University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Colonel Hammond was a man of great ardour, but
little perseverance. His inclinations veered round like
a weathercock in a high wind, but never rested long
at one point of the compass. His resolutions might
be likened to a ball, which is precipitated from the
mouth of a gun at a prodigious rate, but soon becomes
spent, or, if it meets sufficient resistance, either glances
aside or rebounds, and rolls directly the other way.
The discharges of his passions, in truth resembled
those of a cannon, being accompanied by a great
noise and an immense cloud of smoke, one of which
soon dies away in echoes, becoming weaker at every
repetition, and the other is speedily dissipated by expansion.
He was therefore always in haste to put
his resolves in execution least he should change his
mind in the interim.

The moment of his decision in favour of the young
squire, was, therefore, that of communicating it to his

daughter, who was (as writers of romance presume
to say of the women of other countries) actually struck
dumb at the annunciation. When she at length recovered
her speech, (for such unnatural paroxysms
seldom last long,) she ventured to remind her father
of his pledge to John, sanctioned by the word of honour
of an old continental, and that John was now
striving to fulfil his part of the contract. In reply, the
colonel urged the truth of the information received
from Squire Day, and Jane reiterated her conviction,
that he carried falsehood on his lips, in his eye, and
in his heart. The colonel maintained, that she knew
no more of what a man carried in his heart than the
old codger in the moon; and as to telling when he
spoke the truth, she might as well look for it at the
bottom of a well, or in Rivington's Royal Gazette.
The old gentleman scolded, and Jane wept. He commanded
her to marry Artemas Day, and she pleaded
her promise to John. He swore by Thunder and Mars
she should, and she passionately declared she could
not, which meant neither more nor less than that she
would not obey him, at least until satisfied beyond all
doubt that John had proved false to his country and
to her.

“If he has,” exclaimed she, with streaming eyes, and
proud desperation, “if he has, I care not who is my
husband. I will marry old Mingo, if my father commands
me.”

“That's a good girl—now kiss me, and let us be
friends.”

Jane complied with rather a bad grace, and less affection
than she had ever felt before. The colonel

called for his horse, whose head he turned towards
Dayspring, and his daughter went forth to the margin
of the little river, where, in the midst of scenes associated
with many a tender recollection, many hours
of innocent happiness, she fancied she was striving to
discipline her heart into obedience to the will of her
father. But, strange as it may seem, the more she
strove, the more obstinate that heart became, and she
returned home, as she verily believed, out of all patience
with the sturdy little rebel.

Meanwhile, the colonel proceeded leisurely towards
the abode of the young squire, and as he passed along
by the side of his rich meadows, in which the lazy cattle
reposed among luxurious beds of fragrant clover, in
quiet abstraction chewing their cuds, or grazed knee-deep
in the redundant timothy-grass; or cast an approving
glance over the waving fields of golden grain,
unscathed by the tempest of war, (for the prudent
squire had a protection from the enemy,) he became
more than ever determined to sacrifice his daughter
to the golden calf in the wilderness. The two estates,
adjoining each other, seemed predestined to matrimony;
and the good gentleman had not the least
doubt that this marriage, at least, was made in heaven.
When he came into the presence of the thrifty young
sapling, his thoughts had resolved themselves into
something like the courtly speech of the nameless
king, in Puss in Boots: “It will be your own fault,
my lord marquis of Carabas, if you are not my son-in-law.”

Artemas shrunk into the dark precincts of his narrow
soul, when he saw the valiant old continental approaching,

for his conscience whispered he was come
to question him more closely on the subject of the
apostacy of our hero. He, however, sleeked over his
face with an insidious smile of welcome, and poured
forth a profusion of civil speeches, such as the worthy
old gentleman loved in his heart, seeing that age is so
often neglected in this world, that nothing is more
grateful than a little exuberance of attention, even
when it lacks the salt of sincerity. Indeed, flattery is
scarcely less agreeable from its want of truth, since
it indirectly administers to our self-importance, by demonstrating
that we are thought worth the trouble of
deceiving. It administers at least to our pride, if not
to our vanity, and gratifies that petty self-consequence
which sticks like a burr to the skirts of insignificance.

