University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
A STRANGE COMPANION, AND A STARTLING
INCIDENT.

As I have said in the opening of this
narrative, that more than a month had
elapsed since bidding farewell to my
friends, I have not thought best to trouble
the reader with any detail of my
journey thus far, more especially as no
incidents occurred on my way hither
worthy of note. Consider me therefore
still on the hurricane deck of the
Neptune, and bound for a Southern
clime.

It was a clear, delighful morning, in
the beginning of September, in the year
of our Lord 1845. The sun had risen
in golden splendor, and now shone
brightly down upon the glassy bosom
of La Belle Riviere, whose surface was
like a mirror, save where the rushing
steamer threw up a silvery spray, and
sent a hundred tiny wavelets dancing
to the shore. A soft, South breeze,
sweeping over the green hills of old
Kentucky, gently fanned my brow, and
gave me invigorating relief from the recent
heats of Summer. I was, as I
have said, in an exulting mood; and as
I stood and gazed upon the green shores,
and beheld here and there a picturesque
hamlet, on either hand, I felt as if I
could love every body, and every thing;
and I poured forth my gratitude in a
silent prayer to the Great Giver of all
good.

At length I turned to descend to the
cabin, when I espied my servant approaching
me, accompanied by a very
genteel young man, dressed in black.

“Dat massa,” said Tom, pointing to
me; and then, as if his mission were
finished, he made a low bow, and disappeared.

The stranger approached me with a
smile, a slight inclination of the head,
and holding out his hand, said:

“Mr. Walton, I hope you will allow
me the pleasure of renewing our acquaintance;”
and then perceiving by
my look and manner that he was not
recognised, he added; “You have for
gotten me, I see; but we have met before,
far away from this. My name is
Harley—Morton Harley, at your service.”

I now remembered that one night at
a ball in Swansdown, I had been introduced
to a stranger of that name; and I
cheerfully made known my recognition,
and cordially shook his hand; for the
very fact that he had been once in the
village of my nativity, made him appear
to me like an old and valued friend.

“But how did you learn of my being
abroad?” I inquired.

“I saw your name on your baggage
below, and made inquiry of your servant;
and it is with no affectation that
I say, I am rejoiced to meet you here.
But tell me, Mr. Walton, whither are
you bound?”

“That the future can alone determine,”
I replied, gaily; “my present
destination is New Orleans.”

“Then you have fixed on nothing
beyond the Crescent City?”

“Not positively, though I have a
leaning toward Mexico. But I am free
to go whithersoever my will inclines;
and so I have plenty of adventure, I little
care in what part of the world I find
it.”

“Your hand, Mr. Walton!” said
Harley almost enthusiastically. “I trust
we shall ever be friends, and long be travelling
companions, I too am for adventure—for
novelty—for seeing strange
places—strange faces—in short, for any
thing that will drive from my mind—”
He stopped suddenly, a strange, dark,
melancholy expression swept over his
pale features, and merely saying, “Excuse
me! I am not well,” he wheeled
on his heel, and disappeared down the
stairs leading to the cabin-guard.

I was so surprised by his singular
manner, that I stood staring after him
for several moments, before the idea occurred
to me that perhaps he was really
ill, and that it was my duty to follow
and tender my services. I hurried
down to the cabin, and looked eagerly
among the passengers, but nowhere beheld
the object of my search. Perceiving
my servant seated on a trunk, I hurried
up to him.

“Tom,” I said, “did that gentleman
you conducted to me, just now enter the
cabin?”

“Didn't see him, massa.”

“Go out on the guards, and see if
you can find him! Make haste, and
let me know, for the gentleman is ill.”

Tom hurried away to execute my
orders, but soon returned, and in his
peculiar way reported the gentleman
was not to be found,

“This is strange!” I mused—“very
strange!”

An idea struck me; and hastening to
the clerk's office, I requested to know
the number of Morton Harley's state-room.
The clerk looked over the register,
and replied that there was no
such name entered on the book. Still
more surprised than ever, I went down
stairs, and carefully searched the deck
from bow to stern, but found no trace
of Morton Harley. I returned to the
cabin, and sent Tom to the hurricane
deck, thinking it not improbable Harley
had gone back to find me. But all
search proved vain, my new acquaintance
had suddenly and mysteriously
disappeared, and there was none to give
me the least clue to his whereabouts. I
felt vexed and uneasy—vexed, that he
should leave me so abruptly—uneasy,
lest something serious had befallen him.
Perhaps he has fallen overboard and
been drowned, I said to myself; and my
spirits, but now so buoyant, became
greatly depressed in consequence. At
dinner I noted every man that took his
seat at the table—at supper I did the
same—but the face of Harley was not
among them. I then questioned the
steward and other servants, if there
were any one sick about the boat—but
all my answers were in the negative.

