University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

At length, issuing from the wood, I entered a
prairie, more beautiful than any I had yet seen.
The surface, gently undulating, presented innumerable
swells, on which the eye might rest with
pleasure. Many of these were capped with
clumps and groves of trees, thus interrupting the
dull uniformity which generally wearies the traveller
in these vast expanses. I gazed around for
a moment with delight but soon found leisure
to observe that my road had become alarmingly
indistinct. It is easy, indeed, to follow the faintest
trace through a prairie. The beaten track, however
narrow, wears a peculiar aspect, which makes

it distinguishable even at a distance. But the name
of Arlington, the place of my destination, denoted
at least a village; while the tedious path which I
was travelling seemed more like to terminate in
the midst of the prairie, than to lead to a public
haunt of men. I feared I had missed my way, and
looked eagerly ahead for some traveller, who might
set me right, if astray. But I looked in vain.
The prairie lay before me, a wide waste, without
one moving object. The sun had just gone down;
and as my horse, enlivened by the shade and the
freshness of evening, seemed to recover his mettle,
I determined to push on to such termination as my
path might lead to.

At this moment, a shout from behind reached
my ear. I turned, and saw a man on horseback,
standing between me and the sky, on the top of the
east swell. Though a quarter of a mile off, his
figure stood out in such distinct relief, that every
limb was conspicuous, and well defined on the
bright background. He was stationary, standing
erect in his stirrups, and twisted around, so that
his back and his horse's head were both towards
me. After repeating a shout, which I found was
a call to a dog, he put his horse in motion, and
advanced at a brisk trot.

I was now in no hurry, and he soon overtook
me. Touching his hat, he was passing on at a
gait too rapid for my jaded horse, when I accosted
him. He drew up immediately, and again erecting
himself on the wooden stirrups of his Spanish

saddle, and resting his left hand on the pommel
and the right on the cantle, brought his horse to a
walk, and faced half round towards me.

I asked if I was on the road to Arlington, and
was answered in the affirmative. The distance?
“Some eight miles.”

“I hope,” said I, “the road grows plainer, or I
shall hardly find it in the night.”

“You will have no difficulty,” said he; “your
horse will keep it instinctively, as there is no fork
in the road. Besides, I am going nearly to the
place, and as the evening is pleasant, I will accommodate
the gait of my horse to the weariness of
yours.”

I made due acknowledgments for this unlookedfor
courtesy, which, however, surprised me less,
than a turn of expression, so little in keeping with
the stranger's appearance. At this moment his
dogs came up—two beautiful greyhounds; one jet
black, the other spotless white. He stopped his
horse, spoke first reproachfully, and then kindly
to them; and as the white dog reared up to his
knee, patted his head, saying, in a tender tone,
“My poor fellow! my poor dog! my poor Gryphon!”

“Gryfin!” thought I. “This fellow, now, is an
illiterate clown, who has seen the word griffin
somewhere, and has given the name to his dog,
without knowing how to pronounce it. He is no
better than he looks to be, after all; though his

words and tone are those of a cultivated and well-bred
man, he is no better than he looks to be.”

And truly this was not saying much for him. I
could not distinguish his features by the waning
light, but saw that he was a tall, spare man, in his
shirt sleeves, without a cravat, and with a broad-brimmed
straw hat, turned up behind and down
before. A shirt, white enough at the bosom, a
shabby, half-worn Marseilles waistcoat, trousers of
country linen, and a pair of old slip-shod pumps,
constituted his dress. He rode a large, high-formed,
and apparently high-bred mare, of fine
action, but long tailed, bare footed, and in low
order, that seemed as much at cross purposes with
herself as did her rider.

We moved slowly, and in silence. I had no
doubt my companion, after the fashion of the country,
would soon begin to question me; and, as I
had some curiosity concerning him, I was prepared
to be civil and communicative. But I was disappointed.
My name, my residence, my journey
and its object, seemed to be quite indifferent to
him. It appeared as if the first glance had told
him all he wanted to know, and he scarce looked
at me again. I determined to begin.

“You have a beautiful country,” said I.

“Yes,” he replied; “and there are few scenes
more beautiful than that which the darkness is
beginning to hide from your eye.”

“But the night itself is beautiful; and the moon
will shine almost as bright as day.”

“The night is indeed beautiful,” said he, “but
that is nearly the same everywhere; and moonlight,
however beautiful, shows no distant objects.
Observe my dogs,” continued he; “they wind a
deer. He is near us, on the side of the naked
swell we are ascending; but look as you will, you
cannot see him. Even they do not see him; if
they did, they would give chase. Gryphon! come
in, sir! Back! back!”

