University of Virginia Library

A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS:
THE AUTHORESS OF “CONSTANCY.”

After spending three or four days in that hospitable
city, Louisville, most delightfully, I embarked
on board the steamboat Mary—I use a
fictitious name, and, like the lord of poets, “I
have a passion for the name of Mary”—to return
to Cincinnati. All was bustle on board; the captain
was hurrying to and fro among the hands,
uttering strange oaths, and vowing that he must
be off before the other boats.

Ah! a race on the carpet—or, to speak without
metaphor, on the river—thought I; and as one on
crutches, unless he has certain powers possessed
by the devil on two sticks, which, for his soul's
sake, he had better not have, unless he has the gift
of Asmodeus, if any accident happens, is just in
as bad a predicament as the liveliest imagination,

expatiating on our western waters, could possibly
fancy. “I cannot swim,” thought I; “it will be a
tempting of misfortune; I'll quit the boat.” I
passed out of the cabin to carry this resolution
into effect, and beheld the firemen pitching the
huge logs into the furnace, as though they were so
many Lilliputian splinters. The heat from the
apparatus passed over my face like the breath of
the sirocco. At this instant, the steam gave a hiss
full of fumy fury; it seemed to me the premonitory
symptom of a bursted boiler, just as the hiss of a
snake is the avant-courier of a bite. I could not
pass that boiler; it was impossible. While I stood
eying it, irresolute, I heard the paddles splash in
the water, and the boat moved under me; we were
on our way. I now hurried into the cabin, determined
to get the sternmost berth, Number one,
the farthest off from the boiler, and ensconce myself
in it until supper, and then I could just pop out
and take the nearest seat at the table.

When I opened the book to set my name down
to Number one, lo! every berth was taken but Number
ten, the nearest of all to the boiler.

“There must be some mistake about this,” said
I, aloud; “I believe I took Number one.”

“No mistake at all, sir,” exclaimed a thin, dyspeptic
old man, starting up from a chair which
stood jam against the door that led to the stern

of the boat; “no mistake at all, sir; I came three
hours ago and took that berth. I have no idea of
being near that boiler. Did you see that account
in the paper this morning of the bursting of the
boiler of the Return? Horrible! horrible!!”

Here the conversation among the passengers
turned upon such accidents, and we talked ourselves
into a perfect fever. Every jar of the boat
—and somehow the boats on the western waters
have a knack at jarring—seemed to be the last
effort of the boiler to contain the boiling waters
within. I tried to philosophize. I began to think
about Napoleon, and to reason myself into a belief
in destiny. I always was something of a predestinarian.
“But confound it!” thought I, just as I
was settling down into a fatalism as doubtless as a
Mussulman's, “if I had quitted this boat, or even
got berth Number one, it would certainly influence
my destiny should that boiler burst.”

I determined to try once more to get the berth,
and I addressed the old codger again; but in vain.
He vowed he would leave the boat, be put ashore,
before he would give up Number one. He, I discovered,
had never been out of sight of his own chimney
before, and had often sat in its snug corner, and
read of steamboat accidents. He had a decided
taste for such things. A connection near Wheeling
had left him a piece of property, of which he
was going to take possession, and I verily believe

the price of it could not have induced him to
change berths with me.

Habit is everything. By the time I had dispatched
more cups of coffee than I choose to tell
of, and more eggs and bacon than might, under
other circumstances, have been compatible with the
health of a dyspeptic, for such I was, and seated
myself on the stern of the vessel, with a fragrant
cigar, watching the setting sun as it threw a gorgeous
hue on the glittering waters—by this time,
by a process of ratiocination with which, I fear, the
sensual had more to do than the intellectual man,
I had partly reconciled myself to the dangers that
encompassed me.

