The Winkles, or, The merry monomaniacs :: :: University of Virginia Library

In a few weeks Miss Flora Blount's mansion assumed a new
appearance, without and within. The painter and paperhanger
had been employed; a furnace diffused its warmth
throughout the house, and gas illuminated the halls and parlors.
Two excellent servants, which had been recommended by
the Milnors, were substituted for the false Edith, and Miss
Flora readily expressed her opinion that the new system was
less shocking to her nerves than the old.

But Lucy's nerves became more and more affected as she
daily beheld Roland's blue carriage standing within a convenient
distance of the door, as if in waiting for her. Her
aunt was disposed to regard the circumstance as a romantic
incident, and really believed the man was mad in love, and
could not restrain himself from pursuing her niece. But as
she watched the carriage from behind her curtains, she wondered
why Roland himself was not visible as often as his
coachman. More than half the time the vehicle was entirely
empty. What a mystery! But the mysteries of bad men
are mostly fraught with evil.

For more than a week after Lowe had discovered the place
of Lucy's abode, he had been restrained from seeking an interview
by the ominous presence of that carriage. Lucy, herself
unseen, had observed him passing with his eyes sadly
fixed upon Roland's equipage!

Finally his passion had overleaped all restraints, and he
had sought and obtained an interview with the object of his
affection. But unfortunately neither of them had referred to
the subject of the blue carriage. Lucy had forgotten such an
annoyance in the presence of Lowe; and Lowe, though it was
never absent from his mind, could not find sufficient resolution

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to demand an explanation. But his face was pale, and
his voice often tremulous, as if his heart were a prey to some
hidden anguish which he durst not disclose.

Lucy, attributing his melancholy to quite a different cause
from the true one—seeing the badge of mourning on his hat—
in vain expended her sympathy, and sought by her conversation
and manner to manifest her concern. His sadness could
not be dispelled, nor the rising tear always repressed. And
yet scarcely a day was now suffered to pass, during which he
did not spend more or less of his time at the old mansion;
but it was generally in the company of other visitors, for a
great change had taken place in the social habits of the inmates
of the house, and there was scarcely an hour that some
one did not call.

The famous Mrs. Laurel, after a lapse of twenty years, had
renewed her intimacy with Miss Blount. Mrs. Laurel had
then her sixth husband, and was enormously rich. Originally
her position in society was good, and she was a schoolmate of
the Blounts. But her father becoming bankrupt, she married
one of the clerks in his office, and ran off to New Orleans,
where an epidemic soon made her a widow, at the age of
seventeen. Being still poor, she accepted the hand of a
planter of middle age, who was killed the next week in a duel,
but not before bestowing his fortune on her. She was now
rich, and had learned the value of riches; and as she married
in succession three other wealthy husbands in the South, all of
whom in the course of twenty years were peacefully slumbering
in the oblivious grave, while the favored widow, although past
the flush of youth, still retained much of her original beauty,
she returned to New York, and became the wife of Mr.
Laurel, an eminent bibliomaniac, a famous traveller, a millionnaire,
and the entertainer of distinguished foreigners.
Therefore Mrs. Laurel was famous. But she had peculiarities
of her own which would have made her distinguished
aside from the celebrity of her husband. And one of these
was her incessant talking—others in her company rarely being
able to utter more than simple monosyllables. And it was
remarkable that the subject of her interminable speeches was
generally the difficulty she had in the management of her
servants. Almost every time she “rode out” she was in
quest of a cook, or chambermaid, or waiter. She had been
so long accustomed to slaves in the South, that it seemed she

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could never become habituated to the habits of northern
domestics. And it was upon one of those voyages of discovery
that she had accidentally met with Miss Blount, and
renewed the acquaintance, and subsequently, after inquiries,
and finding her old schoolmate possessed sufficient fortune,
she resolved to re-establish the terms of intimacy which had
in early times subsisted between the families. She was likewise
powerfully stimulated to this end from a desire to exhibit
the surpassing beauty of Lucy at her magnificent
mansion.

The Milnors, too, were frequent visitors to Miss Blount
and her niece, and an intercourse of the most agreeable character
sprang from the accidental visit of Lucy to the store
in Broadway. But this, however, was not unattended with
misgivings on the part of Lucy, who soon began to apprehend
that Henry Milnor, from his assiduous attentions, might seek
to make a tender impression on her heart, which she deemed
to be already sufficiently impressed by the image of another.

