University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

It was late when the company broke up. Bradshaw
stood in the passage with his hat under his
arm, waiting to escort Miss Carlton home, who was
up stairs, arraying herself in her cloak and bonnet.
As she descended, Mr. Bates stepped up and offered
her his services.

“I am sorry to deprive you of so much pleasure,
sir,” said Bradshaw; “but this is an honour and a
gratification which I cannot resign.”

As Bradshaw passed out, with Miss Carlton leaning
on his arm, Willoughby and Selman both addressed
him with—“Bradshaw, meet us at Fleming's.”

“Mary, this is a beautiful night! how bright the
moon and stars are! I should love these autumn
evenings, were it not that the leaves of these shade
trees seem, when moved by the night air, to be
sighing for summer. The happiest period of my
life was the six months after I had left my town
school, previously to my commencing law student,
which I spent in the country. How often have I
walked with yourself and Emily on such an evening!
The stilness of the scene, interrupted only

by the falling of the leaves, and the breath of the
wind among them, contrasts with this so strangely
and so jarringly, that I wish we were walking there
now, that “Auld lang Syne” might be called up
without any discordant associations.”

“I wish so too, with all my heart, for it seems
to me that, in town, one feels more worldly, and disposed
to speculate upon and question feelings which,
in the country, we should be content with enjoying.”

“Yes, 'tis just so; and who ever yet quit a
crowded and bustling scene, such as we have just
left, and went forth, in the still night, without feeling
a certain sense of loneliness—no, I cannot, must
not say loneliness, with you by my side—but a conviction
that their happiness never can spring from
such scenes, and that they constitute but a small
portion of it.”

“True, Clinton,” said his companion, looking up
into his face; “but why do you, who seem to enjoy
such scenes so much, philosophize so much
against them?”

“Ay, there's the rub: I do enjoy myself a great
deal, but it is the enjoyment of mere excitement,
which must give place to gloomy thoughts. I do
believe that we start in life with a certain portion
of animal spirits, which, like a bottle of Champaign,
we cannot use and keep; or, to use a homelier
illustration, we cannot eat our cake and have
it too.”

“But is not the memory of its enjoyment a pleasure?”

“Why, I don't know; I rather think with Byron—

Here am I now, with the world before me, to force
my way in a toilsome and most laborious profession,
with thousands running the same career;
even should I win in the race, it may be at the expense
of health, and to find the goal beside the
grave, and scarcely a breathing time, before the
breath is gone for ever.”

“What put you in such a strange humour, Clinton?”

“Oh, I don't know,—seeing you, I suppose,
whom I have not seen for so long. It throws me
back upon all my early feelings, which, to tell the
truth, I have not called up lately. They come
upon me like an overflowing stream that has been
pent up for a long time. My `little bark of hope'
may be said to be upon the breakers, driving I
know not whither—he who holds the helm, you
know, must not look back too often to the land he's
left—must not look back, I fear, at all—else, he
may be wrecked upon his venturous voyage. He
must go on, like Columbus, and quell the passions
that rise, like his mutinous mariners, to force him
back. Therefore it is, Mary, that I want a guardian
angel, as I told you early this evening, or, rather,
a bright particular star, to control my destiny
and make it happy.”

“Ah! but Clinton,” said his companion, in a tone
that a close observer would have discovered trembled

a little, “as I replied, you would want a host
of guardian angels—a milky way of stars.”

“This milky way of stars would but mislead me.
Mary, I should verify, to quote poetry again, for
the `stars are the poetry of heaven,' I should verify
the lines of the poet—

Well, here we are at your home. Let me pull
the bell. I have talked and felt more romantic for
this last half hour than I have since I last saw
you.”

“Clinton, you must call and see me very soon.”

“Certainly—I will call to-morrow. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Bradshaw turned to leave; when he had proceeded
ten or twelve steps from the door, he heard
it shut gently. Buttoning his coat close up to the
collar, he hastened down street, with a rapid step,
to Fleming's. He descended the steps of the cellar,
(it was an oyster cellar,) and in a few moments
stood among his companions, who were all seated
round the open stove of the establishment, waiting
for him.

“Bradshaw, you must have escorted Miss Carlton
home at a snail's pace—Selman's just got here
from Mr. Perry's; he lingered round Miss Penelope
like old Mohegan about his birth-place,” exclaimed
Willoughby.

