Chapters 11
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1 01 - Gowanus Bay, by Seba Smith 3:01
Gowanus Bay by Seba Smith.
Fair Bay of Gowanus, how grateful to me, the green shore where thy waters flow in from the sea! The dust of the city is cast from my feet, and I come to seek rest in thy quiet retreat. I come sad and weary, but come not in vain, for all is at rest in thy peaceful domain. E'en the city's low humming so faintly is heard, That it lulls one to rest, like the song of a bird. I stand on the hills far above thee at rest, and the fishers like boats sleep below on thy breast, and off in the distance a hundred white sails gently move o'er the waters and woo the young gales. And the herds have gone down in the heat of the day, where thy shoal-waters sleep and the light-breezes play. And they stand in the flood with a still quiet air, that betrays how they love the cool rest they find there.
When the night cometh down, and the bright stars above rest their beams on thy waters like angels of love, I stand on thy shore, and I bless the decree that bade them shine nightly for ever on thee. Each morn, when the pebbles are wet on the strand, I know they have lain in thy watery hand, And heard thy low breathing through all the dark night, And felt thy soft kiss with a thrill of delight. Fair Bay of Gowanus, thy teachings of love Shall lure my sad heart to the fountain above, To the home of the blest, where affections are pure, And deathless and changeless forever endure. But here, like a pilgrim, I'd fain rest awhile, and gird on my armor for life's closing toil. Thou hast rest for the weary, and peace for the good, and the dead find their rest in thy grove of Greenwood.
Greenwood Cemetery, about three miles from New York and near South Brooklyn, is on Gowanus Heights. End footnote.
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2 02 - The Lovers; or, The Wager of a Thousand Ducats, by Lawrence Labree 23:12
The Rover, Volume 1, Number 21. Edited by Siva Smith and Laurence Labrie. Section 2. The Lovers or the Wager of a Thousand Dukats by Laurence Labrie.
Two sweet lovers were Karl Hartz and Mita von Brenner. He, all gentleness and love, she, all purity and faith. He, to her, but a poor student, she, the daughter of a rich and powerful baron. They first met at a masked ball. Afterward, they contrived various meetings in secret. Karl, bold and fervent in his assurances of affection, Mita no less fervent, but with fear and trembling. She never promised to meet him. But she thought of her proud old father, and of her reckless and haughty brother. But always the sweet words of Carl would give confidence to her heart, and they were never long together ere she forgot both father and brother. They met one day in the park near her father's castle, and as they walked beneath the branches of the great trees and over the green lawn, both seemed more than usually happy, and ever, as their blue eyes met, did they drink, each from the other, such sweet assurances of affection.
that it came to their innocent spirits like cooling water to the thirsty traveler. At times, absorbed in their sweet discourse, they would stop, and then, her fair forehead resting against his soft cheek, her full soul would echo to the delicious harmony of his fond adorations, and she marveled that his pure thought should be so much given to heaven and to herself. He appeared to her all spiritual, so little of earth's grossness seemed mixed in with his constitution. She had broken a fair flower from the stem, wherein it had blossomed, but while she listened to her lover's wooing, she was unconscious that she was plucking its leaves out, one by one. Never at any previous meeting had so many sweet things been said, nor stronger vows of affection plighted, and when they parted it was with the kindest assurances to meet again ere long.
But, alas, the designs of human will are subject to the merest accidents, and there is no certainty performing tomorrow What is promised to-day? They parted, she to seek the privacy of her apartment, he to pursue his solitary studies. He took his way through the shaded walks of the park, while happy thoughts thronged in his brain, and glorious emotions thrilled his heart. He had reached the wall, and with a light step was about to spring over when he was arrested by the sound of a mocking voice.
Ho, ho, Sir Beggar. You have a nimble foot for a nobleman's park. And your fingers are as light, belike you can adapt them to trifles with as much facility as you can make your feet leap stone walls. "'In sooth, sir,' replied Carl, "'you must speak in jest, for by your appearance or by your apparel I would assume you for a gentleman.' "'And by the same judgment,' said the stranger, "'I would mark you for a knave or a fool.' "'Tis an unjust judgment,' said Carl, "'and would breed offence.' But that I still take you for gentle, and would believe you jesting. Jesting. If you are no coward, as I think you are, and were not your instrument for ornament, a single pass or two would prove how earnest I am.
By my life, said Carl, if by this mystery you hint at fighting, I really must laugh. The jest is so excellently well adopted. I doubt not, but I could soon learn to love you as a brother, for spite of your disguise. I pierce it and perceive your infinite good qualities. The other seemed puzzled at the coolness with which Carl replied to his insulting language, and for a moment paused, suddenly turning toward him. He exclaimed, I have met you, Sir Beggar, before. This time I had resolved to chastise you, but you only excite my contempt, not my anger. If I meet you in these grounds again, I will expel you as I would occur, by kicking. Heaven preserve us, exclaimed Carl. Are you not afraid of dogs?
