University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS.

Babbleton was an ancient village near the city of Philadelphia.
It had a wharf where the steamboats landed, and a
depot where the locomotives whistled. Hence, although the
principal mansions were situated on commodious lots, and in
many instances separated from each other by broad yards and
close fences, it is not to be inferred there was ever a monotonous
deficiency of noise and excitement in the place. It had
its proud and its miserable, its vanities and its humiliations,
its bank and its bakers, its millionaires and its milliners; and
was not unfrequently the scene of some of those entertaining
comedies of life, which have been considered in all enlightened
countries worthy of preservation in veracious and impartial
history. Such a record we have attempted to produce; and
although the direct manner of narration adopted may offend
the taste of the fastidious critic, yet the less acutely discerning
reader may possibly deem himself compensated for the
labor of perusal, by the reliable assurance of the anthenticity
of the story, and the interest attending the occurrences flitting
before his mental vision.

At a convenient distance from the trafficking centre of the
town, was an old, square, two-story brick dwelling, embowered
with overhanging trees. In the rear and on the south were
a few acres belonging to the premises, which had been originally
planned for a magnificent lawn, but were subsequently, for certain
reasons, devoted to more useful purposes. The grounds,
at the most distant extremity from the house, were bounded by
a sparkling brook, whose source was in a range of hills
a few miles distant. This stream had always been, and is yet,
as every one knows, famous for its abundance of small trout.

It was in the glimmer of twilight, and the lamp suspended
in the hall of the old mansion had been lit by Biddy, the
widow Winkle's housemaid. The rays illuminated the ancient
wainscoting, where some forgotten son of genius had once
exercised his powers of creation in the production of a number
of animated pictures, which the commendable taste of the
Winkles had preserved from the modern invasion of paste and
gaudy paper. On one side might be seen a party of the early
settlers falling into an ambush of the savages; a sketch of one
of Cromwell's battles with the royalists; and then the execution
of the conscientious Episcopalian, the unfortunate Charles.
On the opposite side were landscapes—chasing and angling;
and over them, with their frames reaching to the ceiling, were
half a score of portraits of the Winkle family.

A monastic silence reigned in the hall. A king Charles
spaniel lay upon the floor, with his head between his feet, as if
patiently awaiting the arrival of his master. The crickets came
out, but did not sing. A mouse ran noiselessly under the green
settee without attracting the notice of Dew, whose eyes only
wandered from the broad, bright rods on the stairway to the
huge lock of the front door, without observing that the arms
of the red warriors were in motion; that Cromwell's unhelmeted
brow was assuming a darker frown; that the lips of the royal
victim on the scaffold were moving in prayer; that the panting
buck was actually shaking his antlers in defiance, and that
the floundering trout on the greensward really seemed to be
opening and closing his gills—which might have been easily
perceived by any gazer sufficiently imaginative.

But although the illuminated hall was so still and silent,
one apartment, among the many the old mansion contained,
exhibited no deficiency of animation or mirthfulness. This
was the sitting-room of the family. It had large bookcases

well stored with volumes, in three of its corners, and in the
fourth, in the good old style, was a fireplace filled with fresh
boughs from the umbrageous trees in the yard.

Mrs. Winkle, a portly widow of some five and fifty years,
sat in her great high-backed chair beside a dark mahogany
centre-table. On the opposite side was seated one of the
tolerated gossips of the town, a retired milliner, a pale, small
woman, something beyond thirty years of age, with thin lips
and a Roman nose, but with an humble expression of eye, and
a soft insinuating voice—particularly when in the presence of
any of her old patrons. Mrs. Winkle had in former years
contributed liberally to the worldly acquisitions of Miss Gusset;
and the latter, for certain reasons, which will appear, was
not in readiness to repay the obligations she owed with the
ingratitude so generally returned for benefits conferred.

“Sit still, Gusset,” said Mrs. Winkle, smiling, and clipping
off the curl of the wick of the spermaceti candle.

“Thank you, Mrs. Winkle,” said Gusset, recomposing herself
on the chair, from which she had been about to rise. “It
will afford me pleasure to stay, if my company is agreeable,
until they come. It is quite time they were here,”—she continued,
drawing forth a huge gold watch, pending from which
were several seals, and a most ponderous pencil case,—“a
whole quarter past the usual time, I declare! I hope no
serious accident has happened. If so, I know they'll regret
not coming in the early boat; and I'm sure I haven't the least
conception why they staid for the late one, unless they didn't
wish to be seen in my company. But they needn't have
alarmed themselves—I had a book — ”

“Bravo, Gusset! I thought something had occurred to
wound your sensitive little heart. You have hardly spoken
ten words during the last hour, and I doubt whether you have
been listening to my diverting histories of the parvenue aristocrats
of Babbleton. You have not laughed as usual. Pooh,
Gusset! You know there is nothing in this world I hate so
much as a grave displeased visage. Reiax your blond features
and tell me the whole story.”

