University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

The political meeting for which Clinton Bradshaw
advised Mr. Carlton to husband his strength,
had been called by the party who were opposed to
Mr. Carlton, together with some who were personally
favourable to him, but who entirely disapproved
of the course he had taken in regard to a
particular measure. That measure we may not
designate; for it is our purpose to meddle not, in
these pages, at all in politics; and we allude to it
because it is necessary in our history—though we
name not its character, nor comment on its consequence;
and we rejoice that we can progress just
as well without doing either. Mr. Carlton's determination
to spend the summer at home, was, no
doubt, made with a view to his popularity. In the
fall, the congressional election was to take place,
and he intended being a candidate for re-election.
Believing in the adage, “that a bird in the hand is
worth two in the bush,” he resolved, if the people
would re-elect him, still to hold his seat in congress,
and afterwards to become a candidate before the
legislature for the vacant seat in the U. S. Senate.
Therefore, if he should be elected Senator, he could
easily resign his seat in the House of Representatives;

and, should he fail in his senatorial ambition,
he would still be a representative. The tour which
he had taken through the state with Mr. Wortley,
was as Wortley's friend, to add that gentleman's
strength to his own, in his senatorial aspirations;
for it was thought, as we have said, that Mr. Wortley's
native state, from motives of pride, if for no
other reason, would support him in the presidential
contest.

As soon as Mr. Carlton reached home, the meeting
to be held this night had been called. He had
been taught to believe, by some of those sycophants
who always gather round, at least, a rich politician,
that the excitement was a mere bubble, that would
dissolve in air—in empty words. Bradshaw, though
generally in favour of Mr. Carlton's course, was
opposed to that which he had taken on this particular
occasion, of which we speak; but he had no
part in getting up the meeting, though Talbot had
asserted to Mr. Carlton that he was the arch mover
of it. Resolutions declaratory of the opinions of the
state legislature, of which our readers are aware
Bradshaw was a member, passed that body after a
warm debate, and chiefly by Bradshaw's exertions,
in which the opposite course to that pursued by Mr.
Carlton was recommended to Congress; but when
this meeting was called, Bradshaw said he felt no
inclination to take part in it, remarking—“I have
no wish to attack Mr. Carlton; and when I am myself
attacked, it will be time enough to speak upon
the subject.” Therefore, Bradshaw was surprised
to see, in an evening paper of this day—a paper
devoted to the interests of Mr. Carlton—a severe

attack upon himself, as the originator of the meeting,
in which he was denounced as the covert foe
of Mr. Carlton—a snake in the grass, who had not
courage to show himself.

“I understand it,” said Bradshaw to himself, as
he paced up and down his office, just before the
meeting convened; “Carlton thinks I'm a mere
political popinjay that a breath of his can annihilate.
The scene of this morning has determined
him to crush me at once—ha!—but for that I
might still have continued an humble member of
the legislature—a member of the legislature, where
young unfledged gentlemen of all sorts, sizes, and
conditions do congregate—but I have other aspirations—and,
if I had not, how dare I to take a course
political contrary to the opinions of the Hon. Samuel
Carlton?—Bah!—I do flatter myself that he is
most egregiously deceived—may be the honourable
gentleman will have hard work to hold his own—
this popularity of mine, if I have any, has grown
up in the dark, while he was away! on his dunghill!!
Snake in the grass. Think of that, my
Pilgrim fathers. What sought ye thus afar? to
leave behind you a posterity who should shrink
from expressing their free opinions—opinions they
were bound to express! Have ye, whose course
was as straight as an arrow, left a race whose path
is as obliquitous as the serpent's. I did think to
temper your blue-law spirit with a little worldly
caution, if not heavenly charity—your stiff-necked
notions with a little courtesy—and to accommodate
myself in other things to the spirit of the times;
but—the fact is,” said he, pausing, “I have little