“Ah, did he?” replied Bradshaw; “I thought
several times, when I observed Miss Penelope and

Selman this evening, that she must have been influenced
by a consideration of the text, `Blessed
are the merciful;' and you know, Selman, that love
is like mercy, it is thrice blessed;
But beware of old Mohegan's fate, Hal; remember
he expired in a flame, or, what is worse, he was
literally scorched to death.”

“Bradshaw!” exclaimed Selman, “plague take
your quotations; be original. I heard you this evening,
with your d—d die away air, repeating
Tom Moore to Miss Penelope. I don't think Tom
Moore should be repeated to any lady.”

“Ah, Selman, Selman,” said Bradshaw, laughing,

And I fear me that true love has run this evening
as it always runs.”

“I thought,” said Kentuck, “when I observed
Selman this evening, that he was going ahead like
one of our glorious Ohio steamers; but, by Jove, I
believe he's run against a snag since. Stranger,”
he continued, imitating the rough voice of a boatman,
“you seem to be in a bad fix.”

Here they all laughed heartily, save Selman,
who tried to laugh, too, but his voice jarred like a
cracked fiddle at a concert.

“A fellow never knows when he is well off,”
said Bradshaw. “I heard mother-in-law puff him
up to the seventh heaven to-night, and the old gentleman
echoed it.”

“Come,” exclaimed Selman, jumping up and
rallying; “love must be fed, gentlemen, and Bradshaw,
I suspect you have an appetite,—you have
been out so long in this cold night-air, hey? What
say you?”

“Yes, you're right, Selman; I have an excellent
appetite. What say you to whisky-punch and
oysters? Or, if you feel more ethereal, wine and
oysters, or a beef-steak? for I must feed.”

“I go in for the punch,” said Kentuck.

The viands were accordingly ordered.

“Gentlemen,” asked a modest, amiable young
man, named Emory, “how did you enjoy yourselves
this evening?”

“As for me,” said Willoughby, “first rate. I
stood by the sideboard and listened to father Perry
with profound attention. The way I sucked in his
wine and his wisdom was a caution. I drank bumpers
to all his sentiments. Bradshaw, you, I thought,
were, like Selman, drinking in something else.”

“Yes,” said Selman, “I suspect, Willoughby,
you're verifying the old proverb, `In wine there is
truth.' I'll swear you're telling it on Bradshaw.
What say you, Bradshaw?”

Bradshaw smiled and replied,—“No man is
obliged to criminate himself, as the law tells us.
Criminate himself! Why, it would be criminal not
to admire Miss Carlton!”

“That's a fact,” said Kentuck; “she's the loveliest
creature I ever saw, east or west.”

“She has so much ease and grace,” said Emory;
“and then, for one so young, she has such sweet
manners to all.”

The servant soon came in to say that their oysters
were ready.

“It's half after one, by Shrewsbury clock,” said
Kentuck. “We are here all alone; come one and
all into number seven. Mr. Fleming, please to let
us have a goodly number of whisky-punches. Let
me see; one, two, three, four, five—that's it; `there's
a divinity in odd numbers.' No, we're not exactly
alone neither; I see there's a light away off in that
box.”

The young men all entered box number seven,
and before they left it, their stock of oysters had
been replenished once or twice, and their glasses
repeatedly; so often as to add a great deal to their
already overflowing hilarity. The company were
five in number; namely, Bradshaw, Kentuck, Selman,
Emory, and another, whom we have not yet
introduced to our readers, named Cavendish, who
did not join his party until they had commenced
their supper. Cavendish was a student of law, and
from his great gravity, and a certain oddness, more,
perchance, than for his legal acquirements, although
they were very superior, his companions had already
anticipated his elevation to the bench, by
calling him judge. The judge's gravity had been
considerably relaxed, and his tongue loosened, by
the good things which the little green curtain of
number seven hid from the vulgar eye. As the
young men came forth and took their seats round
the stove, Bradshaw and Cavendish were in warm
dispute concerning the merits of different members
of the bar.

“I tell you what it is, Judge,” said Bradshaw,

“you may depend upon it, that Glassman, in point
of real talent—of genius—is the first man at this
bar. I know that he is dissipated—that he has been
guilty of excesses—that there are many things in
his life which the world condemns: but remember
what Byron has so beautifully said of Sheridan—

“Wo! exclaimed Cavendish, “you don't pretend
to tell me there is any wo about Glassman!”

“Yes, I do pretend to tell you that there is wo
about Glassman—unhappiness, I mean.”

