University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
WILSOME RETURNS TO TOWN, AND GIVES THE POET A CHECK—MR.
SNOBSON.

Miss Wilsome, true to her inflexible purpose, left Babbleton
the next morning by the early boat, and was put down at her
mansion at precisely half-past ten o'clock A. M., the hour appointed
for the wedding. She had Davy Dibble, the son of
the widow's gardener, along with her, carrying the tom cat.
Snapper, her coachman, opened the door.

“He's buried, mam,” said he, naturally supposing the

death of the monkey had caused the precipitate return of his
mistress. “The weather was so hot he wouldn't keep. But
they had a nice funeral, and Mr. Parke spoke a yology on his
life and character in Latin.”

“Mr. Parke? Who is he?” asked his mistress.

“One of Mister Walter's college friends. And the other
gentleman has wrote a hepertaff for his headstone—all in
Greek.”

“What other gentleman?”

“Mr. Pollen, mam, the poet.”

“I know him. When was he here?”

“They've been here all the time, mam, a keeping Mr.
Walter company.”

“Faugh! I thought I smelt tobacco. No doubt they've
turned the house upside down. Take the poor fellow into the
kitchen and feed him, Davy. Here comes Griddle. Griddle,
why are you frowning in that way?”

“You must get another cook, mam, by the end of the
month. I give you warning.”

“What's the matter? I left you with nothing to do
scarcely—”

“Nothing to do, scarcely! To cook five times a day—or
two of 'em in the night, and sometimes one of 'em after midnight—called
nothing to do! And three hungry wolves always
at the table! And one of 'em a Southern slave owner,
and always calling colored people niggers—talking about this
and that nigger before my face!”

“You don't say these men have been feasting here all the
time with Walter, do you?”

“I do, mam; and it's cost you a great deal, I know.”

“I don't care what it cost; and that is no business of
yours. But if they have spoilt my curtains and furniture
with their horrid tobacco,” continued Miss Wilsome, pursuing
her way to the dining room, “I'll punish them well for it.
Come here, Rose. What have you to say against Walter and
his associates?”

“Me? Nothing, miss.”

“Well—there's one satisfied. Why do you stand staring
there, Snapper? Are the horses cured of their rascally
capers, yet?”

“Yes, mam, Mr. Walter soon had 'em as gentle as sheep.

But, mam, it's my unpleasant duty to 'nounce to you that one
of 'em took sick and deceased yesterday.”

“Which one?”

“Punch, mam.”

“Why he was the tricksy one! I am only sorry he didn't
break his neck a month ago. Look for another. Pah! I
smell the tobacco, here, too.”

“It's all over the house, mam—” began the cook.

“Rose, was it not your duty to take care of the house?”
demanded Miss Wilsome.

“Iss, mam—but Mr. Walter was to give me my orders—
and he ordered me to bring a box of cigars. I told him you
didn't allow smoking, only out in the portico.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He said you were the mistress of the house when present,
and should be obeyed. But as he was then master, he must
be obeyed.”

“Ha! ha! Good for Walter.”

“He had been drinking champagne, mam,” said the cook,
“which he ordered me to bring up.”

“Well?”

“They've drunk a whole dozen, mam.”

“Well, what's that to you? Mind your business. Oh, I
forgot you intend to leave my service. Go about your business.
You know my rule. I never attempt to dissuade any
one—”

“If you will let me take back the warning, mam—”

“Well—as you please. But you are not to criticise the
language of any guests in my house. If you can read, look at
your geography, and you will find that colored people are Negroes,
and red people Indians.”

The old cook, who had been mortally offended at the roistering
young gentlemen, went away grumbling, and was
laughed at heartily by Snapper, who enjoyed their company
as a relief from the usual dull monotony of his life.

“Where is Walter, now?” asked Miss Wilsome, turning
suddenly to Rose.

“They're up stairs, yet, mam.”

“What! has Walter's guests been sleeping here, too?”

“Iss, mam.”

“And not up yet?”

