaining unhanged
at that time. We have also stipulated with
our publisher, that not one of the characters
shall be below a right honourable, or an Irish
peer, at least. Advising our readers to keep a
good look out for these high treats, we now proceed
with the thread of our history.
2. CHAPTER II.
The fulsome sun, that shines on all alike,
Good, bad, indifferent, Tag, Rag, and Bobtail!
Satan's abus'd, and so is honest Cain,
And so am I—but * * * * * * * *!
Lord B—n.
It is now time to return, and take a look at
the worthy inhabitants of Elsingburgh, who had
long ago rebuilt their habitations, and were now
each one pursuing his usual avocations, under
the salutary pressure of that necessity, which
obliges mankind to forget the past, in providing
for the wants of the present and the future.
As we before premised, the house of Dominie
Kanttwell was rebuilt and furnished, by the pious
exertions of his flock, before any body else had
provided for his own necessities; and, notwithstanding
the zeal with which that worthy
man declaimed against good works, on this occasion
he was pleased to exempt those which
were done in his especial behoof from his malediction.
looked upon charity, especially that charity
which was exercised in his own favour, as
belonging to a species of good works, which
might, under certain circumstances, be tolerated.
Still he continued to rail against the luxuries
and indulgences of this world, although
his capacious rotundity of figure, his double
chin, and large square silver buckles, furnished
shrewd indications, that the Dominie did not feel
it absolutely necessary to reinforce his precepts
by the authority of his example.
The good aunt Edith, according to the testimony
of Dominie Kanttwell, who had lately
induced her to make a will in favour of the
church, grew every day more perfect. So far
did she carry her contempt for the things of this
world, that she extended it to all mankind, except
a small circle of the elect, who listened to
her edifying instructions, and talked scandal
against all the rest of the villagers, whom they
were pleased to denominate “vessels of wrath.”
Considering all these as objects of the Divine
vengeance, the good people thought themselves
bound to hate them also, and to decline any exchange
of kindness or social intercourse with
such wicked sinners. These simple, well-meaning
strictly following the example of aunt Edith and
the Dominie. But they were mistaken. They
became spiritually proud, (the worst species of
pride,) hard-hearted, arrogant, and supercilious,
to all but the chosen set; incapable of social or
kindred affection; strangers to the indulgence
of pity; bad fathers, mothers, husbands, and
wives; and incorrigible in their faults, because
they cherished them as virtues. In fine, while
complacently viewing themselves as exclusively
belonging to the elect, they treated all others as
outcasts; as beings having no sort of affinity
with themselves, and no common interest with
them, either in this world or the world to come.
Hence, all the kindnesses of good neighbourhood,
the civilities of social life, the customary
exchange of acts of courtesy and friendship, all
those little ties which knit society together by
the best bonds, those of mutual benefits, producing
mutual good will—all these gave place to
a harsh contempt, an arrogant superiority, on
one hand, and a settled hatred, or contemptuous
indifference, on the other. Such is ever the result
of carrying to extremes the application of
those excellent precepts, which were doubtless
only intended to check, but not destroy, those
not only to the happiness, but the very existence
of mankind, and are only pernicious to
society, or individuals, when operating without
either moral or religious restraints.
As to the good aunt Edith, she might with
truth be said to wallow every day deeper and
deeper in the mire of pious abstraction. Her
time, during the intervals between going to church,
night meetings, and love feasts, was usually
passed in bed, where she kept all the family
waiting upon her, and where she and the virago,
Bombie of the Frizzled Head, used to have divers
keen encounters of that sharpest of all sharp
weapons, the tongue. While the disconsolate
Heer, to whom she was indebted for an asylum,
a home, and all the comforts of life, was
sitting in solitary sorrow, remembering and lamenting
his gentle and affectionate child, without
a soul to sympathize in his cureless grief,
the excellent Edith, considering him as little
better than one of the wicked, paid no attention
to his infirmities or his woes, except occasionally
to comfort him with the assurance that the
loss of his only child was a judgment upon him,
for loving her better than the church and the
Dominie.
Sometimes the Frizzled Head, who, though a
shrew and a termagant of the first order, was
not altogether destitute of that carnal and
worldly-minded sympathy, which is held in
such abomination by the elect, when exercised
towards the sinful sons and daughters of men,
would prepare some favourite dish, or little
nick-nack, to tempt the waning appetite of her
master. But so sure as aunt Edith heard of
this, though ever so sick and weak, she would
rise from her bed, as it were by miracle, lay
violent hands on the portion of the good Heer,
who fared, on these occasions like poor Esau,
and carry it off to comfort Dominie Kanttwell,
or some one of the elect who had caught cold
attending upon a night meeting. Indeed, it was
the great object of the Dominie's policy, to govern
the community of Elsingburgh, by establishing
a sort of imperium in imperio in
every house of the village. This he effected by
gaining an ascendency over the married females,
and thus governing the household, in
spite of the sinful and inordinate grumblings of
its liege and legitimate lord. Some people may
think this mode of acquiring influence was not
exactly either fair or honest; but it is not our
business (being bachelors) to contest the point.
progress and final catastrophe of our history.
Numerous, not to say innumerable, were the
little societies established, under the influence
and patronage of aunt Edith and Dominie
Kanttwell, whose industry in collecting donations
from men, women, and children, was such,
that there was not a bit of molasses candy, or
pennyworth of gingerbread, wickedly devoured
by the little urchins of Elsingburgh. All went
to the Dominie, and through him—nobody
knew where. One society was the parent of
half a dozen more, until they multiplied so fast,
that the good women of the village had no time
to attend to domestic affairs; and no traveller
could sojourn a night at Elsingburgh, without
rising pale in the morning, in consequence of
having sufficed to satiate the appetites of innumerable
caitiffs of the carniverous species,
whose numbers always furnish shrewd indications
of good or evil housekeeping. The Dominie
was the prime mover of all these, and it
was observed of him, that, like Goldsmith's
“man in black,” he always went about with his
three-cornered cocked hat, to collect subscriptions,
but never was seen to put any thing in it
himself. Hence it was affirmed by his admirers,
hated ostentation, and always gave in secret.