“Unhappiness! What a man you are, Bradshaw;
you're always fancying something of somebody.
Why, he is one of the liveliest men I ever
saw: it's a mere fondness for dissipation and profligacy
which makes him lead such a life, and I consider
that W— and T— are infinitely his superiors,
as lawyers. What, in the name of common
sense, makes you think that he's unhappy?”

“If you please, a mere fancy. I know little of
his history, and I don't know him personally; but
he's a man who always interested me. He's dissipated,
fond of society, yet, I'm told, has no intimates
—he's a roué without a mistress—a gambler, indifferent
to losses or gains—and you must have observed,
if you've ever observed him, though not at
all avaricious, he always attends closely to business,
when he has a press of it; and it is in some interval
of business, or when he has very little to attend
to, that he commences his scenes of dissipation: I,
therefore, conclude, that he does not seek dissipation
for the mere love of it, but for the oblivion

which it brings. Depend upon it, no man, no matter
how loudly he laughs, or how easily he talks,
ever exhibited such a character as Glassman, who
was not unhappy; and, much as I may startle you
with the thought, I do not believe his unhappiness
springs from disappointed ambition or treacherous
friendship—what think you of my saying of Glassman
the roué, that I think the unhappiness, which
I attribute to him, arises from a woman.”

“You'll be an excellent advocate before a jury,
Bradshaw, in fancying facts,” said Cavendish. “I
might know a man all my life, and never elaborate
such a character of him as you've just given; and
here you, who don't know Glassman personally—
know, you confess, nothing of his history—you pretend
to draw such conclusions!”

“Well, Judge,” replied Bradshaw, “I confess my
premises are slender, and I lay claim to no superior
penetration, but I have often observed Glassman
at the bar, in the street, and at different
places, and I really think what I said is correct,
though, perhaps, I could get no one to sanction my
opinion; but the superiority of his talents I can
maintain on more tenable grounds: he is the first
man at the bar, in point of natural capacity; in
legal acquirements, he is not surpassed by either
W— or T—; and in polite literature he is
better versed than either of them. And, pray, who
so eloquent? Who has a finer person? Who a better
address? He joins conciliating manners with
firmness of purpose. Notwithstanding his habits,
he maintains his professional dignity, and commands
the respect of the community, not only for his talents,

but for himself. Who is more courted in society,
when he chooses to enter it, and by those
very men and women, too, who spend so much
breath in finding fault with him, behind his back.
Why, Judge, I'd rather hear him speak than any
man at this bar. His language is of the pure old
English—such as one gets by reading the old poets
and prose writers of England—racy, pointed, and
precise. His wit may be a little artificial—somewhat
after the manner of a good deal of Sheridan's
—far-fetched; but, then, it is often natural, and always
keen and applicable. If he does not always
hit the centre of the mark, he always goes near it,
even when he misses, and his arrow is sent from so
strong a bow, that it always sticks. He reasons
clearly—the most profound subject so clearly and
so simply that you do not see its profundity or its
intricacies. Then, I pray you, who wins more
causes than he, or who gives opinions that are oftener
sustained by the court—and who can adorn
a dry legal argument with so much elegant literature—and
who—”

“Halloo!” exclaimed Willoughby, from another
part of the cellar, where himself and Selman had
been drinking and laughing with Fleming, the owner
of the establishment. “Let's sally out boys, and
have a night of it; I feel like going my death.”

“So do I,” said Selman; “let's have a real
spree.”

“Agreed,” said the Judge, who, though he maintained
his argument consecutively, and carried his
liquor discreetly, more like an old limb of the law
than a young one, was overflowing, as his much

talking proved. “Agreed, agreed; call me not
Judge, though, gentlemen—call me not Judge; and
I shall only resume my judgeship, by your leave,
gentlemen, to fine any one as many glasses as we
can all drink, who shall dare to disturb the joyousness
and the appropriateness of this occasion by uttering
the ominous word—Judge.”

“A Daniel come to judgment,” exclaimed Willoughby.

“Joseph Willoughby,” said Cavendish, assuming
his gravest face, “the court fine you five glasses of
whisky-punch, or of whatever drink any individual
of this company may deem most palatable,—the
court will amend their judgment, six glasses, for
Fleming will drink one with us,—for transgressing
the law.”

“How does your Honour make that out?” asked
Willoughby.

“Another fine—twelve glasses,” said Cavendish.

“How in the d—l do you make that out?” shouted
Willoughby.

