University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
IN WHICH WE HEAR A DIVERTING STORY.

The winter wore away, slowly to the inhabitants of Ptolemy,
rapidly and agreeably to the owner of Lakeside, who
drank life, activity, and cheerfulness from the steady cold.
Every day, while the snow lasted, his cutter was to be seen on
the roads. Dick proved entirely inadequate to his needs and
was turned over to Bute's use, while the fastest horse out of
Fairlamb's livery-stable in Ptolemy took his place. Woodbury's
drives extended not only to Anacreon and the neighboring
village of Nero Corners—a queer little place, struck out of
sight in a hollow of the upland,—but frequently as far as Tiberius,
which, being situated on a branch of the New York Central,
considered itself quite metropolitan. The inhabitants took
especial delight in its two principal streets, wherein the houses
were jammed together as compactly as possible, and huge
brick blocks, with cornices and window-caps of cast-iron, started
up pompously between one-story buildings of wood, saying
to the country people, on market days: “Behold, a city!”

The farmers around Ptolemy, who believe that every man
born in a large town, and ignorant of either farming or some
mechanical employment, must necessarily be soft, weak, and
effeminate in his nature—“spoiled,” so far as true masculine
grit is concerned—were not a little astonished at Woodbury's
activity and powers of endurance. More than once some of
them had met him, sheeted with snow and driving in the teeth
of a furious north-eastern storm, yet singing merrily to himself
as if he liked it all! It was noticed, too, that a vigorous red
was driving away the tan of Indian summers from his cheeks,

that a listless, indifferent expression, which at first made them
say “he has sleepy eyes,” had vanished from those organs, as
if a veil had been withdrawn, leaving them clear and keen,
with a cheerful, wide-awake nature looking out. Thus,
although his habitual repose of manner remained, it no longer
impressed the people as something foreign and uncomfortable;
and the general feeling towards him, in spite of the attacks of
Mr. Grindle and the insinuations of Seth Wattles, was respectful
and friendly. Bute, who was a confirmed favorite among
the people, would suffer no word to be said against his master,
and went so far as to take a respectable man by the throat, in
the oyster-cellar under the Ptolemy House, for speaking of
him as a “stuck-up aristocrat.”

That part of a man's life which springs from his physical
temperament seemed, in Woodbury's case, to have stood still
during his sojourn abroad. After the tropical torpidity of his
system had been shaken off, he went back ten years in the
sudden refreshment of his sensations. The delicate cuticle of
youth, penetrated with the finer nerves which acknowledge
every touch of maturing existence as a pleasure, was partially
restored. The sadness engendered by hard experience, the
scorn which the encounter with human meanness and selfishness
left behind, the half-contemptuous pity which the pride
of shallow brains provoked—these were features of his nature,
which, impressed while it was yet plastic, were now too firmly
set to be erased; but they were overlaid for the time by the
joyous rush of physical sensation. His manner lost that first
gravity which suggested itself even in his most relaxed and
playful moods; he became gay, brilliant, and bantering, and
was the life of the circles in which he moved. As the owner
of Lakeside, all circles, of course, were open to him; but he
soon discovered the most congenial society and selected it,
without regard to the distinctions which prevailed in Ptolemy.
As no standard of merely social value was recognized, the
little community was divided according to the wealth, or the
religious views of its members; whence arose those jealousies

and rivalries which the Great Sewing-Union had for a time
suppressed. Woodbury soon perceived this fact, and determined,
at the start, to preserve his social independence.
Neither of the circles could complain of being neglected, yet
neither could claim exclusive possession of him. He took tea
twice in one week with the Rev. Lemuel Styles, and the heart
of Miss Legrand, the clergyman's sister-in-law, began to be
agitated by a vague hope; but, in a few days afterwards, he
accompanied the Misses Smith (Seventh-day Baptists) on a
sleighing party to Atauga City, and was seen, on the following
Sunday, to enter the Cimmerian church.

