University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
WHAT OCCURRED AT BOUSCH'S TAVERN.

Let us follow Mr. Jinks.

That gentleman went on his way, reflecting upon the step which
he had just taken, and revolving in his mind the course which he
should pursue in future.

The result of his reflections was, that a matrimonial engagement
would just answer his purpose, especially with a lady possessing
a “small property—” at which words, as they left his
muttering lips, Jinks frowned.

It was Miss Sallianna's favorite phrase.

Miss Sallianna!

The tumult which arose in Jinks' breast upon the thought of
that young lady's treachery toward himself occurred to him,
may, as our brother historians are fond of saying, “be better
imagined than described.” Before, Jinks' brows were corrugated
into a frown; now, however, two mountain ridges, enclosing a
deep valley, extended from the upper portion of the bridge of the
Jinks nose to the middle of the Jinks forehead.

The despairing lover resembled an ogre who had not dined for
two whole days, and was ready to devour the first corner.

What should he do? Take revenge, or marry the perfidious
woman? Jinks did not doubt his ability to perform the latter;
and thus he went on his way in doubt and wrath.

At least he would go that very morning and charge her with

perfidy; and so having decided upon his course so far, he strode
on rapidly.

Mr. Jinks bent his course toward Bousch's tavern, where he
proposed to take up his temporary residence.

Since this house has become historical, let us say a word of it.
It was one of those old wooden “ordinaries” of Virginia, which
are now never seen in towns of any size, crouching only on the
road-side or in obscure nooks, where the past lives still. It was
a building of large size, though but two stories in height, and
even then presented an ancient appearance, with its low eaves,
small-paned windows, and stone slab before the door. Behind
it was an old garden, and near at hand, two ponderous valves
opened upon a large stable-yard full of bustling hostlers.

The neighborhood in which this ancient dwelling stood was not
without a certain picturesqueness, thanks to the old, low-eaved
houses, dating from the French-Indian wars, and grassy knolls,
from which quarries of limestone stood out boldly; above all,
because of the limpid stream, which, flowing from the west just
by the portico of the old tavern, murmured gaily in the traveller's
ear, and leaped toward him as he crossed it, or allowed his weary
animal to bathe his nostrils in the cool water. Two or three
majestic weeping-willows plunged their broad trunks and vigorous
roots into the clear stream, and sighed forever over it, as,
passing onward, it ran away from the Bousch hostelry toward its
ocean, the Opequon.

This old tavern, which exists still, we believe, a venerable relic
of the border past, was, in the year 1777, the abode of a “number
of Quakers, together with one druggist and a dancing-master,
sent to Winchester under guard, with a request from the Executive
of Pennsylvania, directed to the County-Lieutenant of
Frederick, to secure them.” The reasons for this arrest and
exile may be found in a Congressional report upon the subject.
(Anno. 1776,) which states, that well-attested facts “rendered
it certain and notorious that those persons were, with much

rancour and bitterness, disaffected to the American cause;”—for
which reason they were requested to go and remain in durance
at Winchester, in Virginia. How they protested at Philadelphia
against being taken into custody—protested again at the Pennsylvania
line against being carried out of that state—protested
again at the Maryland line against being taken into Virginia—
and ended by protesting at Winchester against everything in
general—it is all written in the Book of the Chronicles of the
Valley of Virginia, by Mr. Samuel Kercheval, and also in an
interesting Philadelphia publication, “Friends in Exile.” To this
day the old sun-dial in the garden of “Bousch's Tavern” has
upon it the inscription:

“Exul patria causâ libertates,” with the names of the unfortunate
exiles written under it—always provided that the dial itself
remains, and the rain, and snow, and sun, have not blotted out
the words. That they were there, the present chronicler knows
upon good authority. How the exiles passed their time at Winchester,
and finally returned, will, some day, be embodied in
authentic history.

It was many years after the quaker inroad; in fact the
eighteenth century, with all its philosophical, political, and scientific
“protests” everywhere, was nearly dead and gone, when
another scene occurred at Bousch's tavern, which history knows
something of. As that august muse, however, does not bury
herself with personal details, we will briefly refer to this occurrence.

It was about mid-day, then, when a carriage, with travelling
trunks behind it, and a white, foreign-looking driver and footman
on the seat before, drew rein in front of the old hostelry we
have described.

The footman descended from his perch, and approaching the
door of the carriage, opened it, and respectfully assisted two
gentlemen to alight. These gentlemen were dressed with elegant
simplicity.

The first had an oval face, which was full of good-humor, and
in which an imaginative eye might have discerned an odd resemblance
to a pear; the second, who seemed to be his brother, was
more sedate, and did not smile.

The gentlemen entered the inn, and asked if dinner could be
furnished. The landlord replied that nothing could be easier,
and called their attention to a noise which issued from the next
room.

The elder gentleman, whose accent had indicated his foreign
origin, approached the door which led into the dining-room, followed
by his companion.

They looked in.

A long table, covered with a profusion of everything which
the most robust appetite could desire, was filled with ploughmen,
rough farmers, hunters from the neighboring hills, and a nondescript
class, which were neither farmers, ploughmen, nor hunters,
but made their living by coveying huge teams from town to
town. They were travelling merchants—not wagoners simply, as
might have been supposed from their garments full of straw, and
the huge whips which lay beside them on the floor. When they
chewed their food, these worthies resembled horses masticating
ears of corn; when they laughed, they made the windows
rattle.

The good-humored traveller shook his head; over the face of
his companion passed a disdainful smile, which did not escape
the landlord.