Like Falstaff, however, though nobody, such
was the care he took to avoid discovery, ever
detected him in being charitable himself, he was
certainly the cause of charity in others. So
much, indeed, did he excel in the art of levying
contributions on the necessities of the poor, that,
at one period of our history, there was hardly a
labouring man in the village that had a whole
coat to his back, or a child that was not sorely
out at the elbows; nay, it may with perfect veracity
be affirmed, that the majority of them
were in the situation of the veritable “Dicky
Doubt,” as set forth in the famous couplet of
which Dicky is the hero. The following colloquy,
between a worthy, hard-working man,
called Fospe Ontstout, and his wife, relative to
these matters, has been preserved by the Historical
Society of Elsingburgh, and will better
illustrate the effects of the Dominie's exertions,
than any general details. There is a notice of
Fospe Ontstout appended to the article, stating,
that, being at length reduced to actual poverty,
by the attention his wife paid to every body's
wants and affairs but those of her family, and
the charity she bestowed every where but at
lucky thought of getting appointed beggar to
two or three societies: “thus,” as the old sly
boots of an author adds, “thus cunnynglie deportynge
hymselfe, belike untoe certaine greene-hornes,
who, after beyinge sorely plucked, doe
incontinentlye turne ymselves aboute, and plucke
others ynne theire turne.” It is likewise noted
in the old manuscript, that Fospe's wife was a
plump, rosy-faced dame, and reckoned one of
the prettiest women in the whole village.
It was a cold, raw evening, and Fospe, after
being out all day in the sleet and rain cutting
wood, returned home, cold, wet, and hungry,
and addressed his wife as follows:
Fospe. Terese, my good girl, my feet are
as wet as a drowned rat. Give me a pair of dry
stockings from those I bought the other day of
the pedler from New-York.
Terese. I can't, my dear; I gave them all to
the society last night. The Dominie says we
must give all our sparings to the poor, and tells
us we shall never miss what we give away in this
manner.
Fospe. Hum! I wish the Dominie would
make his words good, for I feel just now very uncomfortable,
and miss very much the dry stockings
there's no help for it; so, as I have no money
just now, I must borrow the shilling I gave
Hans for Christmas, and step over to the shop to
buy a pair.
Terese. But, my dear, Hans has parted with
his money already.
Fospe. What, the young rogue has been at
the cake-shop, I suppose?
Terese. No, my dear, Dominie Kanttwell
persuaded us to give it to the society, and promised
to mention Hans, in his sermon next Sunday,
before the whole congregation.
Fospe. Well, what's done can't be undone;
we must sell the pig, for my stockings are not
only wet, but worn out, and I must have a dry
pair, wife.
Terese. To-be-sure, but, my dear, the pig is
gone too.
Fospe. What, has he run away, or been stolen?
Terese. No, my dear; but the Dominie begged
him for the society: he assured me the pig
would be returned tenfold to us.
Fospe. Um! ay! Well, Terese, just run to
the pig-stye, and see if the ten pigs have arrived.
We must part with one of them immediately.
this evening. Call Hans, and I'll send him.
Terese. Here he comes, my dear.
Fospe. Why, he looks like a beggar's brat,
all in rags. I wish, my dear, you would mend
his trowsers, for you see his knees are all naked.
Terese. I would, my dear, but really I havn't
time. The society has agreed to make up six
dozen suits for the poor children of Greenland,
who, the Dominie assures us, are starving with
cold, and all my time is taken up in labouring
for these dear little sufferers. The Dominie says
it will bring a blessing on the family.
Fospe. Well, well, the Dominie, I dare say,
is right. Here, Hans, run to the pig stye, and
see if the ten pigs are come.
Terese. Lord, my dear, you don't—you're
not such a fool as to believe they are come already.
Fospe. Why not, my dear? The Dominie
told you so, and every thing he says is true.
But, my dear, what have you got for supper?
you know I've had nothing since breakfast.
Can't you cook some of the fat venison, left this
morning?—come, bustle, my dear, I'm as hungry
as a wolf.
Terese. But, my dear, all the fat venison is
gone; I—
Fospe. What! you, and Hans, and the rest
of the fat rogues, have made away with it, hey?
Well, never mind, I'm glad you've got good stomachs
and something to fill them.
Terese. No, no, my dear, we made our dinner
of the fresh fish you caught yesterday, from
under the ice. The Dominie begged the venison
for a poor family, he said had given all they
could spare to the society, and were now sick
and starving.
Fospe. Very well, Terese, we mustn't refuse
to help people that are sick and starving. But
though I'm not sick, I'm almost starved myself.
Do bake me a warm Indian cake, will you?
come, that's a good girl.
Terese. I would, my dear, but how worldly
minded you are! The Dominie says we mustn't
think of such things: don't you see the fire is
all gone out?
Fospe. Yes, and feel it too; but how came
you to let it go out, my dear, this raw, cold day?
Terese. Why, my dear, Dominie Kanttwell
called for me to go with him to a meeting, and
so—
Fospe. Hum! but what became of the children
while you were gone?
Terese. Why, I locked them all up together,
and put out the fire, for fear of accidents.
Fospe. Careful mother! Well, I'll go and
make a fire, and then you shall bake me the Indian
cake, while I dry myself by the blaze.