“It's a very short one, Mrs. Winkle, and I don't think it
will give you pleasure to hear it. I never like to allude to
any thing unpleasant before you; you who were born with a
smile, as the Honorable Mr. Winkle used to say, and will die
with one on your lips — ”

“I hope so, Gusset,” said Mrs. Winkle, still smiling, although
tearlets sparkled in the corners of her eyes. “It is better to
laugh than to cry; and I believe it is quite as acceptable to
our Maker. I will really strive to be cheerful to the last.
They say I have been as mirthful since the loss of our fortune
as before. I'm glad of it. Ha! ha! ha! The idea of laughing
on one's death-bed! Well! Suppose one is at peace with
Heaven, and has no burden on the conscience? A smiling
corpse! Really I think it would be better thus to strengthen
the hopes of the beholders of such spectacles, than to child
them with horror. Give me wax candles and beautiful bouquets.
But go on, Gusset—tell me what happened in the city
to-day.”

“We had a most delightful time going down. The day
was beautiful and the company pleasant. Lucy was as gay as
an oriole—”

“My daughter, you know, is what is termed a `chip of the
old block.' ”

“La, Mrs. Winkle, you are not old! You could pass for
thirty. And Mr. Winkle — ”

“Call my son Walter, or you will certainly make me feel
old. A boy recently out of college called Mr.!”

“Walter was charming — ”

“Who was he charming?”

“Miss Virginia Oakland, as sure as my name is Griselda
Gusset!”

“Nonsense—mere child's play! Go on.”

“Mr. Ralph Roland is thirty-five, I'm sure—so he's no
child. Well, he played against Walter, and Walter won.”

“Pooh! Some people think Roland is playing for Lucy.
If I thought so, I'd soon put a stop to the game!”

“Why, after Mr. Plastic, and the emperor—I mean your
brother-in-law, Mr. Napoleon Winkle—he is thought to be the
richest man in the country.”

“No matter, Lucy's heart is above all price. Never marry
for money, Gusset.”

“Not I! My income, from what I have been able to lay
up with your aid, and the patronage of others, is enough to
keep me comfortable, and independent, too! When we got to
the city, Mr. Roland walked with us until we met your sister-in-law—the
princess, I call her—Miss Wilsome Winkle—and
you know she's sixty.”

“No such thing, Gusset—no such thing.”

“La! didn't I hear you say so yourself the other day,
when the emperor—I mean Mr. Napoleon Winkle—her
brother, said it would be impolite to marry before his sister,
who was two years older than himself?”

“I said she would be sixty in six weeks, and it has been
only three since then,” replied the widow, laughing very heartily.
“And you met Miss Wilsome while Roland was with
you? I wonder she spoke at all.”

“If you could have heard her speak! You know what a
raven-like voice she has—but I'm sure she can't help it—and
with that, such as it was, she said, taking Lucy by the arm,
`Come away, child, from that horrible brute!' And she actually
forced Lucy to go with her!”

“Ha! ha! ha! Just like Wilsome. You imitate her perfectly.
What did Roland say?”

“Not a word. But he ran into the middle of the street
and jumped into an omnibus.”

“Where was Walter?”

“With Virginia, behind, laughing himself half to death.”

“Every body knows Wilsome's strange ways. No one
cares what she says or does.”

“Nor herself either. I'm sure Mr. Ralph Roland is perfectly
gentlemanly in his manners, a handsome man, and as
rich as—”

“Riches are nothing in Wilsome's estimation.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Winkle, if I venture to think differently.
I am convinced that if I had been rich, she wouldn't have
wished to shake me off as she did!”

“Why, Gusset, have you not just been saying that Roland
was rich, and that she almost thrust him into the middle of
the street?”

“It's a mystery. I can't unravel it.”

“I can. He grievously offended her once. How do you
suppose, now, he incurred her displeasure? You could never
guess. Accompanying some ladies away from her mansion
one night, it being late, for they had been playing whist, he
chanced to tread upon her white tom-cat's tail. The animal
scratched his ankle, and not knowing exactly what it was, for
the lady had screamed and overturned the wax candles (she
will not have gas), he kicked violently, and killed poor Tom.
She has never forgiven him, for she has not yet been able to

obtain another cat of the same color and disposition. Roland
has had some twenty white kittens under the tuition of his
housekeeper, and does not despair of achieving a reconciliation.
But how did Wilsome look? how was she dressed?”