of the rock in me, and less of Plymouth rock than
any other; for but for Mary—I fear, if the truth
were told—I should have been at war with this
great Goliah—in his own estimation, before. I'll
have a sling at him to night for my honour, if not
for my love—I'll wait and hear him. He would
serve me as I've seen a big boy serve a little one—
he puts a chip upon my head, and then dares me
to dare him to knock it off. Well, I shall dare
him—I know this question, I think, thoroughly—I
have examined it over and over; I shall not be
caught napping. Ay, the meeting is held in the
square opposite Mrs. Holliday's—'twill be a large
one—the probability is that he has brought Mary
in with him. `Never strike a man,' says somebody,
`unless you mean to knock him down.' He
thinks, perchance, if I dare to appear there, he'll
annihilate me on the spot, and show Mary what a
lover and what a father she has!—well, so be it!
if it must be so.”

In this disjointed manner, Bradshaw soliloquized
for some time,—till, at last, the hour of the meeting
arrived. Just as Bradshaw left his office, he
was hailed by Jekyl.

“Mr. Bradshaw,” said he, “is that you?”

“Ah, Jekyl, my friend, I know your voice, though
I can't distinguish your person—what news?”

“Step back into your office one moment; I want
to say a word to you, Mr. Bradshaw.”

“Walk in.” They entered the office.

“I suppose you have seen the attack, or rather
the attacks on you in the Evening Gazette.”

“Oh yes.”

“Well, I'll tell you who wrote them! you know
there are two, one editorial, and the other a communication.
The editorial was written by old Carlton
himself, and the communication by my particular
friend, Talbot. One of the hands of the Gazette
was at my office not ten minutes ago. He says he
has set up the manuscript, both of Carlton and
Talbot, often, and that he knows their hands, and
he's certain of it.”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes, fact—old Carlton miscalculates his own
strength, and underrates yours—or he's been misled
in some way. There'll be a louder call for
you than Carlton thinks for—don't fail to come, I
must hurry off.” So saying, away went Jekyl.

Alone, Bradshaw pursued his way to the meeting.
It was now some time after dark, and from
the many persons before and behind him, all tending
in his direction, he knew the meeting would be
a very large one. Various comments were made
by the crowd, to which Bradshaw was an unobserved,
but not a careless listener.

“We shall have good speaking,” said one; “Mr.
Carlton is no slouch at it, and Bradshaw's no chicken
if he is young—he's game to the back bone. He
beats every thing I ever heard.”

“I mistrust him,” said another, in reply; “folks
say he wants to marry Carlton's daughter—he's
against Carlton in this business—but he hangs back,
as I have heard, on this account.”

“Why, ain't he a-going to speak to-night?”

“Some say he is, and some say he ain't; but I
mistrust him. I've seen him with the daughter

once or twice, and I think there's something between
them.”

Here the speakers crossed the street, and passed
out of the hearing of Bradshaw.

“Can it be possible,” thought he, “that my attachment
for Mary Carlton is thus talked of—a
town talk? Can it be believed of me, that love of
the daughter shuts my mouth after this fashion?”

He was interrupted in his reflections, by hearing
his name mentioned, in a squad of five or six, just
before him.

“Yes,” said one, “we must have Bradshaw out
—let's get together, and call him with a vengeance.”

“To be sure, we must have him out. He's a
young man, like one of us, and he's no mean pride
in him, that keeps him from knowing a poor man.”

“Have him out! no, indeed,” said another—“I
go for Carlton—did you see the paper?”

Bradshaw found a great concourse of people at
the place of meeting. It was held, as we have
said, near Mrs. Holliday's mansion, which fronted
on a public square, and opposite to which was a
large hotel. From a first floor window, of the last-mentioned
building, a temporary stand, or hustings,
was erected, and a couple of engine lamps, borrowed
from the engine company for the purpose,
were so placed as to throw their light on the form
and face of the speaker. The crowd stood in the
street, and, such was the interest taken in the meeting,
that it was computed there were from four to
five thousand persons present.

