University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
NINE AT SUPPER—STAR-GAZING—NOCTURNAL MISTAKES—SHOOTING
STARS.

When the young gentlemen entered the “Winkle Mansion,”
they found a sumptuous repast awaiting them; and as the
poet had fasted long, and intimated that he was annoyed by
an intolerable thirst, not many words were spoken until several
courses had vanished, and after the decapitation of the second
bottle.

“Winkle,” at length said the poet, “you know of course
who it is you are entertaining in this princely manner.”

“Certainly—the author of `The Treasure,' `The Steed
of the Clouds,” and `The Rook,'—a poet, who—”

“A vagabond!”

“A genius!” said Parke.

“A vagabond,” repeated Pollen.

“You seem to be minus the usual quantum of linen about
the neck,” said Walter, scrutinizing his guest. “Why is
your coat buttoned up to your chin in such suffocatingly hot
weather?”

“Because I have neither vest nor shirt under it.”

“Is it possible?” cried the young men together, really
shocked at such an announcement.

“I could give you further demonstration by unbuttoning
my coat. I suppose you have some linen in the house, and
will clothe the poet whom you have so sumptuously feasted.”

Walter immediately conducted his guest to the chamber
above, where he was speedily arrayed in a snowy nether garment,
and accommodated with a seasonable vest.

“I did not say I was a vagabond,” continued Pollen, on
resuming his seat at the round table in the dining-room,
“because of the deficiency in my wardrobe, and for the pitiful
purpose of obtaining the loan of a shirt; but because I
write tales and verses, and am poor—because I forfeited an
estate by refusing to flatter a woman I disliked—because I
won't cheat and steal—”

“That's a strange reason,” interrupted Parke.

“It is a strange world. Let me whisper a secret in your

ear—and mind, you are not to betray your author. Will
you both promise, upon your honor, not to betray me?”

“Both. Upon honor.”

“Then listen!” said the poet, in a hoarse whisper, while
his face assumed a paler hue than usual: “All very rich men,
who have made their own fortunes, are rogues and rascals.”

“I have heard that before,” said Walter; “but I cannot
believe it.”

“No doubt some of my friends have whispered it about
the world,” said Pollen. “It is true, though, and you may
believe it. But I have another secret, which I am sure you
have never heard. The vagabond is quite as happy as the
rich man. The proof? I am the vagabond, and the hunch-nosed
Jew is the rich man. Well, suppose Abraham sleeps
some eight hours in the twenty-four. His dreams are filled
with conflagrations, bankruptcies, robberies; visions of the
broken-hearted widows and orphans he has despoiled; arrests
for crimes long forgotten by all but himself; prisons and
compulsory restitutions. Then we may estimate some four
hours of the day devoted to fearful anticipations, to threats
of enemies, reproaches of his victims, and dread of detection.
Thus half of his life is miserable.”

“Now, yours?” said Walter.

“My dreams—when sober—are blissful. I am the possessor
of illimitable wealth, without a pang of remorse, for no
one has been victimized in the process of its acquisition.
With boundless generosity, I enjoy the luxury of bestowing
benefits on the deserving and needy. The oppressor scowls,
the usurer gnashes his teeth at me; but the good and the
humble bless my name. What felicity! I mount into an empyreal
atmosphere—become dephlogisticated—”

“And metaphysical,” said Walter. “But we are in this
mundane region now, Pollen, with tangible objects before
us.”

“Very true, and I will descend to them. But you must
admit I have demonstrated that without a dime in my pocket
—I lie, I have an eagle—I may enjoy more hours of happiness
than the rich Abraham.”

“When you are quite sober,” said Parke, sipping his wine,
“and in your dreams.”

“Keep sober!” cried a voice, from the portico in the
yard.

“Who said that?” cried Parke, stepping to the open window
and looking out among the vines, where all was silent
now, and lonely in the moonlight.

“A mere echo,” said the poet, when the young man resumed
his seat.

“It sounded very much like my aunt's voice,” said Walter.
“If she were to come upon us, we should be given into
the custody of the watchman.”

“Trumps! Down with your trumps!” said the voice.