Between the Waldos and himself, a sincere friendship had
grown up. The parson and his wife possessed, in common
with Woodbury, a basis of healthy common sense, which, in
spite of the stubborn isolation of their sect, made them tolerant.
They had no idea of turning life into a debating-school,
and could hear adverse opinions incidentally dropped, in the
course of conversation, without considering that each word
was thrown down as a gage of combat. Hence, Woodbury
found no pleasanter house than theirs, in all his rounds, and the
frank way in which he occasionally claimed their scanty hospitality
was so much like that of a brother, that the parson declared
to his wife, it expressed his idea of Christian society. I
am afraid I shall injure Mr. Waldo's reputation, but I am
bound to state that Woodbury was the last man whom he
would have attempted to secure, as a proselyte.

One evening in March, after the winter had begun to melt
away on the long hill sweeping from the eastern valley around
to Lakeside, a little party accidentally assembled in Mrs.
Waldo's parlor. Since the proceeds of the Fair had enabled
her to cover its walls with a cheap green paper, and to substitute
a coarse carpet of the same color for the tattered thing which
she had transferred to her bed-room, the apartment was vastly
improved. The horse-hair sofa and chairs, it is true, had performed
a great deal of service, but they were able to do it;
the sheet-iron stove gave out a comfortable warmth; and the

one treasure of the parsonage, a melodeon, which did the
duty of an organ on Sundays, was in tolerable tune. Hannah
Thurston contributed a vase of grasses, exquisitely arranged,
which obliged Mrs. Waldo to buy a plaster bracket from an
itinerant Italian. She could ill afford to spare the half-dollar
which it cost—and, indeed, most of the women in her
husband's congregation shook their heads and murmured:
“Vanity, vanity!” when they saw it—but a little self-denial in
her housekeeping, which no one else than herself ever knew,
reconciled the deed to her conscience. Woodbury brought to
her from New York an engraving of Ary Scheffer's “Christus
Consolator,” which not only gave her great delight, but was
of service in a way she did not suspect. It hung opposite to
the grasses, and thus thoroughly counterbalanced their presumed
“vanity,” in the eyes of Cimmerian visitors. Indeed,
they were not sure but a moral effect was intended, and this
uncertainty stopped the remarks which might otherwise have
spread far and wide.

The party in Mrs. Waldo's parlor was assembled by accident,
we have said; but not entirely so. Hannah Thurston
had been invited to tea by the hostess, and Woodbury by Mr.
Waldo, who had met him in the streets of Ptolemy. This
coincidence was unintentional, although not unwelcome to the
hosts, who, liking both their guests heartily, could not account
for the evident prejudice of the one and the indifference of
the other. Mrs. Waldo had long since given up, as insane,
her first hope of seeing the two drawn together by mutual
magnetism; all she now desired was to establish an entente
cordiale, since the entente d'amour could never be. On this
occasion, the parties behaved towards each other with such
thorough courtesy and propriety, that, had Hannah Thurston
been any other woman, Mrs. Waldo would have suspected the
existence of an undying enmity.

After tea Mr. and Mrs. Merryfield made their appearance.
They had come to Ptolemy to attend a lecture on Temperance
by Abiram Stokes, a noted orator of the cause, who, however,

failed to arrive. Seth Wattles presently followed, apparently
by accident, but really by design. He had ascertained where
Hannah intended to pass the evening, from the widow Thurston's
little servant-maid, whom he waylaid as she was coming
out of the grocery-store, and did not scruple to thrust himself
upon the company. His self-complacency was a little disturbed
by the sight of Woodbury, whose discomfiture, during
the evening, he mentally resolved to accomplish.

His victim, however, was in an unusually cheerful mood, and
every arrow which the indignant Seth shot, though feathered
to the barb with insinuation, flew wide of the mark. Woodbury
joined in denunciation of the opium traffic; he trampled
on the vices of pride, hypocrisy, and selfishness; he abhorred
intemperance, hated oppression, and glorified liberty. But he
continually brought the conversation back to its key-note of
playful humor, cordially seconded by Mrs. Waldo, whose only
fault, in the eyes of her reforming friends, was that she had
no taste for serious discussion. Seth, finally, having exhausted
his quiver, began to declaim against the corrupting influence
of cities.