“No, mam.”

“And did they have any tobacco up stairs?”

“I—Iss, mam.”

“The villains! But where did they sleep?”

“In the chamber fixed for Mister Walter, and—and—”

“Where else? That wouldn't hold them all.”

“In your chamber, too, mam, on the second floor.”

“What!” screamed Miss Wilsome, so fiercely that poor
Rose sprang back as if she had been stabbed.

“Mister Walter ordered me, mam.”

“I know who to blame. And if he had ordered you—”

“Iss, mam.”

“Stupid! I—I'll pull his ears! My sheets, my pillow
slips—”

“Iss, mam.”

“Be silent. No doubt they have ransacked the closets,
and turned every thing topsy-turvey! I'll pull every hair out
of their heads! I'll—Rose go and tell them I have returned,
and desire to see them immediately. What's this? Stop,
Rose.”

“It's a pack of cards, mam.”

“Did they play whist?”

“Iss, mam.”

“There are three of them, and we might have a pleasant
game together. Tell them to come down. Don't hurry them,
by saying I'm angry. Here, take this letter to Walter. If
he goes to his mother and uncle, I shall be done with him!”
said the old maid, with a terrible frown.

“Good morning, Wilsome. Want a game of whist?”
said a voice in the portico, after Rose had gone.

“Pretty Polly!” cried the old lady.

“Wilsome! poor Jocko's dead.”

“Alas, poor Jocko!”

“Walter killed Jocko.”

“What's that?” cried Miss Wilsome.

“It's true, missus—every word of it,” said Griddle, who
had been listening, and coming forward now with signs of triumph
on her sooty features.

“It aint true, missus, not a word of it!” said Snapper,
who had been watching Griddle, and followed her into the
presence of their mistress.

“I'll take my bible oath,” continued Griddle, “that I saw
the young sparks hang your Jocko!”

“I'll tell you, mam,” said Snapper, “edzactly how it was.”
This he did with candor and circumstantiality.

“That's only what the rampaging bloods told him, mam.
I saw myself what I told you, mam.”

“Griddle!” said Wilsome, with one of her most ferocious
looks, “get ready the young gentlemen's breakfasts—and if I
hear another word from you, unless it be something in relation
to your own department of business, you shall pack up your
things and be off before another sun goes down. I don't want
to hear any thing from you, either, Snapper.”

Snapper followed the cook, but with a triumphant smile
on his lip.

“Have they come down?” asked Wilsome, when Rose
reappeared.

“Iss, mam—they're in the parlor.”

“Tell Walter to come here.”

“Iss, mam.” Rose returned to the parlor, and Walter
soon appeared before his aunt.

“I hope you have enjoyed yourself, Walter,” said his
aunt, fixing her great eyes upon him.

“Never better in my life, aunt! The only drawback to
my happiness was the lamentable end of poor Jocko.”

“And the dread of my vengeance. Tell me truly—did
he hang himself?”

“No, aunt. Neither was he wantonly killed.” Walter
then related the manner of his death, and he was surprised to
see his aunt bear the recital with so much resignation. Of
course he was not aware that his friend Lowe had casually
expressed his detestation of monkeys in his aunt's hearing,
and that his aunt had conceived a partiality for his friend.

“That will do. I know the rest. Your companions were
respectable, and I commend you for every thing but the tobacco,
and the taking possession of my chamber—”

“All the rest were locked, aunt!”

“Bah! Couldn't you break the locks? I locked them to
keep the servants out—not the gentlemen. I say I commend
your choice of companions—one a student, and the other a
poet.”

“Poor Pollen, however, when I picked him up, made rather
a shabby appearance.” Walter described the incident at
the pawnbroker's.

“What, without a shirt? Ha, ha, ha! Did yours fit

him? I hope he used the bath. Let me see the poem. Biddy
bring my portfolio.”