With some difficulty, Bradshaw elbowed his way

through the crowd, who, however, made room for
him, whenever, by the flare of the lamps, or by the
voice, as he asked for passage, they recognised him.
When he entered the room, from the window of
which the stand was erected, he beheld Mr. Carlton,
with a number of his friends around him, in
lively political conversation. Mr. Carlton was
stating to them his reason for the vote he had
given, and they were listening with approving nods
and smiles: among the most conspicuous in approbation
was Talbot. As soon as Bradshaw's acquaintances
in the room observed him, they gathered
around him, and one of them said, “Bradshaw,
Mr. Carlton intends, he says, to give it to
you, for the part you took in passing those resolutions.”

“Ah, does he? Well, I must summon fortitude
to receive.”

“Ugh—ugh—and courage to reply, I hope, my
boy,” said Mr. Chesterton, who bustled up to Bradshaw's
elbow, and slapped him on the shoulder.
“I've—ugh—come in all the way to town to hear
you—you sly dog—never spoke a word of this meeting,
hey—steal a march on every body, would you?
I heard it by the merest accident, that you were
going to hold forth. D—n it, I would have been
provoked with you, if I had missed—ugh—this—”

“When did you get in, Mr. Chesterton?”

“Ugh—not ten minutes since: called at your office
for you—ugh. I heard all the great stump-speaking
in Kentucky in my day—Pope, Clay, Barry,
Joe Davies—all of them—ugh—we used to hold
the meetings in—”

Here the uproar of the crowd without, calling
on the speakers to commence, drowned the voice
of Mr. Chesterton; and Mr. Carlton pushed by
Bradshaw, with an assumption of great dignity, and,
assisted by Talbot, stepped on to the stand. There
were considerable applause and clapping of hands,
when he made his appearance, though not so much
as he seemed to expect.

Bradshaw's friends, in the room, called out to
him to step out on the stand, and show himself;
but he laughed, shook his head, and said, “I'll wait
awhile, till I hear what's the play.”

Mr. Carlton went into a long history of his political
life, and dwelt upon all the leading public
measures he had advocated, until he came down
to the particular one under consideration. Upon
that he expatiated at large, spoke of the resolutions
of the legislature, and said, “That he was sorry
so respectable a body of men should have been
so misled by a set of designing demagogues; one of
whom, at least, who, he was sorry, represented the
same people with himself, might have waited the
prompting of older and abler heads.”

“Is Mr. Bradshaw present?” interrupted a voice
from the crowd.

“I am here, sir,” said Bradshaw, stepping out on
the stand, where the light shone full upon him, and
lifting his hat.

“Hurra for Bradshaw!” shouted a thousand
voices; to which there were as many dissenting hisses
from the strong friends of Carlton, whom the speech
of that gentleman, and the paragraphs in the paper
had incensed against Bradshaw. Bradshaw

stood erect, and looked round upon the crowd,
while the hurras and hisses continued for more than
a minute. At last, there was silence, when Bradshaw
said, in a courteous, clear tone, that every
one present heard,

“I am here, my fellow-citizens, and ready to defend
myself; which, with your leave, I will do, when
your honourable representative in congress has concluded.”

“Go on now, Bradshaw!” shouted a number,
while others told him to be off, “you won't do,”
&c. He did not appear embarrassed, but, putting
on his hat, stepped back, and leaned against the
house, remarking, as he did so, “When Mr. Carlton's
done, my friends, I will not detain you long.”

Mr. Carlton now, thinking the sign strong in his
favour, became much more personal and severe
on Bradshaw, who stood by, looking on the crowd,
from which he not unfrequently cast his eye to
Mrs. Holliday's window opposite, where he was
satisfied he saw Mary Carlton, for, every now and
then, she would leave the window, at which the
ladies sat, and walk across the room restlessly,
and, whenever she did so, the light from the large
lamp on the centre-table shone full upon her features.
Bradshaw felt a stern indignation against
Mr. Carlton, and, for the while, thought of Mary
only as the witness of his reception from her father's
friends. He, however, waited without showing
any emotion, until Mr. Carlton concluded, and
when that gentleman finished, there was a long
and loud call for Bradshaw, from both sides, as all
felt anxious to hear him. “Ugh!—ugh!”—coughed

Mr. Chesterton, who had taken a seat on the temporary
railing, by the wall, near Bradshaw; “now,
my boy, there's a chance for you. Pour it on to
him—`scalding lava,' as old Parr said.”