“I cannot help it, Mrs. Winkle, but really it is painful
to look at her. You know I am a simple and an humble woman,
grateful for all the favors you and your family have bestowed
on me, and ever conscious of my low origin and
inferiority. Of course I could never be so vile as to say an
ill-natured or malicious thing against any one who assisted me
in the time of my need; or against any of their friends or
connections. Yet when such as you, who know my inoffensive
disposition, ask my candid opinion on any subject, I feel bound
to give it. Then, as to Miss Wilsome's form, it is a very
good one. Her shape is, indeed, elegant, and sets off a dress
to perfection. And her feet and hands are very fine. But
she walks more and more on her heels as she grows older, and
it can be perceived that her knuckles become more bony.
Her face—bless us!—why it is plastered over with paint;
and yet such crow's feet and wrinkles are seen below her eyes
—her enormous eyes—down her cheeks and along her neck,
that every one who beholds her is shocked, absolutely stunned.
We feel, alas! that art cannot conceal the frightful inroads
of age; and it is a very melancholy thought, Mrs. Winkle,
for we are all growing older every day.”

“But just now, Gusset, you were complimenting me—”

“Oh, you don't show age, because you are always merry.
I wish I could grow fat, too!”

“You must be merry, first. Yet my sister Wilsome is
often very merry.”

“I fear it is only on the surface, madam; a mere imitation
of the young miss, and it is horrible to witness it. But
forgive me, I would not give offence for the world. And I
declare when one sees Miss Wilsome's form without looking
at her face, she might pass for a reigning belle; for she is always
arrayed in the most beautiful and costly apparel. It is
fashionable too. Indeed she generally has an extra flounce
or so, and I am sure I do not blame her for turning her eyes
away when the young gentlemen in the street are attracted by
her gay exterior, and have an idle curiosity to survey her features.
Several such impertinents followed us many squares;
sometimes coming up even with her, and finding her face always

averted when their eyes were turned towards it, there
was nothing left for them but to fall back again, and admire
her magnificent form. She did right no doubt to mock them
thus. I do not blame her for not gratifying their idle curiosity.”

“I am afraid, Gusset, you were just then a little incensed.
What motive can any woman have for displaying a fine form
and rich attire, and at the same time concealing from the admirers
that may be attracted the face of the proprietor? Unless
she be known, how can she reap any of the credit? Then
why go to the expense, and take the pains?”

“The pains! True, Mrs. Winkle, for I heard her declare
she was in an agony. She said her corns were throbbing at
every step. I declare, as you say, I cannot see the motive.
But motive or no motive, I have known other ladies to do the
same thing. And you know, as soon as Miss Wilsome gets
within your door, she will, as usual, call for her easy slippers.
Still, you must not suppose she was harsh to me. Oh no!
The moment after we entered her fine mansion, and the door
closed behind us, she turned round and almost smothered me
with caresses. To think she should shake both my hands for
five minutes, as if we had just met, when we had been walking
together more than a mile! Oh! and she had every thing
nice—cakes and wine. She is no prohibitory disciple; but it
isn't wine that gives her such a color. `Come, Gusset, I am
really rejoiced to see you,' croaked she, `take it, dear'—as the
silver salver paused before me—`be at home in my house, be
happy,' and so on.”

“Gusset, that was Christian treatment.”

“No doubt. Just as many Christians act. Sisters at the
communion table—haughty despisers in the street. How I
long to be rich and in high station, just to give an example to
the world—”

“To the world, Gusset? But tell me how Wilsome incurred
your displeasure.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Winkle; I meant Babbleton, and not
the whole world. Miss Wilsome was very kind, very, indeed
—too kind! Never had I such sumptuous entertainment
before—never before so splendid a dinner—all ordered I believe
from a restaurant's, and costing at least five dollars.
And when the time came to depart, Miss Wilsome, for the
first time, let me know she intended to return with Lucy, and

that they would wait for the late boat. But she would put
me to no inconvenience on her account. Oh no! she would
not detain me—she was sorry to be separated—but she would
soon have the pleasure of my company again, at Babbleton.”

“Ha! ha! ha! And so she will, Gusset.”