Terese. Yes, my dear, but—
Fospe. But what, Terese?
Terese. Why, to tell you the truth, my dear,
I am engaged to go with the Dominie to a love
feast this evening, and it is now about the time.
The Dominie says, that baking cakes, mending
our children's clothes, and all that, is but filthy
rags, compared with love feasts and prayer meetings.
The patience of poor Fospe was now quite
exhausted;—“the d—l take the Dominie,” cried
he, “I wish he had my wet feet and empty stomach
for his night's portion with all my heart.”
Just then the Dominie entered, with a stately step,
and sonorous “hem!” that awed the spirit of the
good yeoman into silent acquiescence. Terese
put on her bonnet and cloak, and accompanied
the Dominie to the love feast, whence she did
not return till almost midnight. Poor Fospe
went to bed wet and hungry, and could not help
might be better employed than in teaching
well-meaning women, that the neglect of their
domestic duties in this world was the surest
passport to happiness in the world to come.
Before concluding this chapter, it is our desire
to have it distinctly understood, that we enter
not, either directly or indirectly, upon any
questions connected with religious controversies
or the utility of any of those numerous societies,
which the zeal, the humanity, or the ostentatious
vanity of mankind have instituted for the
propagation of the faith, or the alleviation of
distress. All we design is, to relate what
happened in the famous village of Elsingburgh;
and if, in so doing, it should appear that indiscreet
zeal, sometimes, is found at war with social
duties and social happiness, and that ill-directed
charity often improverishes the industrious without
relieving the idle, let us not be blamed for
these consequences. They only furnish additional
proof, that excess is in itself the root
of all evil, and that whenever the blessed institution
of religion interferes with our social
and moral obligations, it ceases to be the conservator
of human happiness, as well as of human
virtue. As the excesses of sensual indulgence
gratifications, so do those of a fanatical religion
blight and wither the most amiable feelings of the
heart, rendering us insensible to many of the purest,
the most exalted delights of which our nature
is susceptible.
3. CHAPTER III.
At bearded stars, it is all one to me
As if they had been shaved.
I will out-beard a comet any day.
Or night either, marry.”
All this while the poor Heer remained without
a hope, without a comforter, his mind ever
running on the blue-eyed maiden he had, peradventure,
lost for ever. The judgment which,
according to aunt Edith's theory, had fallen
upon his head, for the punishment of his sinful
delights in contemplating the mild virtues and
gentle, unobtrusive charms of his duteous, affectionate
daughter, seemed only to bind him more
closely to the earth, for he could think of naught
but her. There is no surer sign of a profound
and lasting wound of the heart, than when we
turn in sickening disgust from those little
amusements, habits, or gratifications, which long
custom has either endeared to us, or rendered
difficult to shake off. Thus the good Heer now
or heard to swear in classic High Dutch,
sure evidences that his heart was almost broken.
His sole employment was in doing nothing, although
he was incapable of sitting still more
than a minute at a time. Like Bombie of the
Frizzled Head, he wandered and wandered about,
seeming without purpose, or even consciousness,
until some sound, some object, some
nothing, as it would seem, struck upon one of
those chords by which every thing that is beautiful
or sweet in nature is connected with the
memory of those we love, and have lost. Then
his trembling lip, and wan, wet eye, bore testimony,
that the light still continued to burn,
though the lamp which held it seemed quite broken
to pieces.
He no longer took an interest in the affairs of his
government, which now fell into the hands of master
Wolfgang Langfanger, who thereupon took his
full swing of public improvements. He caused
new streets to be opened in every direction across
the fields, which the good people of Elsingburgh
avoided in dry weather on account of the dust,
and in wet, on account of the mud. Thus the
fine grassy lawns, and rich fields, that whilome
yielded a golden harvest of grain, were cut up and
them. The unlucky proprietors were in this
way, as it were, cut with a two-edged sword;
they were obliged to pay for these improvements,
and at the same time lost the products of their
fields. But the masterpiece of Langfanger's
policy was that of pulling down an old market,
and building a new one in another part of the
village, in the management of which business he
is supposed to have laid down the first principles
of the great and thriving science of political
economy, or picking people's pockets on a great
scale. He caused the people living near the
old market to pay roundly for its removal as a
nuisance; and then he caused the people that
lived about where the new one was to be built,
to pay roundly for the vast pleasure and advantage
of its neighbourhood. Thus he pinched
them through both ears, and got the reputation
of a great financier.
There was muckle scratching of heads at Elsingburgh,
and serious complaints made to the
Governor; but that good man paid little or no
attention either to his own wants or to those of
his people. He was, indeed, desolate and forlorn.
The Dominie now seldom came near
him, because he refused to be comforted by his
great blessing, if properly considered; aunt
Edith was quite elevated above the world and
all things in it, save the meeting of the elect at
societies, love feasts, and the like. She held
such bereavements as the loss of children, parents,
friends, and brothers, as trifles which affected
none save the worldly minded, the chosen
vessels of wrath; and considered the performance
of domestic duties as among the filthiest of
those filthy rags, miscalled good works. Nay,
the veritable Bombie of the Frizzled Head, although
she continued duteously to serve up the
favourite dish of pepperpot at supper time, obstinately
refused to sympathize with him in the
extremity of his sorrows.
“Ah! if my poor lost Christina were here,”
would he sometimes exclaim, when any little
string was touched that brought her loss home
to him—“ah! if she were here, I should not be
left thus alone. But what is an old man like
me, without the tender and duteous ministrations
of a virtuous daughter? he is a trunk,
whose roots are decayed—whose branches are
blighted—whose heart, hollow and decayed, is
only the refuge of the worm that never dies.
