University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
FEMALE SMALL TALK.

A few days after the foregoing event, a package
of letters arrived from Mulberry-grove, directed
to Mr. Cushing, among which was one for
Amelia, from her friend Catharine, and another
from major Willoughby to his son, who had just
arrived in town, to spend the spring vacation,
which lasted two weeks from the fifteenth day of
May. Catharine's epistle was couched in affectionate
terms, and bespoke the sincerest friendship,
in a style peculiarly chaste and correct.
Towards the conclusion, she gave a description
of several new neighbors that had settled around
them, noticed many public improvements, mentioned
that their new house was completed and

furnished, and concluded with lamenting the absence
of her friend Amelia, and expressing many
wishes for her speedy return. George listened
in the most anxious suspense, while his sister was
reading this letter, and heard the usual conclusion
without the least reference to himself.

“Is that all?” exclaimed he, as Amelia was
folding the paper.

“Why, is not that long enough for a female?”
said his sister, with a smile; “what more could
you possibly contrive for her to say?”

“O, nothing, answered her brother, with a
sigh, and walked whistling to the window.

“Aye! here is a postscript,” said Amelia, and
George was at her elbow in an instant—“but I
confess that I cannot understand it. Perhaps
you possess some key to unlock its meaning.”

George snatched the letter from her hand, and
read—

“When you see your brother, tell him that his
harp is safe, and still tuned to the key of G, as he
left it. My grandfather assures me that I have
made considerable proficiency in learning to
play: the only air, however, which I can execute
tolerably, is `Yes or No.' Inform him, also,
if you please, that my bird has never yet returned,
as he assured me it would, although I frequently
dream that I have him in my bosom. Young
Logan was here about a month since, and appeared
quite dejected at the loss of his friend and
preserver. He told your father that George
would forget all he had taught him, which he considers
of much more real importance than all his
book-learning. So you must caution your brother
to forget nothing that he has once learnt, and
least of all, the letters of his gamut.”

George did possess a key to unlock its meaning
—it was the key of “G transposed from C,” and
it vibrated in unison with the tenderest fibre of
his heart; he unconsciously prest the paper to
his lips, and his sister smiled.

“Are you giving or receiving, my Adonis of the
woods?” exclaimed his cousin Ellen. George
did not understand her, and she put into his
hands the New-York Columbian, where he read
the following:

“And do you think, George, that a kiss would
adhere to that paper during a journey of six hundred
miles?” asked Amelia; “If, however, there

was one deposited in that letter, it must of course
be my property, and I insist upon your restoring
it instantly. There—that's a good boy. But
wont your cousin Ellen be jealous?”

George called her a mad-cap, and saluted his
cousin.

“There are other young ladies in the room,”
observed Ellen.

“But I dare not presume”—said George, hesitating
and blushing.

“Dare not presume to treat the ladies with
neglect,” cried Ellen, “and bestow no partial
favours in this company.”

The young ladies tittered, and George felt an
additional glow in his face.

“O the dear little lump of modesty!” exclaimed
the ever gay Ellen. “Why, George,
you must come oftener to this polite metronolis,
and teach us the art of blushing. The ladies will
be infinitely obliged to you, as it will save a world
of cosmetics.”

“I fear I should lose the art myself, by attempting
to teach it,” replied George, a little reassured.
“But why does my cousin wish to revive
so antiquated a fashion?”

“Merely to keep you back-woods-men in
countenance. But do tell me if there can be any
roses in that dismal part of the world since you
and Amelia left it; for it is my opinion that you
two have robbed madam Nature of all her carnation—in
that part of her territory at least.”

“Our complexions are the result of a healthy
climate and pure atmosphere,” answered George;
“but the ladies of Boston would there be taken
for spectres.”

“O the brute!—

“Of a super-angelic order, cousin, of course.”

“But we have strangely deserted the subject,”
cried Ellen, rising, and leading her cousin forward
to the two visiting ladies. “There, sir, I
command you, in the name of gallantry, beauty,
and love, to treat all this good company alike;
and now disobey me on your peril!”