“My aunt! Let us escape!” said Walter, leaping up.

“Sit still. Be calm,” said the poet. “It is not her voice.
I believe in the existence of ghosts.”

“Feathered ones,” said Parke, standing again at the open
window.

“The parrot!” exclaimed Walter, resuming his seat.

“An imitator. He merely echoes the sounds he hears.
Hence the resemblance of your aunt's voice. They call me
an imitator of Coleridge and others, but—”

“No metaphysics,” said Parke.

“The d—l,” exclaimed Pollen, rising abruptly.

“What's the matter, now?” demanded Walter.

“I'm bitten. A mad dog! See—my finger is bleeding.”

“I hear the rattling of a chain under the table,” said
Parke. “I thought I saw something glide in from yonder
door as I returned from the window.”

“Sit still!” said Walter. “Move not a muscle; a mosquito
could not have produced such a wound.”

“Nor a cobra di capello,” said Pollen.

“It is biting my toe!” said Parker, turning pale, and
kicking the assailing object violently with his heel.

They sprang up in great alarm, and discovered, in amazement,
Miss Wilsome's great monkey in the last convulsive
struggles of death. Parke had broken its neck.

“Monkeys and parrots!” said Pollen; “abominations to
man—fit companions for old maids.”

“My aunt will lament over Jocko as she would over a
brother. Mr. Roland accidentally killed her cat, and she has
never forgiven him. How shall I avoid her anger? She'll
disinherit me.”

“Leave it to me,” said Pollen, dragging forth the dead
animal by its chain, which was of silver. “I hope all the servants
are asleep.”

“Are you asleep, Biddy?” asked Walter, turning towards
the door leading into the kitchen.

“Iss, sir,” was the prompt response of the watching girl.

“I understand her,” said Walter, seeing the astonishment
of his companions. “She means that we need not fear her.”

“Then lead the way to the roof of the portico,” said the
poet, “and get me a nail and hammer. I will suspend him
from the eaves, and it will be a case of accidental strangulation.”

“Good!” cried Walter; “or, what is infinitely better, a
case of suicide—despair on being abandoned by his beloved
mistress. Excellent!”

“I could tell you some singular freaks of monkeys,” said
Pollen; “but let us first hang up this gentleman.”

The work was soon accomplished, but not without danger
to the young gentlemen, for their vision was becoming confused,
and their steps unsteady under the influence of their
excessive libations.

The three jovial comrades then sallied forth into the street,
their arms interlocked, and humming snatches from the opera
in the moonlight.

“Be cautious, young gentlemen!” said a watchman, meeting
them.

“Why?” asked Pollen.

“Are you a pick-pocket?” asked Parke.

“I shall keep my eye on you,” replied the watchman.

“And if you do,” said Walter, “you will not see straight
again during the remainder of your life, for I believe there is
an obliquity in our course.”

“Yes,” said Parke; “and every five minutes brings us
against a wall, or over the curb.”

“My thoughts are mounting upward,” said Pollen—“earth
vanishes from my vision. I see meteors and coruscations.
They are the flashy novelists and poets forced into being by partial
critics. They fill the atmosphere—they go out like rockets
—but the blue vault above is gemmed by illuminating stars
that will remain for ever. The vagabond Pollen—sneered at
by splay-footed English compilers, frowned upon by Scotch
librarians, slighted by publishers, slandered by his rivals—
will take his place among them, and cast his rays upon the
world!”

“What is that, poetry or prophecy?” asked Parke.

“Irreverent interlocutor! It is true, lamentably, a prophet
is without honor in his own country. I will reap the
honors bestowed in other countries.”

“But will you live to enjoy them?” asked Walter.

“No, I suppose not; therefore I enjoy them now—in
anticipation. Ha! ha! ha! I wonder if Abraham has any
such enjoyment?”

“Halt! Steady!” said Parker, as the three companions
were confronted by several gaudily-dressed persons who ran
against them.

“Who are you?” demanded Pollen.

“Fairies,” said one of them. “We heard you talking of
the sky and the stars.”

