University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

After this, my curiosity led me far to the south,
where I was a long while detained. On my return
through Baltimore, I made some enquiries about Middleton,
the result of which was very satisfactory to me,
for I had begun to feel a deep solicitude concerning
him. It appeared on trial that his huge adversary drew
a knife, as he stepped upon the wharf where the blow
was given, that he sprung at Middleton and'seized him
by the throat, apparently for the purposes of throwing
him into the river, that he twisted his right hand into
his hair, and that something was said by one or both
about gouging, the very instant before the cry, which
was followed by the plunge overboard. Middleton
was therefore set free, though the man had not recovered,
and it was probable never would recover. I had
the further satisfaction of hearing that he forgave Middleton,
and that he spoke of the affair to the judges of
the court in such a way as to excite the admiration of
all who heard him. The public sympathy when I arrived
at Baltimore was divided between the two; every
body spoke well of the Tennessean, of his fortitude,
courage and magnanimity; and every body spoke well
of Middleton, who might have escaped a trial if he
would; but he gave himself up after an accidental
rescue, and was only discharged in due course of law.

The more I knew of this man—the more I heard of
his behavior from the day that I saw him arrested, in
a matter of life and death, up to the hour of his acquittal

by a jury, the more anxious I grew about him.
He appeared to me to be made for superior things—
for great things—and to have need of such advice
and such help as a man a few years older than himself
might give, were he invested with the authority of
an elder brother. I would have done much for him,
for he appeared capable of doing much for the world.
But whither had he gone? where should I seek him,
or that strange fellow that was with him, Gage? Nobody
could tell me, though I pursued the enquiry for
a long while.

At last however, just when I had given up all idea
of ever seeing either of the two again, chance threw
us together in a very odd way. I was at New York
waiting the arrival of a ship, in which I intended to go
on a voyage to the South-Sea. She was hourly expected,
and I was therefore obliged to hold myself in
readiness, night and day; and not knowing what else
to do in such a state, I contrived to waste as much of
my time as I could in the society of beautiful women,
who make up a fifth part of the population of New-York,
and among others, in that of a widow—a magnificient
creature—a lady too, if there was ever a thing
so delightful or so artificial on that side of the sea,
with a set-off in the shape of two great sprawling
daughters. It may be that I was in love with her;
and it may be—I would not swear that I was not—in
love with all three at the same time, for I missed the
ship after all, and had two or three narrow escapes of
one sort and another.

She was youthful at the avowed age of thirty-one
or two, in a part of the country where women at the
age of two score generally contrive to look as if they

had never been less than fifty. She was a sort of
epicure—an epicure in every thing—I dare not say
voluptuary, that being a dis-logistic word. She
breathed an atmosphere that was always ready to
kindle about her; and she passed her life in touching
and tasting for experiment sake, whatever it was not
very safe either to touch or taste. I never saw a
woman so followed in America, though she was not
over wealthy; but then the was beautiful, the leader
of New-York fashion, rather witty and sufficiently
pious for the period I speak of. She appeared to me
to have made up her mind—God forgive her—to enjoy
life as much as it is possible for a woman to enjoy
it, where men are legislators for every body. She
knew that spies were set on every side of her path;
she knew that there is no out-living nor escaping reproach,
whether it be deserved or not, if a woman step
over the invisible boundary that we have made for her;
and yet, she was eternally trespassing where no other
female would have the courage to look—trespassing
with one foot, while the other was anchored in safety;
peeping into prohibited places; or standing a-tiptoe
and looking over the barrier, and trembling and
thrilling afar off.

She delighted in what are called innocent pleasantries,
in pretty little misunderstandings, in half whispered,
half-acted inuendoes, though she would look all
the time as if she had no mischief in her heart, and
speak as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth; and
she had a way—it would be impossible for me to describe
it—a way that no young woman ever had, a
way that few married women ever had (while they
were married) of entrapping hearts with a snare that

every body could see; now by flirting with a ribbon
that shivered with every breath she drew, or lay as if
it were alive upon her superb shoulder; now by
gathering up her exuberant hair; now by permitting
a bird to play with her shut lips, or to plunge his beak
into a mouth like a wet rose-bud; now by coquetting
with a child or a guitar; now by toying with a watch in
her bosom set with jewels, or a miniature, a chain, or
a necklace, the sparkle of which would be sure to attract
the eye; now by pulling up her slipper—half-sitting,
half-lounging the while, upon a deep couch
covered with loose drapery.

I had seen her in my youth, I knew her when the
war of 1812 broke out, and I knew her at the close of
that war, when it began to be considered a very proper
thing for people to go to church twice a day—rain
or shine—provided they were not able to keep a carriage.
I knew her at a period when fire and earth-quake
had made it rather fashionable to pray—and
when very respectable and very genteel people, were
known to pray—and when the most beautiful women
of New-York were to be seen at church, though Broadway,
the Battery, and both rivers were open at the
time; and she appeared to me to grow younger and
younger every year.