“But will it not be rude?” asked George, with
an earnestness that made them all laugh.

“Very rude,” replied his sister, “to neglect
it. Ellen, you will have to polish the young
savage.”

“It was a bliss to which I thought it presumption
to aspire,” said he, as his lips met those of
the fair strangers.

“Born for our use, you live but to oblige us,”
exclaimed Ellen.

The young ladies, whom George had been
thus compelled to salute, were the daughters of
judge Palmer, a gentleman of no inconsiderable
notoriety as a lawyer and politician. The eldest,
whose name was Harriet, was about eighteen
years old, not remarkably handsome, but famed
for her filial affection and domestic virtues. Sophia,
her sister, was three years younger, a pert
little miss, of considerable beauty, and very
vain. I have been thus particular in introducing
them to the reader, because he will meet them
again, if he has patience to prosecute the journey
of this history a few stages more. If not, he
must be content to drop their acquaintance here,
and bid them an eternal adieu.

“And now,” cried Amelia, “you are not
aware of the favor you have conferred on me. I
knew not what in the world to fill my paper with,
in answering Catharine's letter, and you have
furnished me with a subject.”

“In what manner?” asked he.

“Why, I can now tell her, in the first place,
that I have seen my brother, and told him what
she desired; and, in the next place, that he is in
a very high key, (say G in alt.) and in the third
place, that he studies very hard—to please the
ladies; and fourthly and lastly, that he kisses
them all at the first interview. Is not there a subject
for a letter?”

“Amelia! you will not write any such thing,”
said George, in a tone of alarm that much diverted
the ladies.

“Wont I? You see then!”

“Make me your friend,” cried Ellen, “and I
will furnish you with a talisman, that will exact
the most implicit obedience from your sister.”

“What can that be?”

“This—only look,” and she began counting
her fingers—M,O,R,S,E.”

Amelia was visibly embarrassed, and blushed
very deeply.

“See! see!” exclaimed Ellen—“behold its
wonderful effects! Whenever that girl threatens
you again, you have nothing to do but what I
have just shown you, and mum is the word, she
is dumb directly.”

“How you run on, cousin Ellen,” cried Amelia;
“my brother will think you crazy.”

George knew not what to think, and was just
going to request an explanation, as the door
opened, and a gentleman entered with the air and
ease of an old acquaintance.

“You know the old proverb,” exclaimed
Ellen.

“There are so many old proverbs,” replied
the gentleman, “that I may not be fortunate

enough to hit upon the one to which the facetious
Ellen alludes.”

“Well, I shall not assist you,” said she, “only
we were just speaking of you as you made your
appearance. Mr. Willoughby, give me leave to
introduce, to your most particular acquaintance,
Mr. Morse—not the geography maker. Mr.
Morse, this is Mr. George Washington Willoughby,
the only son of major Edward Willoughby,
and brother to Miss Amelia C. Willoughby, heir
apparent to all his father's estate, real and personal,
together with the sword of Washington.
Nay, do not be alarmed, sir, he will only inherit
half the said estate, having generously agreed to
transfer the other half to his dearly beloved sister,
the aforesaid Amelia C. Willoughby, on the day
of her espousals with Mr. Somebody, which
event, we understand, is to take place some
time in the month of December next, in the
year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred
and eleven.”

“O you inconscionable babbler!” exclaimed
Morse, “I wish that my new friend here would
find a curb for that tongue.”

“It must not be a matrimonial curb, I assure
you,” replied Ellen; “I could talk a husband to
death every fortnight. Besides, that fellow is a
savage, just out of the wilderness, where he left
a beautiful unfinished work, entitled, the `Wild
Irish Girl,' which he knows all by heart; besides
several modern songs, among which is that of
`Kate of Colerain.' And even his dearly beloved
sister, the aforesaid Miss Amelia C. Willoughby,
is so much of a savage, that she is always
talking about one Logan, and it would not
surprise me, in the course of two or three years,

to see a couple of papooses on her back, unless
some civilized christian will condescend to take
her himself.”