For my part, I cannot bear to look at them. Cease to trouble me. In the warm season, they are said to be dangerous. Do you ever bite? Enraged at the sarcastic coolness of Karl, the stranger, by the way, a brother of Mieta's, Frederick von Brenner, hastily drew his sword, and with it struck him on the shoulder. In an instant, the warm blood rushed to the cheek of Karl, and his weapon leapt from his scabbard with ingent motion. Frederick von Brenner, said Karl. You have done almost the only thing in your power to make me draw my sword against you. Your offense was language I would have let pass unpunished, but the blow must be answered with your blood. On your defense. Their swords were crossed, and for a minute the contest was warm and doubtful, but for the coolness of Karl and his graceful skill were much more than a match for the awkward impetuosity of von Brenner, and the latter had soon the satisfaction of seeing his weapon flying over the wall, and himself and the power of his opponent.
Farewell, my dear Frederick, Craig Karl. Take my advice, and seek a fencing master. You'll need much instruction, ere we meet again. When we do, I hope to find you proficient. As it is an amusement I am fond of, I dislike to have it so abruptly terminated. Saying this, Karl sprang over the wall, leaving Von Brenner covered with shame and confusion at seeing himself so completely forested combat. Maddened at being thus foiled, Frederick hastily sought the presence of his sister. As he entered her apartment, she was busied with some needlework, and her beautiful face was glowing with smiles of happiness and love. The rude entrance of her brother at first startled her, but she rose to receive him, and her bright smiles vanished before his stern, cold gaze.
For a moment he spoke not, and Mita became surprised and somewhat offended at his rudeness. "'This is strange, Frederick. Why do you intrude upon my privacy with so aughty an air?' Are you out of your senses, or what has crossed you that you stare so wildly? I have been crossed by a base fool, and let me advise you, sister of mine, to be more chary of who you accompany, nor be seen strolling in unfrequented walks with every beggar who may cross your path. This is strange language, Frederick. Explain yourself. Excellent innocence, Mita. What base Borentrill did I see you in company with this morning, for a whole hour? Will you deny that? I deny nothing, sir. If you are mean enough to dog me in my rambles, whether alone or not, will like you saw me, and the company of one, at least your superior?
I like it not, Frederick, to assume an equal haughtiness with yourself. I will assure you that I shall in future defend myself from your curious disposition. This sits well on you, but be sure you give your beggarly cavalier timely caution, that when our paths cross again, if he but look at his horoscope, he will see danger near his natal star. Leave me, brother. I will not listen to your abuse. Leave me. At least I claim the privacy of my own apartment. Be it so, sister. But, Mark, shun such company as you have this morning kept, or I will find a more certain method to stop the wooing. Remember— Saying this, Frederick hastily quitted the presence of his sister, who, as soon as she was left alone, gave utterance to her wounded heart and passionate sorrow and tears of bitter grief.
Sweet Mita, they were the first sorrowful moments that ever cast their shadows over the brightness of her innocent existence. Well might the beautiful Mita feel grieved at the rude treatment of her ungentle brother, but for all that she might suffer herself, she gave small heed to. It was for her beloved Karl that she became alarmed, for she knew that the impetuous character of Frederick might prompt him to deeds of rashness to accomplish any purpose in view, and she trembled lest some terrible evil might overtake her lover, ere she again beheld him. She had known him but a short time, but in that time she had learned to think of him with a devotion such as only woman can feel toward the object of her passion.
She believed him to be no more than a poor student, depending upon the good will of a few friends for his position at the university, and she knew not, when the height he aspired to was attained, that he had more than a soul of honor and bright talent to assist him in sustaining the overpowering difficulties of an ungenerous world. Yet for all this, how ready was she, the beautiful, to become his companion through life's dull voyage, to encourage him when the strong current of misfortune set against him. And to smile upon and cheer him when fortune showered upon him her jealous favors, she, the daughter of a noble house, the heiress of a princely dowry, was ready to share the humble fortunes of the poor student of Woodsburg.
We must now let our readers into a secret. Karl was, in fact, deceiving his lovely and trusting Mita, for he was not the poor student that he represented himself to be. But the heir To the fortunes and the honors of one of the noblest houses of Germany. His adventure originated in a gay freak, a bet with the young Count of Wertheim. They were in company on the day, succeeding the evening that Carl had first met Mita at the masked ball. He was lavish in his praises of her beauty and her modesty, and the Count was rallying him upon having fallen in love with the rich Baron's daughter. To be sure, Karl did not overlike his joking upon so delicate a subject as whoever did when under the influence of the little blind God.