A sharp whistling sound was now heard near
us, and the bounding of the deer immediately followed.
The eager dogs were restrained, with
difficulty, by the master's voice; and in a few
seconds the sound ceased.

I now spoke to the white dog, as he trotted by
my side. “Griffin,” said I. The dog took no
notice of me. “Griffin! Griffin! poor fellow!”

“I once knew a gentleman,” said my companion,
“who had a passion for pronouncing words as
they are spelled. In the management of a little
amour, it became necessary that he should acquaint
himself with the name of the house dog. You
know a dog's name is a spell of mighty power to
subdue his fierceness. The dog in question was
named Boatswain. He took great pains to call
him Boat-swain, and was bitten for his trouble.
You might get into a scrape of the same sort with
my dog, sir.”

“How so? Is not his name Griffin?”

“Gryphon, sir.”

“Gryphin?” said I. “Well, if you choose so

to pronounce the word, it is his name, to be sure.
But give me leave to ask why you so pronounce
it?”

“Because it is so spelled, and always so pronounced.”

“Gri-fin?” said I.

“No,” said he, “Gry-phon,” emphasizing the
last syllable. Then pointing to the dogs alternately,
he added, “Gryphon, the white, and Aquilant,
the black.”

I was taken all aback at once. “I believe,”
said I, “I have seen those names so associated, but
where, I cannot remember. Where is it?”

“In the Orlando Furioso,” said he.

I think I never felt more foolish in my life. I
had tried to play the pedagogue, and I was flogged
with my own birch. I had been trying, too, to
decipher this strange half clown, half gentleman,
but all in vain; while he, as I saw, had read me
through and through, like print. I really felt too
much abashed to say another word for several
minutes. At length it occurred to me, that the
best way to re-establish our intercourse on an
easy footing, was to speak out and make a clean
breast.

“I perceive,” said I, “that, in pretending to correct
a fancied blunder, I have made a very foolish
one. But, as I would not have you think me more
impertinent than I really was, it is well to say
frankly, that I am sensible of having been so.”

“My dear sir,” replied he, in the kindest tone,

“it is only by blunders that we learn wisdom. You
are too young to have made many as yet. God
forbid, that when you shall have made as many as
I have, you should have profited as little by them.
But it will not be so. You take the right plan to
get the full benefit of all you make. I am not
sure,” continued he, “that we do not purchase all
our good qualities by the exercise of their opposites.
How else does experience of danger make
men brave? If they were not scared at first, then
they were brave at first. If they were scared,
then the effect of fear upon the mind has been to
engender courage. Virtue, indeed, may be formed
by habit. But who has a habit of virtue? very
few. The rest have to arrive at virtue by the
roundabout road of crime and repentance; as if a
man should follow the sun around the earth to
reach a point but a few degrees east of that from
which he started. But it is God's plan of accomplishing
his greatest end, and must be the best
plan.”

It may be readily believed, that such a speech
as this, though it effectually soothed my feelings,
did not dispose me to talk much at random to this
“learned Theban.” Philosophy in shirt sleeves,
taking the air by moonlight, on a prairie in Missouri,
was so strange a phenomenon, that I knew
not what to say, or even to think. But my companion
relieved me at once.

“You are lately from Virginia,” said he, in a
tone between inquiry and affirmation.

“I am,” said I; “but give me leave to ask why
you thought so?”

“I can hardly tell,” he replied; “I believe I
arrived at the conclusion almost per saltum; but
it may be amusing to endeavour to trace the process.
To begin with small things. Your equipment
is too elaborate for one who has been long
among us. Your whip, your umbrella, your saddlebags
and valise, your martingale and surcingle;
had you been long here, you would have learned
to exchange these for the curt and succinct equipments
which we use on the longest journeys. This
pocket” (pointing to a pouch on the cover of his
saddle, just in front of the right knee) “would hold
two shirts; the opposite, waistcoats and drawers;
behind is another of the same size for socks, handkerchiefs,
&c.; and then there is a fourth for
crackers, cheese, or jerked venison. By-the-way,
will you have a bit?”

Saying this, he handed me something that looked
and felt like a piece of split wood. I took it,
tasted it, found it delicious, and he went on thus:
“Shall I go on with my reasons? Well; your
horse! No horse can be put in his order without
being first made very fat. He is now worked
down, but still in good condition, and his flesh is
as hard and dry as that you are chewing; ergo,
he is from a long journey.”

