University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Hearty Coil's rescue of the child had made him
almost instantaneously popular in Perryville. He
took some trouble, or rather Mrs. Coil took much, in
insisting that her husband should take more, to avoid
his nickname of “Hearty,” and make current his
proper one of M'Murdock; vociferating, if she had
ever thought he would “ever have taken up with
such an abominable name as Hearty, that she never
would have taken up with him.” She held in as
much detestation that cognomen applied to her husband,
as did Miss Judson the abbreviation of Lizzy,
from the fraternal, or any other lips. Mrs. Coil had
got reconciled to the nickname among her old neighbours;
but among one of the resolutions of amendment
and correction, which she had determined to
put in operation on their emigration, was the restoration
of the proper appellation to her spouse. The
misfortune was, that Mrs. Coil herself had acquired
the habit of calling Mr. Coil, Hearty, whenever she
was excited and forgot herself; and the consequence
was, notwithstanding her resolution, that on the very
day herself and family arrived at Perryville, when
her husband saved Mrs. Moore's child, in her fear
for his safety, and in the excitement afterwards, she
repeatedly addressed him by that reprobated name.

Thus, when the affair was talked of in Perryville,
and the stranger's name asked, it was immediately
replied, that his wife called him “Hearty.” Ruth,
too, at the church door, had so named him; and
little Billy told all the boys in town, who naturally
marvelled over the risk that their playmate, young
Moore, had run, that he knew the man who saved
him, Hearty Coil, before he came to Perryville.
Thus Mrs. Coil's efforts were frustrated, and the name
of Hearty became as much fixed in their new abode
upon her husband, as it was in their old one. Cromwell
was not better known by the title of “Old
Noll,” or General Jackson by that of “Old Hickory,”
than was Coil in the sphere of his acquaintance—
more limited than that of the two worthies above-mentioned,
but, nevertheless, the world to him—by
that of Hearty.

Mr. Moore, solicitous of making some return to
the preserver of his child, made inquiries as to the
manner in which he might assist him; and as the
keeper of “The General Boon Hotel,” a house
owned by Mr. Moore, was about to enter into some
other business, Hearty thought he would like to succeed
him; for he was a boarder there and saw what
an easy life the proprietor led, and was moved,
maybe, by the same considerations that made Jim
Bunce take to distilling. On naming it to Mr. Moore,
that gentleman told him he should have the house;
and all that Hearty now had to do, was to obtain
Mrs. Coil's consent. Mrs. Coil was a shrewd woman

and shrewish; and before Hearty could obtain
it, he had to make concessions as to who should keep
the keys and the cash, and as to the quantity of
liquor he might take, which placed him in the situation
of our first parent with the forbidden fruit; and
with this difference, that the woman would dissuade
him from evil. Alas! Hearty's own inclinations
were temptations enough; for, notwithstanding Mrs.
Coil assured him, with many asseverations, that so
soon as he got drunk, they should break up tavern-keeping,
it was to be feared, that unless he kept a
brighter eye on himself than he had ever before been
known to keep—and then, too, the tempter was
not always before him—he would be overtaken in
liquor.

“The General Boon Hotel” was considered the
best in Perryville. It was a two story brick building
on the main street, not far from the river; and
its door and windows were rather the worse of
election days and Christmas frolics. A porch with
a broad roof, and with steps as long as itself and
benches all round it, extended the whole length of
the “Hotel” in front. Over it creaked the sign
that bore, what was meant to be, the figure of the
worthy from whom the hotel was named, Daniel
Boon, the celebrated pioneer, the first white man
who ever trod in Kentucky, dressed in a hunting
shirt and moccasins, and in combat with a huge
bear rampant. The bear was in the act of giving
the pioneer a Brobdignagdian hug; and he was

