University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
AN AMERICAN MASQUERADE.

Ellen's birth-day, like every other day, arrived
in due order of time, and completed her
seventeenth year. Her father, as usual, gave a
sumptuous dinner, to which a large circle of his
friends were invited. A band of music performed
during the repast, which was succeeded by songs,
toasts, and sentiments. This part of the festival
was in honor of eighteen years uninterrupted
connubial felicity which the parents of Ellen had
enjoyed, and was attended solely by married
guests. The evening was devoted to the celebration
of Ellen's birth.

A suit of three spacious apartments, in the second
story of the house, was prepared, and decorated
under the immediate and sole direction of
Ellen and Amelia; here their united efforts of
taste and fancy had been exerted for more than
a week, assisted by every novel that they could
procure, which contained an account of a similar
fete. The three rooms, thus appropriated, were
metamophosed into as many gardens, abounding
with evergreens and artificial flowers, which were
so artfully interwoven and arranged, as entirely
to conceal the walls and ceiling. Each door and
window represented the entrance of a beautiful
arbor, in the flowery arch of which was suspended
a gilded cage, containing different species
of American singing birds, surrounded with variegated
lamps, sparkling with a thousand brilliant
tints.

In the centre of the middle apartment was
erected an elegant temple, consisting of a dome
supported by eighteen Corinthian pillars, dedicated
to Liberty, with a full-size statue of the
goddess, standing on a pedestal, supporting the
constitution with one hand, and the liberty-cap
on a spear with the other. Around the gilded
dome of this beautiful edifice was the music gallery.
A vine of laurel, mingled with roses, crept
up each column, and the American eagle was suspended
from the centre of the dome over the
head of the statue. On the inside of each pillar
hung a shield, bearing the arms of the state it
represented; and between them descended a
green curtain, from the gallery to the floor,
which, when dropped, concealed every thing
within the temple.

The adjacent apartments, on the right and left,
contained each a spacious recess, which was now

transformed into a beautiful pavilion, ornamented
with lattice-work and flowers, and illuminated
with variegated lamps. In the centre was a table,
liberally furnished with fruits and other refreshments
for the ladies, and surrounded with sofas
for their accommodation.

Two of the corresponding apartments in the
third story were thrown into one, (by means of a
sliding partition) for the supper-room, where the
tables were fancifully decorated, and loaded with
every dainty of the season, while the sideboards
furnished ample supplies of American wine, from
the vineyards of New-Switzerland, and every domestic
beverage that could tempt the palate.

Every appendage and ornament to this gala
was American, though the fete itself was truly an
exotic. Even the dresses of the guests were to
be wholly composed of domestic fabrics, and
fifty dominos, of the same materials, were prepared
for those who should decline supporting
characters.

“O, you extravagant hussey!” exclaimed her
father, as he took a survey of the apartments and
their decorations, “a dozen such birth-days would
make me a bankrupt.”

“It is your wedding day, papa,” replied Ellen
archly, at the same time kissing his hand; “and
I feel it a duty as well as a pleasure to honor that
event to the best of my abilities.”

She was an only child, and her father smiled
at her observation.

At eight o'clock the company began to assemble,
and were received in the front parlor, by Mr.
and Mrs. Cushing, dressed in the plain costume
of the New-England pilgrims, as they first landed
at Plymouth. Here the guests assumed their
masks, and those who were dressed for characters

laid aside their dominos. They were then conducted
up stairs, and ushered into an anti-chamber,
adjoining the centre garden, where they
were received by Ellen, habited as a shepherdess,
with her crook fancifully ornamented with garlands,
but without her mask. From this apartment
a flight of stairs ascended to the supper-room,
and directly opposite was the entrance to
the ball-room.

This entrance, from the anti-chamber, represented
a general's marque, with the American
standard on each side, united at the top, and here
George Willoughby, dressed as a general officer,
received the company from his cousin, and conducting
them into his tent, permitted them to
emerge into the full splendor of the illuminated
gardens.

Ellen and George could scarcely refrain from
smiling at the ludicrous effect of their own arrangement,
as the motley group passed under
their review and inspection. There were gipseys,
fortune-tellers, virgins of the sun, Venuses,
Dianas, flower-girls, queens, and ballad-singers,
among the ladies; and priests, sailors, knights,
clowns, conjurers, pilgrims, soldiers, heathen
gods, and christian devils, among the gentlemen;
besides many dominos who supported no artificial
character, and some of them perhaps possessed
no real one.

