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

Walter never slept more soundly, or enjoyed more pleasant
dreams, than he did in prison. And he had an excellent
appetite for breakfast, which was damaged, however, by the
contents of the letters and papers brought in by his keeper.

The first letter he tore open, was from his sister. Lucy
informed him of the occurrences in New York, a portion of
which, she admitted, she had intended to keep to herself, for the
present, but was forestalled by the papers, copies of which she
sent him. How the reporters ascertained she was to become
the Countess of Hilton, she was unable to conjecture—and,
she owned, she could not contradict it! But, she had very
great fears, her dear brother might never consent to the
arrangement, and would regard the fact of Edmund's being a
foreigner, an insuperable obstacle. She said she had intimated
as much to the earl; but he had undertaken to prove
that such a consummation of his wishes, would be no infringement
of Walter's rule, inasmuch as he would not seek to
exercise the rights of suffrage; and, instead of becoming a
naturalized citizen, he merely—“merely” said she—intended
to relieve the country of the burden of maintaining one of its
natives. “He used other arguments,” continued Lucy—
“which I will not repeat; and concluded, by assuring me
most seriously, and eloquently, that the `Know Nothings'
never admitted the ladies into their councils.” She acknowledged
the receipt of Walter's letter, which had been transmitted
by her mother, informing her of his present extraordinary
situation; and she predicted that Virginia would
not hold out long against such a siege.

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Walter found a whole column in one of the papers devoted
to a description of the company at Mrs. Laurel's party, and
embracing the most minute details of the dress of the Countess,
as well as the appearance of the Earl, who was designated
as a most unassuming, well-bred young man. Lucy, herself,
seemed to have attracted a large share of the reporter's attention;
and of course there was enough said in her praise to
have turned the heads of all the Arums and Crudles in the
world. The A.'s and C.'s, however, were duly mentioned, for
they were reported to be very rich, and beautiful, and all that.
No allusion whatever was made to the duel of Col. Ball.
Even the fact of his presence on the occasion of the great reception,
was entirely suppressed.

There was also a letter from Sergeant Blore. He urged
Walter to return as soon as possible, that he might take his
final leave of his uncle, who was sinking by inches into the
grave under the tortures of Griselda. He said the commander
was dying of a sort of torpor, brought on, he thought, by
wearing damp undershirts, which his wife had regularly
sprinkled for that purpose. She had lately gone to mass, and
was turning Roman Catholic. “We thought she was religious
enough before,” said the sergeant; “but she is worse now, and
we are put upon half rations every Friday! No meat—no
grog! And she's made your uncle make a new will, and sign
it. Bawson says it makes no odds, as he has another for your
benefit, ready cut and dried, which your uncle has promised to
sign before he kicks the bucket. The lawyer says the last
will is the one that will win the battle. Your uncle says he
will give him the wink when he feels himself going, so that it
can be produced and signed. But he wants to see you and
Lucy, before he sets out on the final campaign. There is no
hope for him. He says so himself. And a sure sign of it is
the presence of a dark, tall, gaunt priest, named Xavier, or
Zebra, or something of the sort. After this business is over,
Bawson is going to blow Roland sky high, and play the devil
with him. Mrs. E. attempted to storm the fort once, but my
guns were in readiness, and double-shotted. I don't like to
venture in town to get your mother to send the news—so I
send this to the office by Bill Dizzle. Come, soon,—your uncle
can't hold out much longer—but he says he'll be— if
that Jesuitess shall have his money. And when the priest
holds up his black cross before him, he tells him to go and

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hold it up before the Turks, instead of making the French
people fight for the infidel Arabs. Oh, Walter—he grows
eloquent on that subject, and says, if he had his will, the Mahometans
should be driven out of Europe, and that the holy
Iand should be put in cultivation, and manured with the blood
of the Moslems, instead of wasting Christian lives fighting
under the new moon flag of the barbarians. No more—but
come soon.

Your faithful friend,

Thomas Blore.”

There was likewise a note from Honoria, imploring Walter
not to divulge her secret, unless he desired to hear of her
death. That he threw into the fire, and then he looked over
the papers from Philadelphia and Baltimore, and perceived
that his imprisonment had been duly chronicled. Some of
the letter writers said he was confined in prison because he
could not give security for his good behavior; others that he
would not, from prudential motives, as the prison walls afforded
what he most desired, viz., protection from assault; and others
again, denying the correctness of the rest, intimated that he
voluntarily remained a captive for some purpose which was a
profound mystery to the outsiders. But that the President
had proffered to release him, and also to confer on him the
office he had applied for; and both of which had been rejected.
It was stated, however, that he had almost as many
visitors at his prison as the President had at his palace, and
the sympathies of the ladies were very generally enlisted in
his behalf.