Pollen, too, had more than once called upon Lucy and
her aunt, at the request of Walter, with whom he corresponded.
The poet again possessed a shirt of his own, and
otherwise exhibited a genteel exterior. He was in the employ
of a brother poet, more favored by fortune, and earned a subsistence
in the capacity of a regular contributor to the columns
of a literary periodical. Nevertheless, whether in indigence
or prosperity, Pollen seemed destined to be always the protegee
of some lady of more mature years than himself; and
now, of all the gentlemen that formed the agreeable society
at the Blount Mansion, none enjoyed so large a share of the
regard and esteem of Flora, as the reckless, intractable, and
often rude poet. There was an irresistible attraction in his
writings, imparted by his extraordinary genius, which, in
Flora's opinion, made amends for his singular eccentricities.
She admired his works, and thence her sympathy extended
to the author and the man. It is strange that women should
have a desire to possess that which is avowedly unattainable.
The declaration of a poet that his heart has been long buried
in the grave of some beautiful being exclusively worshipped
and for ever lost, have never yet discouraged others of
the sex, who have survived, from meditating their capture.
Such being the result of Lucy's observation, it was not without
some amusing anticipations that she witnessed the zeal of

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her poor aunt in the endeavor to make a favorable impression
on the poet. For to her acute vision it was apparent that
Pollen had never earnestly conceived the idea of again entering
into the bonds of wedlock, and above all for the mere
purpose of obtaining a home and an independence which
could not otherwise be realized. Walter had informed her of
his conduct towards her aunt in Philadelphia, as well as of
his rupture with Griselda; and as there was no reason to suppose
her Aunt Flora's happiness might be sacrificed by any
caprice of the poet, the growing intimacy did not give rise to
any very serious apprehensions.

One afternoon when Lucy was sitting with her aunt in
the room recently converted into a library, and in which were
collected the thousands of novels which had hitherto been
lying in disorder in all parts of the house, the postman sent
in two letters, one for the aunt, and the other for the niece.

“Here is news from Babbleton,” said Lucy, and narrated
in my dear mother's merry vein. Listen, aunt:—“Griselda
still keeps my poor brother a close prisoner, while she dashes
about in her coach and four. But she has cut all her poor
acquaintances, and of course I am blotted out of her books.
She passes without calling, and without knowing how heartily
I laugh at the ridiculous figure she makes. But she patronized
our minister, Mr. Amble, and that is a charitable expenditure,
because the money will certainly reach the poor of
the parish. Mr. A. you know, has either nine or thirteen (I
forget which) children of his own, and they must be provided
for. I suppose it is because I could render no
assistance, that he has not called on me lately—not, I believe,
since my house was sold. Perhaps he did not hear I was the
purchaser * * * Still I think Roland is love mad. But his
passion is two-fold. He has laid regular siege to Virginia
Oakdale, who is my guest, and opens his batteries once or
twice every week, and then disappears most mysteriously. I
presume he occupies his blue carriage on the alternate days.
Virginia never refuses to see him; but the spirited girl laughs
at his pretensions, and banters him in such a moeking manner
that he must soon despair of making any progress. Why do
you not treat him in the same way? Or why do you not
marry him, and then have your revenge? It is so absurd to
see men of fortune running after the girls, and vainly teasing
them for a smile. Marry them, and they will run the other

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way. Walter is still at Washington, and has not yet received
his appointment. I believe he has ceased writing to Virginia.
What does it mean? More tomfoolery? Lowe has been
absent some time—and I suppose you have seen him. Remember!
* * * We had an exciting scene in the street the
other day. Sergeant Blore, when stumping on his way to
see me, was seized by Mrs. Edwards. She demanded his
money—and he cried murder! He tripped her up with his
wooden leg and made his escape. But it seems he sprained
her ankle, and she has since threatened to bring “an haction”
against him for “hassault” and battery! You see how
husbands are served! Bill Dizzle gallants Patty O'Pan to
church every Sunday. I wrote you how Patty mortally
affronted the Arums and Crudles. She kept up till Bill
and Susan beat a retreat. It has been a mystery to me
how the impudent hussy obtained the means to perpetrate
such an annoyance. Some of her finery must have cost a
great deal of money, and no one ever supposed Lowe possessed
a superabundance of it. By the way, I forgot to
mention that Bell Arum has written home a precious budget
of news, which her mother, as usual, has published to all
her acquaintances. She says she saw you examining the
register, and that you were in the habit of wandering
about alone and unprotected. She says Mr. Lowe is likewise
in the city; and if her ma would put that and that together,
she would know as much as the writer, no doubt! And she
says they have an invitation to the aristocratic Mrs. Laurel's
parties, and that some of the British nobility of the highest rank
are expected over this winter. But (she says) if L. W. and
Mr. L. are to be met there, she is determined to expose them.