“Night hawks, you mean. Avaunt! Off, I say!” continued
Pollen, endeavoring to thrust away the one that clung
to him. “Begone to your dripping caves; we are not the
prey you seek. The shirt I wear is borrowed—”

“But your breath smells of good wine.”

“Do you covet it? Off, I say! My sword! Oh, that I
had one! Boys, she has torn my bosom.”

“What now?” demanded the watchman, appearing before
them. “I said I'd keep an eye on you!”

“You neglect your duty, sir!” said Walter. “While
you are watching us, who are gentlemen and peaceable, you
permit us to be beset by these—”

“What?” demanded one of the strangers.

“Street harpies.”

“That will not do,” was replied.

Pollen turned aside with his companions, leaving the
guardian of the night engaged in amicable converse with the
harpies. The poet had a well-founded dread of the watchman's
rattle, for he had been more than once an involuntary lodger
at the depot of nocturnal offenders.

And Walter and Parke, not relishing the idea of an adventure
with the police, to which they were conscious of being
liable, from the excited condition of their intellects, agreed to
return to the mansion, and finish the night under a friendly
shelter, and where they could not be subjected to any unpleasant
interruptions.

By means of a night-key, which Walter had taken the
precaution to furnish himself with, the door was opened and

they entered in triumph. But an unforeseen disappointment
awaited them.

“What does this mean?” exclaimed they upon closing the
door, and finding themselves in impenetrable darkness.

“Biddy! Where are you? Why did you put out the
lights?” cried Walter, groping his way through the hall.
“Softly, gentlemen,” said he; “let us get back into the
dining-room. Hold each other's skirts, and proceed in Indian
file.”

“Out here, too,” said Parker, when they reached the
dining-room. “Who has matches?”

“Not I,” said Walter, “nor do I know where to find
them. Let us go up stairs and rouse Biddy. How dark!”
he continued, as they ascended the stairs, feeling their way.

“Not a star blinks upon us,” said Pollen.

“Nor a meteor's ineffectual fire,” said Parker.

After ascending several flights of stairs, the party paused
and felt for the chamber doors, and not knowing which might
be occupied by the housemaid.

“I doubt if Biddy is here,” said Walter, in a whisper.
“My aunt, I suspect, makes her sleep in the attic.”

“Where poverty-stricken poets repose,” said Pollen.

“But the door opens,” said Walter. “If we find beds
let us lie down till morning lights the orient, and not trouble
the servants.”

“Agreed!” was the response of the others.

In a short time two beds were found; but before our adventures
had begun to undress themselves, their ears were
saluted by frightful cries and screams.

“Who can they be?” said Walter. “Three different
voices, and all females. Biddy!”

“Emily!”

“Clara!”

“Oh, Mary—sister! Thieves! Robbers!”

“Murder!”

Such were the cries proceeding in quick succession from
the beds.

“Hold fast to my coat-tail, George,” whispered Walter,
leading the way out into the passage. “We are in the wrong
mansion! My aunt's night-key fits her neighbor's door! Let
us get out again as quickly as possible, or the whole neighborhood

will be alarmed. What a scrape! and the first night,
too!”

“There it is!” said Pollen, trembling violently, upon
hearing a window thrown up, and vociferous cries for the
police. And the next moment several rattles were sprung,
and hoarse voices and the trampling of heavy feet could be
distinguished in the street.

“What's this?” asked Walter, pausing in his retreat, and
finding his hand resting upon a round, smooth surface. “It
is warm! A man's bald head, by Jupiter!”

“Have mercy upon me and my poor daughters,” said the
crouching father of the alarmed family. Walter recognized
the voice of a distinguished professor, the occupant of the
house; and without replying he passed on, followed by his
companions, clinging to each other. They proceeded beyond
the turning which would have conducted them down stairs,
and wandered into the rear building, where they confronted
the old housekeeper in her chemise. She fell speechless and
fainting, and they stumbled over her, falling in a heap beyond.
But there was no time for idle delay. The police had burst
open the front door, and one or two shots from revolvers had
already been fired at random in the darkness.

“Here's a room open!” said Walter, with his hand on the
latch of a door at the extreme end of the long back building.

