University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE PARISH.—THE BULMER BARONY.

Our scene now changes from town to country—from St. Philip's
and St. Michael's to St. John's surnamed of Berkeley. Dame Agnes-Theresa
and Paula Bonneau had taken their departure from
Charleston, the second day after our shopping expedition through

King-street. I had seen them that night and the next, on both
occasions accompanied by Ned Bulmer. I am happy to inform my
pleasant public that nothing transpired during those two visits to
undo the favourable results which have been already reported. By
dint of the utmost vigilance and solicitude, I contrived to steer
wide of the morbid sensibilities of our grandmother, or so to handle
them as to leave her as amiably soothed as under the passes
of a scientific magnetizer. Miss Martineau could not have operated
more admirably for the recovery of her favourite dun cow,
which all the doctors had given up. The auspices thus favourable,
we beheld their departure for the country with confident anticipations,
and after the lapse of a week Ned Bulmer followed them.
Not, be it remembered, that he proceeded to visit them at Rougemont,
the plantation seat of the Bonneau family for a hundred
years—so called, because the house was erected on a red clay
bank,—but that he went into the same parish, and somewhat in
the immediate neighbourhood, trusting to the chapter of accidents,
—being always in the way—for an occasional meeting with the
lovely Paula. As for going straight to Rougemont, even for a
morning call, that was a thing impossible. The good old grandmother,
hospitable and courtly as she was, had never honoured
him with the slighest intimation that his presence there would be
agreeable. She was somewhat justified in this treatment, according
to parish opinion, by the long feud which had existed between
the Bulmer and Bonneau families. Ned was unfortunate in his
operations, and baffled in all his plans and hopes. It so happened
that he never met with Paula, nor could he contrive any mode of
communicating with her. The consequence was, that after fruitless
experiments for ten days, he wrote to urge my early coming
up. As a strong inducement to me to anticipate the period which
I had assigned for my visit, he advised me of the return of Beatrice
Mazyck from the mountains. He knew my weakness with
regard to this young lady, and, though he knew my doubts of
success, and could himself hold out no encouragements, his selfish
desires prompted him to counsel me to hurry up and look also to
the chapter of chances for those prospects which he could not
base upon reasonable probabilities. Was it friendship, or my own
passion, that moved me to an instant compliance with his request?
The reader is permitted to suppose just which he pleases. I pushed
for the parish in three days after receiving his letter, leaving
my law office in the hands of my young friend A— T—;
who so happily divides himself between Law and Poesy, without
having the slightest misgivings of the jealousy of either mistress.
The legal control of my bachelor household was yielded to Tabitha,
my cook,—who, since the awkward hints of Ned Bulmer, had
taken frequent occasions to assure me that the peace of my house
was secure only so long as it was that of a bachelor.

The Bulmer Barony—for old Bulmer, great-great-grandfather to
Ned, had been one of the Barons of Carolina, when, under the
fundamental constitutions ascribed to Locke, the province had a
nobility of its own—was still a splendid estate, though considerably
cut down from its old dimensions of twenty-thousand acres.
I suppose the “Barony,” now, includes little more than four thousand.
Still, it was a property for a prince, and the present incumbent,
Major Marmaduke Bulmer, was accounted one of the
wealthiest of our landholders. He owned some three hundred
slaves, of whom half the number, perhaps, were workers. Ned's
own property, in right of his mother, was a decent beginning for a
prudent man, and he was looking about for the purchase of a
small plantation in the neighbourhood on which to settle, as soon as
his negroes came under his own control. At the “Barony” I
was received with such a welcome, as none knows better how to
accord than the Carolina gentleman of the old school. Major Bulmer
had been trained in this school, which, by the way, in the
low country parishes, was of two classes. There was an English
and a French class. The one was distinguished by frankness, the