But the Count was fond of his pleasant veins, and who shall condemn him for all the mirth he can find in this melancholy world? But, my dear Karl, said the Count, Karl was his name. How, in the name of the Immaculate Luther, did you get a sight of her bewitching face? For with all my skill in managing such things, I could not get my eyes beneath her mask during the entire evening. "'Nay, my good Count of Wertheim,' answered Karl. "'You must not expect me to let you into all the secrets of my willing. You will believe me if I tell you that I did get a sight of her sweet face and her bright eyes, and for that reason did I fall desperately in love with them.' "'Ah,' said the Count, "'if such be the case, we may as well conclude upon you success at once, for against such a figure in so eloquent a voice, What fair maiden could succeed in keeping her heart?
And when to that we add your magnificent title and your exhaustless revenues, one might almost swear there could be no withstanding you. How say you, Carl? How say I, replied Carl? Why, to hear you, one would think that were it not for my magnificent title and exhaustless revenues, as you are pleased to designate them, I should stand but a small chance of being listened to by any fair damsel of quality and work work. "'I have that opinion of the fickle creatures, my dear Marquise,' replied the Count, "'and I consider them somewhat in the light of moths. They much delight to flutter around the dazzling flame that gives them to destruction. To be plain, Carl, I think that did she know you only as plain Carl Kloshimer, or some other unassuming name without a title?
The daughter of the proud Baron would seek some other object on which to bestow her radiant smiles.'" "'There I think you are mistaken,' said Carl. "'For I purposely took much pains to deceive her on that point. I assumed to be nothing more than a poor student, who had no brighter hopes to cheer him than the goal pointed out by his ambition.' "'But do you not suppose that she saw through your pretense all the while, my romantic marquise? Or do you not think there were those present who did know you, and who whispered in her ear much of the company of the marquise of Ansebatch?' "'I will not believe it,' exclaimed Carl. "'I really have a higher opinion of the lady, nor do I believe that she is so much influenced by pride of rank as most ladies of gentle birth, and I further flatter myself that were I, in fact, what I represented myself to her as being, that I could finally succeed in winning both her confidence and her love.
Now, Carl, I must acknowledge that you are jesting with an honest-looking face, but you must give me the privilege of smiling at the conceit.'" "'You certainly have the privilege of laughing at the conceit,' replied Carl. "'But if you doubt the effect, I will lay you a wager of a thousand ducats, that, assuming to be but a poor student, I will so far win the affections of this baron's daughter, that she will prefer me to the proudest cavalier in Germany.' "'I accept the wager,' said the Count, though I confess I do not much like to risk so significant a sum upon the caprice of a woman.' I will take your honor that you hold the terms of the wager sacred. Bow it quick, Karl, for I am impatient to see you commence your wooing as the poor student of Wolfsburg.
Under these circumstances, Karl lost no time in putting his faculties to action, nor was he long in finding an opportunity to address the mistress of his devotions. How he sped in his wooing, the opening of our story has already told. And if our readers have in their composition any response to the delicate sentiments of love, any echo to the holy aspirations of woman's heart, let them say, if they believe, that Mina did not think more of her humble worshipper than of all the gilded titles in the empire. A few weeks after the meeting between the Marquise and Frederick, the former gave his friend the Count of Warhang to understand that could he take the advantage of a hint, and wished to decide the wager that was between them, he might Conveniently do so by being near an arbor at the western side of the Baron von Brenner's park an hour after the sun had set.
To the count, this information was somewhat confused, but he determined at any rate to be there, for he had no reason to doubt that he would get some positive information on the point at issue between them. Therefore, to make his preparations accordingly, we will accompany our readers to the scene of the grand denouement, as theatrical managers say. The sun had gone down in glory, and nature seemed quiet as a sleeping infant. No cloud dappled the starry firmament, and the soft and wanton breezes sighed murmuringly over the fair face of earth. Through one of the less frequented avenues of a park, in close companionship seemingly and sweet converse, walked, or rather lingered, two human beings in the glow of youth.
Beauty, like a diadem, Crown their fair brows, and nature, as though she acknowledged a diviner presence, seemed to blend around them her sweetest harmonies. Glowing thoughts must have had utterance, for the fairest and gentlest of the twain seemed to drink with much thirst from the overflowing fountain of the other's exhaustless speech, nor ever seemed he tired of filling her listening ear with eloquent sentences.
They approached an arbor, and before its ivied entrance did they linger. He, all the while, discoursing such rare music as seemed to entrance her gentle spirit. "'Ah,' said he, "'you have learned me a new devotion. Before I met you, I knew not the slumbering emotions of my heart. I was contented with my lowly lot, and my ambition was learning. The bright goal I sought was fame. The keys to her temple were my books. I had no regret that I was a peasant's son, that I was not noble.' Ah, I had not then seen the sweetest maid in Christendom. No more about your birth, said she. How could the accident of your being born noble affect the worth of your soul? How affect its nobility? Nay, had you been as you desire, perchance we never had met.
