University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Mr. Paul Fitzhurst was the son of a former governor
of the state in which the scenes of our narrative
occurred. He was descended from a very old and
noble family of England: one of the younger branches
of which emigrated to the United States when they
were colonies of Great Britain. They acquired
wealth in their new homes, and transmitted it to their
descendants, who were so fortunate as to retain it,
notwithstanding the repeal of the law of entail. Mr.
Paul Fitzhurst was as proud of his pedigree as any
Hidalgo of Spain could possibly be, notwithstanding
he avowed himself a thoroughgoing republican. His

ancestors, however, at the time of the revolution, were
not supposed to be remarkably attached to the new
order of things. In fact, the cry of “tory” had been
raised against one of them about the time that the colonial
cause was darkest; but in the progress of events,
when the thirteen stars waved to successive victories,
and threatened their stripes in the shape of confiscations
to the disaffected remnant who might remain
after their national establishment, this ancestor of
Mr. Fitzhurst received new light, and though he might
have been reproached, in the phrase of the present day,
with being an “eleventh hour” man, it is certain that
what he lost in time he made up in zeal as soon as his eyes
were opened upon the error of his way. Since the
conversion of this ancestor to the republican cause, all
the Fitzhursts had been advocates of it. The election
of one of them to the gubernatorial chair, fully proves
that the people of their state believed, at least, one of
them sincere.

Mr. Paul Fitzhurst, while he loved republicanism,
was wont to eulogise privately the British system in
some respects, but he never could bring either his
son or daughter to his way of thinking, though, strange
to say, his sister coincided with him.

In fact, Mr. Fitzhurst looked upon himself, particularly
when he caught the reflection from a mirror of
his powdered head and queue, and his face calculated
to set them off, as one of the last surviving representatives
of the old aristocracy. Though of a quick
temper, Mr. Paul Fitzhurst was never known to have
but one quarrel, and that was with his elder brother,
who, at the period at which our narrative commences,
had been dead many years. The circumstances were
as follows: His elder brother Josiah was a bachelor, a
most singular being, a man of most eccentric habits, who
became a fanatical member of the methodist church,
a class of Christians against whom, we wish it understood,

we would not say one word, for we consider
that they have done as much good as any other religious
denomination. It was thought that Josiah had
gotten a maggot in his head before he joined the
methodists, but, be this as it may, a short time after
his membership he came to the conviction that his
brother's queue was a mere adornment of vanity, a
meretricious, unsightly, and unrighteous appendage to
the human form, and that it ought by all means to be
abated—cut off from setting a bad example.

After this conscientious opinion had for some time
possessed Josiah's head, he made a serious call upon
his brother, formally introduced the theme which had
caused himself so much uneasiness, and concluded by
begging and praying him to lop off that excrescence
of vanity forthwith.

As may justly be supposed, Paul was highly indignant
thereat. He peremptorily refused; and so strongly
was the impression that Josiah was insane made upon
Paul's mind by the interview, that he had strong notions
of taking out a commission of lunacy, for he was
fearful if Josiah was left to himself he would not only
squander his estate, but that under his strange hallucination
he would commit some rash, perhaps awful
act.

While Paul was debating this subject with himself,
Josiah called one day, and with even more earnestness
than before, renewed his supplication that Paul would
consent to his proposition. Josiah averred, that he
felt satisfied that, if Paul did not comply, some
terrible dispensation would overtake both of them.
Paul, as firmly as before, refused to part with his
queue, but he became thoroughly convinced in his own
mind that Josiah was insane, and he resolved that the
very next day he would ride into town, and consult
counsel as to what steps he should take with regard
to his brother's unfortunate mental malady. Finding

that he could not prevail with Paul, Josiah appeared
to drop the idea. He remained with his brother for
several hours conversing upon indifferent topics, until
dinner was announced, when the brothers sat down
together, and partook of a very hearty meal. They
broached some of Paul's best Madeira, and afterwards,
when reflecting upon the matter, Paul could not but
be of the opinion that Josiah tried to get him to drink
more than was his custom. However, it is not known
whether Josiah succeeded or not, but after they had
cracked a bottle apiece, and smoked several segars,
Paul fell asleep in his chair as they sat together.