“Fined again,” said Cavendish. “Joseph Willoughby,
alias old Kentuck, otherwise Kentucky,
the court fine you eighteen glasses—let there be silence
in court while the judgment is being pronounced—and,
let it be understood, that whoever
shall refuse to drink his portion of the fines, shall
have his nose held, as does a mother hold her child's,
when she would give medicine to it, which the ignorant
infant has not capacity to understand is for
its own good, and take voluntarily,—shall have
his nose held, and a double portion administered to
him, by compulsion; the first portion, because he

ought to have taken it, and the second, because he
did not take the first portion willingly.”

“How do you make it out?” asked Willoughby,
impatiently.

“Let's have the court organized,” said Bradshaw.
“Cavendish, put that arm-chair on the table, and
mount it, for the judgment-seat: here, I'll turn up
this little table; it will do for a dock, in which to
place the prisoner. Constable Emory, take charge
of the prisoner, and place him in the dock, while I
assist the Honourable Jonathan Cavendish, whose
extreme decrepitude—the decrepitude of honourable
age—requires support, to the judgment-seat.
We are thankful, however, that he does not want
spirit to do his duty.”

“Listen, Joseph Willoughby, alias Kentuck, alias
old Kentucky,” said Cavendish to Willoughby, the
one seated in the arm-chair on the table, and the
other standing upon the inverted table, while Emory
held his collar; “listen, while the court pass
sentence upon you, and let the by-standers take
warning by your awful example. Were it not that
the court were already, for other offences, about to
fine you heavily, you should be severely fined for
appearing in court in your present beastly condition—for,
alas! it is too apparent that you are in
such a state, that the admonition of the court will
be but little heeded:—My Lord Mansfield has observed
that there is no situation in which the human
mind can be placed, more difficult, and more
trying, than when it is made a judge in its own
cause. The court do not think that they are
placed in this difficult situation, described by my

Lord Mansfield, though, at first blush, it would
seem that they were. The law was passed, that
you should not use the word judge on the present
occasion; yet, no sooner was it passed, than
you exclaimed—`A Daniel come to judgment.'

“Now, who can pronounce the word judgement,
without saying judge. For this, then, you are fined
six glasses. As the court were about to pass sentence
on you for your first offence, you interrupted
the court, and used the word honour; now, as honour
is but a synonymous word with judge, and as
on this occasion we must construe the law according
to the spirit, you are as clearly finable as if
you had said judge. The third instance in which
your are finable is, for using the word devil, and
interrupting the court. Such offences as the last-named,
were punishable by the common law.
Therefore, Joseph Willoughby, alias Kentuck, alias
old Kentucky, you are fined eighteen glasses, and
let them be immediately forthcoming. The court
are dry with much speaking.”

“Ha! ha!” shouted Willoughby; “I will say,
though I am fined again, that you're a wise judge,
and I do honour thee.”

“Mr. Bradshaw,” said Cavendish, with great solemnity,
“do you not mean to attend to your duties?
Assist the court to descend, sir.”

“There's one thing I'll propose,” said Selman,
while they were drinking, “that is, that we fine
Bradshaw for his d—d quotations, and for spouting
Tom Moore to women.”

“Come, let's sally forth and have a night of it!”
exclaimed two or three of the company.

“Gentlemen, I protest,” said the Judge, scarcely
able to stand, yet as grave as he was tipsy; “I protest,
I hope that some of us—your humble servant,
for instance—has a character to lose. Here's Emory,
his modesty will take him out of a scrape, as
no one will believe that he got intentionally into
it. Here's Selman; he has an excuse in the frowns
of his lady-love. It is proper, said one of the old
philosophers, to drown love in wine. Old Kentuck
is a privileged character; he can get drunk when
he pleases. Bradshaw, keep your eyes open, and
you'll be something: you have the elements of success
in you; but mind your ways, and put the curb
bridle on your imagination and your passions; if
you don't, you'll be thrown, though you were riding
Eclipse. There, I can elaborate a character, too,
gentlemen. Each of you wend your several ways.
What, get into a spree just from Perry's party!
Why, sirs, this slanderous town will allege that we
got drunk there. I fear they could prove it upon
Kentuck; and what then, gentlemen of the jury?
I believe I'm drunk—I've got a whole host of declarations
to fill up to-morrow.—Come, Kentuck—
gentlemen, the court stands adjourned sine die—
this is die, though it is as dark as Egypt.”

So saying, Cavendish took Willoughby's arm;
the rest following, they left, not without many missteps,
the cellar.