Thus Walter perceived he was rapidly becoming a famous
character, and his resolution not to relinquish the advantages
of his position without reaping some decided benefit, and terminating
his incarceration with eclat, was more and more confirmed.

During the forenoon the colonel drove up to the door of
the prison in a great perturbation.

“I have but a minute to stay, Walter,” said he, “I must
be in my place in the Senate. I am going to break ground
against the administration. I shall vote against all the nominations;
I'll reject the treaties, I'll call for correspondences,
I'll have a committee to investigate the disbursements on contracts,
printing, and advertising. I'm in the opposition now!”

“Why, what's the matter, colonel?”

“I have just listened to the whole programme at the President's.

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They construed my silence into an acquiescence, and
made most unreserved and iniquitous revelations. That woman
spoke truly! They are bargaining with the foreigners!
Henceforth I am in the opposition!”

“But, colonel, I hope you will not make any sacrifices on
my account!”

“You shall have Virginia! You shall be revenged. Only
be composed and comfortable.”

“But, sir, you have not told me what she—”

“Another time, Walter; I'm in great haste now.”

“One moment, colonel! you didn't finish telling about the
shot near the pear-tree.”

“Oh, true!” said the colonel, sitting down. “Dash went
heels over head. I could see nothing. The dog wouldn't
move. I walked all around. No bird. Then I approached
the dog in front, and at last espied the partridge lying in the
sunken print of a horse's hoof, and not four feet from the dog's
nose. I stood a long time—but he did not seem willing to
rise. So I stepped forward and kicked him up. I was afraid
of tearing him to pieces; and waited until he was as far as
the fence, before I fired. Then I saw no more of him; but
Dash kept looking straight up in the air, while I looked like a
fool. Presently down came the bird on my head—on my head,
sir, knocking my hat over my eyes. I had shot him in the
head, and he had sailed up perpendicularly until quite dead.”

“Capital! But, colonel, pray tell me what took place last
night after you left me.”

“I went home. Virginia did not open her lips, yet she
begged most eloquently to be informed of your condition, and
so forth. She was ever at my side, with her head laid against
my shoulder, and her ear open. She was very affectionate. I
knew what she meant, and was just going to tell her every
thing, when I received a note from the Secretary of State, asking
me to meet him at the house of the Secretary of the
Treasury. I went thither, and beheld a great party. The
beautiful Honoria was present. Tell me, you rogue, if your
conduct was not circumscribed by the consciousness of my
presence?”

“I own I did not forget you were a witness, colonel.”

“I thought so—for flesh and blood—”

“But, sir, she did not know it.”

“Very true—and you made a final disposition of her.

390

Virginia will love you now more than ever. She was at the
Secretary's—I mean this Jesuit woman, and she was the gayest
person there, angling for the Native American editor, who
was there too. I went with the secretary to see the President.
We were joined by one Boozle, who whispered something,
and then the President said he was unwell and begged
us to call in the morning. This morning they lifted the curtain,
and exposed all their measures, and purposes. A very
ugly picture, sir! I denounced the whole programme. Be
patient. When I have declared war against them I will return
and get you out of prison. But I learn the penalty in
the bond is to be doubled, on the suggestion of that Boozle
—that is $10,000, instead of $5,000. No matter, you shall
come out.”

“No colonel—not until Virginia says so—and, moreover,
until she is reconciled—”

“I forgot that! But she shall be satisfied. I will see
her before I return. Good morning.”

Walter's next visitor was his old college friend, George
Parke.

“Hallo, old fellow!” cried Parke, running up to our
hero and shaking him heartily by the hand. I was on my
way home, having quarrelled with our professor on political
economy, when I chanced to see your affair in a paper. Now
I shall stay until you are out of this scrape. I am rich now,
Walter, and owe you money. Not a word. I learned from
the keeper where the magistrate's office is. I'll get you out
in an hour, and after that we'll see if we can't contrive to
have a shot at the editor.”

“No, George. You shall do no such thing. To be candid
with you, I remain here very willingly, and with a design
—which I will explain. Virginia is in the city, and is offended
with me. I have been slandered. You know how powerfully
one's sufferings in a prison will work upon the sympathies
of a tender-hearted girl. You understand? She alone must
release me.”