“It is time that hackneyed superstition were given up,” said
Woodbury. “Everybody repeats, after poor old Cowper,
`God made the country and man made the town;' therefore,
one is divine, and the other—the opposite. As if God had no
part in that human brain and those human affections, out of
which spring Art, and Discovery, and the varied fabric of
Society! As if man had no part in making Nature attractive
and enjoyable to us!”

“Cities are created by the selfishness of man,” cried Seth, a
little pompously.

“And farms, I suppose, are created entirely by benevolence!”
retorted Woodbury, laughing. “You Reformers
have the least cause to complain of cities. You got your
Temperance from Baltimore, and your Abolition from Boston.”

“That proves nothing: there was one just man even in

Sodom!” exclaimed Seth, determined not to be put down
“But, of course, people who think fashion more important
than principle, will always admire a city life.”

“Yes, it is Fashion,” added Mrs. Merryfield, who was unusually
dyspeptic that evening—“it is Fashion that has impeded
the cause of woman. Fashion is the fetters which
chains her down as the slave of man. How can she know her
rights, when she is educated, as a child, to believe that Dress
is her Doom?”

“If you were familiar with cities, Mrs. Merryfield,” said
Woodbury, “you would find that they admit of the nearest
approach to social independence. Fashion is just as rigid in
Ptolemy as it is in New York; among the Hottentots or Digger
Indians, far more so. Not only that, but Fashion is
actually necessary to keep us from falling into chaos. Suppose
there were no such thing, and you and Mr. Merryfield lived in
tents, dressed in oriental costume, while Mr. Waldo preached
in feathers and war-paint, to Miss Thurston, in a complete suit
of steel armor, Mr. Wattles with Chinese pig-tail and fan, and
myself in bag-wig, powder, and ruffles!”

The hearty laughter which followed this suggestion did not
silence Seth. “It is not a subject for frivolity,” he exclaimed;
“you cannot deny that Fashion corrupts the heart and destroys
all the better impulses of human nature.”

“I do deny it,” replied Woodbury, whose unusual patience
was nearly exhausted. “All sweeping, undiscriminating assertions
contain much that is both false and absurd, and yours is
no exception. The foundation of character lies deeper than
external customs. The honor of man, the virtue of woman,
the pure humanity of both, is not affected by the cut or colors
of their dress. If the race is so easily corrupted as one might
infer from your assertions, how can you ever expect to succeed
with your plans of reform?”

“I should not expect it,” interposed Mrs. Merryfield, “if I
had to depend on the women that worships the Moloch of
fashion. Why, if I was the noblest and wisest of my sex,

they'd turn up their noses at me, unless I lived in Fifth
Avenue.”

A sweet, serious smile, betraying that breath of dried roses
which greets us as we open some forgotten volume of the
past, stole over Woodbury's face. His voice, also, when
he spoke, betrayed the change. Some memory, suddenly
awakened, had banished the present controversy from his
mind.

“It is strange,” said he, slowly, addressing Mrs. Waldo,
rather than the speaker, “how a new life, like mine in India,
can make one forget what has gone before it. In this moment,
a curious episode of my youth suddenly comes back to
me, distinct as life, and I wonder how it could ever have been
forgotten. Shall I give you a story in place of an argument,
Mrs. Merryfield? Perhaps it may answer for both. But if
you can't accept it in that light, you may have the last word.”

“Pray tell us, by all means!” exclaimed Mrs. Waldo.

Woodbury looked around. Hannah Thurston, meeting his
questioning glance, silently nodded. Seth was sullen and gave
no sign. Mrs. Merryfield answered, “I'd like to hear it, well
enough, I'm sure,” whereto her husband added: “So would
I, as—as it were.” Thus encouraged, Woodbury began:

“It happened after my father's death, and before I left New
York for Calcutta. I was not quite twenty when he died, and
his bankruptcy left me penniless, just at the time of life when
such a condition is most painfully felt. In my case it was
worse than usual, because so utterly unexpected, and my
education had in no way prepared me to meet it. Every thing
went: house, furniture, library, and even those domestic trifles
which are hardest to part with. A few souvenirs of my
mother were saved, and a friend of the family purchased and
gave to me my father's watch. My brother-in-law was unable
to help me, because he was greatly involved in the ruin. He
sent my sister and their children to live in a cheap New Jersey
village, while he undertook a journey to New Orleans, in
the hope of retrieving his position by a lucky stroke of

business. Thus, within a month after the funeral of my
father, I found myself alone, poor, and homeless. It was in
1837, and the great financial crash was just beginning to
thunder in men's ears. My father's friends were too much
concerned about their own interests to care especially for
mine. It was no single case of misfortune: there were examples
equally hard, on all sides, very soon.