But it stands between me and hope, said he, not between you and hope, Carl. Believe me, I am as fondly yours as though a coronet were on your brow. and you were glittering with useless titles. You tell me that my father is proud, that my brother is haughty, but what can they do if I choose to obey my own inclinations? Will they disown me? Be it so. Am I not equally as able to be a sharer in your joys and your sorrows, as though I were born in a cottage? Do not grieve me by such comparisons, Karl, nor think me forward that I speak as I do. Raise obstacles that I must overthrow. Then, Mita, would you be willing to share a humble cottage with me, and frugal fare? Could you be content to relinquish all your present delicacies, and share the humble lot of the poor student, who could repay you with nothing but his soul's fondest attachment?
Ah, how amply will that repay me a thousandfold! For with that fond attachment, how might I smile at the gaudiness of this world? How light would seem the burdens of our existence! O Karl, I fear I say bold things, but your imagination so separates our positions that I am compelled unwittingly to be myself a war. You have taught my soul its worship, and I can never seek another shrine. You asked me if I could relinquish all my present delicacies. Ah, what delicacy is there like love? Does it not make a palace of a hovel? And without it does not the palace become a dreary prison? Beloved Mita, how could I fail? By thy example, to be inspired to noble ambition, with such a guardian spirit, how could I fail to reach the dazzling pinnacle of fame?
When we first met, thy path was strewn with flowers, and over thy happy heart contentment held her misty veil. Like the first Eden, no luring serpent's tongue had poisoned its atmosphere of holiness, and all thy walking thoughts and sleeping visions were of bliss. But I have breathed discord in your ear, and the perfect harmony of your soul has been marred. I have given strange tenets to your heart, mistrust, fear, and suspense. I am to blame that I forgot my station, that I awoke your soul from its calm and holy peace. No, Karl, blame not yourself. You have not lessened my happiness, but, on the contrary, you have given me a new joy that adds a thousandfold to the pleasures of my existence. Think me not placed above you, but onward in your proud march of ambition.
Acquire that fame which I know you have the power to win, and it will be you that exalts. Then, if you love me as you do now, your affection will be to me a protecting shield in all danger, a healing balm in all sorrow. Sweet sophistry, tell me again, do you not think there are others more worthy of your love than the poor student? Would you not sigh for the rank and station that you put aside? Do not doubt me, Carl. My destiny is fixed. I have linked my fate with yours. In your lonely study, let this encourage you. Through weel or woe, remember, Mita loves you. Further conversation between them was interrupted by the sound of hasty footsteps, and the next moment, Frederick von Brenner stood before the lovers, with his sword drawn and trembling with rage.
Mita started, uttered a surprised cry, and sprang to the side of her brother to prevent him from committing any assault upon Karl, for in his dangerous manner she read the purpose of his excited spirit. But Frederick pushed her rudely from him, at the same time crying out to Carl. Now, braggart villain, prepare to meet such chastisement as you deserve. I will not murder you, but will give you the privilege of defense that, however, will avail you but slightly, for I have sworn to have your heart's blood. My offense, good sir? asked Carl. You have sought to stay in the honor of our house, replied Frederick. Where is your weapon? "'Tis here,' answered Carl. Drawing. As good and as perfect as when we first met.
Have you practiced? Fool, I came here to practice, exclaimed Frederick passionately. In that case, I can amuse you for a few moments, or longer, if you please. It is a rare sport, and I have grown over-fond of it, being in practice every day. Frederick, eager to commence the fray, rushed upon his adversary, who received and parried his thrust with provoking coolness. But at the first clash of steel, Mita uttered a shriek of terror, and at the same moment a person, muffled in cloak, rushed from behind the arbor and parted the assailants. Hold! cried he. Von Brenner, you draw your sword upon the young Marquise of Anspach. The Marquise of Anspach, echoed Frederick. Explain yourself, sir. Mita moved to the side of her brother as he listened to the explanation of the stranger, who was none other than the Count of Wertheim.
and recognized by Frederick the moment he dropped his disguise. The Count related the manner in which Mita and the Marquise had first met, the character the latter had assumed, the progress of their passion, the wager, and their many subsequent interviews, and other important things connected with the adventure. When von Brenner had heard the explanation, he seemed puzzled in the extreme, whether to laugh or make the affair serious. Turning to his sister, who stood at his side in tears, He kindly took her hand and kissed her fair forehead. Then, addressing the Marquis, he said, This has been a singular affair, and I am at a loss how to unsay the many uncivil things I have spoken to you. I must seek my apology in your disguise.
I know not if I do not more envy than dislike you. You must promise, however, to give me private lessons in fencing. In the meantime, let me hope for a speedy and happy termination to this adventure. I need not ask my sister here to say Amen. "'You have my thanks for your generosity,' replied the Marquise, "'but here is one whose pardon I must ask. What say you, Mita? Will you forgive the poor student, and can you love him as warmly as ever?' Mita had no answer for him, but she threw herself into his arms, an act in itself confessing everything. "'After all,' said the Marquise, "'it has been a sweet adventure. Fortunately for my scheme, I was unknown to my late adversary, although I recognized him.
