University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

“Lucy, those are pretty flowers of yours,” said
Bradshaw to the jailer's daughter, as they passed
them; she tripping
along by his side.

“Yes, sir; but sometimes I think I'll never touch
them again—the soil is so poor, and then the prisoners,
who have the yard, take them, or tread
over them so often.”

“What beaux have you at the jail, Lucy?”

“Not many, sir—and, indeed, Mr. Bradshaw,
there come so many bad men to jail, young men,
too, who look as if they should be good, that though
I don't suspect people, it seems to me I ought.”

“And, Lucy, have you never been in love?”

“I have had likings, sir, but—”

“But what, Lucy?”

“I thought they would not please daddy, sir, and
I tried to forget them.”

“And you have not altogether succeeded?”

“Not altogether, sir.”

“Lucy, I'm too young to give you advice. I may
stand in need of it myself, but—”

“Daddy says, sir, he thinks your advice is better
than any of the lawyers'.”

“Ah! does he, Lucy? Well, as your daddy

thinks so well of me, if ever I can be of any service
to you in any way, you must not forget to ask
it, will you?”

“No, sir, I will not.”

“Lucy, you have behaved so kindly to Jane
Durham that you deserve to do well. I'll lay my
life on it, you are the best girl that ever was in a
jail. But beware of those persons about the jail:
bad men love the fair flower, but they do not care
to nurse it—even before it fades they neglect it;
and when it withers, they rudely trample it in the
dust—you have heard Jane Durham's story?”

“Yes, sir, and a hard life, indeed, she has had
of it. Adams is the worst man, I think, I ever
heard of.”

“True, Lucy; but any one would shrink from
such a wretch as Adams, by a kind of instinct; his
roughness, his ferocity are not relieved by a single
virtue that I can discover, and his countenance
tells the tale on him at once—but there are others
that are good-looking and fair-spoken, who are as
bad as Adams.”

Lucy held down her head, and sighed.

“Lucy, let me give you this advice. Do not
listen to any of these men, who have the liberty of
the yard, if they speak to you of liking you. And
when your good heart leads you to ask some sick
prisoner through his prison windows, how he is;
do not let your gentle, girlish sympathies too quickly
believe the tale he tells you of his innocence.
Receive his gratitude as your mother or your father
would receive it. Do not think too much of
the pretty words he tells it in—he may be very

bad and seem to be very good. Some one of them
may tell you, he has reformed for love of you; but
it will be much harder, may be, to keep good feeling
alive in him, even though he has, than it is to
cultivate your little bed of flowers, by the jail wall.
How careful you have to be of that! The soil
is so bad, and the prisoners who have the yard,
take them, after you have so kindly tended them.
Thus will it be with the gentle virtues—with love
even of you, Lucy, in such a man's heart—his
rude companions will tear them up after you have
planted them, and nursed them with so much care,
and you'll have so often to water them with your
tears. What kind of man is Johnson, the watchman,
Lucy?”

“Oh! sir, from what came out to-day, he must
be a very bad man. But I have always heard he
was a very bad man. He got a good salary as a
watchman—and he owned the house he lived in.
His wife and daughter took in sewing, and every
cent they made, he spent; and he treated them
very badly—so folks say.”

They here reached Nancy's door, and Bradshaw
told Lucy to remember him to Nancy, and bid her
good night.

“Bradshaw,” exclaimed Nancy, who was coming
out of a gate by her house. “Come in, and let
me see ye yerself, and I'll remember ye the better,
man.”

“How's Josey, Nancy?”

“Better, honey, better—he's had a bad rheumatiz,
but he's better. That's Lucy with ye; she's
come to stay with me, is it? Come in a minute.

I've just been in the yard to get a brick to heat
for Josey's feet—it's better than a flat-iron, ye see,
because that won't hold the heat so long, and the
handle's in the way—it's very grateful to the rheumatiz.
Come in.”

Bradshaw and Lucy entered. Bradshaw sat a
few moments, talking with Nancy, and then bid
them good night.