“Your poor old Mother,

“E. Winkle.

“P. S. I see our old friend John Dowly every week.
Bless his good soul! He sends a mountain of love. What a
pity we grow old!”

The letter received by Flora was from Miss Wilsome
Winkle, and ran as follows:

“My impudent nephew Walter,
who will persist in writing me, notwithstanding I have cast
him off for sanctioning his uncle's marriage with that vulgar
bonnet-maker (I forget her name), informs me that Mr. Pollen,
the silly poet who abandoned my hospitality to borrow a few

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dirty dollars of the milliner, is now working himself to death
in New York to earn a scanty living, which he might have had
for nothing by remaining here and behaving himself. He is a
fool—just like other poets who have genius, and therefore he
ought not to be permitted to kill himself. Enclosed I send a
check for a trifling sum payable to bearer, which, perhaps, with
delicate management you may induce him to make use of for
his own benefit. Perhaps he needs some new shirts. I have
seen him twice without any—and I believe he has one of
Walter's yet. Speaking of checks and of Walter, I gave my
cast-off nephew one when he was on his way to that Babylonian
rendezvous of demagogues, which, for some reason—or
rather for the want of reason—he did not use. I suppose he
gave it to some fool or other poorer than himself. But the
cashier of the bank did not pay the money. There needed
Walter's name on it, he said, written with his own hand, as it
was drawn to his order, or something of the sort, which I did
not understand, and did not choose to inquire about. Walter
says Lucy is with you. Tell her I have five letters from
Ralph Roland begging me to intercede for him. I believe him
a knave—but if he writes me again I shall also believe him in
earnest, and that the rascal is absolutely in love. It would
be a better match than her uncle's, which she attended.

“Enough in all conscience.

“Wilsome Winkle.

“P. S. I have a letter of invitation from that Bluebeard of
a woman, Mrs. Laurel, to attend her parties this winter. Before
I signify my acceptance, I should like if possible to learn
whether or not there will be a room exclusively for whist. On
no other conditions will I go—and you may tell her so.

“W. W.”

Miss Blount, after joining Lucy in a hearty laugh at the
contents of the letter from Babbleton, did not seem disposed
to be so mirthful over the communication from Philadelphia.

“I have no doubt,” said Miss Blount, “that the poet can
be quite as agreeably entertained in New York as in Philadelphia.
And I don't see why Wilsome should be sending her
checks after him. I have contributed fifty dollars myself to
enable him to commence the publication of a new paper,
which is to be entirely under his control, is to contain every
thing he writes, and he is to write what he pleases. I have

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no doubt he will succeed. I shall bespeak Mrs. Laurel's influence,
and you must be a subscriber, Lucy—”

“Certainly, aunt. But what do you think of my persecutor,
Roland?”

“He is either the best lover or the worst man in the
world.”

“But which of the two?”

“I cannot say. But I am sure he has not a particle of
the poet's genius.”

“But some of his foolishness?”

“Wilsome is a strange creature. To call the author of
— a fool! It is too bad.”

“But what are we to do about Mrs. Laurel's parties?
Bell Arum—”

“Oh, never mind her—she is merely one of the Kilcorbans
—an upstart, dazzled with the glitter of her own jewels, because
she has not always been accustomed to them. Mrs.
Laurel must have the poet there. I am sorry her husband
does not have a more favorble opinion of American writers.”

“I am sure, aunt, that until recently you could hardly be
induced to read an American book.”

