University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Mr. James Perry, at whose house the party
was given, was one of that class of individuals
who are frequently to be met with in our country.
From extreme poverty and obscurity he
had risen to opulence, and that kind of reputation
which opulence bestows. On 'Change, he was
bowed to with profound respect by his brother
merchants; the lawyer knew him as one able to
fee well; the mechanic, as one who paid well; the
young, fashionable men, about town, as the old
chap who had daughters and something to give
them; and the young ladies, that is, certain of
them, as the delightful old gentleman with such
fine sons; and the solicitors of all sorts of nameless
charities, as the very one whom they had best
get to head the lists of contributions: therefore,
Mr. Perry was a distinguished citizen. He was
a shrewd, money-making, money-keeping old
man, with a good deal of worldly wisdom. He
did not look upon the bright side of human nature,
but he was good-natured, and he retained
much of his original vulgarity, which did not
trouble himself, but afflicted his family sorely.

Mr. Perry had four daughters and two sons;
the oldest of the daughters was married to Mr.
Joseph Nutt, who formed one of the firm of Perry,
Nutt, & Co.; the Co. being represented by the
eldest son of Mr. Perry; namely, Mr. James Perry,
jr. The rest of the family were unmarried,
but marriageable. There was, first, Miss Priscilla
Perry, and then Miss Penelope Perry, and then
Miss Jane Perry, and then, last, though not least,
at least in his own estimation, was Mr. Washington
Perry. The mother of this race was a thin,
bustling, active old lady, who loved her children
devotedly, and always sided with them when any
discussion took place between them and their father
on certain fashionable proprieties, which the
old gentleman seemed to have a propensity to violate,
or rather not to understand. Upon this point
Mrs. Perry felt herself entitled to admonish him,
as she was sometimes wont to observe, in the family
circle, that she came of a family who knew
what high life was when Mr. Perry first got acquainted
with her: and he had to show the devotion
of years, in which time his property did not
decrease, before the lady could be brought to consent
to accept his long proffered hand.

Two suits of rooms were thrown open to receive
the company who assembled on this evening.
It was, literally, a squeeze. An individual
moved about to the eminent risk of his neighbours'
toes and to, apparently, the unutterable damage
of the ladies' dresses. It required the skill
of an accomplished tactician to step amidst the

mass of fashionables (dare we use the expression)
and not do injury. How frowningly disdainful
would curl some fair one's lips, when some one
whom she held of little worth disordered her
robes in passing!—particularly if the individual
chanced to be one of her own sex, the why and
wherefore of whose invitation she held debateable.
These squeezes are a great test of amiability.
How many passions are attempted to be
thrown off with the old dress! and how many
soft phrases and kind looks are put on with the
new one! which, like it, often lose their gloss
before the evening is over;—and yet here were
many happy faces that were really emblems of
happy hearts—and many more, that wore the
seeming, and had it not—this counterfeiting,
though, proves one thing—that the true coin is
not only current, but valuable.

The party was a brilliant one—all the fashion
of the town were there, and they had assembled
before Bradshaw and his friend arrived.

“I declare, Mr. Selman,” said Miss Penelope Perry,
a plump, pretty, good-natured coquettish girl, “I
declare you are really getting too fashionable; you
are the last of all!”

“Not in your good opinion, I hope, Miss Penelope,”
said Selman, with a most gallant air, which
was meant to be tender.

“You deserve to be, if you are not, sir, for
coming at such a time.”

“I assure you, Miss Penelope,” said Bradshaw,
“it was my fault. I detained Selman; and the

only way I could keep him was, by discoursing of
yourself.”

As this was said, Selman took his seat by Miss
Penelope, and Bradshaw, cutting his eye at him,
whispered, “Three is bad company,” and sauntered
to another part of the room.

“My, what fine manners Mr. Bradshaw has,”
said Miss Penelope; “he's so good-looking, and they
say he is superior to all the young men in the city.
Is it so?”

The way that “superior to all the young men
in the city” was pronounced, gave Selman, for a
moment, a queer sensation, that was not pleasurable,
but he rallied and said,

“He's the finest fellow I know; as that wild Kentuckian,
Willoughby, says, he's a whole-souled fellow.”

“I wonder he don't go more into society, I never
saw easier manners.”

“Yes, he has very fine manners; but, Miss Penelope,”
said Selman, lowering his voice, “why did
you treat me so coldly at your sister's, Mrs. Nutts,
last night? You had neither smile nor look for any
one but that booby Bates.”

“Kentuck,” said Bradshaw to Willoughby, in
another part of the room, “how do you like our
city? and how does this gay scene before you compare
with old Kentuck?”

“Why, sir,” said Willoughby, who was proud of
being a Kentuckian, “Kentuck would not suffer in
the comparison. There we have more frankness;
and in getting up a ball or party extempore we

could beat you. I wish, Bradshaw, you would take
a trip across the mountains with me, some of these
days, and judge for yourself; you would be delighted
with the Kentuckians, and, to tell the truth,
you remind me a good deal of them.”

