University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

It is not our purpose to designate, in these idle
pages, either of the political parties that now distract,
or, if you please, divide our country. We are just
from the thick of the fight ourselves, and we turn,
with pleasure, from the stern reality to fancy; happy,
if experience has taught us to copy from the
great book of the world a not incorrect page or two.

When the anticipated meeting of which Jekyl
spoke convened, Bradshaw was unanimously nominated
for the state legislature. The moment the nomination
was made, a committee was appointed to
wait on him forthwith, and request his attendance
at the meeting. The committee found Bradshaw
at his office, and, in a few minutes, he stood among
his friends. They received him with enthusiastic
applause. From that evening to the day of election,
he attended meetings almost every evening,
in the different wards—made speeches and friends.
Talbot had, also, been nominated by a number of
his friends, but he still loitered at the Springs, and
left those who nominated him to electioneer for
him. What is every body's business is nobody's
business. Old Broadbelt and two others were also

candidates. The city was only entitled to two
representatives.

Bradshaw was elected: he led the polls fifteen
hundred and five votes. Broadbelt stood next.
Talbot was within three hundred votes of Broadbelt.
He returned to the city only two weeks before
the election. His reputation for talent was
high, and his family influence very extensive. If
he had used half the exertion of Bradshaw, he
would have been elected instead of Broadbelt.

In the winter, Bradshaw attended the legislature,
of course; and there he was thrown a great deal
with Glassman, who was in attendance on the Superior
Court. Glassman and Bradshaw roomed
together. With his usual energy and perseverance,
Bradshaw devoted himself to his duties. He did
not show off in much speaking, and in making sarcastic
remarks upon country members. He guarded
the interests of his constituents, and conciliated
even those whom he was compelled to oppose.
Such was his popularity and tact, that persons
from every part of the state, having business at the
seat of government, would request his kind offices.
Glassman, with real friendliness, assisted him in various
ways, and exerted himself to advance his popularity
and influence.

“Bradshaw,” said Glassman to him, one night,
when they were seated together in their room,
“you have made an impression here of the right
sort. Most young men go to the legislature to
speak; you came here to act, and you have acted
well. `Much speaking,' said John Randolph, in his
best days—a maxim which he afterwards forgot,

or, at least disregarded—`much speaking, Mr.
Speaker, will cheapen abilities much greater than
mine.' You have done nothing to cheapen your
abilities in that line; in fact, you have done nothing
that gave a touch of their quality, except your
speech on the canal bill. Every body, the generality
of persons, I mean, expected you to make
splendid declamations; you have done better, you
have shown yourself a thorough man of business.
This spirit of interminable speech-making is the
curse of our legislative halls. It is not only in bad
taste, but a man loses his object by it, if it be any
thing more than to make a speech which nobody
will read. Our members of congress appear to
think that their election gives them
that they may measure out their speeches, as a
clothier measures out his cloth, and the poorer the
quality, the more they can afford to inflict for their
per diem.”

In enacting laws that cannot interest our readers,
the session of the legislature passed. Bradshaw
and Broadbelt reached the city of their constituents
at night; the former obtained a horse
from his colleague, sent word to the Rev. Mr.
Longshore to have his office opened in the morning,
and rode out to the Purchase. He found his
father and family well. Mary Carlton was still at
Washington; and he spent the evening in looking
over her letters to his sister, which gave an interesting
account of the characters and scenes of
the capital. Not unfrequently his name occurred

in the correspondence; and when it did, he would
pause and puzzle over the writing, and try to divine,
in the shape of the letters formed by her
delicate hand, the feelings which possessed her
bosom while she wrote. What slight and trivial
things are of interest to a lover—no matter how
manly or determined his character. Bradshaw inquired
for Willoughby, and learned he had not
been to the Purchase for three or four days. In
the morning, bright and early, he departed for
town. As Bradshaw left the house, he heard Pete's
mother, calling at the top of her voice, for her runaway
assistant, who had left the churn just as the
butter was “coming;” and gone, she knew not
whither. When Bradshaw reached the gate, he
found the recreant functionary parading it open
with officious display, and holding in his hand what
had once been a hat.

“Pete, don't you hear your mother?”