avoiding the consequences of their approximation,
by plunging his hunting knife into the side of the
animal, that had its fore paws on his shoulders. The
bear was done with most ferocious looking black
paint; the eyes were portentous, and the mouth
threatened to serve Boon as the whale served Jonah.
Considering that Boon was of Quaker descent, and
as Simon Kenton, one of the last of the race of the
pioneers, who was last year gathered to his fathers,
once told us, quite a Quaker-looking man—considering
this—the traveller could not but be struck with
the buckish habiliments of Boon, which, though of
the backwood's character, had nevertheless a dash
of dandyism about them, which indicated that if their
owner had been in the sphere of Nash, or Brummel,
they would not have lived unrivalled. His hunting
shirt was blue, with flaming red trimmings, represented
in that kind of paint, the flashing red, that a
Dutch vrow loves. His leggings were of a light yellow,
tied with red strings, so long that the fear could
not but arise, that if the real character had appeared
in such, his progress must have been impeded by
the bushes, on which he must have left many a rag
for others to take off—and not have taken the rag
off of the bush himself, as was his wont, and from all
competitors. The pioneer wore upon his head an
immense bear skin cap, which at first sight might
have produced on the bear the notion, that it was
a brother bruin before him. The feet of the figure
were graced with yellow moccasins, spotted with
blue and red paint to represent beads. Sam, the
boot-black, affirmed immediately after the artist,
who had thus immortalized the features of the pioneer,
had treated him, and while the painter was
feeling in his pocket for some change to remunerate
him for his assistance in putting up the sign, that the
moccasins were the things that hit his fancy most;
“for,” said Sam, glancing up at the sign as it creaked
in the breeze, and extending his hand towards the
artist at the same moment—“them are mockshins
are the very thing itself; for, Mr. Muskman, when I
look at them are beads on 'em, I think I hear 'em
rattle. And I don't mean, no how, to disparage the
bear; for many's the time I shall be toting my boots
and blacking by in winter days when it's cloudy
and the wind blows, and that are beautiful sign swings
this way and that way, many's the time old Sam 'ill
stop and look at it and think he hears the bear grunt,
'cause the knife sticks him. As for General Boon,
hisself he looks like—thank, you Master Muskman.
Whew, two quarters—sarvant, sir.”

A row of trees had been set out before the General
Boon Hotel, but only two of them remained, and
they were in a very stunted condition, in consequence
of the jerks and bites they had received from
the horses that had been tied to them, and the cuts
and barking from the loiterers around, and leaners
against them. A number of broad flag-stones, not
very regularly laid, were between the house and the
trees, which last were placed in a line, where it was

contemplated the curb-stones should be, whenever
this, the main street—which was of ample breadth,
and appeared designed for the “Broadway” of a
great city—should be paved. Two doors opened
on to the porch of the Boon Hotel; one let you into
a passage leading to a room not very large, and, by
a stairway, to the second story, and the other directly
into the bar-room, which contained a large
bar, shaped like a half moon, and placed directly opposite
the door. A few chairs and a couple of small
tables, one of which held an old backgammon-box,
and the other a number of newspapers, that appeared,
from the beer and brandy stains upon them, not
to be the chroniclers of the latest news, comprised
the furniture of this democratic apartment.

Almost every Saturday—for sometimes it was delayed
for want of paper or journeymen to the middle
of the ensuing week—those newspapers above-mentioned,
were augmented by the presence of the “Perryville
Champion,” printed, edited, and published by
Vicesimus Finn, Esq. If the “Champion” did not
wear the motley of the other papers, it nevertheless
was as yellow as the deepest beer-stained one on the
table, but it had a more amalgamated look, being
yellow all over. However, it is proper to say of it,
that the varieties of news were not placed in the
columns with a disregard to their locations, but that
each appeared under their respective captions; as,
for instance, “Foreign News,” “Domestic News,”
&c. Furthermore, the “Poetical Department” was

adorned with the figure of a Cupid, whose bow and
quiver were plainly to be seen, and who seemed,
from the attitude, in the act of piercing some heart.
The impression of the arrow, if such was the fact,
did not distinctly appear, nor, in fact, did the figure
of the Cupid; but this gentleman had been so long
shooting his arrows from the head of the “Perryville
Champion,” at the hearts of the maidens of that
good town, in the shape of sonnets, odes, stanzas,
“Lines to —,” &c., that there was no wonder his
weapon was worn out, and that himself, in spite of
his youthful appearance, was old enough to be included
in the list of old bachelors.

Nevertheless, many able articles, both in prose and
poetry, had appeared in the “Champion,” the best of
which were generally supposed to be by William
Bennington. Attributing a power to himself, such
as those veteran moulders of public opinion, Ritchie,
Hammond, Walsh, or Noah, might claim, it was the
custom of Mr. Finn, each Saturday evening after the
“Champion” had appeared, to call for a glass, and
take his seat in the bar-room of the Boon Hotel, and
learnedly to expatiate to the Perryvillians, many of
whom did then and there assemble, upon whatever
topic might arise. Mr. Finn had served his time at
the printing business, and on arriving at age, had
quit it to read law; but finding that the legal profession
did not suit his genius, that is, fill his pockets,
he commenced editor in his native place,—from
which he had been a wanderer for many years—

and where, when he was born, and where Perryville
now stands, there were but two houses, one of which
was his father's, who kept the ferry; yet Vicesimus
was not thirty, and was a clever fellow—a little
given to rhodomontade, but of generous and bold
impulses.