As soon as Bradshaw advanced to the place
which Mr. Carlton had left, a deep silence reigned
over the crowd. Men like these keen encounters
of their fellows' wits—they look on with pretty
much the same kind of feeling that inspired those
of old, when they pressed to the gladiatorial arena,
where he who showed the most skill, and made
battle most bravely was sure to win the approbation
of the multitude.

There are, a wish to do justice, and an impulse to
generosity, that run, like electricity, through a
large crowd, when they are not controlled by a
deep-rooted prejudice, or an absorbing, passionate
purpose, that always will display themselves, when
there is any thing to call them up.

Without any premonitory flourish, and with great
apparent calmness, Bradshaw said, in the first place,
he had nothing to do with the call of the meeting,
and stated why, in his legislative capacity, he
had advocated the resolutions above mentioned.
He did his duty, he said, and left Mr. Carlton to do
his—nothing more was said, he continued, on the
subject, until Mr. Carlton returned, and the call of
a meeting by those who thought that gentleman
had not acted with an eye to their political interests,
was, Bradshaw thought, the very thing
Carlton should have sought, if he was aware that
there was any dissatisfaction with his course. But
Carlton was not prepared to meet dissatisfaction,

let alone censure, and he returns not only dissatisfied
with, but highly censorious of, those who dared
to act contrary to his notions. Here Bradshaw,
with indignant rebuke, commented upon Carlton—
and then, changing his tone suddenly, to one of ridicule,
he apologized for Carlton's apparent self-sufficiency,
and said he was to be excused, as he
was fresh from Washington, where, as they all
knew, he led among the magnets of the land—Heaven
save the magnets!—and that, on his leaving
Washington, he had taken a tour to superintend
the political infant schools that had been established
throughout the state, under his patronage. “He has
been teaching the young political idea how to shoot,
in the country,” said Bradshaw, “for he knows,
that,
and when he returned, and found that our opinions
wanted pruning, he set right to work; and, as I
had been a member of the legislature, and had
expressed some unpruned notions, when this meeting
was called, he looked upon me as the naughty
boy at school, who has been caught in one act of
mischief, and is sure to have laid at his door, or,
rather, on his back, every prank that is afterwards
played. The fact is, he wanted to drive me into
an act of rebellion—to compel me to take part in
the barring out, so that, when he gets in, birch in
hand, he may inflict upon me an awful punishment.”

Here Bradshaw turned towards Mr. Carlton, to
whom Talbot had handed a chair, and who had
seated himself very conspicuously near the light,

with the look and manner of a frightened urchin,
who is begging off. His droll suiting of the action to
the word, took every body by surprise, and caused
an uproarious shout of laughter and applause; at
which, Mr. Carlton jumped up in a passion, and,
shaking his finger at Bradshaw, called him “a
buffooning, boyish demagogue.” The threatening
finger of Carlton, so like a pedagogue's, made the
thing still more laughable; and the whole crowd
took, in a moment, and laughed and shouted loud
and long. Carlton, not at all perceiving the humour
of the scene, turned to the people, and denounced
Bradshaw with furious gesticulations; not
one word of what he said was heard; and this, if
possible, increased the uproar; for what is more
ridiculous than a man bellowing and furiously gesticulating
to a crowd, who hear not one word he
says, for laughing at him?

“No!” exclaimed Bradshaw, with great popular
tact, when the uproar at length ceased, and Carlton
had taken his seat, “no, my fellow-citizens, I
am under no man's patronage or pupilage—I am
one of the poor ones who go to the great free-school
of liberty.”