I discovered that the other boats were out of
sight, and I began to reflect that every situation
has its pleasures as well as perils. And then
arose, vividly to my mind, the fact that when, not
a very long time previous, I was approaching Dayton,
through the woods, in a carryall, all alone by
myself, as an Irishman would say, with a greater
desire for a straight course than the trees would
allow me to practise—I like a straight-forward
course, and if there has been an obliquity since in
my scribbling or conduct, it is attributable to this
circumstance—the fore-wheel of my vehicle—I
was in a full trot—quarrelled with a tree that stood
in its way, got the worst of it, and broke short
off. The consequence was, I was pitched out into

the road with much less ceremony than a carter
unloads his cart. My better half, my crutch, kept
its seat, and bounced up, I thought, with a spirit of
rejoicing and deviltry, delighted, no doubt, to get
rid of a burden that I had compelled it to carry
for years—a burden which, unlike Æsop's, grew
heavier on the journey. Crutch and I have never
been friends since. In taking a long walk, after
this event, it bruised my arm so terribly, that I
have been an invalid for five months. This infused
into my arm a spirit of nullification. It ran
up the single star at once, and vowed it would not
bear the weight of the whole body—that it was not
made for that purpose, and wouldn't and couldn't.
I have several times threatened this unruly member
with dismemberment, but it knows very well it
is bruised too near the shoulder for that, and is,
like South Carolina, too close a part and parcel of
my body to entertain many fears on that score.
In fact, I played politician with it, and brought in
a compromise bill. I have agreed not to use the
crutch until my arm gets well, and to endeavor to
contrive some other means of walking. For amusement,
and to get rid of ennui, in the meantime, I
scribble.

But where was I in my story? Ah! away went
the horse with the broken carryall, my crutch
driving, while I lay in the road, happily unhurt;
but, like King Darius, “deserted in my utmost

need.” In an instant I recovered myself, and
cried out “Wo! wo!” in the most commanding
tone I could assume. The horse stopped, but you
may depend I had a hop of it to reach him.

Some one of old boasted to one of the philosophers—which
one was it? I forget—that he could
stand longer on one leg than any man in the
country. “That you may,” replied the philosopher,
“but a goose can beat you.” Now, the fact
is, I can beat the best goose of the whole of them;
and this is something to brag of, when we remember
that these sublime birds saved the now “lone
mother of dead empires,” then in her high and
palmy state, by cackling. A good many cackle
nowadays in vain, to save our State; but, gentle
reader, they are not geese. And, my fellow-citizens,
if you think I have any qualities for saving
the State—which our statesmen want, though even
geese had them of old, but they were Roman geese,
and the last of the Romans, both of geese and men,
rests in peace—if you think I have any qualities
for saving the State, be it known to you that I have
adopted the motto of various elevated, disinterested
patriots of our country, viz.: “Neither to seek nor
to decline office.” I have a right to jest with my
misfortunes: it is the best way to bear them.

I had to lead my old horse up to the broken
carryall to mount him. He feared to look on
what he had done, like Macbeth; and the ghost of

Banquo never startled the thane more than did
that ghost of a vehicle my steed. How he curvetted,
twisted, turned, kicked up! At last I
mounted him, and shared, with my crutch and the
harness, the honor of a ride into Dayton.

In this way I entered that town for the first time,
and drew up at Browning's in a style of grotesque
dignity, I ween, that has seldom been surpassed.

I chewed the cud of this incident for some time,
and then thought of another. The winter before
last I was returning from Columbus, in the mail-stage.
We had passengers, a reverend gentleman,
who, with myself, occupied the front seat. He was
one of the biggest parsons you ever saw. Opposite
to the reverend gentleman sat a Daniel Lambert
of a Pennsylvanian—one of your corn-fed
fellows. He believed emphatically that Major Jack
Downing was as true-and-true a man as ever wrote
a letter, and his political bias led him to remark
that he “didn't think the major any great shakes,
after all.” Alongside of the Pennsylvanian, face
to face with your humble servant, was a young
man with demure features, saving and excepting a
twinkling eye. He was a Southerner, he said, travelling
for his health. On the back seat sat an old
and a young lady, with an elderly respectable
looking man between them. The young lady was
like a dream of poetry; her features were finely
formed, and her eyes were the most expressive and

intelligent I ever beheld. She was not only “beautiful
exceedingly,” but she had exceedingly cultivated
and graceful manners—that chief charm in
woman, after all. She mechanically—from the impulse
of good feeling—stretched out her hand to
take my crutch, as I ascended the stage; and, remembering
Dr. Franklin's tale of the deformed and
handsome leg—I often have cause to remember it,
and I pronounce it a test—I felt an instinctive
admiration for the fair lady.