“Thank you, sir. Estimating your countrymen
as I know you do, I feel, indeed, that you have
paid me a compliment.”

“Ah, Mr. Willoughby, I'm glad to see you, sir,”
said old Mr. Perry, advancing towards the young
men, and giving them a hearty shake of the hand;
“you must make a good report of us, when you
write home. Mr. Bradshaw, you are welcome, sir.
I believe you are not yet acquainted with my wife,
sir,—my lady—Mrs. Perry?”

“I have not yet had that pleasure, sir; though
I have several times called upon the Miss Perrys,
I have not been so fortunate as to see your lady.”

The old gentleman took the arm of Bradshaw
and led him up to Mrs. Perry, who was standing
by the mantel-piece, with great dignity, waiting
the approach of her guests. Bradshaw was, accordingly,
introduced.

“I believe, Mr. Perry built this house himself,
ma'am,” said Clinton, looking round the ample dimensions
of the room, and at the costly furniture,
“did he not?”

“Yes, sir—oh, yes, sir; and, I believe, I may lay
claim to some of it as being according to my taste.”

“All of it, I should presume, ma'am.”

“Yes, sir, and the Miss Perrys, the folding-doors,
sir—they are broader, you perceive, than they are

generally made. I took the hint from Mrs. Holliday's,
and she, I'm told, saw all the houses after
this fashion when she was in Europe.”

“Mrs. Holliday; is she here, ma'am?”

“Yes, sir: that tall lady in black, whom you see
standing by the piano. She is a delightful lady; I
love her very much.”

“I have the pleasure of knowing her.”

“Yes, Mr. Clinton Bradshaw, it seems you know
every body this evening, except me, your old school-mate,”
said a sweet voice at Bradshaw's elbow.

Bradshaw turned quickly, and well he might.
The speaker was a female, and could scarcely be
sixteen. Her form was of the finest proportions,
and graceful as could be; perhaps, she was not
quite tall enough. The rose was just budding.
The delicately moulded hand, which he felt tremble
a little, as he clasped it, was proverbially beautiful
and fair. The neck, thrown archly back,
may be, with a little consciousness, was nearly hid
by long and clustering curls of light auburn hair,
that seemed, as the light was reflected on them
from a large mirror opposite, to have been gathered
of sunbeams, among which night had partly thrown
her shadows, if I may dare to use such an expression,
and bound upon her brow with starry looking
pearl. Her forehead was very fair, but rather
broad than high, and the eyebrow rather deeply
drawn, and slightly arching. Her eye was blue—
blue as heaven, with a softness over it, like a summer's
sky seen between whitest clouds; but its expression
changed with every feeling, while a playful

archness and sensibility lurked in her exquisite
and redolent lip.

“Mary,” he exclaimed, warmly,—“I beg pardon,
Miss Carlton, when did you come to town?”

“Yes, sir, you're a pretty schoolmate to neglect
your old friends at this rate! I brought a note for
you from your sister, and I was determined you
should not have it till you called for it. I came to
town the day before yesterday, and this is the first
you knew of it, is it? And here you have been in
the room this half hour, and, I verily believe, you
have spoken to every one in it, old and young, except
myself!”

“No, Mary, no,” said Bradshaw, in a low voice—

Indeed, I am glad to see you. If I had known you
were here, I should not have loitered away so long:
I should have had the pleasure of waiting on you
here. How is my sister? But I heard from her
to-day.”

“Is she well?”

“Yes.”

“She has written you a very long letter. She
said you were to be out there next Sunday. She
charged me to tell you to take care of your health.”

“My kind parents and sister think I am still an
invalid, and they regard me still as the poor, frail
child who gave them so much uneasiness. I consider
myself now in strong health, and, as I never
was much of a student, and read less now than I

did two years since, there is a likelihood of my
health remaining strong.”

“I hope so; but, Mr. Clinton, what if you should
become dissipated among your city friends? I suppose
you flatter yourself, that you have strength
of mind sufficient to resist all temptation.”

“Quite the contrary: I find that the prayer, `Lead
us not into temptation,' which I have so often heard
my father repeat, must be mine in spirit and in
truth; for, Mary, to tell you the truth, I fear, whenever
I get into temptation, temptation gets the better
of me. Won't you be my guardian angel?”

“Why, sir, according to your confession, you'll
want a whole host of guardian angels; as many
as were appointed in Pope's poem to guard the
lady's hair,—and, after all, you know, the lock was
stolen.”

“Ah, but, Mary, who would not struggle with a
thousand invisible shapes of air, and defy their influence,
to win such a lock?” said Bradshaw, gazing
upon her own luxuriant tresses.

“Come, Mr. Clinton, none of your flattery here,
sir,” said she, slightly blushing; “talk to me as you
used to talk to me at school, when you walked
home between Emily and me, and bore our baskets
for us, and gathered the wild berries, and plucked
the wild rose, and kept away the wild bull: do you
remember that time?” continued she, drawing involuntarily
closer to his side; “I shall never forget
it, Clinton. Now, sometimes, it occurs to me you
are altering, particularly since you have come to
town: you seem more worldly, and more cold, and

more ambitious, and what you say is said in choicer
language, and with more self-possession, but is there
so much of the heart in it?”