Many of the guests, particularly those of the
dinner party, were in their usual dresses, and
without masks, among whom was general Dearborn,
and several members of the state legislature,
who were assembled in a group near the
temple of Liberty, to survey the happy performers
in the mazy dance.

While they were thus engaged, the curtains
between the pillars were suddenly drawn up by an
invisible hand, and hung in festoons beneath the
gallery. A mask, in the Roman costume of Julius
Cæsar, with the word “Ambition,” in letters of
blood, on his forehead, then approached the temple,
and after surveying for a moment the beautiful
figure within, drew his sword, and made a
desperate plunge at her breast; when, to the
wonder and astonishment of all, the shield, (emblematical
of the constitution) which her left hand
supported, was instantly raised and parried the
weapon. Three similar attempts were made with
as little success, and Ambition reluctantly departed.
While the spectators were expressing
their admiration at the ingenuity of the machinery
which must have effected this movement, and
completed the happy allegory, another mask approached,
in the character of Lovegold, old, decrepit,
and meanly attired; on his wrinkled forehead
was the word “Avarice,” written with
charcoal. After tottering once or twice round the
temple, stopping at each pillar to take a peep at
the goddess, through a pair of leather spectacles,
he paused exactly behind her, and raising a
rough crab-tree cudgel, aimed a blow that must
have felled the statue to the ground, had not his
arm been arrested by “Patriotism,” in the costume
of Cincinnatus.

Several different assailants, by turns, were
thus foiled in their attacks upon Liberty, some
by the constitution, some by Patriotism, and
others by both, in conjunction with Mars, who
appeared in complete armor, and was well represented
in the manly figure of Aylwin. This
scene soon became so interesting, that it com

manded the attention of all the company, and
the dances were suspended.

Eighteen little girls, dressed in white, trimmed
with laurel, each holding a garland of roses in
her hand, now entered the temple, surrounded
the statue, united their wreaths, and performed
a dance in honor of Liberty; the music playing
a national air.

Just as the dance terminated, a figure approached
the temple, in the character of Ochrobond,
in the Forty Thieves, armed with a short
javelin in his right hand, and holding in his left
a speckled snake, winding round his arm; his
mask representing a countenance truly diabolical,
so that many of the ladies screamed with affright;
on his forehead was inscribed, in flame-colored
characters, “Faction.” As he approached the
temple, the eighteen sisters appeared terrified,
but still remained united, and grasped more
firmly the flowery links which connected them.
Several times did the demon attempt to cut one
of these wreaths, that he might enter the circle
and approach nearer his intended victim; but
was as often foiled in the attempt by the caution
of the little girls. He then seized one of them
by the arm, and attempted to tear her from the
ring by force, but at that moment Patriotism
repeated aloud—“Frown indignantly on the first
dawning of an attempt to alienate any portion of
this country from the rest, or enfeeble the sacred
ties which now link its various parts.”[1] The demon
started, relinquished his hold, and disappeared.

In a few minutes, however, he returned, and
with him all the discomfited enemies of Liberty,
armed with bows and arrows, headed by Ambition,

who was supported on one hand by Britannia,
and on the other by the genius of France.
This motley group surrounded the temple and
notched their arrows, but as the word was given
to discharge, each of the sisters snatched her
shield from the pillar, and opposed it to the assault,
forming a complete circle of shields, each
one bearing the arms of the state it protected.
The arrows fell harmless at their feet, and before
another discharge could be made, the assailants
were put to flight by Patriotism and Mars, who
attacked them sword in hand. The states replaced
their shields, and renewed the dance for
a few minutes, when the music ceased, and the
goddess of Liberty thus addressed the admiring
spectators:

Having said this, she descended with graceful
dignity from the pedestal, and advanced into the
hall, with the eighteen sisters following in her

train. “Who is she? Who can she be?” was
now echoed from every mouth, and a crowd of
worshippers soon surrounded the goddess, who,
taking Patriotism by the arm, eluded the curious
throng, and disappeared at a private door
entirely concealed by foliage. It was Amelia
and George who had thus disappeared.

