University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

The next morning, near eleven o'clock, the
jury having agreed upon their verdict, left their
rooms, and pronounced Johnson guilty of the
murder. By the exertions of Bradshaw, a considerable
sum of money was raised, by subscription,
for his wife and daughter, with which they
opened a shop. The profits arising therefrom, together
with what they received for the sewing
they took in, enabled them to live much more
comfortably than they ever had before—for they
not only had more means, but they were relieved
from the brutality of the watchman.

Bradshaw had frequently called to inquire
how Mr. Glassman was, and learned he was getting
better, slowly; but his physicians deemed it
unadvisable for him to see his friends, as yet. At
last, Jane Durham, who had left the prison, and
was living in her house, near Glassman's, told
Bradshaw Mr. Glassman wished to see him so
much, his physicians had consented.

Bradshaw found Glassman, wan and weak, sitting
up in bed.

“Give me your hand, Bradshaw,” said Glassman.
“I have heard all that has happened, since

I have been ill, from Miss Durham. Fortune
seems determined I shall be indebted to you, my
friend. Let me say it, Bradshaw, there lives not
the man to whom I would rather be under obligations.
I have but a poor return to make, but
`I will wear you in my heart of hearts,' as Hamlet
did Horatio, with more even than a woman's
disinterestedness. I have been like the navigator
who approaches the whirlpool, and who feels too
full a confidence in his skill, duly to weigh the
difficulties that encompass him. You see me
what I am—no matter—my race is ending; and
I cannot retrace it, and start again. Come, take
a seat—a fig for this sentimentality. Drop me a
few drops of laudanum. You look a little thinner
than when I saw you last. The stir, excitement,
and, particularly, the intellectual strife of
life, don't fatten a man.”

Bradshaw soon left Glassman, fearing that conversation
would debilitate him. As the spring advanced,
Bradshaw frequently rode out with his
friend, and they often visited the Purchase, where
Glassman would remain, sometimes, for several
days. The healthy situation and the quiet scene
did much to recruit him. The inmates of the Purchase
could not but feel deeply interested in him,
and he felt he breathed a healthier moral as well
as physical atmosphere with them. Bradshaw was
now admitted to practise in the civil court, and he
commenced, not like other young men who have
the practice to learn after they have become
practitioners; but with a knowledge of it, which
he had acquired by great attention in the office

where he was a student, and by frequent attendance
in court. He did not visit the court, like
many other students, to while away the hour in
careless conversation, but to learn his profession.
He jested and talked as gaily as any of them, when
nothing particular occupied the attention of the bar,
and when he did there was generally a group
around him; but as soon as a case of importance
was called up, he would quietly steal away from
his companions, take a favourable position, and
hear and see every thing relative to it. After he
had heard the speeches of counsel, he would often
shut himself up in his office, and make a speech,
first on one side, and then the other. He would
try to present the facts in a more striking light,
and illustrate the law with better analogies. In a
lovely dell, not far from the Purchase, through
which the stream, of which we have spoken, passed,
in the quiet summer, Bradshaw would frequently
wander, and build an argument upon any subject
that occurred to him. A passionate lover of poetry,
he would recite the best passages from his favourite
authors, with as much attention to the emphasis
and gesture as if he were preparing himself for the
stage. As the fourth of July drew near, the committee
selected by the citizens to make arrangements
for celebrating the day, appointed Bradshaw
the orator, and Talbot to read the Declaration of
Independence.

Talbot, who was a man of talents, and both
emulous and envious, with more reasons than one
for disliking Bradshaw, determined to forestall his
oration, by making one himself in the nature of

prefatory remarks to the Declaration of Independence.
What he said was well said, and well
written; but, Talbot, though his manner was insinuating
and distinct, had not the “power of speech
to stir men's blood.” Bradshaw possessed it, and
he had prepared himself with great care. His oration
was all before him, and he had it in his heart,
as well as head. Just before he arose, the martial
music filled every cranny of the immense church
in which they were celebrating the day, and gave
him that enthusiastic excitement so necessary for
one to produce an effect on such an occasion, and
which one of his temperament would be likely to
feel, under such circumstances; the more particularly,
when in the great crowd, he not only recognised
many of his acquaintances of both sexes, but
also, in the soldierly array, many veterans who had
distinguished themselves in the late war. Some of
the banners so tastefully arranged, had not always
floated on a holiday; they bore plainly, perceptible
to all, the marks of stern encounters. Bradshaw
alluded to the veterans, to the well fought field,
in which they had triumphed, to the banners that
then waved over them in glorious war, and now
waved over them in glorious peace, so eloquently,
that the whole audience, by one impulse arose,
and gave three cheers of enthusiastic approbation.

