University of Virginia Library

16. CHAP. XVI.

Leaving my malediction upon the city, the
people, the magistracy, and every living thing
else within it, I departed from Philadelphia, as
usual out of humour with the world, and disgusted
with the whole clan of immaculate republicans.
As we were rapidly passing up the river towards
the south, I retired as far from every body, as I
could, and sat down to look over the fifty-eighth
number of the Quarterly, in order to refresh my
memory with some of the most striking beauties

of the turbulent spirit of democracy. But go
where you will, it is impossible to keep clear of
the intrusion of these free and easy republicans.
While thus occupied, one of the most decently
dressed and respectable republicans I had hitherto
seen, came walking back and forth, passing and
repassing before me. I laid down my book and
went into the cabin for a moment, to get my
handkerchief, which I had left there, and which
I found exactly in the same place. This I mention
as one of the wonders of this new world.

Returning to my post, I found this modest gentleman
had taken up my book and was turning
over the leaves, but he condescended to return
it to me with an apology for the liberty he had
taken.

“I felt some anxiety to see it,” said he; “as I
perceive it contains the article on Mr. Faux's
Travels, which was omitted in the re-publication
here.”

“Indeed!” replied I with cool indifference;
“pray what was the cause of their omission?”

“I understand it contained certain libellous passages
concerning a respectable gentleman in this
country, and his connexions. For my part I think
it ought to have been preserved. A criticism degenerating
into a string of libels, is a curiosity
peculiar to the present refined age of literature.”

“The greater the truth, the greater the libel,”

said I. “Your countrymen I hope are not afraid
or ashamed of the truth.”

“No, not when we can get it pure and unmixed.
But sketches at best degenerating into caricature,
and for the most part drawn from the very
worst specimens of manners, and by persons animated
by the worst feelings of hostility, who have
not even the discretion to hide their malignity
are not subjects of very pleasing contemplation,
certainly.”

I took up the book, and opening it at the review
of Faux, began questioning the man, as follows,
making it my text.

“Can you deny, sir, that it is the very nature
of a democracy to make men turbulent, ill-mannered,
ferocious, drunken, beastly, and rude to
the last degree?”[1]

“I have in some measure brought this discustion
on my head,” replied he with a smile, “and
will answer you in a different manner than I
should do under other circumstances. Cast your
eyes around the deck; there are probably seventy,
perhaps a hundred persons in sight. They
come in all likelihood from almost every section
of the United States, and are of different grades,
stations, occupations, and education. Do you see
any one drunk?”

I looked around, and though the deck was covered
with men, women, and children, wallowing

like swine in the filth of debauchery, replied,
“why—no—I can't say I do exactly;” being resolved
to hear what the gentleman had to say for
himself.

“Do you observe any appearance of turbulence,
rudeness, ferocity, or indecency?”

Just then a couple of deacons set to, and gouged
out each other's eyes; but I was resolved to see
nothing, and replied—

“None in the least.”

“Do you apprehend, sir, if this drunkenness,
rudeness, turbulence, ferocity, this dirking, gouging,
swearing, and impiety, were so universal a
characteristic as the Quarterly is pleased to affirm,
there would not be some examples exhibited here
among so many persons, of such various occupations
and characters, coming from all parts of the
United States?”

“O, certainly, certainly,” said I, with a glance
directing his attention to a fellow who had just
dirked his second cousin, and thrown him overboard.
But my gentleman kept his countenance
in a manner worthy a true disciple of brazen democracy.

“I will not pretend to deny,” continued this
intolerable proser, “that our people have something
of the wild flavour about them, or that they
partake in some degree of the imperfections incident
to their history and situation. Let your travellers
tell us of these in the spirit of friendly admonition,
and show the same frankness in displaying

our good qualities, that they do in reprobating
our faults. Accustomed as Europeans are
to a world a little on the wane, they are too apt
to mistake the manly frankness of freemen, for a
forward impudence, and to confound the virtues
of independence of spirit, with the opposite vices
of a freedom from all salutary restraints. The
want of that sense of inferiority, which makes the
subjects of a monarch pay such abject deference to
rank and wealth, is too often mistaken for rudeness;
and thus the very sense of personal independence
which is essential to the preservation of
freedom, is laid to our charge as a proof of barbarism
and ferocity. But,” continued he, smiling,
“if perchance you are a traveller of the literary
class, I may sometime hence figure in your book
as an example of that inveterate love of talking
which has been ascribed to our people. I shall
therefore conclude by observing that the difference
is, that our world is not quite ripe, and yours
is a little decayed. We think our world is the
better for blooming in all the freshness of youth;
while you appear to be of opinion that your world,
like a cheese, is the better for being a little rotten.”
He then slightly bowed and left me, before
I had time to make a cutting reply. But I was
determined to pay him off at a proper time.