“I am delighted beyond measure,” cried Artemas,
“at this friendly call. I hope you are come to dine
with me, though, I regret to say, my cook is seriously
indisposed, and you will have nothing but a cold cut.
But an honest welcome is the best sauce to a bad dinner,
and good wine needs no bush—though, I regret to
say, that having scruples on the subject of drinking, I
shall only be able to give you molasses and water,
mixed with a little vinegar, which is the most wholesome
beverage in the world. I have the finest spring
in the county at your service.”

This bill of fare did not much relish with the old
continental, who despised cold cuts, and more especially
molasses and water, from the bottom of his soul.
After a few wry faces, and recollecting the importance
of his mission, he acceded to the invitation, and recommending
his horse to the special care of his host,

was ushered into the house with great ceremony by
the half-breed cockney.

“By the way, colonel,” said Artemas, after they were
seated, “if I recollect right, this is the anniversary of
the capture of old Ti, and I must insist on your going
through the whole siege after dinner.”

“Thunder and Mars!” thought the colonel, “but the
young squire is out in his chronology. He has got as
far from the anniversary as from Jericho to Jerusalem.
But so much the better; it proves that I have never
told him the story, or that he has forgot it entirely. It
will be quite new to him,” and the old soldier rubbed
his hands in ecstasy.

Previous to dinner, the young squire exhibited his
labour-saving inventions, all of which indicated a pettifogging,
parsimonious disposition, employed for selfish
purposes. All were contrivances for saving money
and labour; all originated in thrift, and each one superseded
the labour of human hands. One would do
as much threshing as half a dozen stout men; another
cut as much straw in an hour as a man could in
twenty-four; a third winnowed his grain at the saving
of a great expense of time; and a machine for
peeling apples was set forth as an invaluable expedient
of economy. The colonel was at once beset by
admiration and envy, for he could not but acknowledge
his inferiority in the art of saving labour, and starving
labourers. Following out consequences, he, at length,
after a long pause, suddenly exclaimed—

“Thunder and Mars! squire, there will be no use
for men at this rate. What is to become of all the

poor labouring people, if you do everything by machinery,
hey?”

“They can employ themselves in making and tending
the machinery.”

“But this won't employ them all, or there would be
no use in machinery. What is to become of the rest
of them?”

“That is no business of mine, colonel. All I know,
is, that it puts money in my pocket; and my maxim is,
take care of number one. Charity begins at home.”

“Hum,” muttered the old continental, who did not
relish these sentiments any more than the cold cut and
the molasses and water; for, with all his Thunder and
Mars, he was at the bottom a kind-hearted man. He
valued wealth, because it administered to his pride,
rather than because he was avaricious; and could
not help observing that the inventions of the squire
were penny-saving contrivances, totally different from
his own magnanimous machines, which were all directed
against the inroads of various mischievous animals,
and had for their object the greatest good of the
greatest possible number of his fellow-creatures. He
began to feel certain decided symptoms of contempt
for his host, and determined to postpone his matrimonial
overtures for the present.

The dinner and conversation of the squire strengthened
the growing disgust of the colonel. The former
we will not particularize, least we should irretrievably
disgust the connoisseurs in French cookery, and shall
decline specification altogether, after merely hinting
that, on the host boasting that a slice of pork, to which
he helped his guest, once appertained to a swine that

weighed upwards of eight hundred pounds, which he
had fattened in a manner, the particulars of which we
scorn to record, the colonel dropped his knife and fork
emphatically, eyed the young squire with peculiar hostility,
and with great difficulty refrained from blazing
out Thunder and Mars. Meanwhile, the molasses and
water circulated briskly, and it seemed that the more
resolutely the guest declined tasting, the more keenly
it was relished by the host, who appeared actually inspired
by the exhilirating beverage.

