 | CHAPTER XIV. A New England tale, and Miscellanies |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And e'en devotion!
A few days after Erskine's departure, Mrs. Harvey entered
Jane's room hastily,—“Our village,” she exclaimed, “is the
most extraordinary place in the world; wonders cease to be
wonderful among us.”
“What has happened now?” inquired Jane, “I know not
from your face whether to expect good or evil.”
“Oh evil, my dear, evil enough to grieve and frighten
you. Your wretched cousin David Wilson has got himself
into a scrape at last, from which all the arts of all his family
cannot extricate him. You know,” she continued, “that we
saw an account in the New-York paper of last week, of a robbery
committed on the mail-stage: the robbers have been
detected and taken, and Wilson, who it seems had assumed
a feigned name, is among them.”
“And the punishment is death!” said Jane, in a tone of
sorrow and alarm.
“Yes; so Mr. Lloyd says, by the laws of the United
States, against which he has offended. Mr. Lloyd has been
here, to request that you, dear Jane, will go to your aunt
and say to her that he is ready to render her any services
in his power. You know he is acquainted in Philadelphia,
where David is imprisoned, and he may be of essential use to
him.”
“My poor aunt, and Elvira! what misery is this for
them?” said Jane, instinctively transfusing her own feelings
into their bosoms.
“For your aunt it may be,” replied Mrs. Harvey, “for I
think nothing can quite root out the mother; but as for Elvira,
I believe she is too much absorbed in her own affairs to
think of David's body or soul.”
“I will go immediately to my aunt; but what has happened
to Elvira?”
“Why Elvira, it seems, during her visit to the west, met
with an itinerant French dancing-master, who became violently
enamored of her, and who did not sigh or hope in vain.
She probably knew his vocation would be an insuperable
obstacle to her seeing him at home; and so between them
they concerted a scheme to obviate that difficulty, by introducing
him to Mrs. Wilson as a French physician, from Paris,
who should volunteer his services to cure her scrofula, which,
it is said, has lately become more troublesome than ever. By
way of a decoy, he was to go upon the usual quack practice of
“no cure no pay.”
“And this,” exclaimed Jane, “is the sick physician we
heard was at my aunt's?”
“Yes, poor fellow, and sick enough he has been. He
arrived just at twilight, last week on Monday, and having
tied his horse, he was tempted, by seeing the door of the
previous to making his appearance before Miss Wilson. He
had hardly entered before old Jacob coming along, saw the
door open, and giving the careless boys (whom he supposed
in fault) a reversed blessing, he shut and fastened it. It was
chilly weather, you know, but there the poor fellow was
obliged to stay the live-long night, and till Jacob, sallying
forth to do his morning chores, discovered him half-starved
and half-frozen. But,” said Mrs. Harvey, “you are prepared
to go to your aunt, and I am detaining you—you may ask the
sequel of Elvira.”
“Oh no, let me hear the rest of it; only be short, dear
Mrs. Harvey, for if any thing is to be done for that wretched
young man, not a moment should be lost.”
“My dear, I will be as short as possible; but my words
will not all run out of my mouth at once, as they melted out
of Munchausen's horn. Well, this poor French doctor, dancer,
or whatever he is, effected an interview with Elvira, before he
was seen by the mother; and though no doubt she was shocked
by his unsentimental involuntary vigil, she overlooked it, and
succeeded in palming him off on the old lady as a foreign
physician, who had performed sundry marvellous cures in his
western progress. Mrs. Wilson submitted her disease to his
prescription. In the meanwhile, he, poor wretch, as if a
judgment had come upon him for his sins, has been really and
seriously sick, in consequence of the exposure to the dampness
of a September night, in his nankins; and Elvira has
been watching and nursing him according to the best and
most approved precedents to be found in ballads and romances.”
“Is it possible,” asked Jane, “that aunt Wilson should be
ready, but she is not a match for her quick-sighted mother.”