“It's no use,” said Talbot to himself, “for any
one to attempt to compete with Bradshaw, in producing
a mere theatrical effect, he's always tickling
the ears of the groundlings.”

In the afternoon, a large party of gentlemen,
among whom were Bradshaw, Willoughby, &c.,

accompanied by the ladies, made an excursion on
the river, (we will say, if our readers please.) They
glided delightfully along. Halleck has beautifully
described similar scenery—

They had a fine band of music on board; and
beholding such scenes, in such company, on such a
day, it may be supposed there was general pleasure.

“I like this scene,” said Willoughby, with enthusiasm,
to Bradshaw, his sister, and Miss Carlton.
“One of the prettiest scenes I know of, approaching
this character, strange as it may seem to you,
is in the west. Stand in Cincinnati, on the landing,
in a clear summer's sun-set, and look over the river
on Newport, opposite. The Licking river flows
into the Ohio, dividing Newport and Covington. In
the angle formed on the Newport side, stands the
arsenal, one of the earliest brick buildings in all
that region. A tall flag-staff, immediately on the
bank of the river, on the point, bears our banner—
the stars and stripes. A hill, covered with trees,
lays behind Newport, and gradually slopes down to
the plain, on which the little town stands. The
houses are, mostly, white, and they have many trees
beside them; and you see very few persons walking
about. It appears so still, and contrasts so
strangely with the landing on which you stand, full
of bustle and business! Your eye glances from the

busy scene around you, from the river which darkly
rolls,—for it lies in shadow,—to the sleeping flag,
with its ample folds hanging calmly down, (`a metaphor
of peace,' as Shelley says,) the arsenal, the
town, the trees, the hill—all lit up with the golden
splendour of the setting sun. It gives a tint of poetry
to every thing, and flings a rainbow radiance on the
clouds. Perhaps a hawk circles over all, and you
hear the evening drum-beat of the soldiers. As
the sun sinks behind Cincinnati, the shadow from
the river lengthens, gradually moving up the bank,
with insidious progress, until the golden tints pass
away from the houses and trees of Newport; and,
after lingering a moment among the foliage, on the
hill-top, fade into twilight. I have often thought,”
continued Willoughby, turning to Miss Bradshaw,
“when I've looked upon the scene, that the time
would come when it would be celebrated in songs
of love and chivalry. Why not? It is beautiful,
too, by moonlight. Those rivers, between the
towns, will make them, not exactly a Venice, a city
of the sea, but they may make them a city of the
rivers; and, then, with the addition of a few canals,
many a gondolier may `softly wake the tide.' Let
me see—would it be better for a lady to live down
or up the river, from her lover?”

“Up,” said Bradshaw; “because to row to her
would be considered no pain—but who would like
to row from her, when the interview was over? It
would be struggling, not only against your own inclinations,
but against the stream—strong, both,
against you. Leander leaped, no doubt, with an
exulting bound, into the Hellespont, when he went

to meet Hiero: but the returning, Kentuck, the returning!
I should think, unless the wave bore him
from the shore, he would often let it bear him
back.”

“O! no, Mr. Clinton,” said Mary Carlton—“she
had better live down the stream, because, going
up, the oars would be heard; and, remember the
song—

“True, Mary; you are right. I suppose the
lady might have a double motive for living down,
not only that he might `wake the tide' softly, in
going, but that the tide might keep him.”

“I suppose such a wish might glance across her
mind,” replied Miss Carlton, archly, “if he were a
favourite lover.”