The dances were now resumed, when a beautiful
la fille sauvage was seen peeping cautiously
through one of the arbors, as if in search of some
one that had eluded her pursuit. Her costume
was strikingly characteristic, and the eyes of
our idle party were soon rivetted upon her. She
timidly advanced, still throwing her eyes around
the garden, and starting, as if alarmed by some
passing footstep.

“Who are you, my pretty Indian princess?”
enquired the general as she approached the
party.

“Pocahontas is my name.”

“And whom do you seek?”

After some modest hesitation, she replied—
“Captain Smith.”

“That's my name,” exclaimed a mask, just
then approaching, in an elegant military uniform;
“how can I be so happy as to serve you?”

She looked up playfully in his face, and then
shook her head. “Ah! you are not my Smith;
he flies from Pocahontas, although she loves him,
and once saved his life. But I will seek for him
through all the forest. O, how this poor bosom
throbs! it will be a cold pillow for him if he does
not return to it soon.”

“Hang him for an insensible dog! he'll never
return,” replied the soldier; but here is a Smith
that is ready to throw himself at your feet”—and
he actually kneeled to the red princess.

“No, no, no!” cried she; “you no Smith,
you no soldier; you desert Miss Liberty. Now
kneel again, and pray Pocahontas never tell.”

Morse (for it was himself) was evidently embarrassed
by this reply from the fascinating
savage; not that her insinuation was correct, but
because he found himself recognized by one
whom he did not know.

“Liberty or death, has hitherto been my motto,”
cried he; “but I shall now take the liberty of
changing it to Liberty or Pocahontas.”

At this moment a young sailor, who had particularly
regarded the fair savage from her first
entrance, approached her with a respectful bow,
and thus addressed her:

“Pardon me, beautiful princess, for being the
messenger of ill news, but duty compels me to
speak—your Smith is no more! Go with me
and I will show you his grave.”

Pocahontas, who had started at his approach,
was visibly agitated by this address. At length
she exclaimed—

“Dead! did you say? O, cruel white man,
do not tell me so. Pocahontas will break her
heart. Who slew him?”

“No one, sweet Pocahontas; disease assailed
him, and he bowed to the irresistible malady.
But let us go and weep together over the grave
of our common friend:

“In character as a poet, Aylwin,” exclaimed
Morse; “but a sailor ought to be better acquainted
with lunar movements. The pale-faced

goddess is not full-orb'd, but is now in her wane,
and, conscious of her fading beauty, did not, this
evening, presume to show her face until half past
ten o'clock.”

“I am neither an astronomer nor a conjurer,”
replied the sailor; “and shall leave the calculation
of Cynthia's precise shape, size, and altitude,
to those whose brains are under her more immediate
influence. For—

So saying, he bowed to Pocahontas, and taking
her willing hand, led her away, while several
voices exclaimed—“Happy Aylwin!”

After eluding the eyes of curiosity, by winding
among the shrubbery, he led her to a remote
window-seat in the adjacent room, which, being
surrounded by an arbor, entirely concealed them
from observation.

The gallant sailor was probably prompted by
a spirit of adventure, and a curiosity to discover
more of this interesting character. The motives
of the fair one I shall not attempt to define.

For more than a minute they gazed at each
other without speaking; till the son of Neptune,
beginning to feel embarrassed, took her affectionately
by the hand, and enquired—

“Did Pocahontas love Smith?”

“You have read her history,” was the answer
of the princess.

Sailor. But when she thought him dead, she
transferred her love to Rolfe. Let me be Rolfe,
and be persuaded, lovely creature! that your
Smith is dead.

Pocahontas. And would you accept a transfer
of the heart? That is a species of merchandise

of which every one wishes to be the original
holder.

Sailor. I will accept your heart on any terms.
Name the conditions, and I swear to comply with
them.

Pocahontas. Quite in character as a sailor,
but not as a merchant; do you often purchase
“unsight, unseen?”

Sailor. In this case I am willing to run the
risk. With such a shape, air, voice, and hand,
Heaven would never unite a bad heart, nor an indifferent
face. Love has always been blind, and
the risk is fair, because it is mutual.