“Lucy, dear,” said Nancy, when Bradshaw had
gone—“where did ye see Bradshaw?”

“At the jail, ma'am.”

“Hand me that black bottle, Lucy, dear, in the
corner of the cup-board. My hussy, Beck, ye see,
runs about of errands so much through the day,
that I let her go to bed. And niggers being, as
they hain't got the sense of white people, require
more sleep, like dumb animals. And what did
Bradshaw say to ye, honey—how come he to come
with ye, dear?” proceeded Nancy, while she busied
herself in making a little hot toddy for Josey;
tasting frequently, to ascertain that the ingredients
were properly mixed, adding now a little brandy,
now a little sugar, and, occasionally, a little water.

“What did he say to ye, dear.”

“He gave me good advice,” said Lucy, innocenty.

“About what, honey,” asked Nancy, glancing
over her shoulder, at Lucy.

“Not to trust the people at the jail—any of the
men who have the yard, if they should speak to
me of liking me,” said Lucy, blushing.

“Good advice,” said Nancy, pausing in the act
of raising the glass to her lip, which she affected

just to sip—“Bradshaw's a young one to give it,
though—and he's not a professor of religion; but
he's a good heart. He said nothing to ye but
good advice, Lucy?”

“And he asked me of Johnson, the watchman,
and his family.”

“That's an awful business, to-day, Lucy—that
Johnson is as black-hearted as the evil one himself—he
deserves hanging. I don't know when
I felt for a human creatur more than for that
poor thing to-day. I wonder how she come to
be at Dean's—it's a low place;—she's pretty, and
she's been awfully tempted. We're sinners all.
Lucy, dear, just tread lightly into the back room,
and bring me the Bible that's open, on the foot
of Josey's bed. How did you leave Jane Durham?”

“She's happier than she was; she's been walking
in the jail-yard with Mr. Bradshaw, all the
evening.”

“Walking in the jail-yard with her,” said
Nancy to herself, with a half humorous doubting
smile, as Lucy left the room. “Good advice agin,
I wonder! The poor thing likes Bradshaw; I
just see where it'll end—there be a fuss 'atween him
and Glassman.” Lucy here returned, and Nancy
said to her:—“There, Lucy, that's a good girl.
Take a seat, and trim the candle, dear; I'll do
some knitting. We are weak creatures, all. That
was a most excellent sarmunt we had last Sabbath
morn, honey, from Mr. Gowler; there was real
unction in it. `Lead us not into temptation,' was
the text. Temptation is an awful trial, Lucy,

and hard to resist. This is a wicked world; the
natur of man is as prone to evil, as the sparks to
fly upward, and for that matter, woman's too. I
sometimes, honey, set and think—between whiles,
when I'm not selling at the court, and Beck's away,
and I'm not talking to no body, I have an awful
time to think—I set and think of the snares, and
pitfalls, and trials, and temptations, and backslidings—backslidings
is a common sin, Lucy,—
that besets the whole of us. I sometimes wonder
to myself, how the world gits on so well, considering
all things—the vanities, and wickedness, and
tribulations, and besetments that's around about us.
But, we must buckle on our armour, as good Mr.
Gowler says, and fight the wicked one. Read out,
Lucy; read out—your voice sounds to me like as if
it was meant to read the word.”

Mean while, Bradshaw proceeded to his office.
On his way he met Fritz.

“Fritz,” he exclaimed, “why did not you return
to the court to-day, with the witness, who, you
told me, was with you when you saw Johnson
murder the man?”

“Why, Mr. Bradshaw, I've been hunting him
all day, and I'm after him now. I'll bring him
round to your office, to-morrow.”

“Well, do. How did you get away from Johnson,
that night, Fritz—I never asked you?”

“Two of the boys came up, sir, and hustled
him while I run.”

“What was the reason the lane was so still that
night?”