“Then, if I were a favourite lover,” said Bradshaw,
“that tide in the affairs of men, I would take
at the flood.”

“Because it leads on to fortune,” whispered the
Judge, who was in one of his cynical moods, to Willoughby.

They landed at a place celebrated in the late
war, where the captain of the boat had an excellent
collation spread for them. After partaking of
it, they sang, recited, and enjoyed themselves in
various ways.

Selman and Miss Penelope were of the party. The
former took Bradshaw by the arm, and they walked
aside: when they were out of hearing of the rest,
Selman said,

“Bradshaw, I wish my dear friend, if you get a
chance, you would just take a walk with Miss Penelope,
and speak to her on that subject.”

“Where were you, Selman, all the way on the
boat?”

“Why,” said Selman, “since that affair with
Bates, Miss Penelope has treated me very well,
considering: and I was to call, and escort her to the
steamboat. Bradshaw, to tell the truth, that blue
coat of mine was too informal shabby. I went, last
week, to Jemmy Dobson—he's a lying rascal; I'll
never get another coat from him as long as I live
—and got measured for a coat and pants, upon the
promise that he would let me have them early this
morning, without fail. After he promised me, I
just wore my blue one any where; and yesterday
afternoon, near dark, going down the court house
lane, Kentuck passed me; I threw a rotten apple,
that Nancy had thrown out, after him, and he—I
hate such jokes—seized a bunch of those little yellow
candles from a fellow's pole, who was passing
—such roughness is just like a Kentuckian—and
took me right in the back. I never thought of
sending my coat to have it taken out. This morning—Dobson
didn't send home my coat—I had nothing
to wear to hear the oration. I had to slip
round to his shop: I found him going out, and I insisted
upon his finishing my coat. I'd have knocked
him down, if he hadn't. I was at his infernal shop
for three hours—and I was too late to see Miss Penelope
to the boat. It's a ridiculous business, any
how; but, you know, Bradshaw, serious things often
grow out of such affairs. When I came on board,

Miss Penelope spoke to me, and that's all. I
thought, at first, she meant to cut me dead. I
couldn't rally my spirits, so I laid down in one of
the berths.”

“That coat fits well, Selman. Jemmy Dobson
is a good fit.”

“Do you think it fits me well?” said Selman,
with a pleased smile, eyeing the garment.

“Yes; very. Brummel himself would pronounce
it the thing.”

“I hoped it would fit me. The coat itself cost
me thirty-five dollars, and I gave fifteen for the
pants. Jemmy is a good cut, that's a fact, but,
Bradshaw, he's the greatest liar living. I felt like
the devil, though, when I got to the boat—she was
just starting: I was all of a perspiration, and I had
to make pretty much of a jump, to reach her.”

“I didn't see you come on board.”

“No! I saw you, and Willoughby, and Cavendish
standing together; and I thought Willoughby would
blow me about the candles. Cavendish would harp
at it for ever. You know, Bradshaw, this ridicule
knocks a fellow all into a cocked hat with the women.
Since I blacked Bates' eyes, I tell you, he's
a case. Dern it, just as I think I've got every
thing right, something or other happens, and uses
me up—the way I've been bedeviled is a caution.
Do you think she likes me, Bradshaw?”

“Yes, I do.”

“By gracious! I don't know what to think of it.
The women have all got crazy with you and Willoughby,
lately—particularly with you, this girl,
the fire, and your speeches. I wish I could get a

chance of achieving something—I'd risk my life to
do it. I'm actually tired with hearing Miss Penelope
dwell, dwell, dwell upon these things all the
time—it strikes me, sometimes, she's talking at me.”

“Have you spoken to Miss Penelope since we've
been here?”

“Yes—I asked her if I should help her, at the
table. Bradshaw, if you get a chance, do take a
walk, and speak to her on the subject. Don't go
out of sight, Bradshaw; and, if it's favourable, just
take off your hat, and I'll join you.”

“Well, there's Miss Penelope now. I'll ask her
to take a walk with me—if she does, you must
keep your eye on us, Selman—and join us, if I
take off my hat. Miss Penelope,” said Bradshaw,
addressing the lady, “will you walk in the woods?
I'll show you the marks of the bullets in the trees:
allow me to cut one of them out for you. It is appropriate,
on this day, to obtain a memorial of the
battle.”