“Yes, Massa Clinton, but I want to shut the gate
after you.”

“And you want toll, hey?”

Pete grinned, and dropped his hat to catch the
fip, as Massa Clinton put his hand in his pocket.

Bradshaw was glad to find himself once more
seated in his office. His reverend attendant had
put every thing to rights. He installed himself in
his great arm-chair, and looked around, musingly,
upon his books and papers, as we gaze upon the
faces of familiar friends after a long absence.

While thus engaged, a thin, peculiar-looking old
man entered his office; and, sans ceremonie, took

a seat. After a premonitory cough, and a rapid
glance around the room, the stranger asked,

“Are you Mr. Bradshaw, sir, Mr. Clinton Bradshaw?”

“I am, sir.”

“Fine day, sir; we shall have summer on us
quick—ugh, ugh, ugh, (coughing,) you're just from
the legislature, I'm told?”

“Yes, sir; I returned last night.”

At this moment Willoughby entered the office.
He was dressed in a full suit of black, with a broad
band of crape round his hat; his fine countenance
was unusually pale and troubled.

“Bradshaw, my friend, how are you?” said Willoughby,
“you're welcome back.”

“Kentuck, my heart of hearts—all hail to you!”
exclaimed Bradshaw, jumping up and seizing him
by the hand, “what's the matter!—is your uncle
dead?”

“Yes, he's gone to his long account.”

“When did you hear it? I congratulate you
upon your immense possessions.”

“The day before yesterday. Bradshaw, my immense
possessions are like the Irishman's flea—put
your finger on him, and he's not there. I am not
worth the boots I stand in—my uncle has not left
me one cent.”

“Not left you one cent! Is it possible! damn him!
Why did you put on black for him?”

“The old gentleman always treated me well:
his wealth was his own, I suppose. It's a hard
cut, Bradshaw. I expected to inherit the largest
fortune in the west, and here you see me, penniless,

and in debt. My uncle has been deceived, by
cringing scoundrels round him. No matter—no
matter: I wear this black for the good points in
his character; he was peculiar—he had bad health
—he—no matter, let his errors sleep with him—he
was my father's brother.”

“Take a seat, my friend,” said Bradshaw. “Are
you sure there's no mistake in this?”

“None; the letter's from my uncle's intimate
friend. The old gentleman, like Swift, has founded
a hospital for lunatics. A cool million gone to
support those who have lost their wits, while I
must live by mine; think of that, master Brook.”

Here the stranger, who had arisen during the
conversation, and advanced to the door, passed out.
Bradshaw was so much interested in his friend, that
he did not notice him.

“Kentuck,” said Bradshaw, grasping his hand,
convulsively, “my noble friend, you have that in
you which will surmount sterner obstacles than the
loss of fortune—you have glorious talents: God's
best gifts—your uncle could not dispossess you of
them. Be admitted to the practice of the law,
when the court sits, and let us open shop together—
hang out our shingle on the outer wall. You and
I, Kentuck, against the field.”

The Kentuckian released his hand from Bradshaw's
grasp, to dash a tear from his eye. “This
is unmanly,” he exclaimed, “but, Bradshaw, I will
speak to you plainly: I am a beggar—I meant to
return to Kentuck, and force my way,—but—but
there's a strong spell binds me here—your sister!—
I am attached to her—I have not told her of my

attachment—I don't know that she suspects it.—
I will accept your offer. We will hoist our shingle
together—I will struggle hard; and when I can
support her as she should be supported, I will tell
her of my attachment, and win her, if I can, if
your family has no objection.”

“Kentuck, I am the only worldly one of my
family. Rich or poor, I would rather call you
brother, than any man in this big city. It is a hope
I have nursed long: I suspected your feelings.
Come,” continued Bradshaw, smiling, “mount your
horse and ride out to the Purchase; see Emily—
speak to her on `that subject,' as Selman would
say,—now is the time to find out whether she loves
you, for yourself, Kentuck.”

“No, Bradshaw—no, not now—not now.”

“Yes, now, Kentuck, now!”

Here a number of Bradshaw's political friends,
who had heard of his return, entered his office.
While he was welcoming them, Willoughby left
the room. In a moment afterwards, Bradshaw
hurried after him; but he could not discover in
what direction he had gone, and he was compelled
to return to his company.