“Peace! my dear cousin, if you love me,”
cried Amelia, “and do not compel me to leave
the room.”

“Not for the world, Amelia, and if you threaten
it again—Cousin George, exhibit the talisman
I gave you.”

“Excuse me Ellen, a generous conqueror will
never refuse quarter when it is called for.”

“Well, I am sure that no one can impeach my
generosity. When you begged so hard to salute
these ladies, sir, did I not at length give you
leave, though will extreme reluctance?

“You will allow me the same liberty, I hope,
Miss Ellen?” said Morse.

“No, hang me if I do,” replied she, because
your request springs from interested motives.”

Tea was here introduced, and this trifling suspended;
but George had heard enough to interest
his curiosity; he, therefore, after tea, retired
with his aunt, and received the following information:

Mr. Morse was a young man of respectable
connexions, and the proprietor of a very lucrative
manufacturing establishment; an intimate
acquaintance, and great favorite of the family,
and, for the last two months, since his return
from Europe, the professed admirer of Amelia,
at whose request Mr. Cushing had written to her
father on the subject of his proposals. Major
Willoughby's answer had just been received, and
was to this effect: “that the inclinations of his
children, in a matter of so much importance to
their happiness, should never be arbitrarily controlled,

nor in any manner influenced except by
friendly advice; that he had perfect confidence
in the prudence of his daughter, and in the wisdom
and friendship of her present protectors;
was well satisfied with their recommendation of
the lover, and concluded with a promise of attending
the celebration of the nuptials, if they
should be deferred until the month of December
following.”

George felt perfectly satisfied with this arrangement,
and returned to the parlor with his aunt.
The Miss Palmers had departed, and the subject
was now discussed, without restraint, by this
happy little family party, the whole of whom expressed
their pleasure for the promised attendance
of the major at the felicitous event. The
transported lover was impatient to pay his duty
to so kind a parent.

“I can easily perceive,” cried Ellen, “which
will prove the most affectionate and dutiful son,
the christian or the savage. There is my cousin
George who has trifled away two hours here,
with a letter from his father in his pocket, and
the seal is not broken, and yet he is so fond of
reading letters, that he snatches other people's
out of their hands, and kisses the postscript.”

The accusation was just. In attending to his
sister's letter, he had entirely forgotten his own,
and unconsciously deposited it in his pocket-book.
He now obtained leave, and perused it
without delay, after which, at the request of the
family, he read it aloud. The subject was his
sister's projected marriage, and his father's intended
visit, with this addition—“Such an arrangement,
my son, may save you the fatigue
and expense of a journey to this place, and the

loss of much useful time, which, I think, you can
feel no inclination to incur, but for the pleasure
of meeting your father, and the delay of a few
months will heighten that pleasure to both of us.
Should you obtain leave to make this journey, it
would occupy at least three months. I would recommend,
therefore, that you pass the autumn
vacation at your uncle Cushing's in Boston, and
return to College as soon as it expires.”

“And now,” cried Ellen, “I have some hopes
of you; for, if we can keep you from the forest
another year, I think you will make some progress
in civilization, that is, if you will leave
your books at Cambridge. My papa shall purchase
a harp, and you shall teach me to play,
and I will sing yes or no, just as you direct me,
and you shall call me Kate, and I will answer
`arrah! now, my dear honey!' and we will be
as happy as the day is long. Now, wont you,
my dear cousin?”

A recommendation from his father was the same
as a command, to George. He was thinking of
Catharine, and another year's absence, while his
giddy cousin rattled on, unattended to; but, at the
conclusion of her rhapsody, she patted him on
the cheek, and compelled him to answer, “Born
for your use, I live but to oblige you.”

“Apropos!” exclaimed his cousin—“this
evening, Cooper plays Zanga, for his own benefit,
and it is his last appearance for the season.”

The hint was understood, and the whole party
adjourned to the theatre.