As for the wager,' Count. I acknowledge it as fairly one by yourself, said the Count, and I'm more than repaid by the pleasure I feel in congratulating you on your success. But why follow the thread of my story further? Let it suffice that they parted, each full of happy thoughts. But ere many months rolled away, there was a merrier, a more numerous, and a more brilliant meeting, to celebrate the nupitals of the Marquis of Anspach and the sweet daughter of the Baron von Brenner. And there, in the presence of the gorgeous assemblage, did the Count of Wertheim pay into the hands of the noble bride-room, the wager of a thousand ducats.
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3 03 - Timothy Tuttle; or, A Reminiscence of the Land Fever, by Nathaniel Deering 23:49
21. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Rover, Volume 1, No. 21, edited by Seba Smith and Lawrence Libri. Section 3. Timothy Tettle, or Reminiscence of the Land Fever, by Nathaniel Durek. In the summer of the tour, in which the lords of certain imaginary cities in the Empire State at $2.00 per foot were exchanged for box down east at $10.00 per acre, a fair business transaction, there lived on the Lat region and in the village of Tabbyville, one Timothy Stutter. He was short and thick, in fact, a mere animated lump of fat, and yet no exquisite ever regarded his own person with more complacency. For having, in the course of his reading, seen the remark of Quintilian relative to Theucidius, Densus et Braves et Semper, and Sassibi, and supposing that the critic referred to the outer man rather than to his style, he was wont to pride himself on his resemblance to that great historian.
Timothy Stuttle, or Master Tuttle as he was usually called, had for a long period taught the rudiments in one of the town schools at Tabbyville. We believe in the 3rd district and always to the satisfaction of the committee. If there be any doubts on this point, we can refer to numerous testimonials signed by said committee, or committees rather, for rotation in the office was the order of the day, and by Parson Briggs. His forte was in reading, writing, including German text, and arithmetic. In geography, he could point out the difference between a cape and a parliamentary, but he never saw to use the globes. He also styled himself professor of languages, and it is admitted that he had a sufficient smattering of Latin to attempt with his pupil some portions of Virgil.
There were other portions, however, particularly the Georgics, against which he entered his veto. His excuse was that they were not fitted for the age. He could have added with more truth that he was unable to construe them. In addition to the solid branches, Master Tuttle cultivated Salmody, and although from shortness of breath he failed on the oboy, he was unrivalled on the while. This knowledge of music rendered him a great acquisition to the people of Tabbyville, and not only operated as an open sesame to all their parties, but raised him to the rank of chorister of the West Parish. And delightful it was to visit the West Street of this parish on Saturday evenings, and observe Tuttle leading the choir in the thrilling compositions of Bilgings and Olden.
Wonderful it was to find him so feelingly alive to the beauties of these great masters, and infusing a portion of his spirit even into the dullest of his scholars, leavening the whole choir. Then to see him as he crouched his bow, with what gravity he applied the rose in, how majestic as he waved it in the silent beat, how languid in the pier, how vigorous in the forte. Well was it for Master Tuttle that, like honest Falstaff, he endured the singing of the anthems, as he thus relieved the monotony of a life otherwise insupportable. Art is indeed for his labours, for as Tavie will never employ a mistress to pioneer in the first lesson, it was always Tettel's fate to have that greatest of trials to human patience.
The classenbug. Of a truth, he was saved by ceremony, where others, without his ear, would have taken prussic acid or French leaf. As it was, he had even waxed fat, an indication of contentment. He felt assured that if he received but little, he spent less, for his family was small and his desires moderate. Such was the situation of Master Tuttle when the mania for speculation on timberlands, which had raged so violently on the seaboard, extended at length to Taberville and parts adjacent. For several weeks after its appearance, Master Tuttle exhibited no symptoms of the disorder. Notwithstanding, Captain Tarbox had cleared five hundred dollars by the sale of a bond, and Dr. Snaggs had refused an advance of two thousand on a recent purchase.
But Deacon Graves had also ventured, and with great success, having sold Stumpage for three dollars, which cost him two. As a necessary consequence, Mrs. Graves found it extremely difficult to climb up the family wagon, and the next Sabbath she drove to the West Parish in a new bellow-stopped chaise. This was too much for Mrs. Tuttle. It had arrived as she was entering the meeting-house, and she was induced to look back by the exclamations of wonder its appearance had occasioned. There it was, with its bright green body and its red wheels, And read Mrs. Graves, too. The top was thrown back in a blazing July sun. Mrs. Tuttle had no sooner reached her seat than she touched Mrs. Martin, who was in the next pew.