“No, so it has proved in this case. The doctor became
better, and the patient worse; his prescriptions have had a
dreadful effect upon the scrofula; and as the pain increased,
your aunt became irritable and suspicious. Last evening,
she overhead a conversation between the hopeful lovers, which
revealed the whole truth to her.”
“And what has she done?”
“What could she do, my dear, but turn the good-for-nothing
fellow out of doors, and exhaust her wrath upon Elvira.
The dreadful news she received from David late last
evening, must have driven even this provoking affair out of
her troubled mind. But,” said Mrs. Harvey, rising and going
to the window, “who is that coming through our gate? Elvira,
as I live!—what can she be after here?”
“My aunt has probably sent for me,” replied Jane; and
she hastened to open the door for her cousin, who entered
evidently in a flutter. “I was just going to your mother's,”
said Jane.
“Stay a moment,” said Elvira; “I must speak with you.
Come into your room,” and she hastened forward to Jane's
apartment. She paused a moment on seeing Mrs. Harvey,
and then begged she would allow her to speak with her cousin
alone.
Mrs. Harvey left the apartment, and Elvira turned to
Jane, and was beginning with great eagerness to say something,
but she paused—unpinned her shawl, took it off, and
then put it on again—and then asked Jane, if she had heard
from Erskine; and, without waiting a reply, which did not
seem to be very ready, she continued, “How glad I was he
fought that duel; it was so spirited. I wish my lover would
been wounded.”
Jane stared at her cousin, as if she had been smitten with
distraction. “Elvira,” she said, with more displeasure than
was often extorted from her, “you are an incurable trifler!
How is it possible, that at this time you can waste a thought
upon Erskine or his duel?”
“Oh! my spirits run away with me, dear Jane; but I
do feel very miserable,” she replied, affecting to wipe away
the tears from her dry eyes. Poor David!—I am wretched
about him. He has disgraced us all. I suppose you have
heard, too, about Lavoisier. Every body has heard of
mother's cruelty to him and to me. Oh, Jane! he is the
sweetest creature—the most interesting being”—
“Elvira,” replied Jane, coldly, “I do not like to reproach
you in your present affliction; but you strangely forget all
that is due to your sex, by keeping up such an intercourse
with a stranger—by ranting in this way about a wandering
dancing-master—a foreigner.”
“A foreigner, indeed! as if that was against him. Why,
my dear, foreigners are much more genteel than Americans;
and besides, Lavoisier is a count in disguise. Oh! if you
could only hear him speak French; it is as soft as an æolian
harp. Now, Jane, darling, don't be angry with me. I am
sure there never was any body so persecuted and unfortunate
as I am. Nobody feels for me.”
“It is impossible, Elvira, to feel for those who have no
feeling for themselves.”
“Oh, Jane! you are very cruel,” replied Elvira, whimpering;
“I have been crying ever since I received poor
David's letter, and it was about that I came here; but you do
afraid to ask for what I came for.”
“I cannot afford to waste any compassion on unnecessary
or imaginary sorrows, Elvira. The real and most horrible
calamity that has fallen upon you, requires all the exertions
and feelings of your friends.”
“That's spoken like yourself, dear, blessed Jane,” said
Elvira, brightening; “now I am sure you will not refuse me
—you are always so generous and kind.”
“I have small means to be generous,” replied Jane; “but
let me know, at once, what it is you want, for I am in haste
to go to your mother.”
“You are a darling, Jane—you always was.”
“What is it you wish, Elvira?” inquired Jane again,
aware that Elvira's endearments were always to be interpreted
as a prelude to the asking of a favour.
“I wish, dear Jane,” she replied, summoning all her resolution
to her aid; “I wish you to lend me twenty dollars.
If you had seen David's piteous letter to me, you could not
refuse. It is enough to make any body's heart ache; he is
down in a dark disagreeable dungeon, with nothing to eat
from morning to night, but bread and water. He petitions
for a little money so earnestly, it would make your heart
bleed to read his letter. Mother declares she will not send
him a dollar.”