“Aunt!” said Walter, seeing the old lady take up a pen,
“surely you would not venture to make any alterations—”

“Nonsense, child! Here, give him this. I'll keep the
poem. Go, now, and conduct hither your guests. The breakfast
is smoking on the table. Say nothing about the wedding,
and the disgrace your uncle has brought upon the family, until
the young gentlemen have departed. And they need not be
in haste if they have any inclination to play. But when they
take their leave, you may take yours, and for ever, Walter,
unless you agree to cut your uncle's acquaintance.”

“My dear aunt, Pollen and Parke have already agreed to
go with me to Babbleton this afternoon, and to accompany me
to my uncle's chateau. We have been concocting an enormous
budget of amusement—”

“If it is for the purpose of annoying Gusset, I shall approve
of it. But when your invention is exhausted, remember
you are to return to me, and you may bring Mr. Lowe with
you. But if you do not cut your uncle, you need not return.
Still you must write me an account of your deviltries practised
on the milliner. Get Pollen to do it, for I intend to
read it for the diversion of my friends.”

Walter rejoined his friends in the parlor, and conducted
them to the breakfast table, where his aunt presided with
gayety and good humor, to their great delight. After the repast,
they departed to make preparations for the celebration of
the emperor's nuptials.

It was not until they were traversing one of the streets
where fire-works were kept for sale, that Walter looked at the
paper his aunt had charged him to deliver to Pollen. It was
a check for fifty dollars; and it threw the poor poet into a
paroxysm of exultation. He would have spent half of it immediately,
under the supposition that more could at any time
be as easily acquired, had he not been prevented by Walter,
who insisted upon his privilege of defraying all the expenses
of the meditated celebration.

Soon after that point was determined, the poet fell into one
of his fits of abstraction, and began unconsciously to utter
words relating to a subject foreign to the matter under consideration.
He was dictating proposals for the issue of a new
periodical, of which he was to be both the proprietor and

editor. And he alleged in his soliloquy, that inasmuch as the
critics, who had never ceased to do him gross injustice, were
actuated by unworthy motives, being authors themselves, it
would be his privilege and pleasure to retaliate upon them by
an exposure of their ignorance and malevolent motives. At
the same time it would be his delight and duty to contribute
to the development of true genius wherever he might discover
it, instead of repulsing meritorious young aspirants by gratuitous
sneers or disheartening them by cruel neglect. In a word,
the injustice he had suffered, would teach him to be just.

“Let him go,” said young Parke, when he saw the poet,
unmindful of his company, turn into an alley, principally occupied
by printers, and proceed on his way muttering to himself,
and gesticulating energetically.

“Yes—let him go,” said Walter, looking after him. “He
would not enjoy the sport. But who is that over there bowing
to you?”

“It's Snobson. Don't you know him? he's coming towards
us. He staid only two years at college, and left without
graduating. And yet his father is a rich banker. Shall I
introduce him?”

“Yes. Perhaps he'll go up with us. Is there any fun in
him?”

“Full to the brim—and as simple as a loon. He runs
after every girl that strikes his fancy, and thinks himself such
an irresistible Adonis, that no one is capable of withstanding
him.”

At that moment Snobson came up and was introduced to
Walter, who was amused at the scarcely perceptible mustaches
which were industriously stroked by Snobson, his ponderous
chain, his enormous ring, and his polished tight-fitting shoes.
He saw, likewise, at a single glance, that the face of his new
acquaintance was marred by incurable pimples, and that his
hair was fiery red.

“Snobson,” said Parke, “how would you like to go with
us to a wedding feast in the country?”

“How far off?”

“Near Babbleton.”

“Babbleton! Good! I'm in. I go there every day.
I've made a great discovery up there. The most beautiful
creature in the world lives in Babbleton. I haven't found out
her name yet; I followed her into a certain street, but don't

yet know the house in which she lives. I saw her on the boat
one day, and since then I have never missed a trip. I've
made a bet that she shall be my captive in a month.'

“What is she like?” asked Walter.

He described her. She was evidently Walter's own sister
Lucy! But he manifested no surprise, promising himself
some amusement at their meeting.