“I see! A capital idea! But you don't seem to be suffering
much.”

“No. But she is not to know how comfortable I am. Sit
down and tell me the particulas of your quarrel.”

“I had passed my examination, and thought my diploma
secured. Mr. — was the last questioner. I satisfied him,

391

and was in high spirits, which he observed, and he interrogated
me as to the cause of it. I told him. My mother had just
sent me a power of atterney to draw on her agent in New
York for the proceeds of our crop of cotton shipped from that
port. It amounted to $21,000! Mr. — then began to denounce
our Southern institutions, and of course I was not just
then inclined to agree with him. He fired a broadside of his
European dogmas at my country, and I fired back at him. I
controverted all his propositions, and we arrived at different
results. At length he grew seriously excited, and demanded if
that country was not in a higher state of prosperity whose
square mile—the exact dimensions of my mother's plantation
—was divided among forty small proprietors, and produced a
clear revenue of $40,000, than the one whose square mile had
but one proprietor and yielded only $20,000. I did not
deny that the first country might be theoretically the most
prosperous, according to the interests of monarchies; but I
insisted upon preferring the whole mile in our own country,
and most vehemently asserted that the sole proprietor of the
mile was in a better condition than each of the forty. He
grew furious—I remained firm. He insulted me, and I cursed
him. Of course I got no diploma—as you got no commission.
But who have we here?”

The keeper opened the door and said there was a queer
sort of a noisy fellow without, who demanded admission to
Walter's room.

“Did he come in a carriage?” asked Walter.

“Yes. In the Black Maria—the prison carriage. He
was taken up for disturbing the peace.”

“And he says he knows me?”

“Yes. And he knows Shakspeare too, for he quotes him
by the page.”

“Then admit him!”

“Yes,” said Parke, “the man who quotes Shakespeare
from inclination is fit associate for the immortals.”

The singular individual was pushed through the door.
He stood in silent abstraction, while the young men scrutinized
his exterior. He was covered with stains of mud, as if
he had been lying in a gutter. His hat was crushed in on one
side, and the crown, torn out three fourths of the way round,
hung pendant in front. His pantaloons were stuffed in his

392

boots. His coat was buttoned up to his chin, and his hands
were crossed behind him.

“Look up, my friend,” said Walter.

“Friend! at that word I lift my eyes!”

“Pollen!” cried both the young men at once, rushing forward
and seizing the poet's hands.

“Yes, Pollen the poet. Let me eat—and remove the bottles—before
we have any questions.” He helped himself
without ceremony to the remains of the sumptuous breakfast
left by Walter. “Now,” said he, “I will give you some account
of myself. A week ago I was in New York, at the
topmost round of the poetical ladder. The Countess of Hilton
was my patroness, and advanced me money to publish a
new edition of my works. But I had forgotten that my portfolio
and copyrights were in pledge to the cormorant Jew in
Philadelphia for the pitiful sum of $200. I went thither to
redeem them—but the interest had accumulated to such a
goemetrical absurdity that it required all my funds to satisfy
the smiling rescal. I redeemed them, however.

“Not knowing what else to do, I applied to Mr. Bell for a
pitiful office. He was anxious to accommodate me. He said
he appreciated my merits and reverenced my genius. But all
his appointments had to be submitted to the secretary for his
approval. He advised me to come hither and see the head of
the Department, and he advanced me the money to defray my
expenses.

“When I arrived at my hotel this morning, the first name
I heard mentioned was yours, Walter. I learned what had
transpired, and I hastened away to the President's to demand
your discharge. Upon entering the portal, I was thrust back
by an impudent Paddy, who demanded my name and business!
I told him I was one of the sovereigns, and that the President
was the servant of the people—and I came in the right of a
master. He damned me as one of the natives, and seizing
my collar, dragged me out in the rain. I splintered my cane
over his head. But that did not move him. I then aimed a
blow at his nose, which he resented. I don't know exactly
how many times he struck me, nor precisely where; but I
awoke to consciousness, lying in the gutter, where the turbid
water was dashing over me. An officer was called, who conducted
me hither. This is the whole of my story.”

“Merciful heaven!” cried Walter. “And has it come to

393

this, that in our great country, the boasted land of freedom,
the native citizen is thrust away from the portals of the public
offices by the mere offscourings of all the monarchies of the
earth! Shall the Irish and the Dutch hold the keys of our
treasury, while we starve in the gutters?”

“Have you a clean shirt to loan me?” asked Pollen.