He became garrulous and communicative; told
story after story, illustrating the triumph of meanness
and cunning over simplicity and inexperience; and
every moment waxed more vain of what would have
caused a blush of shame on the cheek of an honest
man, much more of a gentleman. Finally, as the
climax of his triumphs, he boasted that he had several
times travelled from his house to the city, and back
again, a distance of some sixty miles, without expending
a penny. “I filled my pockets with dried apples,”
said he, “and whenever I felt a little hungry swallowed
a piece or two, and then took a good drink of
water. You know, dried apples when wet swell out
enormously, and I did not require anything else for
that day.”

“And your horse—did he feed on dried apples,
too?”

“Oh! as for him, I have taught the creature to take
care of himself. In the first place, he can travel a
whole day without eating or drinking; and in the
second place, I have only to turn him loose in the road,
and if there is a good pasture in a mile round, he will

find his way there, I'll warrant you. He can pull
down bars, or open a gate equal to any man in the
county.”

During the whole of this conversation, the colonel
had discovered increasing symptoms of uneasy impatience.
At every new display of the narrow, sordid,
and dishonest mind of the young squire, he pushed
his chair farther and farther from the table; and when
Artemas concluded the eulogium on his horse, the triumph
of his eloquence was complete. The old continental
gave the chair one last decisive push, and
rising abruptly from his seat, with an alacrity that
seemed incompatible with his lame leg, made for the
door without ceremony.

“What's your hurry, colonel? Won't you stay and
drink tea?” said the squire.

“I have sworn never to drink tea until the British
government gives up the right of taxing it,” said the
old continental, proudly.

“Well, won't you take a glass of buttermilk?”

“Hum—”

The colonel made him a profound bow, muttered
something about returning his visit, dried apples, molasses
and water, and buttermilk; and calling for his
horse, rode home in a tempest of overwhelming disgust,
which was increased, if possible, fourfold, when
old Mingo pronounced it as his decided opinion, the
colonel's horse had not had a mouthful to eat since
morning, seeing he had debased himself by nibbling
at the short grass in the court-yard.

Jane received her father with fear and trembling,
for she had suspected the purport of his visit. It was

proper, however, to say something; and she at length
ventured to inquire where he had been, adding dinner
was waiting, but that she presumed he had dined.

“Yes,” said he, “on fat pork, washed down by molasses
and water.”

“Why, where could you have been, sir?”

“At young Squire Day's, who is ten times worse
than that obstinate old blockhead, his father. The
confounded skinflint! Jane, you shall never marry
that mean, miserable, miserly, penny-saving machine—
that molasses and water drinking trickster! I never
knew a man with the soul of a half-starved caterpillar,
contaminate his stomach with such stuff. Thunder
and Mars! I say you shan't marry him!”

“I don't wish to marry him, father.”

“Why, Jane, he'd starve you to death; he'd feed
you on dried apples; he'd convert you into a labour-saving
machine, and all his calculations would be,
how he could squeeze most money out of you. Damme,
Jane, if I don't believe he'd cheat himself out of his
own money, if he could find no one else to take in.
There is no use in talking, I tell you, Jane. You
shan't marry him, and there is an end of the whole
matter.”

“But, dear father, you forget; it was you that insisted
on my having him. I'm sure I'd as soon marry
old Mingo.”

“Eh! oh! ah!” quoth the colonel. “Yes, now I recollect—John—oh!
aye! Well, Jane, I never will
believe that a fellow who eats dried apples raw, cheats
his neighbours, starves his work-people and his horse,
and drinks nothing but molasses and water, can tell

the truth if he tries ever so hard. I am sure John is
after all an honest lad, and you may love him as much
as you please.”

“Thank you, dear, dear father!” cried Jane, and she
kissed the old continental just as if he had been somebody
that shall be nameless.