“How do you intend sending the money to him?” asked
Jane, rising and going to her bureau.
“Oh!” replied Elvira, watching Jane's movements, “you
are a dear soul. It is easy enough getting the money to
him. I heard, this morning, that Mr. Harris is going on to
the south; he starts this afternoon. I shall not mind walking
to his house, though it is four miles from here. I shall
himself. It will be such a relief and comfort to my unfortunate
brother.”
There seemed to be something in Elvira's eagerness to
serve her brother, and in her newly awakened tenderness for
him, that excited Jane's suspicions; for she paused in the
midst of counting the money, turned round, and fixed a
penetrating look upon her cousin. Elvira, without appearing
to notice any thing peculiar in her expression, said (advancing
towards her), “Do be quick, dear Jane; it is a great way
to Mr. Harris's; I am afraid I shall be late.”
Jane had finished counting the money.
“Twenty dollars, is it, dear?” said Elvira, hastily and
with a flutter of joy seizing it. “There are five dollars
more,” she continued, looking at a single bill Jane had laid
aside; “let me have that too, dear, it will not be too much
for David.”
“I cannot,” replied Jane; “that is all I have in the world,
and that I owe to Mrs. Harvey.”
“La, Jane! what matter is that; you can have as much
money as you want of Erskine; and besides, you need not be
afraid of losing it; I shall soon be of age, and then I shall
pay you, for mother can't keep my portion from me one day
after that. Then I will have a cottage. Lavoisier says, we
can have no idea, in this country, how beautiful a cottage is,
á la Française. Do, dearest, let me have the other five.”
“No,” said Jane, disgusted with Elvira's importunity and
levity, and replacing the note in her drawer; “I have given
you all I possess in the world, and you must be content
with it.”
Elvira saw that she should obtain no more. She hastily
kissed Jane; and after saying, “Good-bye, my dear, go to
that her false pretences had won so much from her
cousin. At a short distance from Mrs. Harvey's she joined
her lover, according to a previous arrangement between
them.
Lavoisier had procured a chaise from a neighbouring
farmer, which was principally devoted to the transportation
of its worthy proprietor and the partner of his joys to and
from the meeting-house on Sundays and lecture days, but
was occasionally hired out to oblige such persons as might
stand in need of such an accommodation, and could afford to
pay what was “consistent” for it.
“Allons—marche done!” said the dancing philosopher to
his horse, after seating Elvira; and turning to her, he pressed
one of her hands to his lips, saying, “Pardonnez-moi,”—adding
as he dropt it, “tout nous sourit dans la nature.”
Elvira pointed out the road leading to the dwelling of a
justice of the peace, a few miles below the line which divides
the State of Massachusetts from that of New-York. They
arrived at this temple of Hymen, and of petty legislation
about eleven in the morning. The justice was at work on
his farm; a messenger was dispatched for him, with whom
he returned in about thirty minutes, which seemed as many
hours to our anxious lovers.
“Dey say,” said Lavoisier, “l'amour fait passer le temps,
but in l'Amerique it is very differente.”
The justice took Lavoisier aside, and inquired whether
there were any objections to the marriage, on the part of the
lady's friends.
“Objection!” said Lavoisier, “it is the most grand
félicité to every body. You cannot conceive.”
On being further interrogated, Lavoisier confessed that
were not married at the place of the lady's residence, he
said that “some personnes without sensibilité may wait, but
for mademoiselle and me, it is impossible.”
Elvira being examined apart, in like manner, declared
that her intended husband's impatience and her own dislike
to the formality of a publishment, had led them to avoid the
usual mode and forms of marriage.