It is not known what could have tempted Josiah;
whether the deed was predetermined, or whether, on
beholding his brother's queue sticking out at full length
over his coat collar in pugnacious defiance, the sudden
hallucination entered his mind, must ever remain in
doubt. But this is a fact, that as soon as Paul gave
evidence that he was asleep by a lengthened nasal
announcement, Josiah deliberately drew a pair of large
shears from his pocket, and with one clip he cut his
brother's queue close off.

On the instant of the decapitation, and before Paul,
awakened by the deed, was aware of the extent of the
injury done him, Josiah made a precipitate retreat,
bearing with him the dismembered trophy, like an
Indian with the scalp of his enemy. Paul, notwithstanding
he had asserted and believed that his brother
was non compos mentis, and should therefore have
forgiven misdeeds for which Josiah could not have
been held morally responsible, nevertheless became
maddened almost to insanity himself. The brothers
never spoke together again. Paul always maintained
that Josiah was insane, though from a brotherly regard
he never cited the decapitation of his queue as a
proof of the fact. Josiah, after a life of eccentric and
humorous adventures, gave himself a mortal injury,

in attempting, from the top of his house, the experiment
of flying with a machine which he had made
for that purpose. He humorously said, as his servants
were bearing him to the house, that he had come
to the conclusion of the Dutchman who had tried a
similar experiment with similar results—“`That flying
was easy enough, but that lighting was the devil.'
But,” said he, when he had been laid on the bed, “hurry
to the village for Mr. Maulsby, the lawyer; I'll leave all
my property to my little nephew Sid, and that I think
will prove to my brother that I am not clear cracked,
if I did cut his queue off. Ha, ha!—oh, my side! No,
there's some method in my madness.” And this was
the end of a most eccentric scion of the family of
Fitzhurst.

Miss Rachellina Fitzhurst was a maiden lady, of
whom we might say, as of Campbell's beechen tree:

This “single blessedness,” however, we have the best
authority—her own—for averring, was her own fault.
But Miss Rachellina's heart could not be said to resemble
the bark of the above-named tree, on which,
we are told by the poet, was carved
On the contrary, though it was evident from the
maidenhood of the lady that the impressions made
upon her heart were not very deep, it nevertheless could
not be said that they were “forgotten,” as Miss Rachellina
was in the habit of recounting to Fanny the
names of a list of despairing swains whom she had
known in her time. But then it might have been
that the impressions were only made upon the hearts
of those unfortunate gentlemen, and that Miss Rachellina,
as she could not reciprocate their passions, remembered
them in pity.

Miss Deborah Amelia Bentley, whose visit to Miss
Rachellina we have recorded in our last chapter, was
also a maiden lady of about Miss Rachellina's age.
In a little back parlour which Miss Rachellina held
to be her especial room, over a fragrant cup of tea,
it was much the custom of these ladies to rehearse, for
the edification of Fanny, the chivalrous attentions
which they had received in their bellehood. If Fanny
did not allow something for the imagination of these
ladies, the degeneracy of the present age must have
been made manifest to her. Fanny knew the history
of every beau they ever had, or even thought they
had. When alone, however, with her aunt, Miss Rachellina
would more than insinuate, after one of these
conversations, particularly if Miss Deborah had taken
the lead in it, that her friend was a little fond of exaggeration
with regard to her beaux. And Miss
Bentley, when similarly situated with Fanny, would
frequently renew the theme which had been broken
by the absence of Miss Rachellina, when she would
smile with peculiar incredibility while alluding to the
interpretations which her absent friend had given to
the alleged attentions of certain gentlemen. Miss
Deborah would, moreover, recount, as if she designed
a set off to Miss Rachellina's narrative, certain passages
between those very gentlemen and herself
which had a marvellous cast towards the tender.
But these two fair maiden ladies were devoted
friends; and for years past, at least, nothing had disturbed
the harmony of their friendship. Miss Deborah
had a large fortune, and Colonel Bentley was
her orphan nephew. As the colonel was a gentleman
at large, and had no means of his own, he depended
entirely upon his aunt for resources; and as the

good lady did not bleed as freely as he could have
wished, the greatest source of annoyance that the
colonel had in the world—quite a common annoyance
by the by—was the occasional want of the needful.