After passing through the towns of Natchitoches,
Vincennes, Utica, Vandalia, and Tombigbee, and
crossing the Big Sandy, and Little Sandy, not forgetting
the Big Muddy, and Little Muddy rivers,

(did ever christian man hear such names?) we arrived
at the great city of Baltimore. I should not
omit to mention that I was robbed at Natchitoches,
gouged at Utica, roasted at a log fire in Vandalia,
and dirked at Tombigbee. Besides these accidents,
I was all but drowned in Big Dry River, but luckily
escaped by its having no water in it. This
was a pretty tolerable chapter of accidents for one
day, and may serve as an antidote to the delusions
of transatlantic speculation, the seductions of Mr.
Birkbeck, and the democratic slang of Miss
Wright, Capt. Hall, and the rest of the radical fry
of democracy, as the Quarterly says.[2]

It was my intention to spend two or three days
at Baltimore, but happening to take a walk on the
morning of my arrival, I encountered a monument
purporting to have been erected to the memory of
certain persons who fell in an action with the British
in the late war, and in which the latter were
defeated, and their commander, General Ross,
killed. There was no standing this insolent exhibition
of republican vanity, and I determined to stay
no longer in a place where such studied attempts
are made to mortify the feelings of Englishmen,
and perpetuate hostility between the two nations.
There is also another monument erecting here to
the memory of the rebel Washington, an additional
proof of the justice with which this place has
been denounced, as the very sink of democracy.

Accordingly I bought a horse and sulky, being
resolved for the future to travel by myself, in order
to get rid of the impertinent intrusions of these
free and easy republicans, and enjoying my own
company unmolested. For this purpose I crossed
over to the eastern shore of Maryland, and travelled
on a by-road to the city of Washington.

I thought the negroes were bad enough off in
New-England, but it was nothing to what I saw
here. The road was lined with naked negroes on
each side, begging for charity, this being their only
refuge from absolute starvation, as their masters
allow them nothing. Instead of scarecrows to
frighten the birds from the corn, you generally see
negroes hung up in the fields for that purpose. I
cut one poor fellow down just in time to save his
life, and on inquiring the cause of his being thus
inhumanly punished, he told me his only offence
was eating a piece of mouldy bread, which he found
one day in the cupboard! Yet such is the force
of habit, that this miserable wretch, instead of
thanking me for saving his life, skipped over a
six rail fence, joined a party of blacks at work in
the field, and struck in with might and main in
the songs they were singing! I thought of the
fable of the swan, singing in the agonies of death,
and drove on.

Towards evening, the road led through a country
of thick melancholy pines, which deepened the
approaching gloom, and the houses became farther
and farther separated. I had now proceeded several

miles without seeing a habitation, or meeting a
single human being. The night was fast approaching,
and I began to anticipate a lodging in the
woods, when, to my great joy, I saw a light gleaming,
or flickering, at fitful intervals, through the
branches of the trees. As I approached, I could
distinguish by the light of the moon, which now
rose in cloudless majesty, a desolate, dilapidated
mansion, the windows of which were for the most
part broken, and the walls in half ruins. Two
or three dogs saluted me as I rode up, with a republican
growl, which were child by a shrill voice,
crying—“Be quiet Nap—get out Cæsar, you villain.”
The dogs obeyed the voice, and sneaked
away.

“Who's there?” continued the same voice.

“A traveller,” replied I, “who is benighted,
and in want of food as well as rest. Can you accommodate
me for the night?”

Here was a pause of a minute, during which the
female went into the house to consult the master,
as I supposed, for at the expiration of that time a
man came forth, and in a hoarse voice said to
me:—

“We can give you a bed and supper, such as
they are. Alight sir, and my boys will see to your
horse.”

I accordingly entered the house through a door
which opened directly into a large room, at one
end of which there was a brisk fire, which served
instead of candles. “Sit down,” said the old man,

handing me a straw-bottomed chair, “and we will
see what we can get you for supper. Clementina!”
said he, raising his voice.

“I'm coming, daddy,” answered somebody,
and forthwith in came Clementina, a damsel of at
least six feet in her stockings. She looked like a
sibyl, with eyes black as a coal, wild as those of
an antelope, and long lank hair, glossy and straight,
hanging about her neck and shoulders. I confess
I felt rather odd at seeing her, but my feelings
were nothing to those which rushed over me on
entrance of the two boys, as the old man called
them. They were at least seven feet high, rawboned
and savage in their aspect, with nothing on
them but a linen shirt and trowsers. Though I
came in a fashionable gig, and was dressed in the
most fashionable travelling costume, they seemed
not to feel the least embarrassment at my presence,
but took chairs and sat down at my side with the
genuine air of republican insolence. I tried all I
could to look dignified, but in spite of myself
could not repress certain apprehensions, which
gradually came over me, and undermined my
sense of superiority. The old man and his wife,
who by the way though apparently advanced in
years, was as tall and as straight as the rest of them,
asked me a great many questions in the way of
guessing and reckoning, while Clementina bestirred
herself in preparing and bringing in the supper.