Gracious, said the former. Do you know that Mrs. Graves has dashed out in a new bellow-stop chase? A real bellow-stop? Was there ever? Well, what is the world coming to? Sure enough, sure enough. Will you and I have one thing to comfort us if we don't own a chase? They cannot say of either of us that our mother was a jipkins. "'No, thank heaven!' exclaimed Mrs. Martin. "'We are clear of that blood, and then who is Deacon Graves, I should like to know? I guess if your husband spoke to him in the dead tongues he would be puzzled to answer.' This gave rise to a simultaneous sitter with a rustling of lustring. That was hardly in accordance with the sanctity of the place, and would, if continued, have called for deserved censor.
Fortunately, the well-known creak of Parsonbrick's shoes at that moment, moving up the aisle, put a stop to the merriment and to the dissection of Mrs. Graves. It is probable, however, that the mind of Mrs. Tuttle was less occupied with the sermon than with the bellows-top-chase. For on that very night, Master Tuttle's rest was not a little disturbed by reason of a certain lecture, on which the value of five trees was strongly urged, coupled with some expressions about a want of energy and living the life of a bark-horse. He was probably convinced by the arguments then adduced. For the next morning, he dismissed his squalor's announcing a fortnight's vacation. Soon after, he was seen to leave the village on Square Peebles'-Mare, and from the appearance of the saddlebags upon which was fastened his old fair knot, it was evident he had started on a long journey.
Master Tuttle, having ascertained that several townships in Somerset might be purchased at a low rate, as his lands were then valued, determined to dash at once into the heart of the forest, and if he found a tract that fully answered his views, to procure, if possible, a bond of it for sixty days. This was the method usually adopted by those who were unable to purchase. He expected, before that period had elapsed, with the aid of certificates and a plan of diverse colours, to dispose of it for a sum sufficient to place him on an equality with Deakin-Greves, certainly for enough to pacify Mrs. Tuttle by their purchases for Bellostopchies. About two weeks after the departure of a worthy pedagogue, three persons were seen emerging from the woods in the vicinity of Austin Stream.
The two who were in advance had each, or back, or knapsack. They moved, however, with an elastic step, though their soiled and tattered garments indicated that their route had been one of no ordinary length and roughness. The other, though unencumbered with baggage, twirled after his companions with some difficulty, and was manifestly unfitted for threading the tangled mazes of the forest. At this time he was bareheaded, the right hand having fastened on the remains of his head as a substitute for a fan. While the left was actively engaged in squeezing vitality from the black flies, which were rooting on his cheek and adorning it with Indian mounds. He certainly was never designed for a locomotive, and he puffed so audibly that an investment in horse flesh with a like infirmity would have been extremely hazardous without a warrant of soundness.
This personage was Timothy Stubble. The others were Harley Wood's men, whom he had hired for the expedition. It is unnecessary to dwell on the fatigues they suffered, the barren tracts they crossed, the box through which they floundered, or, on Master Tuttle's inability to sleep through fear of catamounts. He had an actual horror of being served up in a raw state for such uninvited guests, and he had imbibed the notion that if the party were attacked, he would certainly be the victim, on account of their predilection for adipose morsels. Those who are curious in such matters will be gratified to learn that the Harpers have now impressed our adventurous journal, entitled Tribulations of Travel by Timnuthia Stuttle.
Fortune, for once, was kind to him. When nearly worn out and despairing of success, he entered upon the north-easterly corner of No. 6 North Range, containing about five thousand acres apparently well timbered and which must have been overlooked by previous explorers. Master Tuttle began forthwith to make the requisite memoranda, and having covered no small quantity of paper with his estimates of quantity of pine and its value in dollars, he prepared to retrace his steps with all possible speed. The sum total in expectancy had a visible effect upon his spirits. So much so that, in the commencement of his homeward journey, he moved with such a rapidity of stride that placed him frequently in the van.
But after a few miles' travel, his movements became slower and his hauls more frequent. Perhaps this might be attributed to his reflections on the vanity of riches, perhaps to his redundancy of flesh. It was nearly twilight when the party approached the banks of the Kennebec at some distance below the forks, and, taking courage as they saw the sign of the mug and poker where they had left their horses, they soon reached that most excellent inn. Desirable, indeed, was this resting place, it being, as a sign indicated, a place for Flip, in which Major Saunders, the landlord, was without a rival, and to which Master Tuttle had never manifested any decided aversion. Present it was to observe the changes in the countenance of the latter, while the major was preparing this nutritious beverage.
At one moment, joyous, as the contents of the mug hissed and mantled while embracing the ignited iron, and then mournful as a portion curled over the sides and trickling in obedience to the laws of gravitation, was thus inevitably lost. We trust that the friends of temperance will not condemn if our fat traveller called for a second mug. He was really dry, and the major was the last of those who prepared that mysterious compound. The march of intellect had banished the poker to that secluded spot, and certain it is that the titilian droughts at other taverns, if less inebriating, were far less palatable. Master Tuttle was truly in the state called comfortable, his anticipations of profits having increased with the first mug, and his dread of cat-mounts having vanished with the second.