other by propriety;—the former was rough and impulsive, the
latter scrupulous and delicate; the former was apt to storm, occasionally,
the latter to sneer and indulge in sarcasm; the former
was loud and eager; the latter was tinctured with propriety which
sometimes became formality. In process of time, the two schools
modified each other; at all times, they were equally hospitable
and generous: fond of display, scorning meanness, and, accordingly,
too frequently sacrificing the substantial securities of life,
for the more attractive enjoyments of society. This will suffice to
give an idea of the general characteristics of the two classes. Major
Bulmer was not an unfair specimen of the former. He did not
belong to the modern mincing school of the English, which has
somewhat impaired its manners by graftings from the Continent
which sit but awkwardly on the sturdy old Anglo-Norman stock.
He was not a nice, staid, marvellously measured old gentleman,
who said “how nice!” when he was delighted with any thing,
and hemmed and hawed over a sentence, measuring every word
as if he dreaded lest he should commit a lapse in grammar. On
the contrary he was apt to blurt out the words just as they came
uppermost, as if perfectly assured that he could say nothing amiss.
So again, instead of the low, subdued, almost whispered tones
which the modern fine gentleman of England affects, he was apt
to be somewhat loud and voluminous—boisterous, perhaps—when
a little excited, and at all times sending out his utterances with a
sort of mountain torrent impulse. In a passion, his voice was a
sort of cross between the roar of a young lion, and the scream of
an eagle darting after its prey.

But, the reader must not suppose that Major Bulmer was a sort
of American Squire Western. He was no rough, ungainly, sputtering,
swaggering, untrained, untrimmed north country squire,
bull-headedly bolting into the circle, and storming and splurging
through it, wig streaming and cudgel flourishing on every hand.
The Major was a man of force and impulse, but he was a man of

dignity also. His character was bold and salient—his nature
demanded it—but it had been trained, and in not a bad school.
It had the sort of polish which was at once natural to, and sufficient
for it, and his impulse was not without its grace, and his
vehemence was not wanting in the necessary forbearance. No
doubt, he sometimes shocked very weak nerves; and, knowing
that, he was not apt to force his way into sick chambers. If the
invalid sensibility came in his way, it was at its own peril. So
much for the Major's morale. His personnel was like his moral.
He was large, well made, erect at sixty, with full rosy cheeks, lively
blue eyes, a frosty pow, but a lofty one, and he carried himself
like a mountain hunter. On horseback, he looked like a natural
captain of cavalry, and, I have no doubt he would have led a
charge such as would have made Marshal Ney clap hands in
approbation.

The Major met me at the porch of “The Barony,” and took
me by the shoulders, instead of by the hands.

“What, Dick, “said he, “what, the devil! You are letting
hard study and the law kill you up. You are as thin as a cypress
pole, and look quite as melancholy. You are pale, wan, and quite
unlike what you were two years ago. Then, you could have stood
a wrestle with any of us,—now,—deuce take me Dick, if I can't
throw you myself.”

And he seemed half disposed to try the experiment.

“But this Christmas in the parish will bring you up again.
You must recruit. You must throw those law books to the devil.
No man has a right to pursue any study or profession which impairs
manhood. Manhood, Dick, is the first of virtues. It includes, it
implies them all. Strength, health and courage,—these are the
first necessities—without these I would'nt give a fig for any virtue.
It could'nt be useful without it, and a stagnant virtue might as well
be a vice for all the benefit it does society.”

I report the Major literally. His speech will show the reader

the sort of character with whom he has to deal. I need not say
that I was received at “The Barony,” as if I had been one of the
household. Miss Janet Bulmer, the maiden sister of the Major, a
calm, quiet, sensible, and rather pretty antique—she certainly had
been pretty, and, by the way, had been crossed in love—welcomed
me as affectionately as if I had been her own son. She was the
Major's housekeeper, shared some of his characteristics, if not his
prejudices, but was subdued even to meekness in her demeanour.
Not that she had lost her spirit; but its exercise seldom suffered
provocation. She rescued me from the clutches of her brother,
and conducted me to my chamber, in what was called the garden
wing of the establishment. It was near sunset when I arrived,
and Ned Bulmer was absent; no one knew whither. He had
gone out on horseback; I suspected in what direction. I was
busy at the toilet, adjusting myself for presentation at supper,
when he burst into the room, with a cry of joy and welcome. He
had a great deal to say, but the report was not favourable. He had
not yet been able to meet with Paula.

“But now that you are come, my dear fellow, you will call upon
the old lady, and convey the necessary message to the young one.”

All of which I promised. We were yet busy in details when
Zack, the most courtly negro that ever wore gentleman's livery,
made his appearance.

“Happy to see you, Mr. Richard,—very happy, sir;—not looking
so well as in old times, Mr. Richard;—hope you'll improve,
sir, at the Barony. Mr. Ned,—Miss Janet says—supper's on
table, gentlemen.”

Stately, courteous, deliberate, respectful, considerate, proper, reserved,
always satisfactory, Zacharias! You are a treasure in any
gentleman's household! We promptly obeyed the summons of
Aunt Janet—for so I had long been accustomed to call her, in the
language of my friend.