University of Virginia Library

39. CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE INTERVIEW.

On the day after our hero's arrival at Boston,
he reported himself to the war department by
letter, and wrote to several of his friends in
Washington. In answer to one of these private
cpistles, he received a most pressing invitation
to make a visit to the seat of government, with
which he determined to comply; and accordingly
commenced his journey for that city on Friday
the twentieth day of November. The Sunday
following he passed with his old acquaintances in
Newport. Perry was not there, having been
several months before promoted to the rank of
master and commander, and ordered to the command
of the flotilla of gun-boats stationed at the
harbor of New-York, in which duty he was then
engaged.

“It perhaps seldom happens that an officer is
first recommended to the notice and favorable
regards of his government by his misfortunes.
Such, however, had been the case with Perry;
a very serious disaster which had befallen him
(subsequent to his short acquaintance with our
hero) had drawn from the secretary of the navy
a complimentary letter, not only acquitting him
of all blame, but highly applauding the judgment,
intrepidity, and perseverance he had displayed
on the unfortunate and trying occasion,
the particulars of which are these—He had received
orders to survey the harbor of Newport,
repair to New-London, and from thence survey
all the intermediate coast. In the execution
of this duty, he sailed from Newport late in
the evening, with an easterly wind accompanied
by a fog. In the morning he found himself enveloped
in a thick mist, with a considerable swell
going. In this situation, without any possibility of
ascertaining where he was, the pilot not being
sufficiently acquaintanted with the soundings, the
vessel was carried on a reef, and went to pieces.
On this occasion Perry gave proofs of a most admirable
coolness and presence of mind. He used
every precaution to save the guns and property,
and was in a great measure successful. He got off
all the crew in perfect safety, and was himself the
last to leave the wreck. His conduct in respect
to this disaster underwent examination by a court
of inquiry, at his own request, by which he was
acquitted with the most honorable testimonials of
their approbation. From that hour he had become
a favorite in the navy department, and had
probably thus laid the foundation of future celebrity
in his misfortunes.

A letter on this subject from the navy department
to commodore Rodgers, contained the following
sentences:

“Having attentively examined the proceedings
of the court, I derive much satisfaction from
perceiving that it is unnecessary to institute any
further proceedings in the case. With respect
to lieutenant Perry, I can only say, that my confidence
in him has not been in any degree diminished
by his conduct on this occasion. The loss
of the Revenge appears to be justly chargeable
to the pilot. This accident will no doubt present
to lieutenant Perry considerations that may be useful
to him in future command. An officer, just to
himself, will not be depressed by defeat or misfortune;
but will be stimulated by either cause to
greater exertion.

“If there should be any situation in the squadron,
to which you can appoint lieutenant Perry,
that may be consistent with his just pretensions,
and not interfere with the rights of others, you
will appoint him to it; if not, he is to be furloughed,
waiting the further orders from this department.”

On Monday, George departed for New-York,
where he arrived on the morning of the twenty-fifth,
amidst the ringing of bells and firing of
cannon, in celebration of the day on which the
British troops evacuated the city, after the revolutionary
war. On the summit of every public
edifice, and on the masts of every vessel in the
harbor, Freedom's bright streaming banners were
gaily displayed, flashing in the sun-beam as they
fluttered in the blast. Martial music was heard
in all directions; the clattering hoofs of the prancing
cavalry responded to the notes of the soul

inspiring bugle; and numerous corps of volunteers,
regulars, and militia, were paraded in the
public squares. Our hero instantly forgot the fatigues
of a long and rapid journey, (during which
he had been assailed by a most furious storm,
that had scattered trees, chimneys and fences in
his road[1] ) and catching the general glow of patriotic
enthusiasm that pervaded the city, entered
at once into the festive enjoyments of the occasion.

About mid-day the troops had formed a line,
and were reviewed by his excellency the governor,
and generals Armstrong and Morton. The
third regiment of the state artillery were then inducted
into the fortress which they were destined
to garrison,[2] where a national salute was fired.
A sumptuous dinner had been prepared for the
officers of this beautiful regiment, at Mechanic
Hall, and among the invited guests were the governor,
generals Armstrong and Morton, adjutant-general
Paulding, and several United States officers
of inferior grade, of whom ensign Willoughby
was one.

After the cloth was removed, patriotic toasts
were mutually pledged in flowing bumpers, interspersed
with odes, songs, and national airs by an
excellent band of musicians. Among the sentiments
given on this occasion, the following was
peculiarly grateful to more than one officer present:
“Our brave brethren in arms who so nobly
sustained the unequal contest at Queenston.” It

was received by the company with rapturous acclamations,
which were answered from the orchestra
in the lofty strains of a full martial chorus.