It was on the Monday after Hearty's arrival, that
Mr. Moore, on easy terms, made him his tenant.
And as the former proprietor of the General Boon
Hotel had not paid his last quarter's rent, Mr. Moore
had agreed to take in lieu of the cash, furniture, such
as it was, to that amount, so that Hearty had just
to take possession without any trouble of previous
preparation. He determined, however, after a long
consultation with Mrs. Coil, and a profound weighing
and studying of the matter, to change the title of
his establishment from that of The General Boon
Hotel, to the more fashionable one of the Boon
House. On the next Wednesday he was fully installed
landlord of it, where, to this day, the family
circle of the Coils, increasing every year in number,
may be seen playing about the door.

Henry Beckford, on his arrival at Perryville, has
stopped at the General Boon, and after the scene at
the church-door, and his subsequent dismissal by
Miss Bennington, he had visited her but once, and
did not go out much in town. He, however, had
been gunning for the two days past with William
Bennington, who, though he had lost all regard for
and confidence in Henry, could not find it in his

heart to drop at once his acquaintance, when he reflected
that Henry was a stranger, whose father was
so distinguished, and friendly to his own parents,
and that he had been so intimate with him. In their
rambles through the woods, Henry observing, from
his previous conversations with William Bennington,
that he could not poison his mind against Ruth,
carefully avoided speaking of her or of any of the
recent events in Perryville that were connected
with her name. The young men in gunning no
longer proceeded together in careless and lively
conversation, their intercourse was restrained, and
each seemed not unwilling to ramble apart from the
other. The feeling, on William's part, proceeded
from his changed opinion of Henry, which he could
not nor would not entirely conceal, while Henry felt
mortified at the result of his suit with Miss Bennington,
and desirous of discovering what had so suddenly
changed her conduct towards him, but he
shrunk from asking. He had several times determined
to wait on Ruth, and ask her if she had made
any communications with regard to himself to Miss
Bennington, but he had not yet screwed his impudence
up to the unblushing effrontery of visiting her,
after what had occurred at the church-door. He
would have done it easily if he had been satisfied of
meeting her alone, but he did not like the probability
of finding William, his sister, or even Coil or his
wife there. Yet he lingered in Perryville with the
determination of seeing Ruth, and questioning her
about Helen Murray's letters. He had no idea of
the talk which the scene at the church-door, the remark
of Billy, and the quarrel between Miss Judson
and Mrs. Bongarden had made in Perryville, or that
his name was so very closely connected with the
slanders which these ladies, particularly Miss Judson
had circulated against Ruth. Henry had seen
Hearty, and had held some little conversation with
him, which Hearty seemed so determined to cut
short, that Henry could not prolong it, but he nevertheless
determined to endeavour to learn from him
what was said about his affair at home, and whether
Hearty had spoken of it in Perryville, &c. Hearing
that Hearty was to be his landlord, while he felt a
misgiving, he knew not why, at meeting him hourly,
he reflected that he could insinuate himself into the
good graces of at least Mrs. Coil, and thereby win
upon her husband, for he had not in his heart resigned
his suit with Miss Bennington, and his hatred of
Ruth grew daily more deadly. Henry had no great
passion for Miss Bennington; perhaps, if she had accepted
his addresses, he would have left Perryville
never to return, for he held the wooing an amusement,
and believed the conquest easy; but now that
his vanity had been wounded, and he found the fair
one not as consenting as he deemed, the desire to
succeed increased with its difficulty. Besides, he
he was in utter idleness, away from his former haunts
and acquaintances, feeling perpetually the want of
excitement, with the morbidness which its unsated
appetite creates; and as his reflections were not
upon the correction of his vices, but upon the untoward
circumstances which prevented their indulgence,
he naturally hoarded deep and dark schemes
of revenge against those whom he considered the
cause of his misfortunes.

There is a short but pithy poem, by one of our
American bards, which appeared some few years
ago in a neat volume, in which his effusions were
collected, entitled “The Devil a Fishing.” The volume
is by Selleck Osborne, and the piece alluded to
struck us in our boyhood as the best thing in it. It
recounts the various baits with which his Satanic
Majesty fed his hook for the particular fish for which
his palate at any time might have an especial craving.

The subtle fisherman goes on to narrate how he
catches the belle with a ribbon, the lawyer with a
fee, &c. but says he, in conclusion:—

Henry Beckford was in the condition to be easily
caught, even by this unbaited hook, for he seemed
determined, notwithstanding his past experience, to
persevere in the indulgence of feelings and the encouragement
of habits, that must plunge him irretrievably
in deeper errors. The shame which he
felt for the past, but made him the more anxious for

revenge on those whom his perverted moral sense led
him to believe had brought it on him, while no regrets
for his own conduct, except so far as it had injured
himself, not others, and no resolutions of amendment,
arose to his mind.