When it was ready they all sat down without

ceremony, and with as little ceremony invited me
to follow their example. Here was a practical illustration
of the blessings of equality; but I was
determined to put up with their insolence for one
night. The supper consisted of loads of meat,
ham, venison, game of various kinds, in quantities
sufficient to feast an army. I began to sum up the
probable amount of my bill, as I concluded I should
have to pay for the feasting of the whole family,
and what was left besides. “Help yourself,” said
the old man, “and don't be a stranger—I'm sorry
we have nothing better—but you're heartily welcome.”
Most people are welcome, thought I, for
their money, but I said nothing.

“We cannot afford tea and coffee,” continued
the old man, “but here is some old whiskey that
I hope you will like. Come, help yourself, and
here's to old Hickory.”

My stomach turned at the very smell of this execrable
beverage, but recollecting the republican
custom of roasting their particular friends by a
log fire for refusing to drink, I thought fit to help
myself, and make as if I drank. In this way supper
passed off smoothly enough, and the old man
then directed Clementina to make arrangements
for the night. “You boys will be obliged to give
up your room to the stranger, and Clementina will
make you up one in the corner here.” While
this was doing, I amused, or rather perplexed myself
in looking about the room, and wondering
where these people could procure such luxuries as

venison and wild game. But as the light flashed
in a remote and obscure corner on one side of the
fireplace, I was struck with horror at seeing three
rifles hanging one below the other upon hooks
fixed in the wall. The whole truth flashed upon
me at once. I am in a den of banditti, thought I,
and my moments are numbered. They will murder
me to night, and none will know my wretched
fate. The old man will lay out all my money tomorrow
in whiskey—the boys will go a courting
in my new gig, dressed in my dandy coats, and
Clementina will figure in my patent corsettes. I
burst into tears at the awful anticipation.

“What ails you?” said the old man.

“May-be he has got the stomach-ach,” quoth
the old hag, who now began to look just like one
of the great unknown's remarkable old women.

“Take a little more whiskey,” said Clementina,
with a look of diabolical tenderness.

At first I was going to reject it with infinite contempt,
but on second thoughts, and considering
what I had to go through that night, I determined
to fortify myself with Dutch courage after the
manner of the Yankees, and if I must die, die like
immortal Cæsar, with decency.

“Your bed is got ready,” said Clementina, but
I determined to sit up and defer my fate as long
as possible. They now began to yawn, and one
after the other retired, wishing me good night, until
decency obliged me to follow their example.
My room opened directly from that in which we

were sitting, and where the two boys were to sleep,
no doubt, as I felt assured, to be handy for murdering
me. I retired to my room the door of
which I attempted to fasten, but there was nothing
but a latch. I looked at the sheets, but they were
white as snow, Clementina having, as I concluded,
taken the precaution to pick out a pair that was
not stained with blood, so as not to alarm me. I
looked under the bed, and discovered something
that greatly resembled a trapdoor, with leathern
hinges.

This discovery overset me entirely. I paced
my room to and fro, and listened in breathless anxiety
to every sound. If a mouse stirred, my heart
leapt into my throat. I heard the owl and the
whippoorwill, those ill-omened birds, screeching
and flapping their wings at my window, and mingling
their shrill warnings with the distant howlings
of half-famished wolves. I was determined
not to lie down, for fear of going to sleep, and at
length to while away the time, took up the fifty-eighth
number of the Quarterly. But this only
added to my boding apprehensions. As I read of
the gougings, bundlings, dirkings, and guessings;
of roasting alive on red-hot log fires—of ten dollars
being the price of a man's life in this country,
and of all the diabolical horrors of turbulent democracy,
my spirit failed me, and I sunk insensibly
on the floor.

How long I remained in this unconscious state,
I cannot say, but I was roused at length by a noise

of mingled howlings, barkings, cacklings, and
crowings, that entered my very soul. Presently
after I heard a stirring in the next room, and a
light shone through my keyhole. It is all over
with me now, thought I—my time is come—
“Now I lay me down to sleep,” said I to myself,
and waited in desperate suspense. At length
I ventured to look through the keyhole, where I
saw a sight that froze me into horror. The two
young banditti had taken down their rifles, and
while loading them the following dialogue passed
between them in whispers—

“D—n him but I'll do his business; I'll give
him his bitters.”