On the approach of evening the company began
to retire, and our hero accompanied several
officers to the theatre, which was brilliantly illuminated
in honor of the anniversary. He entered
amid a gay group of plumes and epaulets, and
took a seat in the second row of boxes, directly
opposite the stage. The house, which was rapidly
filling when they entered, soon became
crowded, and (as usual on the evening of a holiday)
extremely noisy.

The curtain drew up, and a short but very
pleasing prelude was performed, entitled “All
in Good Humor,” and he must have been indeed
a most surly cynic who could witness its representation
without being charmed into the feeling
which the title expresses. The whole house appeared
in the best of humors.

When the curtain fell at the conclusion of the
prelude, master Whale, better known as the infant
vestris, performed a naval hornpipe, in a
style that drew reiterated peals of approbation
from the admiring audience.

The play which succeeded was the celebrated
“Point of Honor, or School for Soldiers,” and
many were the sympathetic tears which silently
applauded the performance. When the amiable
and unfortunate Durimel appeared on the stage
as a convicted deserter led to the place of execution;
when blind-folded he kneeled to meet his
fate; and when the word to fire was given by his
own father, who in the same instant threw himself
before his son, to receive the fire and die with

him, convulsive sobs could be distinctly heard in
every direction. The command to fire was instantaneously
succeeded by the word “hold!”
thundered in the voice of an officer who rushed in
with a reprieve, and with his sword struck up the
levelled muskets before a trigger could be pressed.
The effect on the audience was electrical,
and just such as the reality of such a scene might
be supposed to produce. The soft contagion
ran through every bosom, and appeared in every
eye, whether in gallery, pit, or boxes.

A short interlude then followed, entitled “Huzza
for the Constitution,” written by a citizen of
New-York in honor of Hull's victory over the
Guerriere. The scene represented the lower end
of Broadway, Bowling-Green and Battery, and in
the distance appeared the forts, and entrance to
the harbor. A countryman entered, who, in a
short soliloquy on the political relations of his
country, was suddenly interrupted by the entrance
of a sailor in whom he recognised his own son.
After many embraces and noisy congratulations
on the happiness of the meeting, Jack, (who it
seemed belonged on board the Constitution) proceeded
to give his father an account of the engagement,
in a style truly technical and animated.
The old man appeared highly delighted with his
son's unpolished relation, and so perhaps did every
person in the house. The afterpiece of Timour
the Tartar concluded the evening's entertainments,
and that character was supported in a most
excellent style by Mr. Simpson.

Although our hero never entered the theatre
for any other purpose than that of seeing and enjoying
the performance, he was still not insensible
to the attractions of a splendid auditory; and,

between the acts, was always agreeably employed
in surveying the “human face divine,” or in
conversing with any accessible being around him,
male or female. On the present occasion his curiosity
had been considerably excited by the appearance
of a lady in the adjoining box, whose
eyes were continually directed to himself. Two
or three times, in the course of the evening, he
changed his position, in order to ascertain whether
his person was or was not the subject of such
uninterrupted scrutiny. Being at length convinced
that this was the case, he took the earliest opportunity
of crowding to that side of the box which
adjoined hers, where he was in fact literally seated
by the side of the fair stranger. He now attempted
to draw her into conversation: determined,
if possible, to discover the motive which
could induce her to honor him with such particular
notice. As soon, however, as she perceived
him approach, she suddenly withdrew her eyes,
and pulling a veil over her face, remained totally
silent to all our hero's observations, nor even
regarded him with a look.

When the curtain fell on the last scene of the
play, an elderly gentleman, who sat by her side,
arose, and whispering something in her ear to
which she bowed assent, left the box. She followed
him with her eyes until he entered the lobby,
then turning to our hero, she uttered in a low
voice—“For Heaven's sake, Mr. Willoughby,
speak no more to me here; I will explain the
reason if you will call to-morrow morning at No.
— William-street. Fail not for the world, for I
have a thousand things of the utmost importance
to communicate. At eleven o'clock precisely I
shall expect you.”

Although this address convinced George that
he had not been squandering so many words on a
stranger, he was still ignorant of her name and
quality. He could not recollect when, or where,
but was sure he had somewhere before met the
gaze of the sharp black eye which was now fixed
on his. The rest of her features were concealed
by her veil.

“You must not fail to come,” added she with
great earnestness, but in the same low tone.

“Who shall I”—enquire for? he would have
said, but she interrupted him, and in a hurried,
embarrassed manner, whispered—“Hush! say
not another word—I beg of you—I command
you! Only remember to-morrow, at eleven.”

Our hero was silent, and in a moment the elderly
gentleman returned to her side, and presented
her with some fruit, which she accepted.