Snow Ball, witch, devil, whatever thou art, tell
Christina more?”
“I have seen what I have seen—I know what
I know.”
“Well, well,” impatiently rejoined the Heer;
“I suppose you do; most people can say that
of themselves. But hast thou seen, and dost
thou know, more than other people? Answer
me, scourge of satan—dost thou think we shall
ever meet again?”
“There—perhaps,” replied the Frizzled
Head, pointing her horn-headed stick towards
the blue sky, that was studded with stars, among
which the new crescent of the moon held its
course, like a bark of pearl in a sea of azure—
“there, where the purified spirit finds its last
serene abode—or”—dropping her stick to point
to the earth—“there, where”—
“Away, thou screeching day-owl,” interrupted
the Heer; “blasted be the heart that conceived,
the breath that shall utter such a prophecy!
Why, I—I indeed have sometimes
soiled my immortal spirit with the stain of
worldly sins; but she—Oh! she was pure as
the flake of snow in its midway flight from the
heavens, ere it reaches this contaminated earth;
she was”—
“Ay, Heer, she was—and which of us, in
looking back, cannot put our finger on the point
of time when we too were innocent? Months
have passed away, since thy daughter left thee,
but in less time than that, according to thy book
of faith, the angels lost their place in heaven;
a third part of the stars that glittered around
the throne of Him who made us all, black,
red, and white, alike, tumbled to the earth—ay,
lower than the earth—into the bottomless gulf;
he who was called the Son of the Morning, fell
among the rest, and foremost of them all. Wilt
thou say, then, that because thy daughter was
pure and innocent months ago, she must of necessity
be so still?”
“Pestilent imp of darkness, seed of sulphur,
scourge of my blasted hopes, torturer of my broken
heart,” cried the Heer, “be silent, or tell
me what thou really knowest of my lost child.”
“I know,” replied the Frizzled Head, “that she
still lives, for had she died, I should have seen
and spoken with her, ere her body had passed
into the tomb. I know she lives, but that is all I
know. Whether thou wilt ever see her, here or
hereafter, I cannot tell; and if I cannot, none
other can; for I have seen what I have seen—I
know what I know. I saw thy child carried like
that seeks to devour her; I warned him by the
memory of the past, the hope of the future; I
adjured him by the fate of the mother, by
the kindness of the father, the affection of the
daughter, by all that good men hold sacred and
villains scorn, to be unto her a true and watchful
shepherd: he appealed to heaven he would.
But if man is a wolf to man, what is he to woman?
At first, the cringing slave, and next the
unfeeling tyrant.”
“But, shall I see her again before I die?”
reiterated the Heer, who, in the weakness of sorrow,
sought to wring from the Frizzled Head,
even what he would not dare to believe when it
was uttered.
“The revolving sun often brings every thing
back to where it was before. Thou mayst, perhaps,
see her again; she may one day come to
thee, when she hath forgotten herself and her parent;
when time, and hardships, and the example
of those around her, have worn out all traces of
thy gentle, delicate and duteous daughter. She
may return with a painted face, and limbs dilated
into a clumsy magnitude, by toil and exposure to
the wintry winds, and the labours which brutal
man puts on our sex, when neither honour nor
come with a pappoose!”
“Hence!” burst forth the almost maddened
Heer; “hence, wholesale dealer in the devil's
haberdashery; away! offspring of wrath and
fire; drown thyself in the river, hang thyself on
the highest tree of the forest, or rather live, and
waste away thy black and blasted flesh in tortures,
such as thou hast inflicted upon a poor,
childless old man—begone, and der teufel hole
dich.”
This was the first time the Heer had relapsed into
High Dutch since the loss of Christina, and, if
the truth were known, it is believed the Frizzled
Head purposely provoked him in this manner,
that he might sometimes forget his daughter in rage
against his slave. But she failed in her object.
The anger of the master was momentary; the
grief of the father was without end.
4. CHAPTER IV.
“Were it not that I pity the multitude of printers, these
chapters had never been written. But besides, I find it necessary
to refresh my dulness every day by eating, for, by'r
Lady, Minerva loves the larder.”
After a conversation similar to that recorded
in the last chapter, the Heer seated himself disconsolately
in his old arm chair, and was silently
and sorrowfully contemplating a picture,
representing his little daughter Christina, then
about a year old, nestling on the bosom
of her mother, now no more. As a specimen
of art the picture was not worth a stiver; but
the Heer would not have parted with it for the
whole wealth of his territory, for it was almost
the only memorial, save that which he carried
in his old broken heart, of the two beings he had
loved better than all the world besides. While
thus seated, the good Heer communed with his
heart, in something like the following soliloquy:
“Ah! wife of my bosom, and daughter of
my affections, ye are gone from me, though in the
before you. Alas! a wifeless and childless
old man is like the withered trunk of a tree,
whose branches have all been lopped off close
to its body; without verdure, without leaves,
without life, it stands bare to the winds
of heaven, the emblem of sterility and decay.
No bird nestles in its leafy covert—no animal
seeks a shelter in its shade—no little suckers
shoot forth from its sapless roots, to indicate
where the old trunk decayed and died. Where
are ye now, my companion in youth, my solace
in declining age? The one is a saint in heaven—but
the other! my sprightly, kind-hearted,
duteous daughter! Her eyes, the colour of
Heaven, are long ere this closed in darkness;
her cheeks, the colour of the rose, are clay cold
and blanched now—the prey of sorrow, and
the worms. Or perhaps she still lives, a wretched
outcast of the woods, the companion of wild
beasts, the slave of men wilder than they;
shut out from her customary society, deprived
of the solace of parental affection, and robbed of
all that makes existence aught but a weary burden,
a weight that crushes the elastic spirit to the
earth, and points it to the grave as its only refuge.
child!”