“In there!” said the poet. “They have a light, and are
pursuing us!” They entered, and found the apartment uncarpeted,
and could distinguish objects in it, for the moon
shone through the window.

“A store room, filled with barrels!” said Walter.

“And here are empty ones on this side,” said Parker.

“Let us hide ourselves in them—quick!” said Pollen.
They did so, and ceased to speak for many minutes, while the
police searched in other places for the burglars.

“We have escaped, I think,” whispered Walter.

“How the deuce are we to get out?” asked Parker.
“Walter, old fellow, you've got me into a d—l of a scrape.”

“It is an adventure. Consider the fun! Won't we laugh!
But my aunt must never hear of it. I can venture to tell
Virginia.”

“Hist! I hear them yet!” said Pollen. “If we are
found the whole world will know it, for the press will speak
with a million tongues.”

“If they catch us, Walter,” said Parke, “we must not
let them know who we are. I'll be John Smith, and you
John Jones.”

“But I am known,” said the poet, “and shall be recognized.”

“True,” said Walter. “That is the misery of being
distinguished. We will stand by each other, and share the
same fate. Besides, we can easily escape by explaining
frankly the mistake. Perhaps they will suppress our names.
The adventure itself, however, must be related, and the whole
town be set to guessing. Be quiet. I hear some one coming
this way. Hush! you'll betray us by such sneezing.”

“Curse the flour! I can't help it!” said Pollen, who, with
Parke, kept up an incessant sneezing, the sounds of which
they vainly strove to suppress.

“Listen!” said a voice in the passage. “Here they
are!” The next moment the door was thrown open, and a
flood of light poured in. Three or four policemen entered,
each holding a revolver in the left hand and a mace in the
other. They were followed by the fat professor, holding in his
hands, which trembled very much, a large blunderbuss. The
rear was brought up by several servants armed with pokers
and carving-knives; while at a distance behind, might have
been dimly seen the old housekeeper, brandishing a long-handled
broom.

“I—I don't see them here,” said the professor, after
glancing his eyes fearfully round the room, and breaking the
silence that had ensued after the party had entered. “But
they are somewhere on the premises, and one of them put
his hand on my head.” His head was now covered with a silken
cap.

Pollen sneezed again just as he ceased speaking.

“What was that? Bless my life!” exclaimed the professor,
nimbly springing away from the poet's barrel in the
vicinity of which he chanced to be standing.

“They are in the barrels,” said the leading policeman in
a loud voice, “and if they do not surrender, we'll send a
shower of balls through the staves.”

“We'll surrender, of course,” said Pollen; “we are without
arms.”

“We'll not take your word for that,” said the officer.
“Rise and show yourselves.”

All three stood up.

“Mercy on us! Oh Lud!” cried the cook and coachman,
starting back, and rushing away over the prostrate form of
their master, who nevertheless rolled and scrambled out of
the room.

Their affright was natural enough, for our young adventurers
who had entered the barrels in black, now appeared
in white. Even their faces and hands were thickly covered
with flour.

“It was only a mistake,” said Walter. “We came hither
with no evil intent, but merely entered the wrong house by
mistake. We thought we were in the adjoining building, and
were about to retire, as we supposed, to our beds—”

“Here are their hats,” said Mary, the oldest of the professor's
daughters, now venturing to join the policemen.

“That story won't do,” said the policeman, bowing to the
young lady. “Are there any more of you in the other barrels?”
he continued, addressing the supposed robbers.

“No,” said Pollen. “But my friend's story is true, as
you will ascertain.”

“We'll see. No more words. I don't want to hear a
syllable. You are our prisoners. Seize them, men!” They
were seized and conducted out. But as they passed through
the hall, Mary with seeming pity gave them their hats, while
the other sisters standing aloof, gazed at them without symptoms
of alarm.

Unwilling to hear any thing their captives might have to
say in justification of their conduct, although it was easily perceptible
from their manners and speeches that they were not
common burglars, the policemen hurried them away to prison,
and locked them up in a room where there were many offenders
who had been taken that night.

was the exclamation of an actor, confined with the rest,
upon seeing our adventurers advance after the heavy door had
been locked upon them.