This completely quenched the last
faint spark of hope I had of ever beholding
Harley again; and seating myself
by one of the now cleared tables,
in the forward part of the cabin, I rested
my head upon my hand, and gave way
to a gloomy reverie.

How long I sat there, lost to every
thing around me, I do not know; but I
was finally aroused to a consciousness
of passing events, by some one touch
ing me on the shoulder, and saying in
a bland tone:

“I beg pardon, sir, for disturbing you
—but we have just made up a party of
whist, and all the tables forward are
occupied.”

I started, as if suddenly awakened
from a dream, and, by a hasty glance
around, perceived that the eyes of several
gentlemen were fixed upon me.
Understanding more from their looks,
than the words of the speaker—which
I had heard, but only partially comprehended—that
they required the table
for their game, I arose, made a slight
inclination of the head, and passed out
of the cabin upon the guards.

The night was clear and serene, and
the azure vault of heaven was sparkling
with thousands on thousands of those
bright, mysterious luminaries of other
worlds. I say mysterious, for none living
have yet been able to soar to their
far off abodes, on the wings of science,
and make known their organization and
design.—Poets have imagined, philosophers
have reasoned, and theologians
have asserted, these worlds to be what
was most in accordance with their varying
idiosyncrasies; but neither the
imagination of the first, the reasoning
of the second, nor the assertions of the
third, have established a single fact in
regard to them. There they shine, as
they have shone for centuries—for ages
—the great, incomprehensible work of
Him that was before chaos, that will be
forever. Science, which measures the
sun, the moon, the earth, and all the
planets—which tells us their distance
from us and each other—the time of
their revolutions—the velocity with
which they travel through space—is utterly
futile when brought to bear upon
them; and man, with all his boasted
knowledge, when he seriously contemplates
them, becomes bewildered and
lost in the boundless region of speculation.
What they are, and what their
design, we shall never know in time—
eternity, perhaps, will reveal the great
secret.

I turned my eyes to the starry firmament,
and gazed upon it for more than
an hour, in that peculiar frame of mind

have attempted to describe. A cool
night-breeze fanned my heated temples,
and gave relief to my aching brow; and
the hoarse steam-notes of the rushing
vessel, and the rippling of the waters
beneath, fell on my ear with a kind of
monotonous melody, thatat length made
me drowsy. I arose, and after glancing
at the placid river, the lights here
and there dancing on its dark bosom,
the dim and undefined shores, I sought
my state room, and a sweet sleep, and
a dream of home, proved a happy oblivion
to the morbid excitement of the
day.

I arose on the following morning,
greatly refreshed in body and mind.
As I was about sitting down to breakfast,
a hand was laid familiarly on my
shoulder. I turned, and judge of my
astonishment, on beholding Harley
standing by my side. For a moment
or two I was too much surprised to
speak; and in that short space of time
I surveyed his person and features more
minutely than ever before. As he is
destined to figure conspicuously in my
narrative, a brief description of his appearance
and characteristics may not
here be deemed improper.

In person he was slender, and slightly
made—though in reality he possessed
a muscular power that belied his
looks. His stature was about five feet
ten inches, and his age some three or
four and twenty, with an almost beardless
chin, that made him appear boyish
and effeminate. His features were regular
and intellectual, but lacked what
may be termed manly beauty. His
face was long and thin, with a prominent
nose, that was neither Roman,
Grecian, nor aquiline, and yet to a
certain degree partook of each. His
mouth and chin were beautiful, and his
bluish gray eyes had in general a winning,
fascinating expression, though
there were times when they exhibited
a restlessness and wildness really painful
to behold. His forehead was high,
full, and expansive, from which his
light brown hair was carefully brushed
back, in the most approved mode. He
dressed well and richly, was very pre
cise in his toilet, and altogether had a
very distingue air.

Such is the tout ensemble of one
who was destined to exercise no trifling
influence on my future career. Whether
he may be considered my good or
evil genius, I leave the reader to determine
by the sequel.