“Hush!” replied the other, “you'll wake the
gentleman.”

Again there was a confused noise of howling,
barking, and cackling without. “Now is our time,”
said one, and both of them made, not for my door,
but out of that which led into the yard. I breathed
again for a moment, until I heard two guns fired at
a little distance. They are murdering some poor
unfortunate travellers, thought I, and my time
will come next. In about half an hour they returned,
and threw something that fell like a dead
heavy weight on the floor.

“By G—d we've done for him at last,” said
one; “the rascal fought like a tiger. Let's strip
the gentleman of his hide.”

“No, no,” replied the other, “wait till—”
here his voice sunk, and I could only guess at what

was meant. I grew desperate, and tried to push
up the window, but it was fastened down with
nails, to make all sure, and prevent my escaping
that way. I tried the trapdoor, but it turned out
to be no trapdoor at all. I listened again, but by
this time all was silent in the next room. The next
moment I heard the voice of the old man calling
his `boys,' and perceived, to my astonishment,
that the sun was just peeping above the eastern horizon.
Daylight, which emboldens the innocent,
appals the guilty, and I now felt myself safe. I
came out of my room, with an air as unconcerned as
possible, and was received as if nothing had happened.

“Good morning—good morning,” said the impudent
old republican, “I am afraid you was disturbed
last night. The boys were out after a bear that has
beat up our quarters several times. But he'll never
come again I reckon. Isn't he a whopper?” continued
he, pointing to the carcass in a corner. A
happy turn, thought I, but I'm not to be humbugged
by a cock-and-bull story. They pressed me to stay
to breakfast, but I was resolved not to trust myself
a moment longer with these banditti, and requested
them to get my gig ready as soon as possible.
In the mean time, I asked the old man for his bill.

“We don't keep a tavern,” said he.

“I know that,” replied I significantly, “but
you will take something for your trouble?”

“Not a cent—every stranger that comes here is
welcome to what I can offer. I have but little money,

but a plenty of every thing else, and it is not
often we have the pleasure of a stranger's company
in this out-of-the-way place. You are heartily
welcome to your bed and supper, and will be still
more so, if you will stay to breakfast.”

His refusal to take pay was another proof, if any
had been wanting, of the profession followed by
this awful family. Banditti are always above
taking money that is honestly their due, and require
the zest of a little murder and bloodshed to
make it worth having. I bade them good morrow
with very little ceremony, and set off in a brisk
trot; but before I had got a quarter of a mile, I
heard some one hallooing, and looking back perceived
one of the young giants, coming after
me in a pair of seven-leagued boots, as it appeared
by his speed. I concluded they had repented
having spared my life, and had sent this
fine boy after, to despatch me. Under this impression
I put my horse to his speed, and soon distanced
the fellow, notwithstanding his seven-league
boots. I rode ten miles without stopping, being
determined to get out of the very atmosphere of
this nest of banditti, if possible.

By this time I was hungry, and conceiving myself
pretty safe from any immediate pursuit, stopped
at an inn of tolerable appearance. The landlord
according to the custom of the country, took
the first opportunity to ask a few dozen questions,
ending with, “Pray what o'clock is it?” I told
him I didn't know, for I was resolved not to satisfy

his impertinent curiosity. “O, ay,” said he,
“I see you hav'n't any watch.” On examination
I found this was but too true, and it at once occurred
to my recollection that I had left it at the den
of the banditti in the forest. I asked mine host
if he knew these people, describing them and their
establishment.

“What, old Hobby, that lives in the Pines,
about ten miles off? Know him? Lord bless your
heart, every body knows him.”

I then condescended to tell him of my misfortune,
and desired to know how I could get my
watch again. He answered very shrewdly, that
I had only to go back for it. But I would not
have trusted myself there again for twenty watches.
I told him I did not like the trouble of going back
so far, but would pay any person reasonably that
would ride over and get it for me. A bargain was
struck with Pompey, the black boy, in which it
was covenanted that the said Pompey, on returning
with my watch, in the space of three hours,
should receive from me a silver dollar for his
pains. Pompey accordingly mounted a raw-boned
courser—fastened a rusty spur to his bare heel—
departed at full gallop, and returned with my
watch in less than two hours and a half.

“Did they refuse the watch, Pompey?” said I.

“No!” replied Pompey with a grin.

“What did they say?”

“They said,” replied Pompey, wonderfully

enlarging his grin, “that Massa was the drollest
man they ever see in all their born days.”

I felt no curiosity to inquire their reasons for
this complimentary opinion, but paid Pompey his
dollar, and said no more on the subject. After
breakfast I sat out for Washington, where I arrived
in safety, thanks to my good stars.