In this enviable mood, he was ushered into the parlour, as the landlord was wont to call it, when, to his surprise, he beheld snugly encounced in the armchair no less a personage than Deacon Graves. The latter expressed his joy at this unexpected meeting, and so did Master Tuttle. For though at Tabbyville he indulged in a feeling akin to envy at the deacon's good luck, it entirely subsided on encountering his old neighbour at such a distance. Well, Deacon, who would have thought of seeing you appear in search of a timber-trap? Why, as to property, you have Benjamin's portion already. Friend Tuttle, you wronged me. I have no hankering for early treasures. Life is short and a little suffices. Why then, rejoined Tuttle, what would induce you to come?
My old complaint—the asthma. Tuttle snaps thought that the smell of the woods and sleeping on set of boughs would work wonders. I can vouch for that, neighbor Grace. Subtignine. As I say to my scholars, for the last fortnight I've tried that kind of bed, and I find it restorative not only for the stomach, but for the pockets. What? cried the deacon. You have been lucky, eh? Beyond calculation. Such a body of timber! Why, the pines were so thick that I was fairly squeezed when passing between them? My dear Timotheus, where is it located? Point it out! Point it out! None's the word, deacon. Quay is quite a squity! As I say to my scholars, "'V'r'is a land of pure delight, tole de roi de rie du. "'Ma'r Stuttle, such levity is shameful.
"'Why, sir, you're in the last stages of—' Last stages? "'No, I ain't. "'I'm in the rediments, in the primavera, "'as I say to my scholars. "'Well, sir, I shall feel it my duty "'to report your situation to the committee. "'What, deacon? "'Report a little exuderance, "'a mere oozing of the grosser fluids, whereba? "'Be sober, then.' And don't strifle with it, neighbor, who is so anxious for her welfare. Haven't I told you that I regard this world as dross? True, neighbor, true. Verusvera, Verum, as I say to my scholars, well then, just glad in your eyes with those estimates taken on the spot. Five Thousand Acres Number Six Ninth Range North Easterly Corner Ten Thousand of Clear Pine to the Acre Besides Lord of Spruce.
And Hank Matag that will furnish nice for the whole of Uncle Sam's name. Wonderful, Master Zaffer. But haven't you overrated? Pauline's shot, shot by two thousand. Millie, millie, millie, as I say to my scholars, now the owner must be ignorant of its value, and I shall get a bound of it at two dollars per acre. For that purpose I start tomorrow. Kuro, kuroe, as I, tomorrow, cried Deacon Rose. No, not tomorrow. What would be the effect upon the youth, at tableville, were it known that Master Tuttle rode on the sabbat? Your usefulness would be at an end. Wait till Monday, and we will return together. In the meanwhile, our time may be profitably spent in the reading of the moral tracts, of which, fortunately, I have a large supply.
This was by no means agreeable to Master Tuttle, but he dared not risk the loss of a school till he had secured the bond, and he was aware that he was in the deacon's power. He, therefore, reluctantly acquiesced, And having called for the Major's nightcap another half-month, he retired to lose his sleep, all memory of his troubles. He had been in a horizontal position some thirty minutes, when a voice in the entry was heard to exclaim, In what number is Master Tuttle? Number six, ninth range, was a response within, from one who was evidently in the state called Dream. Thus directed, the Enquirer, who was seeking graves, opened the door and approached Tuttle. Out of several shakes, he was sufficiently aroused to comprehend the object of his visit.
The deacon informed him that he had just ascertained there would be preaching in the sabbath, in the little village below. In that case, he had felt it to be his duty to attend the meeting, and, as it was contrary to his practice to ride on that day, he had concluded to proceed without delay. "'I shall there wait for you,' said the deacon, and, as it is a case of necessity, perhaps you had better drop down about night four.' Master Tuttle expressed his surprise at this alteration in the arrangement so far as to open one eye, but it closed again ere the form of his neighbor had fairly receded. It may well be supposed that Sunday was a day of weariness to the impatient Tuttle, and we are compelled to acknowledge that he was less interested in the moral tracts than in the major's poker.
In the afternoon he became somewhat more reconciled to a situation. Having noticed, among the jugs and bottles adorned the bar, a copy of the Village Harmony. This led to inquiries which resulted in the discovery that the major himself was no stranger to that great work. So far as regarded the soprano, and that cabal slocum, then in the bar-room, was the most powerful altar in that section. The voices of this worthy trio were soon in full cry. Nor did they cease till the major's call for a candle admonished the chorister that it was time to commence his journey. It was late in the evening when Tettle arrived at the village where he expected to join the deacon, but to his surprise he found only a note from him, in which he regretted his inability to wait, as intelligence from home required his immediate departure.