At this there was a stirring hurra for Bradshaw,
mingled with groans and hisses. All, at length, were
silent, except one, who, from the midst of the multitude,
kept interrupting Bradshaw's efforts to resume,
by an admirable imitation of the bleating of
a sheep, which caused those around him involuntarily
to laugh. “Turn him out,” exclaimed some:
“Give that sheep some grass,” said others—still the
bleating continued. “Turn that fellow out,” exclaimed
many of the crowd, indignantly.

“Don't interrupt him, I beg of you, my friends,”
said Bradshaw, “he can't help it—he is the great
belwether of our honourable representative's flock;
and what you hear is instinct, not imitation.”

The belwether's bleating ceased with the laugh
that the remark occasioned, and Bradshaw, changing
his tone, went on with great dignity; and with
an eloquence that kept every man in the crowd
an excited listener. He showed that he was right
in the view he had taken of the measure under
consideration; that, previously to his election he had
advanced the same opinions he now held; that he
was elected on these grounds; and that, therefore,
he was bound to advocate them on the floor of the
legislature; that he did so without being in the least
influenced by Mr. Carlton's opinions. For,” said
Bradshaw, “if I had been disposed to consider him as
`Sir Oracle,' I should instantly have reflected that,
like the oracles of old, he courted that ambiguity
necessary to the success of the oracular craft, which
might have left me a victim, where I expected to
be a victor; for, however much there may be a
doubt of our `Sir Oracle's' foretelling from what
direction the popular breeze will blow, none will
question the admirable facility with which, like the
weathercock, he adapts himself to the breeze when
blowing.”

“Fact!” “fact!” “true!” “true bill!” shouted
many of the crowd.

“My fellow-citizens,” resumed Bradshaw, “in
conclusion, I have but one remark to make.”—
Here he took the Evening Gazette from his pocket,
and read the articles it contained against him.

The editorial article accused him of duplicity, of
political tergiversation, of professing friendship to
Mr. Carlton, and pretending to be his political
friend, and of acting like a snake in the grass
against him. “Of the communication,” said Bradshaw,
referring to the article signed Junius, which,
Jekyl said, a hand in the Gazette office told him,
was written by Talbot,—“of the communication
I now say nothing but this, that I know the dastard
who wrote it, that he is now present, and
that I tell him to his face and to his teeth, that he
is a dastard and a coward;—but of this editorial
article I wish to speak: I pronounce it untrue, in
every respect—false in spirit and in letter; and I
charge the honourable Samuel Carlton, our most
honourable representative in Congress, with being
the writer of it.”

Mr. Carlton started up, and advanced forward,
as if to address the people, when Talbot sprang to
his side, drew him back, and whispered something
in his ear, of which Bradshaw heard, “Tell
them you consider it impertinence in Bradshaw,
that you're not here to answer such charges.” “I
must give up my......”—“No! no! on your honour,
no!” interrupted Talbot—“We......”—Bradshaw
heard no more.

After a minute's whispering with Talbot, Mr.
Carlton went forward, and said, after clearing his
throat, “'Tis true, gentlemen, I did write that article—I
sent it in town this morning—I did not
request it to be put in editorially—I expect to
prove every word in it—every word—you shall
have my authority some other time—I must consult
with the gentleman first.”

Mr. Carlton stepped back—the crowd uttered
not a word. Bradshaw at this instant, and for the
first time since he had commenced his speech, in
looking towards Mrs. Holliday's, thought of Mary
Carlton, and the pain that all this must give her.
He took the place that Mr. Carlton had left, and
said—

“My fellow-citizens, I deem it but an act of
common justice to Mr. Carlton, to say that I believe
he has been most foully and falsely deceived
with regard to my personal as well as my political
course towards him. I pronounce his authority
a liar, and dare him to the issue—I am almost
morally certain of the dastard; but he is no candidate
for your favour, now; and when he is, I shall
not shrink from meeting him at Philippi.”

Bradshaw's friends gave three cheers for him,
while those who cheered not made no demonstration
of disapproval, and the meeting broke up.

“Don't leave us, Bradshaw,” exclaimed a number
of Clinton's political friends, who had gathered
round him in the bar-room of the hotel. “Come,
let us adjourn to a private room, and take something.”