“Nevertheless, I was not suffered to become a vagabond.
A subordinate clerkship was procured for me, at a salary of
two hundred and fifty dollars a year I was ignorant of
business, for my father had intended that I should study Law,
after completing my collegiate course, and the character of
my mind was not well adapted for commercial life. The
salary, small as it was, fully equalled the value of my services,
and I should have made it suffice to meet my wants, if I had
received it punctually. But my employer so narrowly escaped
ruin during the crisis that he was often unable to pay me, or
my fellow-clerks, our monthly wages, and I, who had no little
hoard to draw upon, like the others, sometimes suffered the
most painful embarrassment. I have frequently, this winter,
heard the praises of a vegetable diet. I have some right to
give my opinion on the subject, as I tried the experiment for
two months at a time, and must say that it totally failed.

“I was too proud to borrow money, at such times, and was,
moreover, exceedingly sensitive lest my situation should become
known. The boarding-house, where I first made my home, became
uncomfortable, because I was not always ready with my
money on Saturday morning. Besides, it was a cheap place, kept
by an old woman with two sentimental daughters, who wore
their hair in curls and always smelt of sassafras soap. There were
various reasons which you will understand, without my telling
you, why my residence there grew at last to be insufferable. I
accidentally discovered that the owner of a corner grocery in
the Bowery had a vacant room over his store, with a separate
entrance from the cross-street, and that he could supply me, at
a cheap rent, with the most necessary furniture. The bargain

was soon made. The room and furniture cost me a dollar a week,
and my food could be regulated according to my means. The
common eating-houses supplied me, now and then, with a meal,
but I oftenest bought my bread at the baker's, and filled my
pitcher from the hydrant in the back-yard. I was also so far
independent that I could choose my associates, and regulate
my personal habits. I assure you that I never washed my
face with sassafras soap.”

Mrs. Waldo laughed heartily at this declaration, and Mrs.
Merryfield innocently exclaimed: “Why, I'm sure it's very
good for the skin.”

“Meanwhile,” Woodbury continued, “I still kept up intercourse
with the circle in which my father moved, and which,
at that time, would have been called `fashionable.' Some
families, it is true, felt a restraint towards me which I was too
sensitive not to discover. The daughters had evidently been
warned against too great a display of sympathy. On the other
hand, I made new and delightful acquaintances, of equal social
standing, by whom I was treated with a delicacy and a generous
consideration which I shall never forget. In fact, whatever
Christian respect I may exhibit, in my intercourse with
others, I learned from those families. You may know what
they were, Mr. Waldo, by imagining how you would treat me,
now, if I should suddenly lose my property.

“I had been living in this manner for a year, or thereabouts,
when the main incident of my story occurred. In the circle
where I was most intimate, there were two or three wealthy
bachelors, who had handsome residences in the neighborhood
of Bleecker street (there was no Fifth Avenue then). These
gentlemen had, in turn, given entertainments during the winter,
and had taken such pains to make them agreeable to the
young ladies, that they constituted a feature of the season.
The company was small and select, on these occasions, two or
three married pairs being present for the sake of propriety,
but no society was ever more genial, joyous, and unconstrained
in tone. At the last entertainment, our host finished by giving

us a choice supper, to which we sat down in order to enjoy it
thoroughly. I have had a prejudice against all ambulatory
suppers since. There were songs and toasts, and fun of the
purest and most sparkling quality. At last, one of the young
ladies said, with a mock despair: `So, this is the end of our
bachelor evenings. What a pity! I am ready to wish that
you other gentlemen had remained single, for our sakes. You
know you cannot give us such delightful parties as this.'