“You have made it very clear,” said I, “that I
have come from a distance; but why from Virginia?”

“Because from nowhere else. Not from the
western country, or you would have asked me
more questions in five minutes than I think you
would in a week. Besides, you are a judge of
horseflesh; I see that you admire my mare, and
you would have been beating about me for a trade
before this.

“You are not from the South, or you would
have been on wheels. You are not from the East,
or you would never have made the frank speech
which just preceded my remark, `that you were
lately from Virginia.' And by the same token,
you are from the country below the mountains;
and I should locate you on tide water, and designate
you an alumnus of William and Mary. Am
I right?”

“You are.”

“You see how curiosity whets observation, and
how that is whetted by a residence in this remote
country. Hence the universal propensity to ask
questions. When restrained by delicacy, or self-respect,
or respect for others, curiosity effects its
object by keen observation.”

“I think,” said I, “I may infer from all this that
you too are a Virginian.”

“Of course, I would not suppose you could
doubt it. There is a sort of freemasonry among
us by which we know each other. By-the-by, it
is time I were giving you one of its `due signs
and tokens.' A Virginian, who suffers another,
who is a stranger in the land, to part company

with him at his own gate, is a cowin, and should
be turned out of the lodge. I would not disparage
my neighbours of the city of Arlington, but I am
afraid your accommodations there would not much
refresh you after a hard day's ride.”

“I suppose there is a public house there.”

“Not exactly. In the first place, there is nobody
there who lays himself out for the entertainment
of travellers; and, in the second place, though
there is a town there, yet, properly speaking, there
is no house.”

“Why, then, was I directed there?”

“Because there is a man there who will take
your money for what you eat, if you can get it,
(and that depends on his gun,) and for what your
horse should eat, whether he gets it or no; and
that, I suspect, depends mainly on the negroes in
the neighbourhood.”

“Your account is rather discouraging.”

“Yes, but I am only showing you the greater
evil. I think my shanty is the less of the two,
and I am the more anxious that you should choose
wisely, because I foresee that you will not travel
to-morrow.”

“Why not?”

“Because `I hear a sound of much rain,' and
see signs of it, too.”

“Hear! I hear nothing in all this vast solitude
but the sound of our voices and our horses' hoofs.”

“Listen a moment. Do you hear nothing
else?”

“I hear something like the sound of an axe.”

“That axe is more than two miles off.”

“And what of that?”

“Were it not about to rain it could not be heard
half the distance.”

“But I never saw a more beautiful night.”

“Nor I.”

“The wind is in the west, the moon is bright,
the atmosphere is clear, and `the clouds are drifting
east the sky,' at a rate which will soon sweep
them all to the Atlantic. And see how light and
beautiful they are.”

“True! they are beautiful. Do you observe
their milky whiteness?”

“Yes.”

“Do you observe the intense blaze of the sky?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mark the deep, deep chasms between
the clouds? not as if they glided along the surface
of the blue vault, but as if it lay myriads of
miles beyond them. See! it is the moon that is
set in the solid vault. The clouds are here—though
far above us, still comparatively here—is it not
so?”

“It is.”

“Well, whenever you see that appearance, make
up your mind to spend the next day wherever you
spend the night; and so make up your mind to
spend the night where you wish to spend the next
day. Now, if you are what, as a Virginian, I
would have you to be, you will take me at my

word; if not, you will begin to talk about hating
to give trouble—and so I shall let you go.”

I paused, and was at a loss what to say; so he
went on: “I see I have posed you. So, before
you commit yourself too far, it is but just to add
that I have no house, any more than my neighbour
Dennis at Arlington. But I can keep you dry, and
the weather will keep you warm; and I can give
you something to eat, and a book to read, and, as
you know well enough by this time, I can talk to
you. So, end as you began with me. Speak up
frankly, and say that you will camp with me.”

“Then, frankly,” said I, “I thank you, and I
will.”

“Good,” said he. “And here we are at my
field.”

We were indeed at the corner of an enclosure
along one side of which we rode, until we came
to a rude slipgap in the fence. This my conductor
let down. We led our horses over, and found
ourselves between two black walls of Indian corn
rustling in the night wind. Nothing was visible
before us but the narrow turning row which served
for a road, until we reached an open space in the
field of an acre or two. Here I found myself by
the side of a low log cabin, through the open crevices
of which gleamed the red light of a large fire.
Before the door of this stood the dusky figure of a
negro, who took our horses.