That he was, in a great degree, a
marked character, the reader will readily
credit from the specimen given.
The versatility of his mind exceeded
that of almost any being with whom it
has ever been my fortune to come in
contact. That he was always sane, I
very much question—though if ever insane,
there was a method in it. He
was a natural musician—could sing
beautifully, and play on almost any instrument.
He was also a poet by nature,
and a scholar by education. He
was at times lively to excess, and
moody to misanthropy. He was by
turns a humorist, a practical joker, a
sentimentalist, a satirist, a moralist, an
enthusiast, and always a fatalist. The
more I saw of him, the more difficult I
found it to comprehend him. Nature
had made him a genius, but had never
established a harmonious equilibrium
between his different faculties. How
one so eccentric in almost every thing
else, could be so precise in his toilet,
was a matter that puzzled me to understand
as much as any other.

In short, he was a peculiarity—an
oddity—a none-such—and one every
way calculated to suit me for a travelling
companion, inasmuch as I
should never lack variety, never die of
ennui.

I will only add, that, as regarded his
own history, he was for some time incommunicative;
and when I chanced
to touch on the subject, ever enshrouded
himself in a veil of mystery, that
excited, while it baffled, my curiosity.
For the rest, I shall let him speak and
act for himself.

“My dear sir,” said Harley, gaily,
smiling at my surprise, “I am delighted
to see you!—how do you find
yourself this morning?” and he seized
and shook my hand with as much

heartiness as if we had just met after a
year's separation.

“In the name of the seven wonders,”
replied I, “where have you been hiding
for the last twenty-four hours? for
I see and feel it is you, and no ghost,
though I was just on the point of
ordering Tom to tie crape round my
hat.”

“But you thought it best to mourn
on a full stomach, eh?” pointing to
the breakfast, which was now ready.
“Come, sit down—the first table is
better than the second, to say nothing
of the looks of the thing. There, now,
we can do two things at once—talk and
eat. Waiter, a peace of that steak, rare.
So, Harry—excuse me! but I must call
you Harry, or I shall fancy I am talking
to a stranger,—so you made a
regular search for me, eh! and then sat
down and said `Non est inventus?'
Why, man alive, I was in my state-room,
rolled up snug in the blankets,
and snoring away with a forty horse
power. Coffee, boy—strong—none of
your dish-water now. Harry, I'll trouble
you for that omelet; and while your
hand is in, you may pass those mashed
potatoes, and the bread—these woolly-headed
servants are so confounded lazy.
Ah! excuse me! I forgot that Tom was
behind your chair; but of course he is
an exception. By Jove! it is glorious
to eat—particularly after a fast
of twenty-four hours. Eh! did you
speak?”

“Yes! I was going to say, I made
inquiry of the clerk for your state-room,
and he said there was no Morton Harley
on the register.”

“Very likely—but you will find a
Smith Jones there, or a Jones Smith,
I forget which.”

“Do you then travel incognito?”

“I travel any way, but do not feel
bound to write my name in every old
musty book, for a set of jackasses to
stare at. Besides, if this floating machine
should blow up, and I get killed,
perhaps my name would be paraded
in the newspapers, to the grief of my
friends and the joy of my enemies;
and some old woman would say,
`Poor fellow! so he's dead at last.'
Blown up in a steamboat! think of
that, Harry! What glory is there in
such a death as that? Bah! I would
sooner not die at all.”

“But why did you leave me so abruptly
yesterday?”

“I was ill—one of my spells. When
you see me in that way, just let me
alone; nature is my best physician—
for the simple reason, that I am not
ready to die yet—when I am, I shall
send for the faculty, and employ at
least three, to hasten the crisis. After
all, your doctors are a useful class;
for without them the world would get
peopled too fast—they are the safety-valves
to a surplus population. Tom,
hand round my cup to that black imp
younder for some more coffee, and give
him a slight hint not to be all day
about it. Harry, I'll trouble you for
that omelet once more. Thank you!
By-the-bye, do you ever write?”

“I have scribbled a little, though nothing
to my credit,” I replied. “However,
I have some thoughts of keeping
a journal of my adventures—that is, if
I have any worth recording.”