The lady took Bradshaw's arm, and they walked
through the woods.

“How changed is this scene,” said Bradshaw,
“from that when the two contending armies were
here fighting for victory or death.”

“Yes,” said Penelope, “I've been thinking of it
ever since we've been here. I never see Mrs. Glover,
but I think of the battle and her husband, who
was killed in it.”

“Colonel Glover? Yes, I've heard of him—
though she looks care-worn, and is not young, she
is still beautiful.'

“Yes, very. Don't you know it was a love-match?
She really mourns for him.”

“Yes, there's every thing to hallow such an attachment.
He was so young, so kind-hearted, so
brave. Not very far from here, in an open space, beneath
a tree, is a beautiful little monument erected
on the spot where he fell, and where they buried him.
There are many like him—I'm told he was one of
the most sensitive lovers you ever heard of—a
frown from her moved him more than the front of
battle. It's always so with such natures. There
was a great deal of artlessness in his character.
She, I dare swear, caused him many an anxious
hour—nay, many an anxious week, or month, perhaps,
or year, before she said yes to him.”

“It's a lady's privilege, Mr. Bradshaw—they
have to yield in every thing afterwards, and for
my part,” continued Miss Penelope, laughing—“I
think, while we have the power, we ought to exercise
it.”

“To inflict a wound, Miss Penelope?”

“Oh! but it is so delightful to cure it.”

“But, do not ladies inflict such wounds, sometimes
merely to show their skill in love's archery—and,
though they mean to be merciful—remember, a
deep wound never closes without a scar.”

“Deep wounds! Mr. Bradshaw, you don't think
such wounds are deep, do you?”

“Yes, Miss Penelope, in a sensitive nature
deeper than you imagine. A man who really
loves, is always painfully sensitive—and the exhibition
of such sensitiveness is always a proof of
attachment. A man of the world, who woos a
lady merely for the worldly advantages that such
a connexion would give him, never shows any sensitiveness.
He courts as he gambles; he looks

upon both as a game in which the loss of self-possession
would endanger his success. No! no! sensitiveness
is a proof of attachment. You ladies,
laugh in the plenitude of your power, and say,
you would inflict the wound; but I know you
would not, Miss Penelope—your gentle nature
would not let you.”

Miss Penelope made no reply, but walked on,
musingly.

“Colonel Glover fell near here, I believe,” said
Bradshaw. “Well, we have all to die—and dying
on the battle-field is a death to be coveted. In
these times of peace, a man, however brave, may
whistle for glory. There is many a man whose
courage is only known in his resenting a private
indignity—a falsehood; who, in the hour of battle,
would have won the laurel. Come, Miss Penelope,
will you rest upon this moss? How beautiful!
How velvet-like! at the foot of this old oak.
It was a witness of the battle, and there is glory
in its shade.”

Bradshaw spread his handkerchief for Miss Penelope,
and threw himself at her feet. He was
getting matters in a favourable train for discovering
the real state of her feelings towards her lover,
without awakening her suspicion of his intentions.
He had no doubt of her partiality for Selman, but
he wished to discover its extent before he spoke to
her of his “infernal fix,” to use her lover's own
expression. But poor Selman, who had been on
the rack all the time they were walking,—which
seemed to him an hour,—when he beheld Bradshaw
with his hat on his head, as tight as if it were
nailed there, throw himself at the lady's feet beneath

the oak with an easy air, and with a proximity
which he himself would not have dared to assume,
could stand it no longer. The green-eyed
monster in his bosom gave himself, like the lap
dog in the Rape of the Lock, on a momentous occasion,
the “rousing shake.” He advanced towards
them with a hesitating step and an embarrassed
look, affecting not to know they were there,
but his spirit failed him when he drew near them,
and he stopped and turned his ear in their direction,
with the vain hope of hearing what they said,
while he pretended to be engaged in contemplating
the party he had left.