In the meantime, Willoughby, internally resolving
not to go to the Purchase, almost mechanically
proceeded to the livery stable, and mounted his
horse. He rode in a direction from the Purchase,
for some time, brooding on his altered fortunes. He
took from his pocket the letter informing him of
his uncle's death, and the disposition of his property,
and read it again—there was, alas! no mistake in
it—he knew the hand-writing well.

“I could bear it without a murmur,” said Kentuck,
to himself, “were it not for my love of Emily
Bradshaw. But why should I be such a fool?—I
have never told her of my attachment. What is
my loss of wealth to her?—why should it prevent
me from going to the Purchase!—there I have
always been treated with the greatest hospitality,
and there I ought to go—but merely as a visiter.”

While Willoughby pursued these reflections, his
horse, that had been suffered to proceed without
guidance, turned his head towards the Purchase,
his accustomed route; and the rider having convinced
himself that he ought to go there, but
merely as a visiter, now put spurs to his steed, as
if anxious to arrive before he altered his determination.
He had not ridden far, before he
checked the career of his horse, while he resolved
some doubts on the propriety of his resolution; and
in the midst of these conflicting feelings, he reached
Mr. Bradshaw's gate. His horse stopped, while
the rider, without attempting to open the gate, sat
deliberating upon what he should do. He was just
on the eve of determining to return to the city,
when he reflected that it was his duty to visit the
sister of his friend, and those who had always
treated him with so much hospitality; and, looking
through the fence, for he had, until this moment,
been inattentive to objects around him, he beheld
Mr. Bradshaw in the act of descending from his
chaise, in which sat Mrs. Bradshaw, to open the
gate.

“Stay, Mr. Bradshaw,” exclaimed Willoughby,
“and let me open it for you.”

“Mr. Willoughby!—good morning, sir—if you
please. You are quite a stranger.”

“I have had some business that has kept me in
town,” said Willoughby. “Is Miss Emily at the
Purchase?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bradshaw: “ride up to the
house; you will find her there. We're going to
neighbour Bryant's, who is sick.”

Willoughby found Emily alone. With a quicker
eye than her parents, she observed his mourning-suit,
the broad band round his hat, and asked him,
if he had lost a friend.

“My only relative on earth, Miss Emily; my
uncle.”

She inquired when he died, and then, to relieve
Willoughby's feelings, turned the conversation.

“Mr. Willoughby,” she said, “I am obliged to
you for the song you sent me the other day. I
have been practising it, and—shall I sing it for
you?”

“If you please, Miss Emily. I like it, I suppose,
because it was set to music by a professor whom I
became acquainted with in Louisville, and who is
now living in Cincinnati; he possesses fine musical
taste and talent.”

Emily Bradshaw ran her hand over the keys,
thoughtfully, and then sang as follows.—

After the song ceased, there was a silence for
some moments, which Miss Bradshaw interrupted,
by asking,

“Then you return to Kentucky, Mr. Willoughby?”

“No, Miss Emily. I don't know what I shall do.”
So saying, Willoughby rose to depart.

“Do stay to dinner, Mr. Willoughby. Brother

will be out this afternoon, and he will be company
in for you.”

Emily Bradshaw observed that Willoughby was
wrapped in a brooding, unquiet melancholy—and
she exerted herself to dispel it. This gave a tenderness
to her tone, always of the gentlest, that
won upon his feelings, and unmanned his resolutions
in spite of himself.

He arose, advanced to the door as if to leave—
and then returned to Emily's side, and told her all—
of his uncle's will, of his poverty, and of his love.
“I could have borne it for myself,” said he, “Emily—I
beg pardon, Miss Bradshaw; but I had
hoped—”

“I know what you would say, Mr. Willoughby,”
said Emily Bradshaw, looking up into his face,
with a frankness worthy of her forefathers, with
an eye, such as one of the most gifted of her sex,
has ascribed to her race, on Plymouth rock, an
eye—

“I know what you would say, Mr. Willoughby.
I should feel hurt with you, should you attribute
to me the least mercenary feeling; there is my
hand—you never asked it till to-day—you have
had my heart long ago: I gave it to you when you
were thought very rich, and I cannot take it away,
and I would not,” continued she, smiling, “though
you are very poor.”—In an altered tone, she
added, “I care not what worldly advantage wealth
might give to me. I have been taught to consider
it a snare to the falling—but, indeed, I am sorry
for—sorry that your uncle did not better know
your—your—worth.” She wept; Willoughby
pressed her to his heart, and dried her tears upon
his bosom.