As the Heer thus indulged himself in
melancholy ponderings, his attention was called
off by a distant noise, that came to his ear
like the shouts of joyful exultation. He listened,
but again all was silent. What can it
mean thought he. But the thought was only
momentary, and he sunk into his usual train
of dark and dismal contemplation. Again
the shout was repeated, still nearer, by the noisy
tongues of the village train, whose elastic spirits
were ever ready to seize occasions for noise
and jollity. Nearer, and still nearer, came the
rout, until at length the attention of the Heer
was roused by something which struck upon his
heart like a repetition of Christina's name. He
started up, and, hurrying with faltering steps to
the window, beheld, a little way off, a crowd of
people, in the midst of which seemed to be a
tall, stately figure, mounted on horseback, with
something that looked like a woman seated behind
him. The waning lamp of his aged eyes
would not permit him to distinguish any more.
Yet—and the hope glanced upon his heart
like lightning—yet, if it should be her, returning
at last to his arms! As the eye, when long
the slightest ray of light, so does the mortal spirit,
weakened by age, long suffering, melancholy
thoughts, and dark forebodings, become
overpowered by the first ray of hope that glances
into its gloomy recesses. It often happens,
too, that the ardent desire to realize a darling
hope, is checked by an apprehension that certainty,
instead of leading to fruition, will only
lead to disappointment. To minds naturally
weak, or weakened by long suffering, uncertainty
is less painful than to know the worst.
From one or both these causes, the good
Heer, instead of going forth to learn the truth,
returned trembling to his chair and there sat
waiting, almost in a state of insensibility, the approach
of the crowd.
“My father! where, where is he?” exclaimed
a voice that went to the innermost soul of the
Heer, who sat riveted to his chair, without the
power of speech or motion. A moment after,
a figure rushed in and threw herself at his feet,
kissed his hands, and wept upon them.
“My father, hast thou forgotten Christina,—
or, Oh! heavenly powers! perhaps he has forgotten
himself! speak to me, dear father, or kiss
thou rememberest and lovest thy child.”
The Heer pressed her hand, in token that he
had not forgotten his daughter, but it was some
minutes before he became sufficiently recovered
to take her to his bosom, weep over, and bless
her. When he did, the scene was so moving,
that the spectators shed tears of sympathy; and
even the dry and parched cheeks of Shadrach
Moneypenny exhibited indications of moisture.
“But you must thank my deliverers,” said
Christina, when the first strong feelings of joy
had subsided.
“And who are they?” answered the Heer,
wiping his eyes and looking round. “Ah! Long
Finne, art thou there? I dare almost swear thou
hadst a hand in my daughter's preservation:
come hither, boy, thou art thrice welcome. Is
it not so, Christina?”
“I owe my life to him,” replied Christina,
“but not my liberty, father.”
“To whom then? if he is present, I will hug
him in my arms; if absent, I will seek him
through the world but I will thank him; if he be
poor, I will make him rich; if he be rich, he shall
have my everlasting gratitude. Stand forth,
whoever thou art; the guilty, are not ashamed
for theirs?”
The stiff and upright form of Shadrach Moneypenny
now advanced with measured steps towards
the Heer, who, on perceiving it approaching,
started up, and hugged Shadrach, with
such good will, that the head of the Governor
actually dislodged the hat of the other, and it
fell to the floor. Shadrach stooped down with
great deliberation, and, picking up the hat, placed
it on his head and said—
“Take notice, friend Piper, I pulled not off
mine own hat, in reference to thy dignity, or
that of thy master, the bloody-minded man who
carrieth the gospel of peace upon the incarnadined
point of his sword. It fell by accident,
verily.”
“Be it so,” returned the Heer; “thou shalt
wear thy beaver in the presence of kings, nay,
of the King of kings, if thou likest, my noble
benefactor, to whom I owe more than I can
ever pay.”
“I am not thy benefactor, friend Piper,”
quoth Shadrach, “and thou owest me no more
than that good will which we are enjoined to
bear towards all our neighbours. What I have
done was by the command (or rather, at the
from any man, or body of men, except we
list,) who sent me forthwith into the wilderness,
with store of glass beads, tobacco, and the like,
to redeem thy daughter, together with him they
call the Long Finne; likewise friend Dotterel,
commonly denominated among the aboriginals
the Jumping Sturgeon; and lastly, the coloured
lad, bearing the heathen appellative of Cupid,
the which I do intreat thee, as a particular favour,
to have christened over again, in which
case I will accord myself to stand godfather.”
“Well, then,” replied the Heer, “I shall bethink
myself of some means worthily and magnificently
to reward both the good William
Penn and all those who have been the instruments
of his benevolence in the redemption of
my dear child, whose return to my bosom is as
the warmth of spring to the torpid animals of the
forest.”
“William Penn wants no rewards, neither do
I,” quoth Shadrach. “When he despatched
me forth into the wilderness, and I departed in
accordance with his wishes, it was not as if on
an expedition of trade or profit. We will exchange
with thee good offices, but we cannot sell
them.”
“Well, but, der teufel,” replied the Heer, a
rittle ruffled—
“Swear not at all,” interrupted Shadrach—
“friend Piper, swear not at all. And, now I bethink
me, if thou wishest to exhibit thy gratitude
to William Penn, or me, his chosen vessel, let it be
in the utter abandonment of that unseemly custom,
which, I am aggrieved to say, savours of the
company and good fellowship of Sathan and
his imps.”