“We have not committed any crime,” said Parke, glancing
round at the staring company of men and women; some
seated upon benches, and others lying on the straw. “We
were merely on a lark, after enjoying our champagne. We are
gentlemen.”

“Not gentlemen ob color!” said a corpulent Negro.

This was followed by a boisterous explosion of laughter at
the expense of the young men, whose whitened exterior alone
was sufficiently provocative.

“I'm on the bench,” said the actor (which was literally
true), “and will hear your cause.”

“Agreed!” cried many of the company, crowding round.
“Let us hear what they have to say for themselves.”

“`Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,”' said Pollen,
standing forth, and lifting his hand, “I will, with your permission,
relate the manner of our coming hither.”

“No!—Yes!—It is!” cried the actor, rushing forward and
embracing the poet, whom he had recognized, notwithstanding
his mask of flour.

“Mum!” whispered Pollen; “don't betray me to this vile
herd.” The poet had written a play in which the actor had
represented one of the characters.

“Proceed,” said the judge, resuming his seat, amidst
shouts of laughter at his ludicrous appearance, having robbed
the poet of half his flour.

Then Pollen, concealing names and localities, succinctly
narrated the adventures of his companions and himself. At
the conclusion, the company pronounced a unanimous acquittal,
which was ratified by the judge.

“And now, Mr. Glass,” said Pollen, addressing the actor,
“pray tell us what brought you here.”

“Intoxication, and grief, and damning a watchman who
stared at me impertinently. You smile at the word grief, but
I am serious, as these tears—a man's tears—may attest. My
Dilly—I mean my daughter, my only child—was entrapped,
and taken away from me last week. Every body knows how
glorious was her debut, and that she has ever since been
greeted by rapturous applause at every subsequent appearance.
She was rising, I declining. But just when I had reason
to believe her capable of relieving me of a portion of my burden
of toil and care, the tempter came! A rich man—”

“A d—rascal!”

“Most assuredly he was, my friend,” continued the actor.
“He said he wished to rescue her from the dangers of the
profession. By costly presents, and seemingly parental affection—for
he was twice her age—he induced her to desert
the stage, upon which her father had won distinction, and to
promise him to abandon it for ever. Many propositions he

made her; but the only one she listened to was that she
should, under an assumed name, take up her residence in
some respectable boarding-house in New York, until her
education was completed. She left me more than a week ago.
A letter in her chamber was filled with pledges of filial affection,
and resolutions to preserve her honor. I find that
my salary has been increased through some mysterious agency;
but my happiness is all gone. I drag heavily through my
part every night, and then seek to drown my woe in deep
libations. I lodge here, where alone I find honest sympathy.”

“It is a rascally world, Mr. Glass—this company excepted,”
said Pollen. “Oh, that I could find a true American!
The plays, the operas, the ballets, are usurped by
foreigners! Foreign literature alone is lauded—the critics
are foreigners, and monarchical and aristocratic modes of
thought, feeling and action, are fermented through every pore
of the Republic. We get our manners from the British, our
costumes from the French, our wines from the Germans, our
voters from Ireland and our religion from Rome! Our librarians
are Scotchmen. They not only exclude my books from
their shelves, but laugh in my face whenever I look over their
catalogues!”

“No doubt my evil tormentor Ralph is of foreign extraction,”
said Glass.

“Ralph? Did you say Ralph?” asked Walter, roused
from an apparent lethargy he had fallen into. Parke was
snoring on a bench.

“Yes—Ralph Roland!”

“I know him. I would advise you to get your daughter
away as soon as possible.”

“I need not be advised! I want only the means of doing
so. Thank heaven, I have cause to be confident of the impregnability
of my daughter's virtue against a million roués
and rakes in arms! That alone sustains me.”

Towards morning all the inmates became silent. Some
of them brooded over their troubles, while others slept. In
the morning, a confidential note written by Walter to Professor
Point, caused a speedy liberation of the three jovial companions.
Pollen then interested himself in the actor's behalf,
and easily succeeded with his honor the mayor, whose sympathy
with the sons of genius or of Momus, was never appealed
to in vain.