As we alighted, my companion said, “I have
all this time neglected to introduce myself, or to

qualify myself to introduce you. My name is Balcombe.”
I gave mine in return, and we went
on. As yet I had seen nothing of a dwellinghouse,
or even of the promised shanty; but as we turned
the corner of the cabin a strong light gleamed
upon us. This proceeded from a dwelling, which
I will describe now as I saw it the next day. It
consisted of two pens, each about ten feet square,
made of such timbers as are used for joists, set on
edge, one above another, and dovetailed into each
other at the corners. The two were placed about
ten feet apart, and both were covered by a roof,
which sheltered also the intervening space. The
floors of this passage and of both rooms consisted
of loose rough boards. Into each room was cut a
doorway and window; but there was no door, nor
any means of closing either that or the windows,
but blankets hung up by way of curtain.

In the passage stood a table, covered as for
supper, with a white tablecloth, a neat set of china,
and the necessary accompaniments; and from this
table flamed two large candles, which threw their
light to the spot where we were. The figure of
my companion was in the light, mine in the shade,
as we advanced. In front of the table stood one
of the most striking female forms I ever beheld—
tall and queenlike, and, as I soon found, in the
bloom of youth, and with a countenance corresponding
in expression with the air of her person.
She was plainly, but neatly, and even fashionably
dressed. Looking intently towards us, as soon as

my companion emerged into the light, she ran to
meet him, and, throwing her arms about his neck,
kissed him affectionately. He returned her caress
with playful fondness, and then said, laughing,
“You do not see who is here.” She instantly disentangled
herself, and, bending her large black eyes
on the darkness in which I was shrouded, stood
covered with blushes. I went forward, and was
introduced to her as Mrs. Balcombe. We now
entered this strange habitation, and my new friend
said, “I need not ask if you have dined. The
carnestness with which you masticated that dried
venison showed that you had not. So, dearest
Bet, if Tom has killed a deer this evening, then a
hot steak; if not, the cold saddle.”

“There,” said she, pointing to the table, “is the
saddle waiting for you, and you shall not wait long
for the steak.”

“In the mean time,” said Balcombe, “here is
some good brandy, and there is sugar on the table,
and here is water, and now here is nutmeg.”

All proved good, and the mixture was hardly
swallowed before two negro girls appeared, bringing
the steak, together with coffee, butter, and all
the etceteras of a good supper. My talkative
host now gave his tongue a holyday, while his
teeth took their turn at work. For my own part, I
never enjoyed in higher perfection that first of all
luxuries, a traveller's supper.

“It is late,” said Mr. Balcombe, as soon as we

had ended our meal, “and you are weary. To
bed, then, sans ceremonies.”

“Let me look out on the night first” said I,
“for I doubt your augury of the weather.”

“It is indeed a lovely night,” said he, looking up
at the moon; “and the signs I read in this dappled
sky, with its floating islands of light, seem
given to remind us that the fairest appearances
are often falsest. I am not mistaken, for we shall
have a rain that will give me your company for
more than one day, for it will make the streams
impassable.”

“Then I must use the more diligence, and place
them behind me before they rise.”

“And so place yourself in a wilderness between
two impassable streams. Content yourself, my
dear sir. If it does not rain, you shall be called at
daylight. If it does, you shall not deny or grudge
me the pleasure that Providence sends me. Are
you content?”

“I am sorry to require your kindness by saying
I am content per force; but I do say so. I will
abide the event of your prediction, and if it proves
true, stay without a murmur until you tell me the
way is open.”

“Agreed. Here, Tom!” A servant came.
“If it does not rain in the morning have this gentleman's
horse ready at daylight, and call him up.
If it does rain, do not disturb him; but go to
Colonel T—'s and Mr. H—'s, and tell them

I have a friend with me whom I wish to introduce
to them. If they can slip along between the drops
of rain, I shall be glad of their company to dinner.
Ask Mr. H— to bring P— with him. And
now to bed.”

He accordingly took a candle from the table,
drew aside the curtain from one of the doorways,
and introduced me to my pen.

“I did not promise you a house,” said he; “but
here you will be dry, for the planks that form this
roof cannot leak. So, good-night.”

He left me alone, and, strange to tell, in the
midst of substantial comfort. A dressing table,
water, and glasses, and basin; a neat bed with
clean sheets, and a plank between me and the sky.
What more could a traveller want after a hearty
supper on fat venison? I felt somewhat exposed,
indeed, for I had money about me that I could ill
afford to lose; but there was no mistrusting the
honesty of my host's intentions towards me—so I
was soon asleep.