Willoughby sat by Emily Bradshaw, and told
her of his intention of applying himself to his studies,
and of the proposal which her brother had
made to him of a partnership. He was certain,
he said, that his profession would soon yield him a
handsome income; and then talked over and over
again with her, the plan of his future life. How
susceptible a generous and brave nature is of the
gentlest and tenderest emotions! The Kentuckian,
as he thus conversed with Emily, thought of his loss
of fortune with a glow of pride; for he felt that he
was appreciated for himself, and he gazed on the
fair girl by his side, and pressed her to his heart,
with a passion amounting to enthusiasm. Emily
Bradshaw cared very little for the loss, except as
it affected her lover; and the manly manner in
which he bore it, only endeared him to her the
more.

Mr. Bradshaw did not return home until late in
the afternoon. Mrs. Bradshaw entered the house
while her husband drove the chaise to the carriage-house;
Willoughby followed after him—narrated
to him all that our readers are aware of, and
asked him if he had objections to his alliance.

Mr. Bradshaw listened to Willoughby with an
emotion which he in vain tried to suppress. He
took him by the hand, and, after a silence of some
moments, said—

“You are not a religious man, Mr. Willoughby,

but you have generous and noble impulses—and
they govern you. I hope and believe that you
will make the rule of action they dictate, a duty—
a religious duty. Your uncle has done very wrong;
he has brought you up to expect a very large fortune,
and has cut you off, it seems, without any
alleged misdemeanor on your part, merely through
a whim, a caprice, or the improper influence of
those around him in his dying hour. He did not
know what effect it might have upon you. It
would plunge many a young man into irreclaimable
dissipation. I honour you for the manliness you
have shown, and the resolutions you have made.
I did not wish Clinton to study law, for I feared
the vanities of the world would mislead him. He
has done well so far; and I hope the Lord will
forgive me if I have felt unbecoming pride in the
world's report of him. I hope Clinton does not set
too much store upon the honour of men. It is
more uncertain, even than the gifts of fortune. I
have enough of wealth—it satisfies all my wants;
and why should it not satisfy my children. Emily
(Mrs. Bradshaw,) and I are getting old; it would
be hard for her and for me to part with our
daughter—we should be all alone. If you follow
your profession, you will have to live in town, and
our daughter and our son would then both be away
from us in the gay world. Why should you follow
the law. I have often heard you say, you loved
the simple pleasures of a country life; could not
you be happy here? Mr. Willoughby you have
my daughter's affection—pure and unsullied affection;
and you have, wrapped up in her, a father's
and a mother's deep, deep love. You will have,
under God, the happiness of more than one committed
to your charge. My son,” continued Mr.
Bradshaw, in a tremulous voice, “think of what I
have said—and may God, of his infinite mercy,
bless you both.”

Old Pete, who was taking the horse from the
chaise, was an unobserved hearer of this conversation.
He had more than once, with the pride of
a family servant, boasted (negroes are quick in
discovering such things) of the “rich and monstrous
brave-looking beau his young missus had,”
to the neighbouring negroes, and he felt a deep
mortification—your old family servants feel as
deeply as their masters, any thing that concerns
the family—when he heard Willoughby tell Mr.
Bradshaw of his disinheritance. As they left the
carriage-house together, Mr. Bradshaw wrapped
in his own thoughts, piously ejaculated, “The
Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, blessed be
the name of the Lord.”

“Now, did ever any nigger hear the like of old
Massa Bradshaw!” exclaimed old Pete, petulantly
tossing the harness which he had just lifted from
the back of the horse into the bottom of the chaise.
“The Lord didn't take away Massa Willoughby's
money at all, his mean uncle take it away, and I
hope old Satten 'll roast him for it.”