“And when I was endeavoring to get in a word to the
effect that I was quite at leisure, and altogether disposed to
pass the remainder of the day in the city, she was as deaf as
a post, and rattled away with—`My dear Gusset, I hope your
interests may not suffer in consequence of the time we have
detained you here. But I am so fond of your company, and
it has been so long since we met, that I could not bear to part
with you. You shall not lose by it, Gusset. I hope your
apprentices will not do any mischief in your absence—and
that no customers may be lost on my account. Now do not,
dear, good Gusset, be offended at me for having kept you from
your business so long—and when you get home, Gusset dear,
let sister Winkle know that I have Walter and Lucy in charge,
and that I will be with her to-night, and shall have a rubber
at whist.' That's the way she ran on! Just as if she didn't
know I had long since closed my shop! and before I could
reply to her she pushed me out of the room with an attempt
to kiss my cheek!”

“Ha! ha! ha!”

“You may laugh, for it was fancied. And here is a print
of her rouge on my ribbon, and you can see the wrinkles in it,
as plainly as you can see the dirt on the frog-catcher's face!”

“Who is the frog-catcher?”

“Why the march-boy, as they call him, who lives in the
ditches on Mr. Napoleon Winkle's estate. He hunts terrapins,
mushrooms, and such things for the emperor and Sergeant
Blore. Have you never seen Bill Dizzle?”

“Oh, yes, and I pity him.”

“He's the happiest person I know. There they are!”
cried Gusset, rising, as Dew was heard to bark furiously in
the hall.

“Sit still, Gusset,” said Mrs. Winkle, “Biddy will open
the door.”

A few moments after, Biddy entered softly.

“Who is it?” asked her mistress.

“Dill Bizzle, ma'm.”

“Dill Bizzle?”

“She means Bill Dizzle,” said Gusset. “You know Biddy
always blunders in her speech. But I felt sure it was Miss
Wilsome and Lucy.”

“Biddy, tell him to come in,” said Mrs. Winkle.

“Yes, ma'm,” replied Biddy, withdrawing into the hall,
where the boy was in waiting. Immediately after the maid
uttered a loud cry, and ran into the room screaming frightfully.
Having flung the door wide open, Bill Dizzle appeared
in view. He wore an old cap, its original color obliterated,
and the material of which it had been constructed, unknown.
His carroty hair hung in long locks down his neck, behind
and over his ears. His thin face, as usual, was bespeckled
with the mud of the marshes. His forehead was low, his
eyes small, gray and twinkling; his nose short and broad; his
mouth wide, and his lips sufficiently parted to exhibit a most
formidable array of teeth. He wore a yellow homespun sack,
girdled round with a black leather belt. His pantaloons and
boots were, of course, of the color of the last ditch he had
plunged into.

“What have you there?” demanded Mrs. Winkle, smiling
encouragingly, and gazing at a rod in the boy's hand, upon
which was strung a row of what might have been taken for
the hind quarters of squirrels, nicely prepared for the kitchen.
“Are they a present from my brother, or Sergeant Blore?”

The boy replied by an affirmative nod, and a smile.

“Are they squirrels?”

The boy shook his head, but continued to smile.

“Oh, la!” cried Biddy, finding the power of utterance
again, which had been suspended, “Missus! don't you see what
they be? Look at the little hands! La's a' mercy on us!”

“Little hands! What do you mean, Biddy?”

“Yes, hands! Look at 'em. Baby's poor, dear little
hands! He's been murdering little babies not bigger nor
rats. See the precious little things' limbs and hands!”

“She's a fool!” said Bill Dizzle, without ceasing to smile,
and holding up the rod horizontally before him. “They are
sweeterer and tenderer nor chickens, and the emperor and the
sergeant are now eating the other half.”

“The arms and heads of the babies!” cried Biddy.

“No, I had two rodsful o' green frogs—.”

“Frogs? so they are!” said Mrs. Winkle, approaching
the boy. “Take them into the kitchen, Biddy.”

“Not for the wide world, man!” cried Biddy. “I
couldn't do it, if it was to save me.”

“Nor would I eat them,” said Mrs. Winkle, turning to
Gusset. “But they must be politely accepted. Here, Dizzle,”
she continued, “is something for your trouble. Be kind
enough to leave them with the cook.”

Bill nodded and started away, but paused suddenly, and
turning round, said abruptly, “And I come to let you know
the boat that's got on board your darter and the emperor's
sister, shied on to a bar, and 'll have to stay till the next tide,
which is jest beginning now. They'll soon be here. I was
putting out my trot line and saw the ladies.”

“That is the cause of the delay, Gusset,” said Mrs.
Winkle. “But I hear the steamer's bell at the landing.
They will be here in a few minutes.” And soon after Dew
was barking joyously.