“Why, sir, the fuss sent some of the boys to
covey, after the ball broke up—they were afraid

of being brought in—and others were prowling
about slily to catch some steamboat characters,
who had been in the lane, just after dark, and had
a fight with some of the boys. We had mustered
strength, and expected to pay 'em up. I was
looking round for them, when Johnson caught me.
I expect he thought I knew something of the murder,
and he wanted to put me in jail, and keep me
safe from telling.”

“Did not you pass me in the lane, that night,
just before you get to old Moll's.”

“Yes, sir, one of the boys, who was with you,
came a-head and met me. He told me who you
was, and that they were a going to see you through
the lane. I thought I'd go on; for the watchman, I
expected, would be after me.”

“Well, Fritz, take care of yourself, and bring
big Bob round to my office as soon as you find
him. Oh, why do they call Adams Parsnips?”

“Because, he said, sir, 'twas the first thing he
ever stole.”

Bradshaw had scarcely left Fritz, while he
walked along leisurely, enjoying the calm moonlight,
when he was overtaken by Willoughby and Cavendish,
arm in arm.

“Bradshaw,” said the Kentuckian, “what girl
was that you were walking with past the theatre,
on the dark side of the street?”

“Where were you?” asked Bradshaw.

“At the corner, by the magistrate's office,” said
the Judge, “your tongue was running like a steamer's
wheels. Who was she?”

“Job's daughter.”

“What Job?” asked the Judge.

“The jailer's daughter, Lucy.”

“Bradshaw you're a pretty fellow! Quite appropriate,
though—and in character—a thief-taker,
one night, and the gallant of a jailer's daughter
another—I suppose you have the laudable intention
of doing your best to make old Job as great a
sufferer as was his namesake,” said Cavendish.

“Judge, we must get you a tub, by Jove—it's
all you want to be the Diogenes of our modern
Athens.”

“Well, I can tell you this, Bradshaw, in earnest,”
said the Judge; “that, if you have any intention of
playing the gay Lothario with this poor girl, who,
I am told, is as good as she is pretty, that when I
light my lamp to find an honest man, I'll not walk
round by your office for the purpose.”

“Judge, you'll finish your days in the pulpit, I've
no doubt—and, like too many of the cloth, you'll
think that all virtue is confined to your class. No,
sir; your Roman friendship estimates my honourable
feelings rather lowly. I'll flirt with her who
likes flirtation—I'll go as far as I am led—I'll meet,
perchance, more than half way, the proffered
blandishment that courts solicitation. Nay, I may
pass the Rubicon, but not o'er the ruins of a broken
heart, a violated friendship, or a betrayed
confidence.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that, Bradshaw,” said
the Judge. “I know you are something of a Cæsar
in ambition; and I did not know but what your
morality also resembled his.”

“The Judge lectures you like a very Cato,
Bradshaw,” said Kentuck; “and I hope you'll lay
it to heart: for he's a righteous judge.”

“You're marvellous godly men, upon my word!”
exclaimed Bradshaw, laughing. “You've been to
the theatre—hey! The Judge here would enact
the Hypocrite to perfection, and Kentuck, I think
I hear you as Maw-worm, exclaiming, `He's a
saint.”'

“Then you don't think you'll ever play the
character of Joseph,” said Kentuck to Bradshaw.

“Joseph!” exclaimed Bradshaw—“what, Mrs.
Potiphar's Joseph?—never, if from no other consideration
than a respect for my garment. The
Judge now enacts another Joseph, Joseph Surface,
admirably—he has such `excellent sentiments!”'

“This all may be very witty, Bradshaw,” said
the Judge; “but I'm sorry to hear you express
yourself so—I hope it is the ambition of saying
witty things, and not your notions of morality that
dictates to you. And, to speak upon a matter of
company—jailers' daughters and frail ones in allies,
—you had better confined your republicanism to
your politics.”