The curiosity of George was on tip-toe, but having
been forbidden to speak, there was no way of
gratifying it. But why his conversation with an
acquaintance should depend on the exit or entrance
of a third person, he could not conceive—
strangers they could not be, because she had addressed
him by his name, and requested an interview.

As they were passing through the crowded
lobby to leave the house, George purposely kept
close to her right side; the elderly gentleman, under
whose protection she evidently moved, retaining
his position on the left. But her face being
still enveloped in her veil, our hero gained
nothing by the intrusion but an ardent pressure of
the hand, which was probably intended to remind
him of his engagement the next day, and to which
he answered in the same silent language—(plain

as a hand could speak)—“I shall not forget it.”
The lady, with her conductor, entered a coach
at the door, and our hero repaired to his lodgings
at the City-Hotel, where he forgot himself,
the world, and his engagement, until eight o'clock
the next morning.

The last stroke of eleven had not resounded
from St. Paul's, as George knocked at the door to
which he had been invited. He was received
by a female servant, who ushered him into the
parlor, and left him with observing that her mistress
would be ready to receive him in a few
minutes. While he was amusing himself in surveying
some beautiful paintings with which the
walls of the room were decorated, the messenger
returned, and requested him to walk up stairs.
He immediately complied, and followed his fair
conductor to a corresponding room in the second
story, where, on a sofa near the fire, sat the object
of his visit, apparently absorbed in grief. As
her visitor approached, she arose, and removing a
handkerchief from her eyes, displayed a lovely
countenance, glowing with blushes and bathed in
tears, through which a most fascinating smile
shone like the sun in an April shower. She gave
him her hand, and our hero exclaimed with unaffected
surprise—“Is it possible!—Sophia Palmer?”

“And did you not know me last evening?”
asked she with a sigh; “You knew that I was in
this city?”

“Indeed, I did not. The shortness of my
stay in Boston prevented my learning the situation
of half my friends. You are here on a visit.
I presume.”

“Did you not hear a single word of me?” inquired
she, with great earnestness. “Was
my name never mentioned in your hearing?”

“It was not, Sophia, if I can trust my recollection.”

“And you made no inquiries—forgetting, I
suppose, that there was such a being in existence.
But come,”—added she in a more cheerful tone—
“I forgive you; take a seat here by my side;
we have but one hour to converse, and I have a
hundred thousand things to say—and yet—I
know not how to begin.”

For a few moments both were silent; at length,
without raising her eyes, she asked if he had forgotten
the masquerade.

“I shall never forget it,” he exclaimed, thinking
of the Mysterious Chief.

“You have forgotten the little Gipsey? but—
she has never forgotten—the Minstrel.”

George had forgotten the little Gipsey; but
the character now recurred to his mind with all
the attending circumstances.

“And was it, then, the lovely Sophia who so
kindly told my fortune?”

“And whom you so unkindly refused to meet in
the pavilion. O George! George!—do not despise
me—I am—indeed, I am very, very unhappy
—wretched—miserable!” Here she was again
silent, with her face concealed in her handkerchief,
and reclined on the arm of the sofa.

“I am surprised and shocked to hear it,” replied
George. “But if you think me worthy of
your confidence, unfold to me the cause of your
grief; and, if it lies within the compass of my
poor ability to alleviate your sufferings, I swear
to do it.”

She raised her head, and gazing at him through
her tears, replied—

“O, you will break your oath.”

George felt hurt at an insinuation that implied
a doubt of his friendship, or his sincerity; he
therefore ardently exclaimed—

“Never! So help me God!”

“It is in your power to afford me relief—to
wipe all these tears from my cheeks, and make
this poor heart dance in my bosom for joy. It
is in your power, but you will never do it; you
alone can save me, and yet I shall be lost!”

As she uttered this she unconsciously leaned towards
the embarrassed George; her right hand
was on his arm, and her left pressed to her own
heart. Her look was tender and supplicating, and
her whole frame extremely agitated. Our hero
became apprehensive that she would fall from the
seat, and therefore supported her with his arm;
when she gently, and almost imperceptibly, slid
to his bosom, and there hid her face, moistening
his ruffles with her tears, while her arm was
thrown over his shoulder. He could distinctly feel
the violent throbs of her heart against his breast,
and the lengthened throes of her bosom laboring
with half-suppressed sobs. His situation was becoming
more embarrassing, but he knew not how
to change it. At length she spake—

“Are you aware of the full extent of your
oath?”

“Tell me the nature of your afflictions. What
has made you unhappy?”

“Love.”

“Love! How can love be productive of misery?
How can love make Sophia unhappy?”

“If you can ask such a question,” said she,
starting suddenly from his bosom, “I have no
hope from your oath. Appeal to your own heart
—but, did you ever love?”