The justice, who derived the chief profits of his office
from clandestine matches, and who had made these inquiries
more because it was a common custom, than from any scruples
of conscience, or sense of official duty, was perfectly satisfied;
and after requiring from the bridegroom the usual
promise to love and cherish; and from the bride, to love,
cherish, and obey; pronounced them man and wife, and recorded
the marriage in a book containing a record of similar
official acts, and of divers suits and the proceedings therein.
The bride and bridegroom immediately set out for the
North River, intending to embark there for New-York.
“These things do manage themselves better in France,”
said Lavoisier. “Les nôces qui se font ici—the marriages
you make here—are as solemn que la sepulture—as to bury.
Le Cupidon ici a l'air bien sauvage; if de little god was
paint here, they would make him work as de justice. Eh
bien!” said he, after a pause, “chacun a son métier; without
some fermiers there should not be some maitres-de-danse,
some professeurs of de elegant arts: et sans les justices, you
would not be mon ange—you would not be Madame Lavoisier.”
Elvira was so occupied with the change in her condition,
and the prospect before her, that she did not observe the
direction in which they were travelling; and by mistake they
towards a village in the vicinity of the one they had left.
As they ascended the top of a hill, their steed began to
prick his ears at the distant sound of a drum and fife, which
the fugitives soon perceived to be part of the pride, pomp, and
circumstance of a militia training. The village tavern was in
full view, and within a short distance, and the company was
performing some marching evolution a little beyond. An
election of captain had just taken place; and the suffrages of
the citizen soldiers had fallen upon a popular favourite, who
had taken his station as commanding officer, and was showing
his familiarity with the marches and counter-marches of
Eaton's Manual. He had been just promoted from the rank
of first lieutenant; and previous to the dismissal of his men,
which was about to take place, he drew them up in front of
the village store, when according to custom, and with due regard
to economy, which made the store a more eligible place
for his purposes than the tavern, he testified his gratitude for
the honour which had been done him by copious libations of
cherry rum, and of St. Croix, which was diluted or not, according
to the taste of each individual. The men soon began
to grow merry; and some of them swore that they would not
scruple to vote for the captain for major-general, if they had
the choosing of that officer. The venders of gingerbread felt
the influence of the good fellowship and generosity which the
captain had set in motion. A market for a considerable portion
of their commodity was soon furnished by the stimulated
appetites of the men, and a portion was distributed by the
more gallant among them, to some spectators of the softer
sex, who were collected upon the occasion.
The happy pair in the mean time had arrived at the tavern.
Elvira's attention had not been sufficiently awakened
where she was, until she was called to a sense of her embarrassing
situation by the landlord's sign, as it was gently
swinging in the wind between two high posts, and exhibited
a successful specimen of village sign-painting, the distinguished
name of the host, and the age of his establishment.
Elvira directed the Frenchman to stop and turn his
horse, which he did immediately, without understanding the
object.
“Eh bien!” said he, his eyes still fixed on the young
soldiers; “Il me vient une idée. I shall tell you.” He
went on to signify that he would immediately offer to teach
the art of fencing and of using the broad-sword; that he would
instruct them “dans l'art militaire, à la mode de Napoleon;”
and that, after giving a few lessons, he would make a tournament,
in which he would let them see, among other things,
how Bonaparte conquered the world; how the cavalry could
trample down flying infantry; and how the infantry, in such
circumstances, could defend themselves; and that he would,
in this way, make himself “bien riche.”
During all this time Elvira was collecting her wits to
know what the emergency required; and as soon as Lavoisier's
volley ceased, she begged him to return again, thinking
she might best avoid observation by seeking shelter in the
tavern till dark.
They immediately alighted, and Lavoisier, after showing
his bride to her apartment, descended to give some orders
about his horse; when, to his astonishment, he was accosted
by the jolly landlord, whose name was Thomas, “Ha, mounsheer!
I guess you are the man who staid with me a fortnight
two years ago, when I kept house in York State, and
borrowed my chaise to go a jaunting, and told me to take care
came back. I got my horse and chaise again,” continued he,
seizing the astounded professor of the dancing and military
arts by the collar, “and now I'll take my reck'nin' out of your
skin, if I can't get it any other way.”