“Bah!” said Bradshaw. “My republicanism
teaches me self-respect in all respects.—Don't you
know that the great poet says you must not

Yes, sir; this world is like a coquette—woo devotedly,
and you're jilted—treated as Garrick treated
his friends—
But stand upon your reserved rights, as a man,
which you did not part with, when you became a
party to the compact of society—and society will
respect you. “Who lives in that splendid mansion?”
continued Bradshaw, pointing to one near them.

“G—,” exclaimed the Judge.

“Well—his father was a Scotchman, and was
sold, on his arrival in this country, as an `indented
servant,' to pay his passage money. He applied
himself, after his time was out, to commerce—made
a fortune; and there his son lives, a very clever
fellow. The servant who will come to his door,
when you pull the bell, is an `indented servant'—
sold to pay his passage from the ould country: no
more and no less than what G—'s father was.
Lucy Presley is the daughter of old Job Presley,
the jailer, whose father fought in the good fight of
our revolution, and held the respectable station
of lieutenant in the continental army. He had not
a sixpence when the army was disbanded, and he
married the daughter of a tavern-keeper, and died
a short time afterwards of strong waters. Job was
born after his father's death; and, in due time, ran
about his grandfather's tavern, no doubt, a curly
headed ragamuffin, who held a traveller's horse for
a copper, and consorted with stable boys, whose
greatest envy was a well-appointed horse jockey.
Lucy is of a good family—hey, Judge! Yet, the
Miss G—s might think it strange to meet Lucy
Presley in society;—nevertheless, Lucy has more
beauty and more intellect than all the Miss G—s
put together: and I am not saying that they are
not very clever girls—good, honest, true-and-true
descendants from old G—, an `indented servant,'
who was no less a personage than their grandfather.

Now, I think no more of the Miss G—s because
they have wealth—nor should I think less of
them, if they wanted it; and it is perfectly indifferent
to me who their grandfather was so long as
they are ladies, and behave as such. But should
it ever so happen—and such things often happen—
that Lucy, humble as she now is, should be invited
into society, and I should hear the Miss G—s
speak of the distinctions of `their set,' and the sin of
admitting a jailer's daughter among the aristocracy,
I should, with the coolest voice in the world, mention
who Lucy was—her family,—and ask if one generation
could make or break titles to aristocracy;
and upon what aristocracy was founded?—whether
the grand-daughter of a soldier of the revolution,
who was beautiful and good, had not as high claims
upon the attention of society, as the grand-daughters
of an honest old Scotchman, who was a freeman,
or, rather, a freedman—because he worked
out his freedom, but not in the battle-field.”

“Why, Bradshaw, I thought you liked the Miss
G—s,” said Cavendish.

“So I do—and I like them because they have
much less assumption than persons generally, who
have acquired wealth as they did;—and so long as
they are as they are, God speed them, and continue
with them all the blessings that wealth bestows.
But the moment they claim peculiar privileges and
immunities, on the score of wealth,—I would give
the honour to whom it is due,—I would blazon the
grandad's indentures on their front door, and do all
I could to promote a match between one of the
Miss G—s and their `indented servant,' because

I should be for keeping their wealth in their peculiar
line of aristocracy—to which society I would
confine them.”

“D—n the G—s!” exclaimed the Judge, who
was full of family pride, for he claimed descent from
one of the first, wealthiest, and foremost families in
the revolution—a family that had possessed an
immense entailed estate, which, under our republican
government, as estates tail are not known,
passed out of their hands, by a prodigality which
knew how to spend, but not to earn. “Bradshaw,
every body says you write those lampoons that are
making such a fuss in Jekyl's paper. Why don't
you lampoon these upstarts?”