“I confess it, child. But what was the reason? The
critics I relied on in making my selections, scarcely ever noticed
American novels. All their praises were bestowed upon
foreign productions. Mr. Pollen drew my attention to the
subject, and I am sure I can never be sufficiently grateful for
it. Our writers are quite as interesting as any others.
What an inexhaustible treasure of enjoyment there is in store
for us!”

“The L, alluded to by Miss Arum, is doubtless Mr.
Lowe.”

“And I like him very much. Mr. Pollen says he is the
best educated gentleman he has met with since he left college.
But he is too melancholy.”

“He may have some secret sorrow, aunt.”

“Then why don't he make you his confidant? Mr. Pollen
has explained to me the amount of his suffering, induced by
the injustice or neglect of the critics. But he shall be a critic
in his turn; and then those who would not do him the justice
to judge him fairly, may require favors at his hands! But he
will be just, impartial—independent and fearless.”

The bell was heard, followed by a rustling of silk, and

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the next moment the vivacious Mrs. Laurel was sailing into
the room.

“No ceremony, my dear Blount—no perturbation, my
sweet Winkle! I have called but for a moment. I must
rattle through twenty streets, until I can find a character—”

“Character, Mrs. Laurel?” asked Lucy.

“Yes, character, my pretty child. A character for my
new chamber maid. The last one had no character—and she
didn't deserve one, for she was worthless. What do you
think? She had the impudence to change her dress and fix
her hair, before appearing in the presence of Mr. Laurel in
his library! The impudent hussy—setting her cap for my
husband, and before my very eyes! I drove her away, and
carried in the foot-bath myself. And now I have a pockmarked
English woman, who uses the h in saying air, and
leaves it out in saying horse. But I don't mind that, if she's
honest; and I am now going the rounds to inquire about her
character. There never was such a place for servants! I
shall lose my cook next. The kitchen don't suit her. The
range is not to her liking, and the pots are too thick and
heavy. I am aggravated almost to death, by my servants. I
pay them about double wages, and it only seems to make
them worse. How do you manage yours, Flora?”

“Me? Oh, I never meddle with them.”

“And do they stay and perform their duty?”

“I believe so,” said Flora.

“They behave very well,” said Lucy.

“You are the most lucky person in the world, and I am
the most unfortunate. I called just to say you must not for
the world stay away from my first night. It will be a grand
affair. The Countess and the young Earl will be there. Mr.
Laurel knew the old Earl, and often dined at his house in
town, Harley street, Cavendish square, and hence he is an old
acquaintance of the Countess's.”

“What Countess and Earl?” asked Flora.

“Haven't you heard? It's all in the papers. The most romantic
thing in the world. The old Earl of Hilton was killed in
Napoleon's wars, and left two sons. The eldest, and the one
who succeeded him, was dissipated, wild, and trifling. The
younger was just the reverse in every thing, and therefore he
was despised by the new lord. Hunting together one day, the
Earl's horse took fright and threw him. He was stunned and

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insensible a long time, but his brother succeeded in bearing him
to the castle, where he was surrounded by his vile crew, who
charged the young man with having contrived some plan to
frighten the horse, so that his brother might be killed, and he
succeed him. The earl himself was induced to express the
same opinion, and the younger brother, turning away with tears
in his eyes, resolved they should never have another opportunity
to bring a similar accusation against him. So he sped to
London, and taking leave of his mother, from whom he had a
moderate income, his elder brother never having granted him
any thing, he came to this country.”

“To this country?” repeated Flora.

“Yes, to the United States. That was several years ago.
Most of his time has been spent on the plains, for he was exceedingly
fond of wild adventure. But he assumed another
name—I am so forgetful I can't recollect it—but no matter.
Well, his brother was killed by his horse at last in some sort
of a break-neck race—I don't remember what they call it—
but it can hardly be desirable sport. So the younger brother
is now the Earl of Hilton, and the countess, his mother, is
to arrive in the next steamer, and will be my guest.”

“Where is the earl?” asked Miss Blount.

“Oh, he is somewhere in the city. Mr. Laurel has seen
him. But he is still incognito. All his letters from his
mother, for several years past, have been directed to Mr.
Laurel. They will both be there, you may rely upon it. And
I must collect a party of genteel Americans to show to the
countess. The earl, by this time, has seen all sorts of
people.”

“You must have my friend, the poet, there,” said Miss
Blount.