We were soon dashing along, not on the best
roads in the world. I like to observe character;
I'd shut Shakespeare any day, and turn a deaf ear
to Booth any night, though representing his best
character, to hold converse with an original in the
lobby. I sat in silence, and listened to the talk
of my travelling companions for a mile or two,
when I made up my mind as to their dispositions.
My mind was made up from the first, as to the fair
lady. In coming to a fine prospect, I caught her
eye glancing over it, and I commenced, gently, to
expatiate upon it. I made a hit; I thought I
would. We broke out at once into a chattering
conversation, in which our imaginations sported
and played on the beauties of the poets and of
Dame Nature. I tried to find out who she was,
but you must remember I had to deport myself
with great delicacy and tact—she was an accomplished,
young, and most beautiful woman, and I

was merely a stage-coach acquaintance, without
not only the pleasure of an introduction, but ignorant
of her name. These parsons beat us young
men out-and-out, for when we stopped to dine, the
reverend gentleman took a seat by the fair lady, in
the corner, on the left hand side of the fireplace;
and they carried on a conversation in a low voice
for some time. I began to form a bad opinion of
the whole tribe of black coats, and to think them
no better than the “gentleman in black, with the
black waistcoat, inexpressibles, and silk stockings,
black coat, black bag, black-edged papers tied with
tape, black smelling-bottle, and snuff box, and black
guard,” whose adventures have lately been published.
“Well,” thought I, “if I were an old limb
of the law instead of a young one, I might play old
Bagsby with him; but I am not, and”—I was interrupted
agreeably in these reflections by the reverend
gentleman, or the “gentleman in black,”
leaving the fair lady, and walking to the other
side of the room to the fireplace, for there was a
fireplace in both ends of the room, and commencing
a conversation with the elderly gentleman and
and lady seated there. I was left tête-à-tête with
the fair lady, and divers and sundry things were
said by both of us not necessary to record. How
fast the time flew! I felt a cold chill as the
driver entered the room. We arose; he said he
was sorry to have kept us waiting so long, but he
was having the wheels of the stage greased; the
former driver had neglected it, and his horses
couldn't stand it. “So long!” I sat down—you
know my feelings—and I hoped and hope my fair
companion did not regret a great deal this delay.

Long ere this, of course, I had discovered the
lady was as intelligent as she was beautiful; and I
offered her a newspaper I had put in my pocket at
Columbus, that I might read for the third time a
beautiful tale which it contained. The editor of
the paper praised the story very highly, and I
commended his taste and the public's.

“What is the name of the tale?” asked the lady.

“`Constancy,” said I; “I fear it is but a day-dream—but
the story is beautifully told—and I
hope the author, if ever he has a love affair, may
realize it.”

She blushed, and asked me to read it. I pride
myself somewhat upon my reading—I had a motive,
you see, for offering the newspaper—and, in a voice
just loud enough for her to hear, I complied.

We were soon seated in the stage, again, rattling
away. The Pennsylvanian had eaten to sleepiness;
he nodded and nodded fore and aft. The
young man beside him, with a face as grave as
the parson's, would every now and then slyly tip
up his hat, so as sometimes to cant it nearly off;
at which the unsuspecting sleeper would rouse up,
replace his beaver, cast his eyes to the top of the

stage, as if he wondered if a bounce of the vehicle
could have pitched him so high, and then nod
again.

We changed horses at the Yellow Springs. I
did my best to beat the preacher, but these
preachers are hard men to deal with; they stand on
a place Archimedes wanted, for while I was musing
upon some fairy thought the fair lady had uttered,
the reverend gentleman, or the “gentleman in
black,” took advantage of the pause, and proposed
that we should sing a hymn! I have no voice in
the world—I mean for singing—and, with a jaundiced
mind, I thought at once the reverend gentleman
wished to show off. I asked him rather
abruptly if he was married. He smiled peculiarly
— I didn't like his smile — moved his head — I
couldn't tell whether it was a shake or a nod—and
gave out the hymn.