Pocahontas. No, Mr. Orville, I believe the
advantage is on my side.

Orville. Since you know me, fair princess—
off, base vizard! But who, in the name of all
that is fascinating, are you? Permit me to remove
that envious mask which obstructs the rays of
beauty.

Pocahontas. Forbear, rash man! Can your
eyes gaze at a meridian sun?

Orville. I fear not, for they are already dazzled
by those two twinkling stars. But every
moment increases my admiration and impatience;
every word you speak rivets a magic chain to
my heart. O then, banish that sable cloud, and
let the rosy morning burst upon my enraptured
view.

Pocahontas. Clouds depend upon the wind.

Orville. Then my sighs shall increase to a
gale; can it not be dissipated by the breath of
love?

Pocahontas. I had thought that no disguise
could screen Harriet Palmer from the penetration
of Mr. Orville.

Orville. (In a tone of disappointment.) Is it
possible! But your feigned voice completely
deceived me. Well, Harriet, (replacing his mask)
since it is you, this scene terminates, and exit Jack.

Pocahontas. And why so, Mr. Orville, am I
not worth a few pretty speeches?

Orville. O yes; but it is trespassing on forbidden
ground; besides, you know there would
be no meaning in “pretty speeches” coming
from me.

Pocahontas. So, when you meet with an unsuspecting
girl, who is not blest with that knowledge,
you merely practise them for your own
amusement. You should recollect, that though
it be sport to you, it may be death to us.

Orville. Nay, since you are serious, Harriet,
I will explain. My heart is like an undutiful rebellious
child. I must part with it to somebody,
(and that very soon) to prevent its running away.

Pocahontas. And why not let it run?

Orville. Because I fear it would intrude itself
among its betters, and get kicked out of doors in
disgrace. I hoped to have found an asylum for
it in the bosom of Pocahontas: Harriet Palmer,
I know, has not one to give in exchange.

Pocahontas. In plain English, Mr. Orville,
you are in love with some one who does not return
your affection. Is it not so?

Orville. I should be over head and ears in
such a scrape, if I dared. I will confess, Harriet,
that there is a little spark here which I labor
hard to keep smothered; but the gentlest breath
of hope would blow it to a flame, that would
either light me to happiness, or consume me to
ashes.

Pocahontas. (With a deep sigh.) Then there
is no hope for—(she paused) for Pocahontas!

Orville. What mean you, Harriet?

Pocahontas. And who is this cruel fair one?
Do I know her?

Orville. You do—but she does not merit that
epithet—she is the most gentle and generous of
her sex. Fortune alone is cruel for placing her
beyond my reach. She is rich, and I am poor.

Pocahontas. Confide in me, Mr. Orville, and
tell me her name.

Orville. No, Harriet, not for the world!
Should it ever reach her ear that I entertained a
thought so presumptuous, I fear she would despise
me, and I should be forever debarred the
felicity of her society and friendship, which I
now enjoy. The child of her father's bounty—
But I am rambling.

Pocahontas. (In extreme agitation.) Is it
El— Ellen Cushing?

Orville. Never let it escape your lips, Harriet,
or I am ruined. It is Ellen Cushing.—Now
say if there is room for hope?

Pocahontas. Yes—for hope and happiness.

Orville. How!

Pocahontas. (Reclining her head on Orville's
shoulder.) Ellen loves you.

Orville. Do not sport with my feelings, Harriet;
how can you be so cruel!

Pocahontas. I do not sport—Ellen loves you;
I have heard her repeat it a thousand times.

Orville. Though you tell me what it would
be madness to believe, Harriet, still repeat it;
for, by Heaven, though I know it cannot be true,
it is bliss to hear the sentence.

Pocahontas. Ellen loves you.

This was whispered so close, that the lips of
Pocahontas touched Orville's cheek; her bosom

heaved, and her whole frame was agitated. Orville,
by an indescribable kind of instinct, caught
her in his arms—her mask fell off—it was Ellen
herself.

At this critical moment they were alarmed by
a universal shriek from the ladies, followed by a
confused tumult, which compelled them to quit
their retreat to learn the cause of the disturbance.
As the reader may possibly possess a similar curiosity,
I will endeavor to satisfy him in the next
chapter.