“Yes, you shall share my wardrobe, as you have partaken
of my crust.”

“I have eaten the half of a broiled chicken, and begin to
feel comfortable!”

“A lady, sir!” said the keeper, peeping in.

“A lady!” said Parke. “Then we are de trope.”

“And I am in a vile costume,” said the poet. “But
there is a closet. I'll retire—”

“No!” said Walter. “It may be the very thing for you
to be seen thus. If it should be Virginia or Honoria—”

“Miss Wilsome Winkle!” said the keeper, admitting
Walter's aunt.

“Oh, Walter! I forgive you for attending your uncle's
wedding! Come to my arms, my poor, poor boy!”

She ran to him, and embraced him most affectionately.
“And these are your fellow-prisoners—your vile companions—the
low associates they have thrust you among.”

“No—aunt! Do you not recognize my friends?”

“Where's my glass! Oh! Mr. Parke! I beg pardon,
sir. And, mercy on me! Is it possible! What! Are
you—you are! It is Mr. Pollen—and in this plight! It is
a shame! Here, Walter, I've brought you a check. Send
the keeper to a clothing store;—have every thing brought
here, and furnish him with decent clothing. Lose no time.”

Walter took the check. And while his aunt sat at the
table, saturating her handkerchief with tears, he opened his
trunk, and furnished the poet with a suit of his own clothing.
Thus arrayed, Pollen was himself again, and made a very
genteel appearance.

“What a shame!” repeated Wilsome, after she had made
Pollen relate the manner of his being sent to prison. “And
to be thrust away from the President's door by a nasty foreigner!
It was worse than your case, Walter, which I read
in the Ledger this morning.”

A great deal worse!” said Walter. “Mine is a voluntary
confinement.”

394

“Now, pray, explain that to me. The letter in the paper
intimated something of the sort which I couldn't comprehend.
I could not see any reason or sense in remaining in such a
place, where one had the option of going out of it.”

Walter explained every thing; and his speech was succeeded
by hearty bursts of laughter.

“You are an ingenious rogue, Walter; and I heartily forgive
you. And you will be certain to succeed, since you see
your offended aunt has been brought submissively to your rescue.
Virginia will yield, I am quite sure; and the stratagem
is so good a one, that I will do all in my power to assist you.
But why not leave this place; she will not know it. You
could date your notes from the prison in your comfortable
room at the hotel. Let me go to the magistrate—”

“No—no—aunt. The magistrate won't know you—”

“If he won't take me as security, I'll give him a check for
the whole amount!”

“No, no, no! I am comfortable here. If I was to return
to my hotel, and still make Virginia believe I was in prison,
she would never forgive me after finding it out. Wait till the
colonel sees her, and describes my interview with—”

“Why do you pause? Interview with whom?”

After binding his auditors to secrecy, Walter related
what had transpired with Honoria.

“Still it was a pity,” said his aunt, “that you did not
convert that poor creature from Jesuitism. You might have
done it.”

“But not without danger of losing Virginia,” said Parke.

“I'm glad it is no worse,” said Wilsome. Heigho!
But this is a tiresome place! Walter, there are just four of
us—clear away the things from the table, and let us have a
sociable game of whist.”

“We should be interrupted, aunt. And it might get
into the papers.”

“It might so! And I could not bear to have curious
persons casting their vulgar looks at us. Suppose, then, I go
to Virginia, and lament over your sad condition?”

“That will do!” cried Walter. “Don't ask any thing,
aunt—no concession—or she will suspect us, and tear our
scheme to tatters.”

“I'll take your company along with me, we may want a
game—”

395

“You may have the poet, but not George. I won't trust
him!”

“And I won't trust myself! said Parke. But if the negotiation
should finally fail, then there will be a clear field
for me.”

Miss Wilsome, taking Pollen with her, proceeded to the
boarding house, where she found Virginia in tears. Her
father was with her, having returned from the capitol, and
had just completed the recital of the sufferings of our hero,
and a description of his extraordinary interview with Honoria.

“Oh, dear, good Miss Wilsome,” cried Virginia, throwing
her arms around the old lady, “won't you go with my father
and get him out of prison?”

“Why should we take all that trouble!” was the reply,
“when he declares he has no desire to live any longer?”

“No desire to live any longer?”

“No, none at all. And he says it is a matter of perfect
indifference whether he dies in a prison or a palace.”

“It is cruel to talk thus! I have explained to papa why
I was offended! Any one would have come to the same conclusion
I did, upon the same information. Now if it be true, that
my displeasure is the cause of his misery, you may assure
him it exists no longer! Now do not delay in obtaining his
release.”