George was silent; but his blushes answered
in the affirmative. Sophia continued—

“If ever you are doomed to love without hope,
as I have done—as I now do—you will then, and
not till then, know how to feel for—how to pity
me. Whole nights of sleepless agony have I
passed since last we met, steeping my pillow in
tears, or breathing my sighs to the midnight moon
—almost cursing the day that I was born. Many
a summer hour have I spent in the deepest recesses
of a wood, there to weep unseen, and tell
my sorrows to the listening trees; catching the
mere shadow of consolation in hearing the distant
echoes repeat a name which only in such profound
solitude I would venture to pronounce—
the name of the dear youth whose image will for
ever dwell in this afflicted breast. But why
should I attempt to describe all I have suffered?
—why compel you to share sorrows which nothing
can remove? You cannot—you will not impart
comfort to my heart; but it will soon break
with its own griefs, and then poor Sophia will find
peace in the grave!”

“What would you have me do, Sophia?” asked
the compassionate George, now almost melted
into tears—his tone and aspect expressive of
the tenderest pity. “How can I
afford you comfort?
Shall I intercede with the object of your affections,
and endeavor to kindle in his bosom a
reciprocal passion?”

“Do so, and I will for ever bless you. This is
what you can do, and this you are bound by an
oath to perform.”

“Who is he? I am ready and eager to fulfil
the engagement. Where is he?”

“In my arms,” exclaimed she, throwing herself
on his bosom, and encircling him in a most tender
embrace. “Though you may despise me
for the confession—though you may spurn me
from you with contempt—yet still will I cling to
you thus, until I have discharged a load from my
heart which will otherwise burst it. It is yourself—and
you only that I love with the most unbounded
affection. It is for you that I have
watched, and prayed, and wept. It is your image
alone that fills my bosom, and lives there night
and day. In your arms alone can I hope to find
happiness—here is paradise—the only heaven I
covet. All without is misery—despair—the only
hell I deprecate.”

“Damnable strumpet!” exclaimed a voice of
thunder, and in the same instant Sophia was
dragged by the hair from our hero's arms, who
started on his feet, and recognised the elderly
gentleman whom he had seen at the play. With
a blow that covered her lovely face with blood,
he struck the shrieking Sophia to the floor, and
as George was darting to her assistance, seized
him by the collar. Our hero dashed away his
hand, and pushing him ungently aside, flew to
the prostrate fair, whom he tenderly raised in
his arms, and placed on the sofa, bleeding and
insensible; then turning to the enraged assailant,
demanded, in rather a haughty tone, by what
authority he thus presumed to ill-treat a lady who
was mistress of her own actions.

“Indeed!” exclaimed the German, (for such
his accent declared him to be) “But I find she
has deceived you, as well as all the rest of her

friends. I am her husband, sir, and know how
to chastise any scoundrel who dares intrude on a
husband's rights.”

The first part of this address almost petrified
George with astonishment; but the concluding
words kindled in his bosom a different sentiment,
which blazed in lightning from his indignant eye,
as he exclaimed—

“You dare not apply that epithet to me, sir;
nor implicate me in the false aspersion.”

“I dare—but do not,” replied the German, in
a lower tone. “You forget, sir, how much appearances
are against you. But I am more just—
I have been (though unintentionally on my part)
an invisible auditor of this accursed tete-a-tete,
and acquit you of any intentions hostile to my
honor. That traitress alone is guilty—and severely
shall she atone for it.”

“Unhappy—lost Sophia!” exclaimed George,
turning towards the beautiful insensible; “into
what an abyss of misery has your indiscretion
plunged you! How will your worthy parents—
your amiable sister, sustain the affliction which a
knowledge of this event would entail upon them!
Let me entreat you, sir, to forget this aberration
of her youthful heart, and by your generous forbearance
make it again yours. Your forgiveness
will save—your severity lose her for ever.”

“Your compassion is misplaced, sir, and you
plead in vain. Have I not just heard her declare
that her heart was wholly yours, and you ask her
husband to win it by forgiveness! I cannot at
present command my feelings—oblige me by
withdrawing.”

“Not till you promise”—

“Beware, sir,” interrupted the enraged husband,
“how you tempt me to retract my opinion
of your own honor.”

“At least,” replied George, “suffer her to receive
medical assistance. She is bleeding from
the effects of your resentment—she may never
recover---You would not be her executioner?
Comply, for your own sake, with my request, and
I take my leave.”

“Her health shall be attended to, and when
you wish to see me, send your address. Adieu!

With feelings which it would be difficult to describe,
our hero proceeded to his lodgings. He
was unhappy without being guilty; a very common
case in this wicked world, where happiness
does not altogether depend upon the rectitude of
our own conduct. Where, then, is the consolation?
It follows---How much more unhappy
would George have been, had he been guilty! After
a little reflection, he felt the full force of the
sentiment, and regained his composure.