“Pollen? Mr. Laurel says his poetry is tolerable. If I
could be sure he wouldn't get drunk—”

“Drunk, Mrs. Laurel!”

“Don't you know a glass of wine sometimes intoxicates or
maddens him?”

“No! Bless me, is it so?”

“It is, indeed. But I'll send him a note. I have only
ninety names yet. There must be a hundred. Oh! I forgot
to tell you how Mr. Laurel served me. He declares I have
seen and conversed with this young nobleman twenty times
without knowing it; and that he has frequently dined with

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us! Did ever any other husband keep such secrets from his
wife? They wouldn't trust me! I'll be revenged on the
earl when the mask is removed.”

“And you don't know him yet?” asked Lucy.

“No, upon my word! Mr. Laurel, you know, has the gout,
and never leaves the house—so I don't see any of his friends,
but those who visit him, and—”

“But can't you guess?” continued Lucy. “It seems to
me if he had dined at my table—”

“Oh, bless you, sweet soul! we have dozens to dinner
every day. Mr. Laurel cannot enjoy his dinner without company.
I might as well attempt to recollect all I saw in the
street last Monday, as to go over the list of our dining guests.
There are always covers for twelve. I'll see about this poet
of yours, my dear Blount. You know there is a committee
of ladies to be consulted. If he only had wealth it would go
far in his favor. Wealth is indispensable now. But genius
ought to atone for the want of it, as well as naval caps and
duels. He shall have my vote. Good day!”

And, not permitting a reply, the loquacious matron departed.

Immediately Miss Blount sought for the paper containing
the story of the incognito nobleman, and found it to correspond
very nearly with the narration of Mrs. Laurel, whose
husband, indeed, had written it for the journal.

Presently another visitor was announced, and shown into
the parlor. This was Mr. Quince McCrabbed, the brother of
Edith.

“Mercy on me!” exclaimed Flora; “he's come to talk
about Edith—perhaps with a message and reproaches from
her. If so, I shall not be able to compose myself for the opera.
My nerves will be all unstrung.”

“Let me see him, aunt,” said Lucy.

“If you please, child; and you know as much about the
matter as I do. Only send him away as quickly as possible,
and tell him never to shock my nerves again.”

“Never fear, aunt,” said Lucy, as she withdrew with a
resolute step.

“Mr. McCrabbed, I believe?” said Lucy, upon entering
the parlor, and confronting the wrinkled, jaundice-faced
Scotchman.

“I am the brother of Edith McCrabbed,” said he; “and

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I have called, at her request, to see Miss Blount about her
salary. I suppose you are Miss Blount's niece, and the one
who supplanted Edith. Edith says she has never been paid
for her services, and has signed no receipts—”

“I beg your pardon, sir; but she signed a great many, of
which my aunt was never informed until recently.”

“That has nothing to do with my business here. I came
to collect the salary of my sister, and if there are any items
by way of offset, they may be deducted.”

“Then I presume the three thousand dollars she sent you
may be deducted first.”

“Three hundred, miss.”

“No; three thousand. We saw the letter.”

“You must have looked at it carelessly. It is a mistake.
Edith kept the letter?”

“No, sir; a good Providence caused her to leave it when
she absconded.”

“Indeed!” McCrabbed had feared it; but still hoped
his sister might have lost the letter elsewhere. “Will you
be kind enough to permit me to see it, miss, that I may show
you it was written down three hundred instead of three thousand?”

“I am sorry the opportunity to do so cannot be afforded
you. Mr. Milnor, who is now my aunt's agent, has possession
of it, as well as other papers in relation to your sister's
frauds—”

“Frauds, miss? Such language is actionable!”

“Frauds—if pilfering and robbing be frauds. Mr. Milnor
has already ascertained that your sister defrauded my aunt to
the amount of $7,000; and he supposes the sum will be
greatly increased by future developments. Your sister is in
Philadelphia, I suppose?”

“Yes—no—she—good day, miss,” said the terrified
Scotchman, hastily departing.

“How can you appear so calm, my dear child,” said
Flora, when Lucy rejoined her, “after an interview with that
vile woman's brother?”

“My nerves are made of wire, as Mr. Lowe says,” replied
Lucy. “But Mr. Milnor had anticipated something of the
sort, and furnished me with matter for a threatening speech,
which soon put him to flight.”