“`Are there really no more bachelors?' exclaimed Miss
Remington, a tall, beautiful girl, who sat opposite to me.
`Must we sing: Lochaber no more? But that will never do:
some married man must retract his vow, for our sakes.'

“One of the latter, looking around the table, answered:
`Let us be certain, first, that we are at the end of the list.
Belknap, Moulton, Parks—yes—but stop! there's Woodbury!
too modest to speak for himself.'

“`Woodbury! Woodbury!' they all shouted, the young
ladies insisting that I should and must entertain them in my
turn. My heart came into my throat. I attempted to laugh
off the idea as a jest, but they were too joyously excited to
heed me. It was a cruel embarrassment, for none of the company
even knew where I lived. My letters were always sent
to the office of my employer. Moreover, I had but five dollars,
and had made a resolution never to live in advance of my
wages. What was I to do? The other guests, ignorant of
my confusion, or not heeding it, were already talking of the
entertainment as settled, and began to suggest the evening
when it should take place. I was meditating, in a sort of desperation,
whether I should not spring up and rush out of the
house, when I caught Miss Remington's eye. I saw that she
understood my embarrassment, and wanted to help me. Her
look said `Accept!'—a singular fancy darted through my
mind, and I instantly regained my self possession. I informed
the company that I should be very happy to receive them, and
that my entertainment should bear the same proportion to my
means as that of our host. The invitations were given and

accepted on the spot, and an evening selected from the following
week.

“`But where is it to be?' asked one of the young ladies.

“`Oh, he will let you know in time,' said Miss Remington,
who took occasion to whisper to me, before the company separated:
`Come to me first, and talk the matter over.'

“I called upon her the next evening, and frankly confided
to her my situation and means. She was three or four years
older than myself, and possessed so much natural judgment
and good sense, in addition to her social experience, that I had
the utmost confidence in her advice. A woman of less tact
would have offered to assist me, and that would have been an
end of the matter. She saw at once what was best to be done,
and we very soon agreed upon the preparations. Every thing
was to be kept secret from the rest of the company, whom she
determined to mystify to her heart's content. She informed
them that the entertainment would be unlike any thing they
had ever seen; that the place was not to be divulged, but the
guests were to assemble at her father's house on the appointed
evening; and that they must so dress as to do the highest
honor to my hospitality. The curiosity of all was greatly excited;
the affair was whispered about, and others endeavored
to join the party, but it was strictly confined to the original
company.

“On my part I was not idle. Adjoining my chamber was
a large room, in which the grocer kept some of his stores.
This room I thoroughly cleaned, removing some of the articles,
but retaining all the kegs and boxes. The grocer, an honest,
amiable man, supposed that I was preparing a little festival
for some of my relatives, and gave me the free use of his material.
I arranged the kegs and boxes around the walls,
and covered them with coarse wrapping-paper, to serve as
seats. The largest box was stationed in a corner, with a keg
on the top, as a post for the single musician I had engaged—
an old Irish fiddler, whom I picked up in the street I went
out towards Yorkville and brought home a bundle of cedar

boughs, with which I decorated the walls, constructing a large
green word—Welcome—above the fireplace. I borrowed
twelve empty bottles in which I placed as many tallow candles,
and disposed them about the room, on extemporized brackets.
For my own chamber, which was designed to answer as a dressing-room
for the ladies, I made candlesticks out of the largest
turnips I could find in the market. In fact, I purposely removed
some little conveniences I possessed, and invented substitutes
of the most grotesque kind. I became so much interested
in my preparations, and in speculating upon the effect
they would produce, that I finally grew as impatient as my
guests for the evening to arrive.