As the elder turned round, he observed his servant inscribing
their names in the tavern-book. He would have stopped him,
but he had already written the names.

He thereupon turned to the landlord.

Could they not have a private room?

Hum!—it was contrary to rule.

They wanted to dine.

Could they not make up their minds to join the company?

The younger traveller could not, and would not—a room.

The landlord assumed a dogged expression, and replied that he
made no distinction among his guests. What was good enough
for one was good enough for all.

Then, the young traveller said, he would not stay in such a
place.

The host replied, that he might go and welcome—the sooner
the better—he wanted no lofty foreign gentlemen with their airs,
etc.

The two gentlemen bowed with grave politeness, and made a
sign to their servants, who came forward, looking with terrible
frowns at Boniface.

Prepare the carriage to set out again—they would not dine
there.

How Monseigneur would go on in spite of—

Enough—Monseigneur would consult them when it was necessary.
Harness the horses again.

The result of which command was, that in ten minutes the two
gentlemen were again upon the road.

The landlord watched them, with a frown, as they departed.
He then bethought him of the book where the servant had inscribed
their names, and opened it. On the page was written:

“Mr. Louis Phillippe,

“Mr. Montpensier,

Paris.”

The landlord had driven from his establishment the future
king of the French, and his brother, because they wanted a private
apartment to dine in.

The common version that the Duke was personally assaulted,
and turned out, is a mere fiction—our own account is the proper
and true one.

So Bousch's Tavern was only fated to be historical, when Mr.
Jinks approached it—that character having not yet been attached

to it. Whether the absence of such associations affected the
larder in Mr. Jinks' opinion, we cannot say—probably not, however.

Certain is it that Jinks entered with dignity, and accosted the
fat, ruddy, German landlord, Mr. Bousch, and proceeding to do
what a quarter of a century afterwards a Duke imitated him in,
asked for a private chamber. Mr. Bousch seemed to see nothing
improper in this request, and even smiled an assent when
Jinks, still scowling, requested that a measure of Jamaica rum
might be dispatched before him, to his chamber.

Jinks then strolled out to the pathway before the tavern, and
looked around him.

Suddenly there came out of the stable yard a young man,
mounted on a shaggy horse, which young man was clad in a forest
costume, and held a rifle in his hand.

Jinks directed a terrible glance toward him, and started forward.

As the horseman came out of the gateway, he found the road
obstructed by Mr. Jinks, whose drawn sword was in his hand.

“Back! rash youth!” cried Jinks, with terrible emphasis,
“or this sword shall split thy carcass—back!”

And the speaker flashed the sword so near to Cloud's eyes that
he tossed up his head and nearly reared.

Verty had been gazing at the sky, and was scarcely conscious
of Mr. Jinks' presence;—but the movement made by Cloud
aroused him. He looked at the sword wonderingly.

“Stand back!” cried Jinks, “or thou art dead, young man!
Turn your horse into that receptacle of animals again, and go
not toward the Bower of Nature!”

“Anan?” said the young man, calmly.

“So you pretend not to understand, do you! Vile caitiff!
advance one step at your peril—try to go and complete arrangements
for a matrimonial engagement at the Bower of Nature, and
thou diest!”

Verty was getting angry.

“Mr. Jinks, you'd better get out of the way,” he said, calmly.

“Never! stand back! Attempt to push your animal toward
me, and I slaughter him. Base caitiff! Know that the rival
you have yonder is myself! Know that she loves you not, and
is now laughing at you, however much she may have made you
believe she loved you! She is a wretch!”

Verty thought Mr. Jinks spoke of Redbud—the dominant idea
again—and frowned.

“Yes! a perfidious, unfeeling traitoress,” observed Mr. Jinks,
grimacing terribly; “and if thou makest a single step toward her,
I will spit thee on my sword!”

Verty cocked his rifle, and placing the muzzle thereof on the
Jinks' breast, made a silent movement of his head, to the effect,
that Mr. Jinks would consult his personal safety by ceasing to
obstrnet the way.

Jinks no sooner heard the click of the trigger, and saw the
murderous muzzle directed towards his breast, than letting his
sword fall, he started back with a horrified expression, crying,
“murder!” with all the strength of his lungs; and even in his
terror and excitement varied this expression by giving the alarm
of “fire!”—for what reason, he always declined to explain, even
to his most intimate friends.

Verty did not even smile, though he remained for a moment
motionless, looking at Mr. Jinks.

Then touching Cloud with his heel, he set forward again, followed
by the dignified Longears. As for Longears, we regret to
say, that, on the occasion in question, he did not comport himself
with that high decorum and stately courtesy which were
such distinguishing traits in his elevated character. His mouth
slowly opened—his lips curled around his long, white teeth, and
his visage was shaken with a nervous tremor, as, looking over
his shoulder, he went on in Cloud's footsteps. Longears was
laughing—positively laughing—at Mr. Jinks.

That gentleman ceased crying “fire!” and “murder!” as
soon as he came to the conclusion that there was no danger from
the one or the other. He picked up his sword, looked around
him cautiously, and seeing that no one had observed his flight,
immediately assumed his habitual air of warlike dignity, and extended
his hand—which held the hilt of his undrawn sword—
toward Verty. This gesture was so tragic, and replete with such
kingly ferocity, that Mr. Jinks was plainly devoting Verty to the
infernal gods; and the curses trembling on his lips confirmed
this idea.

He was standing in this melo-dramatic attitude, gazing after
the Indian, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and heard a
jovial voice say, “How are you, Jinks, my boy! What's the
fun?”

The voice was that of Mr. Ralph Ashley.