At the period I speak of, she had become rather devout;
every body spoke of her piety, and I had observed
that there was a stir among the British officers, who
happened to be there on parole at the same time—
hardly one of them ever missing the church she frequented,
when it was understood that she was to be
there, and very few the day or the hour, as they paraded
up and down before their favorite places of worship,

if they saw her carriage roll by; many of them
showing the most exemplary moderation, forbearance
and self-denial, when the weather would not allow them
to break out in their holiday-uniforms, by going to
church, nevertheless, with any thing to cover them till
they were faily housed, when the loudness and solemnity
of their responses and the clangor of their kneeling,
were enough to do your heart good. Take it altogether,
it was a very refreshing season—as we say
there; and I was repeatedly assured by Mrs. Amory
the fair widow, that she had seen a young naval officer,
who sat behind her pew, so wrought upon by the eloquence
of Dr. Mason, that he was obliged to cover his
face with his hands—very pretty hands they were too,
and remain with his head in a corner till the Congregation
were set free; and that she saw another, a military
man (with a new coat covered with new bullion,
a new hat, and no umbrella) betray a very becoming
sense of his awful situation, one day when it suddenly
clouded overhead, as they come out of church together,
now by turning up his eyes to heaven, with a
look almost of despair, and now by muttering a few
broken sentences, which appeared to be heaved up
from the very bottom of his heart. I was futhermore
assured by a clergyman that he had never known such
a revival at New-York—as that which took place
while the British were thundering at her gates; but
then he acknowledged that soon after the war broke
out, there was a fearful awakening at the north; and
I heard from another quarter that the land shook, that
armies were seen parading over the sky, and great
ships riding at anchor in the hollow of the mountains,
where the fog was like a sea, and the noise of the
wind like the roar of the sea.

It is a time of war, said another, and if a time of
war will not make people serious and regular in their
attendance at church—provided they have new clothes,
no other place to go to, and nothing else to do, why
the devil is in it. Oh! for shame! cried the beautiful
widow, adjusting a magnificent shawl, and stepping
away so as to show the whole sweep of her person—
you are too severe. Am I?

Yes.—You would not be at church this very day,
but for the shawl you received last night from India.

She was already on her way up the broad aisle,
with every eye upon her; and every pulse fluttering
at the sight of her cashmere.

In spite of all we say in America about the patricians
of Europe, and their foolish pride of birth, we
are not without our patricians here—people of yesterday
or the day before, who having had grandfathers
of their own, are not to be confounded with the people
of to-day. When I first knew the fair widow, she
was manœuvering for a place among the former; when
we parted she was manœuvering still, but I fear with
little or no prospect of success, for some how or
other, it had come to be known that her father was
nobody—neither a lawyer nor a merchant, not even
a retail-merchant—nothing but a tailor. Of course
the widow, but for the carriage and pair that she still
continued to keep, her beauty, and her supposed
wealth, which gave her the lead for a time in the little
world of high fashion at New-York, would never
have been situated in what is called good-society
there—meaning the society of the few that live without
work, or by a profession, or by merchandize
imported by the cargo, to say nothing of the best

society there, the ancient nobility of America, whose
fathers happen to have died where, if history be true,
their fathers happened to live.

It cannot be denied however that so long as the
widow was able to sport her cashmeres and her
carriage, not a few of the second class of republican
nobility, were vastly condescending to her at church,
where it is understood that a whisper, a bow, or a
shake of the hand, is to go for nothing if it be not
authenticated elsewhere.

Why do you live such a life? said I to her one day,
as we sat together in the deep couch I spoke of, she
with her eyes fixed upon the fire, and I studying the
changes that I saw in her face—Why give people
such power over you?

Why!—her lip quivered, a shadow that I had never
seen there before, played about her mouth, and her
forehead shook in the fire light. Because I am a
mother—

Well, and what if you are—

A mother; and every body knows that the first
duty of a mother is to be, when her daughters are
old enough to appear in the world—what I never
shall be—heigho!

And what is that?

An old woman—my dear Mr. Fox.

I was very much struck by the tone of voice, in
which these few words were uttered. They appeared
to issue from the very bottom of her heart.

She continued—I am a widow.

Your own fault, if you are a widow long, said I.

A widow, and past the age, when, whatever we do
is looked upon with charity; a mother—and—and—

Her eyes filled—

With two grown-up daughters; a widow, with a
feeling which, whatever other people may say, she
knows to be the feeling that agitated her in youth,
always at work in her heart—heigho! I wish I was
in my grave—heigho!

I tried to sooth her. You in your grave! said I—
You! why what would you do there pray?

I might sleep—Mr. Fox.

Query—

Heigho!

Nonsense. You have it in your power to be happy,
and to make others happy; and yet you are wicked
enough to wish yourself where—between ourselves
now, my dear madam—I doubt if you would have the
same power that you enjoy here.