“Good! a capital idea! excellent!
and I'll take care you have something
to write about. But, entre nous, you
must make a character of me! I must
figure there, if only to play second fiddle.
You shall be Don Quixote, and
I'll be Sancho Panza, your chosen
squire. On State occasions I'll be
your prime minister. Capital thing
this writing, and having the whole public
to laugh at your jokes, smile at your
follies, and weep at your misfortunes.
I had some thoughts of turning author
myself once; but then it's such a bore
to write; and besides, if you please
yourself, ten to one you don't any body
else. Then if you publish, there is a
set of carping critics to come pouncing
down upon you, like a hawk upon a
chicken; and the more merit you have,
the greater fool they'll make you appear.
They'll turn your most honied
words into gall, and all your eloquent
passages into rhodomontade. Your
original ideas they'll swear point blank
are plagiarisms, and bring in the ghost
of some Greek, Vandal, or Goth, to

prove it. If you make one grammatical
slip, they'll prove your ignorance
in something less than a column; and
after destroying all your good things, or
ascribing them to some unheard of author,
they'll collect all your faults into
a heap, like a cart-load of old rubbish,
and pile them upon your devoted head,
Ossa upon Pelion. If your sentences
are all correct, smooth, and beautiful,
with well-rounded periods, they'll cry
you tame, monotonous, prosy; if you
dash out in a bold, vigorous manner,
they'll make fun of your style, and
give you credit for being a lunatic. In
short, say what you will, do what you
will, you are sure to be done for by
these literary Harpies, who will plunder
you, mentally, as their namesakes
did of old the table of Phineus. Bah!
I hate critics; for they dine on wormwood,
take nut-gall for dessert, and use
vinegar as a beverage.”

Thus my new acquaintance rattled
on, from one thing to another, apparently
at home on every topic; and so
mingled humor, satire, and sentiment,
that I never wearied of listening to his
conversation. Breakfast over, we repaired
to the hurricane deck, to enjoy
in freedom the morning air. Some
twenty of the passengers were already
before us, and were standing, sitting,
or sauntering about, as best suited their
several inclinations. Harley selected the
most marked among them, and soon
gave proof by his remarks, that he was
a great adept in human nature. He
would look at a man a few moments,
and then tell you all his prominent characteristics,
and even penetrate his very
thoughts, as he more than once convinced
me by addressing the individual
on the subject uppermost in his mind.
I might cite several instances, but I
must pass on to more important matters.

Whoever has travelled much on the
Western waters, needs not to be told
that gambling on the boats is a very
prominent feature; and that, as a consequence,
scenes sometimes occur of a
nature to make one's blood run chill
with horror. I will record one that
came under my own observation, and
which, as the sequel will prove, had a
slight bearing on my subsequent history.

Among the passengers who, by some
peculiarity of look or manner, more
particularly attracted our attention, (I
say ours, for Harley and I soon became
almost inseparable,) was a young man,
of a wan, sallow, cadaverous countenance,
who semed to be laboring under a
disease which preyed more or less upon
his vitals. I had often remarked him
standing near some one of the card-tables,
and watching the game with an
intensity of look, I may term it eagerness
of expression, which for one who
had no interest in the stakes, one who was
merely a spectator like myself, seemed
very remarkable. I asked my friend
what he thought of it.

“Sir,” he replied, “that young man
has a natural passion for gaming; he has
tried it more than once and lost; and he
has secretly sworn never to touch another
card. Yes, sir, it is as difficult for him
to resist the temptation here offered, as
it is for the habitual drunkard to push
back the poisonous stimulant held to his
lips by the band of one he esteems his
friend. God aid him in his virtuous
struggle! for if he touches a card now,
he is forever ruined.”

As he spoke, Harley approached the
stranger, and shaking his head, said,
gravely, in one of his blandest tones:

“No, no, my friend, it will not do.”

The invalid started, and turned upon
Harley a look in which surprise and
gratitude were strangely blended.

“You are right,” he replied, “and I
thank you for the caution;” and turning
upon his heel, he retired to a distant part
of the saloon.

An hour later I again saw him by one
of the tables—his ruling passion was
stronger than his will and reason. From
this moment I watched him more closely
than ever; and I noted, with a feeling of
commisseration, the painful struggle going
on in his mind. I had a presentiment
that his evil genius would ultimately
triumph—and it did. It was with pain
I saw him marked out as a victim by
more than one professional gambler in
the garb of a gentleman. For a day or
two, however, all the overtures of these

gentry were met by a decided refusal;
and I had just begun to indulge the hope
that he would escape the fatal share,
when, alas! to my great regret, I saw
him yield. He sat down to the table,
played almost recklessly for a couple of
hours, and arose winner to no inconsiderable
amount. His pale features were
now flushed with triumph, and his dark
eyes had a wild, unsettled look, that
showed how powerfully his feelings were
excited by the result. He clutched his
winnings with the eagerness of a miser,
and, as if afraid to trust himself longer
in such company, darted away to his
state-room.

