University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

“O rare Ben Jonson!” said some one, and
O rare Beaumont and Fletcher say we; for in
honest sincerity we prefer this gentle pair to all
the old English dramatic writers except Shakspeare.
For playful wit, richness of fancy, exuberance
of invention, and, above all, for the
sweet magic of their language, where shall we
find their superiors among the British bards?
It is not for us obscure wights to put on the
critical nightcap, and, being notorious criminals
ourselves, set up as judges of others; but we
should hold ourselves base and ungrateful if
we did not seize this chance opportunity to
raise our voices in these remote regions of
the West, where, peradventure, they never
dreamed of one day possessing millions of

readers, in humble acknowledgment of the
many hours they have whiled away by the creations
of their sprightly fancy, arrayed in the
matchless melody of their tuneful verse. But
mankind must have an idol, one who monopolizes
their admiration and devotion. The name
of Shakspeare has swallowed up that of his
predecessors, contemporaries, and successors;
thousands, tens of thousands echo his name that
never heard of Marlow,—Marlow, to whom
Shakspeare himself condescended to be indebted,
and whose conception of the character of
Faust is precisely that of Goëthe;—of Webster,
Marston, Randolph, Cartwright, May, and all
that singular knot of dramatists, who unite the
greatest beauties with the greatest deformities,
and whose genius has sunk under the licentiousness
of the age in which it was their misfortune
to live. The names of Massinger, Ben
Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher are, it is true,
more familiar; but it is only their names and
one or two of their pieces that are generally
known. These last have been preserved, not
on the score of their superior beauties, but because
they afforded an opportunity for Garrick
and other great performers to reap laurels which
belonged to the poet, by the exhibition of some
striking character. Far be it from us to attempt
to detract from the fame of Shakspeare. Superior
he is, beyond doubt, to all his countrymen
who went before or came after him, in the peculiar
walk of his genius; but he is not so immeasurably
superior as to cast all others into
oblivion; and to us it seems almost a disgrace
to England that a large portion of her own
readers, and a still larger of foreigners, seem
ignorant that she ever produced more than one
dramatist.

But “Go ahead! go ahead!” cries the impatient
reader, who, in honest truth, hath been
spoiled by being of late too much indulged in
high-seasoned dainties and marvellous adventures
treading on the heels of each other like
the ranks of an undisciplined militia; and, obedient
to his high behest, we resume our story.

The early spring of the west, where no cutting,
villanous easterly winds, no cold, white,
chilling, sea-born fogs that come, like winding-sheets,
to wrap the wasting victim of consumption
in the last garment, delay the opening buds
and opening flowers,—the early spring now
peeped forth from under the little blue wild
violets and pale snowdrops, to see if perchance
that old hoary tyrant Winter had packed
up his “plunder,” and gone about his business.
The redbirds and the paroquets exhibited
their gay plumage among the opening purple
buds; and the life-current of nature, released
from its frosty chains, began again to
flow through the veins of the forest. It was
the season for making maple sugar, a rural festival,
which was at the period we speak of, and
we hope still is, the signal for rural pastimes
and innocent recreation.

The luscious breath of the balmy air, which
awakened the flowers, the buds, and the birds;
which set the insects humming in the sunshine,
and invited the stiffened fly to come and solace
himself in the south window, called forth the
villagers to this their favourite amusement.

The colonel, Mrs. Dangerfield, Virginia, the
pestilent Mrs. Judith, and one and all, arrayed
themselves for the yearly saccharine saturnalia,
where etiquette and precedence abided far away,
and all were left to the guidance of that natural
delicacy which, except among fools and
blackguards, is always sufficient for the preservation
of a due decorum. That last remnant
of the Virginia aristocracy, the great Pompey
Ducklegs, whose legs, in sooth, were every year
getting more and more into a waddle, insomuch
that it became apparent they would soon suffice
but for the last long journey,—Pompey the elder
did forthwith summon Pompey the younger to
the field, and bade him exert himself for the
honour of the family. Nay, the veritable Mr.
Littlejohn, of whom we reproach ourselves that
we have so long lost sight, did gather himself
together with a mighty effort, and with an effort
still mightier did rise up from the three chairs
whereon it was his wont to repose the outward
man.

The trees were tapped; the sweet redundant
juices of the maple-trees began to flow into the
little wooden troughs; the fires were lighted, the
kettles filled with sap, and the respectable matrons
presided with dignity and skill over the process
of boiling it into sirup, skimming the refuse
scum, and lastly crystallizing the pure residuum
—may Heaven pardon us such a word when
on a subject so simple! This process lasted
until night, and then the forest glowed in the artificial
sunshine of the ruddy fires, and the echoes
answered from their long quiet abodes to the
sound of song, laughter, and merriment. We

confess we wish we had been there to taste this
the sweetest of all sugars, and to share in the
blameless pastime; for if there is a spot on the
ragged garment of human existence which the
stain of guilt or remorse has not incurably
soiled, it is these moments of innocent relaxation
in which we envy none, hate none, injure
none, and the heart expands to a holy affection
for nature and her great inspiring, creating, preserving
Spirit.

Bushfield, too, was here in all his glory, and
was not only a whole team, but a team and a half,
good measure, as he affirmed. This was the
only occasion in which he did not eschew a
crowd, saving and excepting a barbecue. He
frisked about from one fire to the other, played
his practical jokes on Pompey the Great and
Pompey the Little, and roused the echoes of the
forest with his noisy vivacity. Even the stern
inflexible gravity of the Black Warrior relaxed
under the influence of the scene; and it is said,
though we can hardly believe it, that he actually
degenerated into a laugh at seeing Bushfield
by gentle violence enforce Mrs. Judith
Paddock to attempt a waltz with him, of which
he had heard a description from Rainsford, and
at the end of which he jumped up as high as a
young sapling.

To sum up all and close the rural festival,
certain blooming young damsels—we would
they had been shepherdesses!—and certain lusty
youth—O that they were only shepherds, like
those of Sicily, of whom Theocritus has sung,
and whose sheepskin inexpressibles he hath immortalized!—certain
youths and damsels of the

village, inspired by the breath of spring, the example
of the little birds, and the little rural abstract
rambles they occasionally indulged in the
wicked twilight of the woods, were enticed to
fall in love and pledge their faith for ever in
presence of the dryads and hamadryads, who
discreetly promised never to betray them. But
there were no secrets where Mrs. Judith Paddock
abided, and in less than four-and-twenty
hours after these “gentle passages of arms”
there was not a soul in the village of Dangerfieldville
ignorant that the temple of Hymen
would soon receive at least half a dozen pairs
of votaries fresh from the festival of the sugar
making. Were we inclined to philosophize on
the mystifications of the human heart, we might
here inquire into that singular affinity which
beyond all doubt subsists between the making
of sugar and the making of love, two of the
sweetest occupations of this world. But we
shall leave this to some future work, wherein
we purpose to demonstrate that maple sugar is
maple sugar, and love, love; for the doing of
which the gentle reader will be doubtless greatly
obliged to us, seeing that such is the astonishing
development of science, philosophy, and all
that sort of thing, that we ourselves begin to
doubt the postulatum of the learned Theban
Touchstone, that “ipse is he,” that love is love,
or that maple sugar is maple sugar.