Just as you pass the Yellow Springs, on your
way to Cincinnati, is a branch, which, at this particular
time to which I allude, was very muddy.
We descended into it in full drive—the ladies and
the parson in full voice—and sweetly sounded the
fair lady's. I was just watching her upturned eye,
that had the soul of the hymn in it, when the fore-wheel
on my side entered a mud-hole up to the
hub, and over went the stage! Were there bones
broken? you ask. Bones broken! I would have
compromised the case and used a dozen crutches.

We had a verification of Dean Swift's proverb—
it gave consolation to him to whom the dean addressed
it, but none to me—
The big parson fell right on me! Do you wonder
that I felt myself sinking into the mud? I seized
time as I was rapidly disappearing, as I thought,
altogether, to ask the fair lady if she was hurt.
She was not, she assured me, and, in a plaintive
voice, inquired if I was. There is consolation,
thought I, in that tone, if I should sink to the
centre of the earth; and when I reflected how
muddy I was, I contracted myself into as small a
compass as possible, determined to disappear.
Here the Virginian called out in a long angry voice,
which satisfied us that he was not killed, though
he felt himself in danger—

“Halloo, Pennsylvany, are you never going to
get off of me?”

The sleeper was not yet fairly awake.

“Don't swear, don't swear,” said the preacher
persuasively, and, making a stepping-stone of my
frail body, he got through the window. The Pennsylvanian
used the body of his neighbor for the
same purpose—engulfed him—and followed after
the parson. The fair lady was unhurt, and, not to

be too particular, we all got safely out. And—
and, no matter—it's no use for a man to make
himself too ridiculous—I shall not commit a suicide
on my own dignity—I forgot my situation but for
a moment, and that was in observing the parson
by the roadside on his knees, with his clasped
hands uplifted, and his hat reverently cast aside.
I forgot my situation but for a moment, and in
that one moment my opinion of the parson was
entirely changed.

The stage was uninjured; in ten minutes we
were on our way. I—I—I can jest with some of
my misfortunes—with my crutch—but there are
some misfortunes a man can't jest with.

In about half an hour the stage stopped at a neat
farmhouse, and the fair lady with her companions
left us, but not before I seized an opportunity of
uttering — notwithstanding my discomfiture — in
my very best manner, one or two compliments that
had more heart in them than many I have uttered
to many a fair acquaintance of many years'
standing.

When we were on our way, again, I learned from
the parson—he had caught it all between the two
fireplaces where we stopped to dine; it gave me serious
notions of reading divinity—that the fair lady
was travelling under the protection of the old lady
and gentleman, who were distantly connected with

her. She was on her way home from Mr. Archer's
Seminary,[1] in Baltimore; she had stopped at a relative's.
Her parents lived at — (a great distance,
thought I). She was the authoress, he told
me, of “Constancy.”

Not long after this event, I received a newspaper,
the direction—my address in full—written
in a fair delicate hand—a hand meant for a “crow-quill
and gilt-edged paper,” containing a beautiful
story by the authoress of “Constancy.” I didn't
think it possible for my name to look so well as it
did in that direction.

Whenever I travel, and often when I don't
travel, and am an invalid as now, that fair lady is
the queen of my imagination; but, a cloud always
passes over my face (I've looked into the glass and
seen it), and another over my heart (I feel it now),
whenever I think of the branch of the Yellow

Springs. Yet, in spite of the upturning, even on
board of the boat, in the fear of a boiler's bursting,
when her image crossed my mind, gone were the
dangers around me. The smoke ascended from
my cigar, not in a puff like the steam from the
boiler, but soothingly, lingeringly, placidly; it
curled above my head like a dream of love. I fixed
my eye on the rapidly varying landscape, and renewed
a vow—that if—bah! your “if” is a complete
weathercock of a word, a perfect parasite to
your hopes and to your fears; used by all, faithful
to none, a sycophant, but I must use it—if I ever
—no matter—if it turns up as I hope—I'll make a
pilgrimage to the shrine of that fair lady, though
I go to the uttermost parts of the earth.