“Now, Judge, there you're wrong. I should begin
my lampoon on family pride, if I lampooned
any such follies. I wish Selman were here; I'd
make a whole host of such quotations on the subject:
from Burns, about rank being but the `guineas'
stamp,' and a man being the `gold, for aye
that'—yes, and the ploughman-poet might have
said, that there is less alloy in the unstamped gold
than in the guinea—from Pope, on the `blood of
the Howards;' from Tom Jefferson; from Burke,
who, though he was the great champion of aristocracy,
did not respect it much in the person of the
duke of Bedford, when defending himself and son
from the duke's attack—from, in fact, all the great
names of modern and ancient times. It's well enough
for him who has no other distinction but his wealth,
to boast of that—it's all he has to boast of. He who
has nothing but family pride can have pride, of
course, in nothing else. We who carry our stock

in trade upon our shoulders must—ay, you laugh
—you think we may not have enough to speak of
—no, we never should have enough to speak of
ourselves; let others speak of it—that's the kind of
pride that I pride myself in. Self-sustainment is my
theory, blow high or blow low, and I'll practise it.”

“You're right, Bradshaw; only I'd have this
self-sustainment, as the true Kentuck spirits have
it, from the heart, from impulse, from nature,” said
Willoughby.

“So would I,” said Bradshaw, “have it from the
heart, but I'd call the head in as a co-operator. I
tell you what it is, we must always call the head
in to the help of that same fluttering, palpitating,
trembling, impulsive agent. Why, though you are
lion-hearted, yet, if the net is round you—you remember
the fable—you are confined by cords that
you cannot break, unless the little mouse cuts
through them, and lets you out! Your heart may
be ever so big and so valiant, but when it gets you
into a scrape, Judge, when the net's around you,
you have, after all, to set that mouse of a head of
yours to work.”

“Mr. Bradshaw, what do you mean by that?”
asked Cavendish, petulantly; “I don't understand
you, sir.”

“No harm, Judge, no harm,” replied Bradshaw,
laughing. “I think too well of your heart to disparage
your head.”

There were few persons stirring at this hour.
This conversation commenced in a fashionable and
much-frequented street, and before it had continued
long, the young men came to a halt, at a corner,

where there had been a great fire, and where nothing
stood around them but its ruins. Here they
parted: Bradshaw strolled on, for he wished to be
alone, and the excitement of the day had banished
sleep.

Standing, at last, upon a hill that overlooked
the city, for he had rambled to a favourite spot,
ruminating upon the thoughts which the conversation
had called up, he said, in soliloquy, almost
aloud—“Bah! what can the few wealthy men in
that city do for me; leave me their fortunes they
won't, though I were ever so much their humble
servant; give me a daughter one of them might, if
the lady fair were willing, and if willing she were—

I must remember that quotation for Selman's
benefit—who couldn't reconcile mammy or daddy
afterwards. But I can earn wealth sufficient,
without any such proceedings. The vote of him
who lives in the largest mansion in that full city,
is no better than his vote who tumbles with a
dozen others out of a shanty. Ay, and it is often
given, with not half so much disinterestedness—
the great mass of the people mean to do right—
they seek no office and expect none. Give me old
Job's vote and influence in preference to G—'s
any day. And as for family pride—if that counts—
have I not the proud imperial purple of the “commonwealth
of kings,” the Pilgrims in my veins—
made hotter by this southern sun, which my fathers
preferred to a colder beam? No, let these

men dive and dig, and delve and toil on to make
wealth, and be aristocrats—heaven save such aristocracy—nothing
else can save it, beyond one generation
in our country. Truly, has some one
said, that here “the children of the rich are the
parents of the poor.” Let them get wealth—
they'll spend the more some day to do honour, may
be, to their humble servant. Let them get wealth,
and bring their sons up in sloth; 'twill keep them
out of my path. If Talbot were poor, he might
do something; but now, bah! he will be spurred
into an occasional feeble effort, and fail. And his
wealth will give him all the leisure to canker and
fester over it. But I—the stern necessity is on
me to labour—to do head work—and if the sweat
of the brain is like other sweat, a plebeian offering
to the goddess industry, may be I may pluck,
in my rough road, a certain leaf or two, and hide
the sweltering stain upon my brow, as Cæsar hid
his baldness. `Impossible,' said Mirabeau—`that
word is not in my vocabulary,' nor shall it be in
mine.”