At any other time, this sally of Shadrach
would have brought the wrath of the Heer upon
him, in a great tempest of expletives; but now
he had got his daughter's hand in his, while
she herself was seated on the little stool, which
whilome supported his gouty foot, and felt so
happy at the moment, that he had neither room
nor words for any other feeling.
“Say, then,” said he at length, in reply to
Shadrach's exhortation—“say that I will come
myself, and thank him for having restored to me
my child; and think to thyself that I will never
forget thy good offices.”
“I will so say,” rejoined Shadrach. “And
now, albeit I have finished my mission, and
done the bidding (or rather the request) of William
Penn, I will essay my return from whence
at all.”
Shadrach then shook hands with the Governor,
the Long Finne, and the likely fellow Cupid,
whom he exhorted to take to himself a new
name of Christian seemliness. He also looked
about for the Jumping Sturgeon, who, however,
was found wanting, being at that time busily
employed in keeping order among his old enemies,
the roystering urchins of Elsingburgh. The
spirit then moved Shadrach Moneypenny to approach
the fair Christina, which he did with
great gallantry, his beaver being up in front.
“Maiden,” quoth Shadrach, “umph! verily
thou art fair, and comely therewithal: will
shake hands with thee for old acquaintance sake.
Verily, I say again, thou art exceeding fair and
comely: I will salute thee, maiden, being thereunto
moved by having sojourned with thee in the
wilderness. Verily, I say a third time, maiden,
thou art altogether and without equal fair and
comely; I will embrace thee in the spirit, being
thereunto moved by”—
But Shadrach, as he opened his arms to carry
into execution his sober wishes, like another
Ixion, embraced a cloud. Christina had taken
advantage of his habit of elevating his eyes to
man, who, without the least appearance of being
ruffled and disquieted at the disappointment,
gravely observed that the maiden was over bashful.
He then turned himself as on a pivot, and
departed amid the grateful thanks of all, save
the Long Finne, who never forgave Shadrach
the sin of having touced the red lip of Christina.
5. CHAPTER V.
“Most heart-commanding faced gentlewoman, even as the
stone in India called basilinus hurts all that look on it, and
as the serpent in Arabia called smaragdus delighteth the sight,
so does thy celestial, orb-assimilating eyes both please, and,
pleasing, pain my love-darted heart.”
Euphues, and his England.
When Shadrach Moneypenny had gathered
himself together, and departed for Coaquanock,
the Heer and his little party, being left alone,
drew into a circle, and began to compare notes
one with another. Perhaps one of the most
pleasing results of the meeting of long separated
friends is this mutual interchange of the relations
of past events. Our little self-love is gratified
in telling all that has happened to us, and
our curiosity, perhaps a better feeling, feasted
with the chronicle of what has befallen others.
Alternately the hero and the auditor of these
domestic legends, each one enjoys a temporary
hour of supremacy, and all are pleased, because
all have their turn in talking. The happy
Heer, seated between his daughter and the
questioned, and answered, and listened, and
talked, like a boy; for the return of his darling
had made him feel young again.
The party consisted only of the three, with
the occasional intrusion of the Frizzled Head,
and her likely grandson, who, under various
pretences, went and came, without having any
positive errand to justify the intrusion. The
good aunt Edith was, as usual, lying abed, too
sick even to admit of a visit from her niece,
which she feared might agitate her so much
that she would not be able to attend a prayer
meeting on the ensuing evening. The worthy
Dominie Kanttwell, too, was either engaged, or
pretended to be so, and came not to congratulate
the Heer on the return of his only child
from captivity among the wild men of the
woods. Indeed, it was shrewdly suspected, that
the good man, as well as aunt Edith, were both
somewhat mortified at the failure of their favourite
doctrine of temporal judgments, on this
occasion, as exemplified in the happy return
of Christina; and there were those who did not
scruple to insinuate, that the Dominie was sorely
wounded in spirit, at the downfall of a
plan for benefiting the church, which depended
alteration in the Heer's will, which he did
not despair of bringing about in time.
“Ah! poor Ludwig!” cried the Heer, as
Koningsmarke related the manner in which he
had cheated the savages of their bloody feast—
“ah! brave, merry, thoughtless, swearing
rogue! he lived only for the present breath he
drew, and thought not of the next moment, much
less of the morrow. Jolly Varlett! he was
as brave as the great Gustavus, not to mention
another person, whose name it would not become
me to utter, being that self-praise is but
another name for self-blame. He used to say,
that a man who feared not what the present moment
could bring, yet shrunk from the next,
was like a superstitious blockhead, that would
wrestle with flesh and blood, and run away from
his own shadow. Honest Wolfgang Langfanger
and he could never agree, for Wolfgang
thought nothing of the present, I mean in a
worldly point of view, while Ludwig held, that
in the firm of Past, Present, and Future, the first
and the last were little more than sleeping partners.
Ah! pleasant, merry Varlett! would I
could hear him swear again! But now,” continued
the Heer, addressing himself to Koningsmarke—“now
didst thou live, and how did my poor little girl
endure the savage thraldom—hey? Thy hand
is not so soft nor so white as it used to be, my
daughter,” said he, as he pressed it tenderly in
his own.
This led to a recapitulation of the events detailed
in our preceding chapters, in which Christina
and Koningsmarke, alternating, related their dangers
and sufferings, omitting certain tender
scenes, only interesting to the performers. The
Heer alternately laughed and wept. As they
related the adventures of Lob Dotterel's wig, and
the adoption of that trusty officer into the tribe
of the Muskrats, he indulged in bursts of merriment,
and ever after called him by the name of
the Jumping Sturgeon. The sufferings of his
dear child melted his heart; and when she told
him of the kindness of little Aonetti, the Deer
Eyes, he declared his determination to have her
sought out, and brought to Elsingburgh, that
he might reward her, by the affection of a father,
for her goodness to his daughter. Christina,
however, for some reason or other, which, as she
did not avow, we should hold ourselves guilty of
betraying her confidence if we disclosed, did
not second this motion, and the good Heer was
her adopted sister.