“Thank you, my dear fellows—but I must be off
to — county, where the court sits the day
after to-morrow.”

“Ah!” said one, “you go to defend the kidnapper—old
Lee—the rascal: don't you?”

“Yes.”

“I'm told you made him pony up to a pretty considerable
tune; but, come, you can spend a half
hour with us, nevertheless.”

“Thank you: I cannot, indeed—'tis now eleven.
At four, the stage calls for me, at my office; and I
have a trunk full of books to pack up. Your country
lawyer is keener than he of the city: he uses
no library, and carries his law in his head. The
juries in — county think a lawyer very profound,
if they see him dog-earing a big book. For
the more effect, I take a trunk full, and shall parade
them, in regular files, as a militia-captain displays
his band on a muster day, on the trial-table,
before the jury. I take with me a parcel of new
books, with the fairest covers on them, like a clear
conscience. I have often thought that one of your
old law books, that has been thumbed and soiled,
with only here and there a white spot, was the
very fac simile of the conscience of an old lawyer.
Good night!”

Bradshaw crossed the square, towards Mrs. Holliday's.
The light was still burning in the front
room, but the shutters were closed. He hesitated
at the door. Was Mary still there? Was her father
with her? Mrs. Holliday was away: could
she be alone? He paused a moment before the
door, and then deliberately ascended the steps, and
rang the bell. In an instant, it was opened by Sue;
and Bradshaw asked—

“Is Miss Carlton in, Sue?”

“No, sir—O! it's Mr. Bradshaw—yes, sir, Miss
Mary's in, and so is Miss Emily. Missus was gone
away, and I was keeping house.”

“And an excellent housekeeper, I have no doubt,
you are, Sue. What gentlemen are here?”

“Mr. Kentucky, sir, and a strange gentleman,

what coughs: he's gone to bed,” replied Sue, showing
her ivory, with delight, at Bradshaw's compliment
to her housekeeping.

As Bradshaw entered the room, Mary Carlton
started up from a table, at which she was writing,
to meet him; and then, checking herself, said—

“Come in, Clinton.”

Bradshaw advanced, and, seizing her proffered
hand, pressed it to his lips; and, gently encircling
her waist, asked—

“Do you forgive me, love, for all I have been
compelled to say of your father, in my own defence?”

“Clinton,” said she, blushing deeply, “don't you
see Emily and Mr. Willoughby?”

“`Behave yourselves before folks,' as the song
says,” said Willoughby, laughing.

Bradshaw turned, and, for the first time, observed
him sitting on the sofa, in the back room,
beside Emily.

“Ah! Kentuck,” exclaimed Bradshaw, “you see
I live in so much light here, from bright lamp,
and brighter eye, that, dazzled as I am, I cannot,
through the folding-doors, pierce the darkness.
Miss Emily Bradshaw—my respects to you, sis:
where's Mr. Chesterton?”

“Just gone, most unpoetically, to bed.”

“I did not know that you were in town. I saw
Mr. Chesterton, but lost him, somehow or other.”

“Bradshaw, I expect nothing yet, but that I
shall be disinherited in your favour.”

“If you think so,” said Bradshaw, laughing, “I'll
make such an agreement with you as John Horne

made with the nephew of the individual whose
name he took, and became John Horne Tooke. But
where's Mr. Chesterton, we must not let him hear
the agreement! The uncle was an odd fish,” said
Bradshaw, lowering his voice, “often quarrelled
with his nephew, and on one occasion, the misunderstanding
went so far that the uncle told Horne
if he would take his name, he would leave him his
estate; Horne did so, but entered into an agreement
with the nephew, as he was satisfied the
uncle would soon quarrel with him; that, no matter
to which of them the estate was left, they
should go halves.”

“Ah! I never saw that before.”

“Didn't you? It's told in Tooke's life. The
uncle left the estate to the nephew; the scamp promised
Tooke a certain part of it, which he said,
was all he wanted, and afterwards refused to give
it to him. Tooke sued him and recovered it. So
let Mary and Emily be the witnesses, and it's a
bargain, if you say so.”