“Miss Penelope,” said Bradshaw, “there's Selman—he's
brave, generous, intelligent, and he loves
the very ground you tread upon—shall I call him.
Sel—”

“No, no, I insist you do not, Mr. Bradshaw,”
said the lady, in a low voice, deeply blushing. O!
where did you buy that summer hat?—it's made
of strange straw; let me look at it.”

“Miss Penelope, Selman loves you with a devotion
that has never been surpassed—he has loved
you for years, unchangeably—he made me his
confidant, and requested me to speak to you on the
subject—I have no skill in the gentle art, lady;
but I smiled, and told him that if I thought his suit
propitious, I would take off my hat!”

Bradshaw handed his hat to Miss Penelope. As
she was studying the plats of the straw with great
diligence he called out to Selman—

“Selman, lend me your knife, will you? I want
to cut a bullet from the tree.”

Selman turned, and with no slight degree of
alacrity, hastened to give his knife to Bradshaw.

“Confound it!” said Bradshaw, “I thought that
knot was a bullet mark—there are a great many
in the woods. Miss Penelope, I am determined
you shall have a testimonial of the battle;”—and
leaving his hat in her hand, and Selman by her
side, he walked away as if in search of one.

When Bradshaw had advanced some little distance
in the wood, he turned round, and with a
peculiar smile observed the pair he had left. Selman
had taken his place at Miss Penelope's feet,
but at a more awful distance than he himself had
occupied—the lady still held his hat, from which
he judged, by the turn of her head, she cast frequent
sly looks at Selman.

“Selman's a man of good sense,” said Bradshaw
to himself; “but who hearing him discourse of his
passion, and his tribulations, would suspect him of
it? Well, it's no great shame for any one to play
the fool in love, for it has made fools of the wisest—
and such fools! If Selman knew the passage, he
might rant with Castalio against the sex. How he
hates quotations!—he's no verbal memory, and I
suspect has worried himself not a little in attempting
to commit the tender beauties of the poets. It's
wrong to tease him; for though this love does make
a fool of him, he suffers none the less,—the more
rather, as he has an inkling of the fact himself.
He has less tact than any biped I ever saw:—that
tact's a marvellous proper thing in a man. Talent
without it is a glorious vessel without a stearsman—
and tact without talent is a canoe with a good one—
such sculling and sculking to save a miserable

cargo not worth saving!—combine the two, and you
have a glorious bark, and a gallant armament ready
to go forth upon the waters at all seasons,—blow
high or blow low. With them you may not discover
worlds like Columbus, because there are none to
discover, but you may conquer and control them—
and, above all worlds, the world of the heart.”

Indulging such reflections, Bradshaw advanced
until he trod on a natural meadow, begirt with the
woods. A rich long grass covered the field, with
here and there a clump of wild wood, or a solitary
oak standing in its pride alone, or a knot of wild
flowers, all redolent with the richness of summer.
Beneath a majestic oak, that was full of bullets,
stood the monument of which he spoke, erected to
the memory of the gallant Colonel Glover, who fell
there in our late war with Great Britain; in an
engagement in which he led the bravest corps on
the field. He was buried where he fell, by his
soldiers, who, disheartened, retreated after they had
performed the hasty rite. They rallied, however;
and, after a hard conflict, forced their foes to take
to their boats. Bradshaw stood beside the monument,
and with a quickening pulse, read as follows:

“Glory to the battle-field, and to the sleeper!”
exclaimed Bradshaw, with enthusiasm. “What,
though there is blood upon thy laurel, Glover! it
is the blood of those who came to enslave the free.
There let it be; a jewel in the cap of liberty, that
crowns thy monument. How beautiful the sky
above! how beautiful the earth beneath! how
tranquil all around! yet here the foot of battle
trod with thundering sound. On this spot was the
thick of the fight, and 'twas on such a day as this.
Through the woods there—through that opening
that leads to the river, came the marshalled host.
And over this field to meet them, came Glover and
his little band. How I should like to be a captain
in such a cause, with brave men round me—
It would be better than making speeches to their
memory—it would be earning the tribute.”

Bradshaw threw himself at the foot of the monument,
and leaning his head upon his hand, gave
himself up to ambitious reveries.