“And now,” exclaimed the Heer, when they
had finished the relation of their adventures—
“and now, Koningsmarke, my dear son, for such
thou hast been to me, tell me how I may best reward
thee, for having saved the life of my child,
and oftentimes watched over her safety in the
desolate wilderness. I have wealth, more than
enough for my wants, speak, and as much of it
is thine as shall place thee above the world.”
Koningsmarke replied not, but shook his head,
looked at Christina, and sighed.
“No?” said the good Heer, answering his
look and shake of the head, “No? thou art
proud, then, and disdainest to be repaid for thy
kindness to an old man and his daughter with
money. But remember, I am at least thy debtor
for a handful of Mark Newby's halfpence,” added
he, smiling.
“Money cannot repay me for what I have
done for thy daughter,” rejoined Koningsmarke,
with an air and tone of melancholy pride.
“No? Der teufel! but—what? thou holdest
thy favours above all price then?”
“None think less than I do of what I have
affair.”
“Well, then, I have some influence with the
great Gustavus, who, no doubt, remembers the
good service I did him, in taking a corporal's
guard. I will use it in thy behalf, and intreat
him, as I am old and feeble, and wish for retirement,
to appoint thee my successor in the
government of New Swedeland—hey?”
The Long Finne again shook his head, and
was silent.
“What, then, du galgen schivenkel,” exclaimed
the Heer, waxing wroth apace—“what! then
thou disdainest my friendship, and contemnest
my gratitude? Harkye, henkers knecht, be
pleased to comprehend, that I hold when a man
refuses to be repaid for favours he confers, he
cancels the obligation. Lookye, Long Finne—
am I not old enough to be thy father? am I
not the representative of the great Gustavus?
am I not obliged to thee for the safety of my
only child? 'Sfoot, sir—and dost thou dare to
tell me, thus to my face, that it is not thy pleasure
to be rewarded? Now mark me, youngster—either
name thy reward, or fight me to-morrow
norning, with good broad swords. I'll
teach thee to encumber me with a load of gratitude
great horse, and then refuse to assist me in getting
rid of it. Come, stripling, name thy reward,
or shalt smoke for it to-morrow.”
Koningsmarke dropped on his knee, and, taking
the hand of Christina, pressed it to his lips
and his heart.
“I deserve her not—I ask her not—I dare not
ask you for her. But, Oh! Heer—if she owes her
life to me, as well as to thee—if I have watched,
and toiled, and fought for her—if I have borne
her in my arms, when her own limbs refused to
support her, through the irksome wilderness—
if I have been to her as a brother, to you as a
son—think what I could wish—not what I ask,
or deserve as a recompense—the only recompense
you can bestow, or I accept.”
“What! henckers knecht—my daughter, hey?
By the glory of the immortal champion, Gustavus,
but that is indeed cancelling the obligation!
Thou first gavest me my daughter, and
now thou wilt take her away again. Thou
wouldst rob me of the treasure thou hast just
found and restored to me?”
“Not rob thee, Heer; I would wish to double
the blessing, by adding to the solace of a
grateful son.”
“And thou wouldst not ask her to abandon
her poor old father?”
“No—we would live and die with thee. Thy
house should be our home; and, if it so pleased
Heaven, our graves should be close to
thine.”
“Sayest thou, coward! ha! thou hadst rather
marry, then, than meet my old rusty broad
sword? well, thou art a prudent young stripling
after all. Christina, hast got a fever, for within
these last fifteen minutes, thy pulse hath
risen to a truly alarming pitch? Christina,
what shall I say to this worthy lad, who so well
understandeth the value of his services? truly,
honest Finne, thou shalt be made superintendant
of the Indian trade, being as thou so well
comprehendest the mysteries of bargaining.”
If a young woman can possibly be brought
to say yes, to such a question as that of the
Heer, it must be when she is alone with the person
that asks it, unless we are mistaken in our
recollection of the pure and delicate Dan Cupid,
that whilome used to fan the flame of love in
female hearts. Christina replied not.
“Well,” said the Heer, silence gives consent.
not ready to devote thyself to the wishes of one,
who gave thee life, and of that good-looking
youth, who hath preserved it more than once.
Here, Long Finne, here is her hand; if she dissents,
she has only to signify so much by withdrawing
it.”
Christina did not withdraw her hand, although
her pale cheek, and trembling frame, bore testimony
that though she gave herself to Koningsmarke,
it was not with that ample trust, that
boundless confidence, that unshrinking, measureless
hope, with which the ardent, inexperienced
maid so often throws herself, her virtues, her
wealth, and her beauty into the bosom of man.
“This day shall be kept as the happiest of my
life,” cried the Heer. “It is—yes, it is the day
I was married, the day of thy birth, Christina;
the day too in which God gave thee to me a second
time, that I might secure thy happiness by
giving thee to one whom Providence made the
instrument of thy preservation. Blessed be this
day!”
“It is the day of thy wife's death, too!” exclaimed
the Frizzled Head, who was always
flitting about like the bird of night, and always
croaking. “It is the day of thy wife's death; thy
lift the shroud and come among you, would hold
up her bloodless hand, and shriek in ghostly accents
against this unhappy union; forbidden by
the memory of the past, the auguries of the
future. I, that know what thou, Heer, knowest
not—I, that have seen what thou didst not
see, I tell thee, Heer, I tell thee, weak maiden,
and,” holding up her withered finger in scorn,
to Koningsmarke, “I tell thee, that rather
than this accursed marriage shall take place,
I will say what shall blast thy purpose and
send thee wandering again to another new
world, if such there be. Better be dead than
wedded thus.