“Nine o'clock was the hour appointed, and, punctually to the
minute, five carriages turned out of the Bowery and drew up,
one after another, at the side-door. I was at the entrance, in
complete evening dress, with white gloves (washed), to receive
my guests. I held a tray, upon which there were as many
candles fixed in large turnips, as there were gentlemen in the
party, and begged each one to take a light and follow me.
The ladies, magnificently dressed in silks and laces, rustled
up the narrow staircase, too much amazed to speak. As I
threw open the door of my saloon, the fiddler, perched near
the ceiling, struck up `Hail to the Chief.' The effect, I assure
you, was imposing. Miss Remington shook hands with
me, heartily, exclaiming: `Admirable! You could not have
done better.' To be sure, there were some exclamations of
surprise, and perhaps one or two blank faces—but only for a
moment. The fun was seen immediately, and the evening
commenced with that delightful social abandon in which other
evenings generally end. The fiddler played a Scotch reel, and
the couples took their places on the floor. Two of the older
gentlemen were familiar with both the Scotch and Irish dances,
and the younger ladies set about learning them with a spirit
which charmed the old musician's heart. The superb silks
floated about the room to the jolliest tunes, or rested, in the
intervals, on the grocer's kegs, and once a string of pearls

broke and rolled into the fireplace. After a while, the grocer's
boy, in his shirt-sleeves, made his appearance with a large
market-basket on his arm, containing a mixture of cakes,
raisins, and almonds. He was in great demand, especially
as I furnished no plates. It was then agreed to put the
basket on a keg, as a permanent refreshment-table, and the boy
brought in lemonade, in all kinds of drinking-vessels. I had
taken some pains to have them all of different patterns. There
were tin-cups, stoneware mugs, tea-cups, bowls, and even a
cologne bottle. By this time all had fully entered into the
spirit of the affair: I was not only at ease but jubilant. The
old fiddler played incessantly. Miss Remington sang `The
Exile of Erin' to his accompaniment, and the old man cried:
we had speeches, toasts, recitations: we revived old games:
we told fortunes with cards (borrowed from the porter-house
across the way): in short, there was no bound to the extent of
our merriment, and no break in its flow.

“It occurred to some one, at last, to look at his watch.—
`God bless me! it's three o'clock!' he cried. Three!—and six
hours had already passed away! The ladies tore up my green
word `Welcome,' to get sprigs of cedar as souvenirs of the
evening: some even carried off the turnip-candlesticks. Miss
Remington laughed in her sleeve at the latter. `I know better
than to do that,' she said to me; `turnips have a habit of
rotting.' It was unanimously voted that I had given them
the best entertainment of the season; and I am sure, for my
own part, that none had been so heartily enjoyed.

“The story, as you may suppose, soon became known; and
it was only by sheer resolution that I escaped a social popularity
which might have turned my head at that age. I was
even asked to repeat the entertainment, so that others might
have a chance to participate in it; but I knew that its whole
success lay in the spontaneous inspiration which prompted,
and the surprise which accompanied it. The incident, however,
proved to be one of the influences to which I must attribute
my subsequent good fortune.”

“Pray, how was that?” asked Mr. Waldo.

“My employer heard, in some way or other, that I had
given a splendid entertainment. Knowing my means, and
fearing that I had fallen into reckless habits, he called me into
his private office and very seriously asked for an explanation
of my conduct. I related the circumstances, precisely as
they had occurred. He easily ascertained that my story was
true, and from that day forward took an increased interest in
me, to which I must attribute, in part, my rapid advancement.
Now, if there is any moral in all this, I think you can easily
find it. If there is not, perhaps you have been diverted
enough to pardon me for talking so much about myself.”

“Why, it's delightful! I never heard any thing better!”
cried Mrs. Waldo.

“It shows, though,” interposed Mrs. Merryfield, “how inconsistent
those fashionable women are. They can be courageous
and independent for the sake of pleasure, but they'd be
horrified at venturing so far for the sake of principle.”

“You are hardly just,” said Hannah Thurston, addressing
the last speaker; “Mr. Woodbury's story has a moral, and I
am very glad he has given it to us.”

Seth Wattles had been interested and amused, in spite of
himself, but he was not the man to acknowledge it. He was
endeavoring to find some point at which he might carp, with
a show of reason, when Miss Carrie Dilworth entered the room,
and presently Bute Wilson, who had driven from Lakeside to
take Woodbury home.

“Mr. Max.!” cried the latter, whose face had a flushed,
strange expression, “Diamond won't stand alone, and I must
go out and hold him till you're ready.”

“I'll come at once, then,” said Woodbury, and took leave
of the company.