“Alas!” said Harley, “he is lost;
his success to-night will be his ruin to-morrow;
it is the bait of the fowler.”

The next night I saw the invalid take
his place among the gamblers at an early
hour. As if expecting some terrible
catastrophe, those who had been in the
habit of playing at the different tables,
now gathered around the fated young
man, and stood anxious spectators of
the scene in which he was taking a part.
Not a word was spoken, and the silence
was ominous and oppressive. I stood
where I could watch the countenance of
the invalid, as well as that of his adversary.
The former was unusually pale
and haggard, with a nervous twitching of
the muscles about the mouth, and a
glaring wildness of the eyes, that was
painful to behold. Occasionally a deep
flush would pass over his thin, wasted
features, and then retreating suddenly,
leave them of a ghastly hue, with the
exception perhaps of a bright red spot
on either cheek. It was an awful sight
to behold this battling of disease and the
passions with the broken constitution of
one already doomed! and I watched the
game with a painful interest I had never
before experienced. In contradistinction
to his victim, the professional gambler
was cool, calm, collected, and seemingly
indifferent to all that was taking place.—
He knew his power, and was using it
with fatal precision. Oh! how I abhorred
him from my very soul!

The game commenced, and continued
for an hour, with success alternating between
the two players. Then the gambler
began to win, and then the struggle of
life and death began with his victim,
who, at the loss of every stake, seemed
to grow more and more desperate, till
at last his eyes glared and rolled horribly,
and he exhibited all the frenzy
of a maniac. Another hour, and he was
ruined—his last cent was gone.

For a moment or two he glared at
the pile of money, which the gambler
was already beginning to transfer to his
pocket; and then uttering a thrilling cry,
something between a shriek and a groan,
he sprang to his feet, and dashed his
hands violently against his temples, exclaiming,

“Oh! my God! my God! what
have I done? Ruined my poor old
mother! gambled away her only dependence!
Oh! sir! sir! (to the gambler)
give me back that money! it was
not mine! it was not mine, sir! I had no
right to use it—it was my mother's. Oh!
sir! give it back to me, and on my knees
I will bless you, and pledge my soul's
salvation that I will never touch a card
again! If you will not give me all,
give me a part, for I am ruined;” and
as if the word “ruined” conjured up
madness, he made a spring at the money,
when the unfeeling wretch, who
had won his all, repulsed him with a
blow, that staggered him back against
the wall.

I was too much excited to consider
consequences, but acting on the impulse
of the moment, I raised my hand and
felled the gambler to the ground. I was
about following up my advantage, to
give him a severer chastisement, when
a cry of horror from the crowd arrested
my attention. I sprang forward to ascertain
the cause, and saw the invalid
reclining against the wall, the most horrible
spectacle I had ever beheld. The
excitement, and the blow had caused
him to burst a blood-vessel, and the
warm current of life was now gushing
from his mouth and nose, and he was
actually weltering in his own gore. A
single moment he sat thus, and then
gurgling forth, “My moth-er!” fell over
on his side a corpse.

I bent down to ascertain if he were
dead, and the action probably saved my

life; for at that moment the report of a
pistol startled the crowd, and a ball,
passing just over my head, lodged in the
side of the saloon. It was the work
of the gambler, who thus sought to take
his revenge on me for my interference.
There was a general cry of,

“Lynch him! Lynch him!” But
he had already escaped—for the boat
at the time was lying against the shore
to wood.

I made inquiry of the clerk, and
with the little he knew, and the examination
of some letters found in his
trunk, I learned the name of the young
man, and that his mother resided at a
small village in Texas. I made a note
of all, and resolved, if I chanced in that
vicinity, to visit her, break the sad
news of her son's death, and, should
she need, give her pecuniary aid.

The next day, the victim was buried
at a small island, where we again stopped
to wood. We followed him to his
humble grave; and over his mortal remains
I took a solemn oath, that I
would never gamble again. I had been
taught a lesson, that, to the latest day
of my existence, I could never forget.