“Housekeeper of Satan!” answered the
Heer, “avaunt, fly, skip—herald of wrath and
abomination! When was it that I was ever inclined
to be merry, that thou didst not essay to
turn my gayety into gloomy forebodings? when
did I ever open my heart to the memory of
past, or the anticipation of future happiness,
that thou camest not, like the raven, to croak
me into fancied misery? when did the sun shine
ever warm on my heart, that thou didst not
come and freeze it stiff and cold? Away, and
howl in churchyards, at midnight; scream into
silent with that eternal clapper of thine, or speak
to be understood, or”—
“I do howl in the ears of guilt, and I speak
to be understood by those I wish to understand
me. Those now hear me, who know full well
what I mean, yet dare to despise my warnings;
who would rush into each other's arms, even
though the grave of a mother lay between them
and their desires; who—but the time is not yet
come, that I must and will speak out.”
“Then, in the name of Heaven, be quiet till
then, and do not mar this happy hour. I would
thou wert silent, even as the grave thou speakest
of; for thy talking is worse than the screech-owl,
the wolf, and the Indian, a joining in
concert with the midnight storm. How is it,
that thou wouldst mar the happiness of thy master
and young mistress?”
“I mar their happiness!” retorted the Snow
Ball; “I seek to prevent their misery; to save
virtue from the contamination of vice; to revenge
the death of her, who, of all thy colour and thy
race, was the only one whose kindness was never
accompanied by insult—whose benefits were never
cancelled by capricious tyranny. Heer, why
do I take an interest in the prosperity of thy
not that thou art, in the language of thy haughty
race, my master, but because thou wert the husband
of the kindest being that ever breathed the
breath of life. Daughter of my mistress, why do I
watch over thy welfare? It is not that thou
art the child of my master, and I thy slave,
but that she was thy mother, and that with her
latest breath she besought me to be unto thee a
watchful and devoted servant, to see that no
harm fell upon thy innocent head. Such I
have been—such I will be, until I join my mistress,
where I may be permitted, though black
as ink, to say to her snow-white spirit, I did my
duty to her at least.”
“The yellow plague sieze thee, thou incomprehensible
riddle of darkness,” cried the Heer.
“Begone, for I swear to thee, Snow Ball, the
Long Finne shall marry my daughter, though
thou talkest thyself white in the face. To-morrow
shall be the day, and then, when I have secured
my girl a protector in weal and wo, in
storm and sunshine, I am ready to obey that call
which, sooner or later, brings all mankind to
their last muster. Depart in peace, old sinner,
and hold thy peace, if such a matter be possible.”
“I go,” replied the Frizzled Head, without moving
a step. “Heer! Heer! thou wilt remember,
when I am dead, in sorrow and remorse,
that I warned thee, yet thou wouldst not listen.
When the storm comes, and thou and thine
shall be laid low in the dust, thy roots bare,
and thy branches broken, like the trees after a
whirlwind, then thou shalt weep, and tear thy
gray hairs, and call upon the mountains to fall,
the rocks to cover thee: but it will be vain.
Thou shalt invoke death, but he will not come;
thou shalt seek the grave, but it will not open to
thee; thou shalt live, despairing, until thy legs
shall refuse to carry thee, thy hands to lift themselves
to thy head, and thy mind and body become
those of the helpless infant.”
During this mysterious colloquy, Christina
had remained speechless and motionless, her cold
and almost lifeless hand grasped in that of Koningsmarke,
who himself remained silent, as if overawed
by the horrible fluency of the sable prophetess.
There is something allied to the sublime in futurity;
and even the strongest mind, fortified by the
consciousness of innocence, involuntarily shrinks
when the veil is withdrawn, and renders the homage
of its fears, where it refuses that of its
faith.
“Daughter of the kindest mistress that ever
fell to one of our unhappy race,” resumed Bombie
of the Frizzled Head, addressing Christina,
“wilt thou devote thy virtue, thy beauty, thy
life, to this man, who—”
“Who twice saved mine,” hastily interrupted
Christina; “I am bound by my faith to do so.
When we parted, never expecting to meet again;
when he was going to be tortured at the stake,
for having sought to restore me to my father;
and when it seemed hardly within the compass
or the power of fate to restore him to me, or me
to my home, I promised to be his, if we ever lived
to return hither. I will keep my word, let
what will follow; I will pay the debt of gratitude
I owe him, though it be at the price of a
broken heart, a blasted fame; yea! even though
my mother's spirit should—” Here the poor
maiden covered her face with her hands, and
became choked with her rising emotions.
“Then be the curse of thy mother on thy
head, and on the heads of all that shall be born
of thee, as the curse of Cain was upon him and
all his posterity—”
Here Christina uttered a shriek, and fell insensible
into the arms of her father. The Heer
raved in agony. “To-day,” he cried, “the
ere yet I had kissed and blessed her, thou—thou,
black and malignant devil, hast destroyed
her. But thou shalt pay for this, thou and all
thy accursed race.”
“Better thus—better dead, than to live as
thou mayst yet live to see her, with a blighted
cheek, a broken heart, and a conscience gnawed,
morning, noon, and night, sleeping and
waking, by the worm that never dies,” replied
the sybil.
What more she would have said was interrupted
by the intrusion of Lob Dotterel, followed
by a number of the villagers, having in custody
the body of that likely fellow Cupid. Their
presence turned the current of Bombie's feelings
into another channel, and the disclosures that
followed led to consequences which will be related
in the succeeding chapters.
| Koningsmarke, the long Finne | |