At this moment the new captain and a considerable number
of his merry men entered the house. After they had
learned the circumstances of the case, from what passed between
monsieur and the landlord, one of them cried out,
“Ride him on a rail—let him take his steps in the air!”
“He ought to dance on nothing, with a rope round his
neck,” said Thomas.
“No, no,” said a third, “he has taken steps enough; that
flashy jacket had better be swapped for one of tar and feathers.”
“Messieurs, messieurs,” said Lavoisier, “je suis bien malheureux.
I am very sorry. Il etoit mon malheur—it was
my misère to not pay monsieur Thomas, and it was his malheur
not to be paid. I shall show you my honneur, when I
shall get de l'argent. Il faut se soumettre aux circonstances.
De honesty of every body depend upon what dey can do. I
am sure, every body is gentleman in dis country. C'est un
beau pays.”
By this time one of the corporals had set a skillet of tar
on the fire, and another, by the direction of the lieutenant,
who seemed to take upon himself the command of the party,
had brought a pillow from a bed in an adjoining room. The
pillow was very expeditiously uncased, and a sufficient rent
made in the ticking. The astonished Français stood aghast,
as his bewildered mind caught a faint notion of the purpose
of these preparations. He changed his tones of supplication
to those of anger. “Vous êtes des sauvages!” he exclaimed.
some gentiman to teach la belle danse in dis country.”
“He'll cackle like a blue-jay,” said the corporal, “by the
time we get the feathers on him.”
“They are hen's feathers,” said the lieutenant, “but
they'll do. Now ensign Sacket get on to the table, and corporal
you hand him the skillet of tar. You Mr. Le Vosher, or
whatever your name is, stand alongside of the table.”
Monsieur believed his destiny to be fixed—“Oh, mon
Dieu!” he exclaimed; “le diable! qu'est que c'est que ça?
Vat you do—vat is dat?”
“Tar, tar, nothing but tar—stand up to the table,” was
the reply.
“Sacristie! put dat sur ma tête—on my head et sur mes
habits—my clothes; mes beaux habits de noces—my fine
clothes for de marriage! Oh, messieurs, de grace, pardonnezmoi;
vous gaterez—you will spoil all my clothes.”
“Blast your clothes!” said the corporal; “pull them off.”
“Je vous remercie, tank you, gentlemen;” and he very
deliberately divested himself of a superfine light-blue broad-cloath
coat, and embroidered silk vest, a laced cravat and an
under cravat of coarser fabric. He prolonged the operation
as much as possible, making continued efforts to conciliate
the compassion of his persecutors, which only added to their
merriment.
At last all pretences for delay were over; every voice was
hushed. The ensign began to uplift the fatal skillet, when
all composure of mind forsook the affrighted bridegroom, and
he uttered a loud shriek. Favoured by the general stillness,
Elvira distinctly heard his voice, and knew at once that it
betokened the extremity of distress. She rushed to the rescue,
screaming for mercy. The men fell back, leaving their
quels bêtes!” he exclaimed, with a grimace that produced a
peal of laughter. One of the men threw him his coat,
another his vest; while the corporal set down the skillet,
saying, “If it had not been for his gal, I'd have given him a
wedding suit.”
But we rather think monsieur would have been released
without the interposition of his distressed bride, for a Yankey
mob is proverbially good-natured, and the merry men had
enlisted in the landlord's cause, for the sake of a joke, rather
than with the intention of inflicting pain. After the ludicrous
adventure was over—ludicrous to the jolly trainers,
but sad enough to the fugitive pair—Elvira deemed it expedient
to press their retreat. Monsieur brought the chaise to
the door, and they drove away amidst the loud huzzas and
merry clappings of the jovial company.
| CHAPTER XIV. A New England tale, and Miscellanies | |