“These ladies fair cannot well be witnesses,
Bradshaw; for, I hope, before my uncle shuffles
off this mortal coil, they will have changed their
names, and ladies may not be witnesses for, or
against their lords, saith the books.”

“Lords! how that sounds,” exclaimed Mary
Carlton.

In a few moments Willoughby, in a low voice,
sat conversing in the back room with Emily Bradshaw,
and Clinton, taking a seat by Mary, asked
her in as low a tone, what she was writing.

“A note to you, Clinton, a note to you, charging

you, if you had any regard for me, not to involve
yourself in a duel with Talbot.”

“Duel with Talbot!—My dear Mary, there is
no fear of that: Talbot could not be kicked, cuffed,
or horse-whipped into a fight.”

“Then, will you promise me that you will not
fight him?”

“Mary! Mary!—no, love, I must not promise
you that; but I will promise you, if he challenge
me for any punishment I may inflict upon him, I
will not meet him, unless you say—for you shall
be judge—that my honour demands it. But don't
talk of Talbot. With whom did you come to
town?”

“With my father, Mr. Wortley and Talbot in
the same carriage—the most disagreeable ride I
ever took or ever expect to take. O! Clinton,
my father and I had such a scene after you left.
He wished to compel me to marry Mr. Wortley,
whether I would or no. I cannot tell you how
stern and unkind he spoke. I became indignant:
I told him plainly and openly of all that has
passed between us. He threatened to disinherit
me. He reviled me; but, no matter—'tis sinful
I should feel anger against my parent. But, Clinton,
why should he compel me?—I have never
been with him any length of time in childhood,
or since. When did he ever seem to take a parental
affection in me? Often, for months, I have
not seen him, and then it was a cold greeting.—
And now, when I may be subservient to his ambition!—O!
I never knew a mother's care—Yes!
yes!—I have known a mother's care, and a father's

care; but it was not at the Park. After
years, when he has been to me almost a stranger,
shall I —”

“Mary, I would not let these things trouble
me with a second thought. As for the disinheritance,
love,” said Bradshaw, with a smile—
“have you not heard the agreement which Kentuck
and I are to make? I am rising rapidly into
practice. If I were to quit politics, and devote
myself to the law, and to making money, I have
no doubt that in a few years I could acquire a
large fortune. I —”

“No, Clinton, money-making never will content
you—never should content you—nor mere
reputation as a lawyer. You can stand among the
highest—why not the very highest?—in political
power and public consideration. You do not know
how ambitious I have learned to be at Washington.
'Tis not the wealthiest man, there, who is
sought for, Clinton—followed, applauded, courted
—nor the wife of the wealthiest, who draws round
her the considerations of the great. You see, 'tis
selfishness in me.”

“Then, Mary, at once be mine, and teach me
to be ambitious, and to aspire.”

“Teach you to aspire!”

“When will you be mine, love?”

“I must see my aunt Holliday, Clinton—I must
speak with her of my father—I must not act unadvisedly—I
am strangely situated. My father
brought me in this evening, and has not called for
me—he has, I suspect, gone out without me. I
must see aunt—I must consult aunt.”

“Brother! Mary!” interrupted Emily Bradshaw,
from the back room, “do you intend to talk
there all night?—'Tis after twelve.”

“It is!” exclaimed Mary Carlton. “Bless me,
the neighbours will tell aunt, when she returns,
that we have kept open house here, and had parties
every night. Mrs. Grey, our near neighbour,
has the School for Scandal enacted in her parlour
every evening.”

“Good night, sis,” said Bradshaw, to his sister.
“I shall not see you for a week or more, as
I told you I must be in — county the day after
to-morrow.”

“You defend a kidnapper, do you, Clinton?”
asked Mary.

“Yes, Mary,” whispered Bradshaw; “and if
you would let me steal you, I think I could defend
myself ably in any court in Christendom,
particularly in the court of love.”