“More of it, to you, Mary; but come, take my
arm and promenade with me, and let me make
some of these exquisites around us envious.”

“Pray, who is that?” said a young man, in another
part of the room, by the name of Bates, to his
companion; “who is that, on whose arm Miss Carlton
is leaning?”

The interrogator is the same individual whom
Selman, in reproaching Miss Penelope Perry for
neglecting him, called “booby Bates.” He is a
young gentleman who has high notions of himself,—
high aristocratic notions of family,—notwithstanding
his father was a pedlar, and peddled, with a
pack upon his back, tapes and needles to the mothers
of those around him, whom he affects to call
plebeians. Mr. Bates was fresh from college, and
strongly reminded one of Swift's lines—

His companion was a young gentleman of his own
age and calibre. He replied to the interrogation
in an affected tone of voice, saying, “'Pon honour,
I don't know any thing about him. His father, I
believe, is an old farmer—ploughman—who sells
his own turnips in the market, and has, I suspect,
hard times to raise the wind to support my gentleman
in the study of the law. Really, Mr. Bates,
the professions are becoming quite common!”

“Yes, sir, very much so, Mr. Turnbull—but how
came Miss Carlton to be acquainted with him?”

“Why, I believe, sir, the fact is, that this young
man's father's farm joins the estate of Mr. Carlton,
and, I suppose, the young man, in running of errands
to Mr. Carlton's, perhaps, to the overseer's,
to borrow some article of husbandry for his father,
chanced to get acquainted with Miss Carlton.”

“She seems to treat him very kindly.”

“He fastened himself upon her, probably, and
she can't get rid of him. Besides, there's no accounting
for tastes, you know; ha, ha, his father's
a shouting methodist!”

“We must reform these things, Mr. Turnbull,
we must reform these things,” replied Mr. Bates,
adjusting his stock.

“Now, I'd give a hundred dollars,” thought Selman,
who overheard this conversation, “if I had it
to give, poor devil as I am, if Bradshaw heard
this.—I hate that Bates, and I've just a great mind
to tell Bradshaw. The blood of the pilgrims would
be up in his veins, as Kentuck would say, like all
wrath.” Selman was a great lover and utterer of
quaint sayings.

The dancing now commenced. Mr. Bates, with
an air of extreme affectation, treading on his toes,
and bending forward, advanced to Miss Carlton,
and begged the honour of her hand for the dance.

“Thank you, sir,” replied Miss Carlton; “I promised
to promenade this set with Clinton—with
Mr. Bradshaw. Are you acquainted with Mr.

Bates, Mr. Bradshaw? Gentlemen, permit me to
make you acquainted.”

The young men bowed to each other: Bradshaw
with easy civility, and Bates with much awkwardness,
which was intended for dignity.

“How long have you been home, Mr. Bates?”
asked Bradshaw.

“About a month, sir.”

“I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before,
sir. When Professor D—, of Yale, was in
our city, some three months since, I had the honour
of making his acquaintance. I received a letter
from him to-day: he spoke of you, sir, and of
several of your fellow students; and desired me to
present his compliments to those of the graduates
with whom I might be acquainted.”

“Was he well, sir.”

“Yes, sir, I thank you, very well,” replied Bradshaw,
as he bowed and passed onward, with Miss
Carlton leaning on his arm.

The dance went on merrily. Selman was making
the agreeable, with all his might, to Miss Penelope
Perry; and the lady appeared to be particularly
kind. Mrs. Perry was seated on the sofa, talking
with one of the elder ladies, but evidently abstracted:
judging from the expression of her eye, and its
direction, she was observing the Miss Perrys. The
way in which she contrived to keep all of them in
the maternal vision, was an art which none but
mothers, fond of their daughters, and anxious for
them, can practise. There is a beauty and joy in
the glittering dance which makes even age blithesome!

The merry music—the many twinkling
feet keeping time with it—the profusion of lights—
the happy faces looking on—and the thousand little
flirtations which the very courtesies of the dance
call up in the feelings of partners, however indifferent
to each other,—how strong, at the moment,
the feelings of others, differently situated!—combine
to make the scene one of enjoyment to all.
Even the old gentlemen, who had been busily discussing
the politics of the day over Mr. Perry's
wine, quit the one, and forgot the other, while they
joined the circle round the dancers, and called up the
day of “Auld lang Syne.” To an observer of human
nature, it is a pleasant sight, to behold, on such
occasions, how the gray heads and caps of the company
will become suddenly brisk and youthful in
their civilities to each other. Then it is, the young
discover that the manners of their fathers, which
struck them as cold formalities—the formalities of
another age, which must have been one of stiff ceremonies—are,
in fact, as social as their own, when
the social feelings are aroused. Their parents differ
from them only as age differs from youth; as
the snow-clad landscape, the frozen current, and
songless bird upon the withered bough of winter,
differ from the smiling landscape, the babbling
brook, and tuneful bird, of summer.