If I had never been married at all, I—I beg your
pardon—I—I do wish you would go for Kate.

Certainly, said I, she's a dear good girl.

She looked at me—Well, why dont you go?

Lord bless you, said I, without moving a step, aint
I going as fast as I can?

Very well—turning away her head, as if she
did not hear me, and looking into the fire with a
faint smile—And everybody knows that the chief duty
of a mother is to maintain her daughters, from the
day they are old enough, or large enough—Kate is
very tall of her age—dont you think so?—at every
sacrifice—and both much younger than you would
suppose—hey?—

I bowed.

Keep them she must, at every sacrifice—and at
every humiliation to herself, in just exactly that rank

of society, where they have no clear, indisputable
right to be.

Very true; what else can she be good for?

What else?

After a certain age, I mean.

Of course—with a smile—heigho!

Whether she be married or a widow, old or young,
beautiful as the day—or—or—

She drew a long breath.

Or ugly as the witch of Endor.

Very true, my dear friend—where they must live
in a state of warfare with everybody that comes in
their way.

In bad humor with everybody—

And with themselves into the bargain; for nobody
knows how to behave to them in society, whether as
equals, or humble companions, or as people having as
good a right as their neighbours, to make themselves
uncomfortable and ridiculous in a certain way.

And where everybody who, crosses their path will
be sure to wonder at them—said I.

True, true.

For that proves that they are in a rank of society,
where, but for intrigue, electioneering, and sheer
impudence, they never would be.

Very true.

In this comfortable situation, they grow up, their
hearts brimful of bitterness and fear, and sickly hope;
forever slipping back in their up-hill ascent, and forever
leaning forward.

Very true—and elbowing the less happy or the less
ambitious at every step, under pretence of keeping
their places—

Bowing their way up, till they get a head or a toe
into the group just above them, shouldering them
aside at the next breath, and then turning their backs
upon them, through every successive stage of society;
all whom they have out-stripped rejoicing in every
humiliation they meet with, and all whom they approach
wondering aloud at their audacity; but all—
every where—above, below, and about their path,
uniting together against them, forever on the watch
to discover their faults, and forever disposed to
magnify their failures, and rejoice over their humiliations.

Ah my dear sir, I feel the truth of what you say—
every word is true.

Then why persevere in that path? Believe me
madam—it is not the way to respectability, whatever
you may suppose. Your children are made unhappy
to no purpose; they will not be suffered to remain
where you have tried to place them.

I believe you; but what am I to do?

Give up the society of people you do not care for.

Ah! you know not how much you ask!

And the society of those who do not care for you.

Oh Lord! what would become of me?

You would be happier than ever—

Query, as you say; I cannot bear solitude—heigho!

Solitude!

Yes; your plan would leave me—I very much
fear—in a deplorable state.

How so?

Altogether alone. Here she heaved a sigh that
went to my heart, and her eyes fell, and her little
snowy hand slipped away from the place on which it

rested, and fell upon the crimson drapery of the
couch, like a live bird escaped from a snare.

I wish you could be prevailed upon to see this
matter as I do, said I, slipping my hand after hers in
such a way as to alarm neither—You might be very
happy.

She shook her head with a faint smile.

And why not, pray?

How can you ask! am I not the mother of two
grown-up girls?

And what if you are?

And am I not younger at the heart, this very day,
than either of the two, my dear friend?

Upon my word, I believe you are.

Still young, without the privileges of youth?

I could have wept a tear or two here, at the very
sound of her voice.

A mother of women, without a share of that insensibility
which I regard as their highest prerogative.

I understand you—I pity you.

Excuse me, I cannot bear to be pitied—heigho.

Pho, pho—that is the talk of your every-day novel-reader.

But I am very serious.

Pho, pho; cannot bear to be pitied! you! why
what are you made of? There is not a creature alive
in the shape of woman, ay, or of man either, who in
saying that, would say the truth. It were easier to
live without hope, than without pity.

To say all in a word—I am a widow.

That's true—

If I were to withdraw from society at my age,
what would people say?

Say! That you were a thousand times wiser than
they ever thought you.

It would be ascribed to the jealousy of a mother;
it would be said every where that I withdrew to
escape the mortification of being rivaled, or it may be
eclipsed by my own daughters. Ah my dear Mr. Fox
—do you know I have taken a great fancy to your
name—christian-name I mean—but proceed.

In which case, they would be thought older than
they are, and you, therefore, older than you are; and
you might be obliged to go into your grave a widow.

I mean to go into my grave a widow.

Really!

Yes—heigho!

I know better.

She snatched away her hand, which some how or
other—I never knew how—I had contrived to clasp,
and withdrew her foot which had strayed into the
middle of the hearth-rug, where it loitered with an
expression (feet have a deal of expression, love) that
well might give me the heart-ache, as I sat by her
side.