In a few minutes he heard the sound of music,
and, looking through the opening in the woods,
saw the party whom he had left, coming in the
direction of the monument, doubtless with the intention
of visiting it, preceded by the band of music.
He lay delighted with the martial sound for
a moment, and then with a sense of the ridiculous,
which the present scene inspired, in contrast with
the one on which he had been musing, he arose,
smiling to himself, and commenced cutting a bullet
from the tree. They soon reached the spot where
he stood, Miss Penelope leaning on Selman's arm,
while he held Bradshaw's hat in his hand.

“Why, Mr. Bradshaw, is that you!” exclaimed
Miss Penelope: “you're a pretty runaway, sir.”

“These bullets are difficult to extract, Miss Penelope—Selman,
your knife is qualified now to be
put in the painting of the end of all things. Miss
Penelope, how much this oak is like a gentleman's
breast! Some of these bullets, when they struck,
were nearly spent, and just lodged within the
bark, skin-deep; others have gone deeper, and
some have doubtless pierced the heart. Yet it is
a remarkable fact, that, notwithstanding these
heart wounds, the tree, as you see, is green and
flourishing.”

Selman looked at Bradshaw, and shook his head
imploringly.

“Miss Penelope,” Bradshaw continued, “how
forcibly this scene reminds one of Byron's lament
for young Howard, in Childe Harold,—

Selman, what's the next verse? Don't you recollect
it?”

Affecting to put on a look of memory, while
chagrin prevailed, Selman said—

“No, I don't remember it.”

“Ah! I have it,” said Bradshaw, and he recited
with feeling—

“Oh! Mr. Bradshaw, how beautiful and how
appropriate!” exclaimed Miss Penelope.

“And, Miss Penelope,” said Bradshaw, “you were
speaking of Mrs. Glover to-day, you remember,
and her mournful beauty; farther on, Byron expresses
the sentiment you uttered—

“Bradshaw!” exclaimed Selman, petulantly, “you
had better mount the monument, and give us the
whole poem.”

“If I were to begin,” said Bradshaw, “I should
certainly go on as long as Miss Penelope approved;
but, Selman, too much of a good thing, you know,
even of love, [this was said in a whisper, which
only Selman heard,] is good for nothing.”

About night-fall, the party returned to the city.

“Bradshaw,” said Kentuck, “it's a beautiful
night. The ladies propose going out to Mr. Carlton's:
it will be a delightful ride in the moonlight.
Come, let's to S—y, and take a luxuriant bath,
and then for a merry ride.”

“I'm for a bath,” said Bradshaw, “but not for
the country.”

When they parted, Bradshaw repaired to Jane
Durham's.

“Well, Jane, my old school-mate and fair ally,
how did you spend the fourth?”

“With the undistinguished throng,” said she; “I
repaired to the church this morning, sir, and heard
the oration.”

“Ah! I felt your presence. Let me see—yes,
you sat to the extreme left, and kept your veil
over your face. I thought I caught an eye I
knew through it—you sat then just before Miss
Carlton.”

“Yes, but you did not look at me, Mr. Bradshaw;
you looked beyond me, as the mariner looks
beyond the poor wreck, upon the waters, to his
home. Well, my life, ignoble as it has been, has
not been useless; I can say I have been the cause,
in some measure, of the development of genius. I
see the account of your speech, which Mr. Jekyl
published, is going the rounds of the papers—it
gives me notoriety. Mr. Jekyl's wife will be jealous
of the praises which he lavishes upon my good
looks. I saw the ladies look at me to-day as if
they did not know what to make of me. Oh, your
sister has a sweet face!—and what a beautiful blue
eye Miss Carlton has—she is lovely, indeed. I
should say she was proud, but frank and independent.”

“I don't know that she is proud—she certainly
is frank and independent.”

“I like her step—there is something bewitching
in her, independent of her beauty. I have been
melancholy to-day; I know not why—sad—sad. I
have escaped a most horrible fate; and I ought to
feel thankful and grateful—and I do; but why,
why will mournful thoughts intrude? No, no! no
one can err and be happy.”