“There will be no delay!” said the poet. “I can assure
you, Miss Oakdale, that Walter has acted with the strictest
propriety and honor, as it regards this Mrs. Fimble.”

“I am convinced of it. Do urge my father and Miss
Wilsome to lose no time in taking him out of that vile prison!
Go to him, Mr. Pollen, and say I shall be happy to see him
at the earliest possible moment. And pardon my seeming
boldness sir—but, you know when a fellow-creature is in distress—”

“Fellow-creature—Fudge!” exclaimed the colonel. “You
must promise—you know my terms—or I won't budge a
step.”

“I do promise, father! You need not say what it is—but
hasten!”

The colonel and Pollen then repaired to the magistrate
and obtained Walter's release. The poet and George Parke

396

stopped at the hotel, and Walter hastened to appear before
his appeased mistress.

Upon hearing the bell Virginia ran into the hall. Walter
caught her in his arms and seized a kiss before she could
utter an objection.

“Well, that business is settled,” said the colonel—“it
was done on the wing, and Walter is a good shot. Now I
will return to the Senate chamber, and give Mr. Ralph Roland
his quietus.”

“Ralph Roland!” said Walter, looking up from Virginia's
blushing face, which had been nestling against his side.

“Yes. He has been appointed consul to London, and
upon the recommendation of the ubiquitous Father Xavier;
but as one of the Senate, I do not consent to it. Take care
of yourselves until I return.”

The colonel hastened away to the capitol, and the lovers
joined Miss Wilsome in the parlor.

“He does not look very pale,” said Virginia.

“They fed him well, and—” Walter, by a look checked
his aunt. “But you have triumphed over the most formidable
rival,” she continued, “if what I hear be true, that could
have been pitted against you.”

“She is beautiful,” said Virginia; “I saw her at the
party; and I never beheld a more perfect form, or more lovely
features. I am sure I was not to blame,” she continued
archly, to Walter, “for giving you up as lost.”

“But to think that when she was so lavish of her gracious
smiles, she was plotting my defeat, and planning my
confinement in prison! She is too dangerous an instrument
ever to make an agreeable wife.”

“And to pass for a married woman!” said his aunt, contemptously.
“She must be an unprincipled creature!”

“Undoubtedly,” said Walter. “And I have warned both
Parke and Pollen to beware of her.”

“I hope neither of them will seek her acquaintance,” said
Wilsome. “If they do, I shall banish them from my sight
for ever.”

“I am sorry you did not intimate your wishes sooner,
aunt; but it is too late now. The poet is resolved to attend
her this very night to the President's soiree—”

`I believe I shall go too, and strip his coat off—”

397

“In the presence of all the company, Miss Wilsome?”
asked Virginia.

“Yes. It is not his own. If he dares to follow that papish
heifer, he need never expect any indulgence from me!
And I hope she'll land him where she placed Walter. There
he may die!”

“Mercy on me!” said Virginia, aside to Walter, “I'm
afraid she loves him!”

“By what symptom do you judge?” asked he, significantly.

“And that Southern goat!” continued Miss Wilsome—
“no doubt he proposed it! I hope they may be punished to
their heart's content! They are a couple of young, silly,
headstrong fools.”

A servant came in and announced that a gentleman, whose
name was not given, desired to see Walter in the hall.

“I can't leave Virginia so soon,” said Walter. “If he
has the appearance of a gentleman conduct him hither.”

He did have the appearance of a gentleman, and he came
in. He said his friend Pollen had given him the number of
the house where Walter could be found, and he was very
happy to meet with him. After staring at him a few moments
Walter sprung up and shook him heartily by the hand. It
was Mr. Glass, the actor, whose acquaintance Walter had
made at the the police station.

Mr. Glass informed his young friend that his daughter Delia
had escaped the persecutions of Roland by drawing a dagger
in her own defence. She had then, under an assumed name,
acted in one of the Metropolitan theatres, and acquired
some experience, but not much celebrity. But, acting upon
the advice of Mr. Lowe, who subsequently became the Earl
of Hilton, and bearing with them a letter from him, they had
appeared upon the London boards, where they achieved decided
success. And now his Delia, the actor continued with
grateful tears in his eyes, was a star of the first magnitude,
and overwhelmed with offers of advantageous engagements.
Mr. Glass then said his daughter would soon appear in Washington,
and he hoped Walter and his friends would honor her
with their presence.