This was a great disappointment. He had no fallenness for travelling in the dark without a companion, but he had already lost a day in the pursuant of Grey's tracts, and the vacation had drawn to a close. The result of his deliberations was to refresh man and beast, and pursue his solitary route. At the close of the second day, he had the satisfaction of reaching the town where the envied owner of No. Six Ninth Ridge resided. Though worn down with fatigue, he recollected that delays were dangerous, and proceeded at once to the proprietor's mansion. On gaining admittance, he was considerably agitated. It might be that he was even now too late, and yet if he manifested any anxiety about this favorite lot, It would serve only to enhance the price of it.
Instead, therefore, of an immediate assault upon the stable, he approached gradually, and made what might be called his first parallel by some remarks upon the weather. In the second, he advanced to pine-trees. "'I understand,' says Tuttle, "'that you generally bond at two dollars per acre.' "'Yes, that has been my practice, but for some of those townships it is really too great a sacrifice.' Why, as to that, it is about six of some, and half a dozen of the others. I found more stones than trees, Arborus arborum, as I say to my scholars. But on the whole, I have concluded to venture a little. Well, Mr. Chettle, you can have your choice. So I thought. And I rather guess, all things considered, I'll take a bond of five thousand acres in number six ninth range.
In that number you can have five, ten, or fifteen thousand. Or twenty, I suppose, if I wanted them. Rejoined Tuttle, endeavouring to appear calm, but filled with emotions that might truly be called pleasurable. Not exactly, rejoined the proprietor. The north-easterly quarter of that township has just been purchased by a Mr. Graves. Had the point of a needle at that moment penetrated his epidermis, the leap of Tuttle would not have been less violent than it was at this intelligence. A cold sweat covered his forehead, the jiggler became enlarged, and although certain guttural sounds were emitted, not a word was intelligible. "'Pardon me,' cried Tuttle, when he had partially recovered himself. "'Pardon me, but that deacon, that hypocrite, that beechnet, that earthworm, that mammon of unrighteousness, has blasted all my hopes.' Upon this, he flung open the door, discharging in his retreat such a volley of epithets as convinced the proprietor that his dicablery must be large.
We will not attempt to describe the feelings of our explorer as he entered reluctantly the domestic circle. Nor, lest we injure the cause of haven, will we lift the veil from certain scenes that followed. If he hummed a tune about that time, and he had that habit, it probably was not sweet home. That Mrs. Tuttle poured out the wails of her wrath is certain, and it is equally so that a few of the drops fell on her husband for being so easily duped. But the iniquity of David Graves caused most of the contents to fall upon his own head, and such was her indignation that it might be said the wails followed. Mrs. Tuttle was not one of those who could submit in silence to what she considered a gross wrong.
The story began to circulate with the usual addenda at each repetition, and soon became the engrossing topic of Tabby The brethren of the West Parish now found it necessary to come forward and call the deacon to account. Several meetings were held, and the charges fully sustained, and yet adjournments were moved and carried without coming to any definite result. Such a course served only to increase the popular clamor and gave rise to the remark that the wealth of deacon graves would prove a sufficient shield and that inequity in high places could be practiced with impunity. Parson Briggs, who was imbued with the very spirit of that religion which, for a long period he had endeavoured to make acceptable to others, was resolved that his church should no longer be obnoxious to such a charge.
On the next Sabbath, he gave a powerful discourse from these words, If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out. He demonstrated that the cause of Christianity would cease to advance unless there was something like purity in the conduct of its professors. That, the higher they are standing in society, the greater the mischief when they violated its precepts, and the greater the necessity that the offending member be removed. This was urged with an earnestness that went home to the heart. And when, at the close of the service, he requested the male members to stop, it was considered that the deacon was standing on slippery ground. Curiosity was on tiptoe, and the crowd, instead of going directly home, lingered upon the steps and filled the entry.
In the latter place, there was a momentary scuffle, and notwithstanding the exertions of the sexton, the three terrible boys maintained their post at the keyhole. As a solicitation of Mrs. Martin, Shea Biles also mounted a block, and clinging to the windowsill, endeavored to secure the advantage afforded by a broken pane. But he had hardly obtained the desired position ere the sex didn't remove the problem, and Biles descended with a momentum that effectually checked all desire to renew his efforts. After nearly an hour of painful anxiety passed by those without, the meeting was dissolved. But the members, as they passed along, preserved a mysterious silence and answered inquiries by a shake of the head only, as grave as it was equivocal.
The result of their doings leaked out, however, sooner than they expected. Sam Johnson had hid in the gallery. The sentence was, and it passed unanimously, that Mr. Greaves should pay to Master Tuttle five hundred dollars, he having admitted that he could clear five thousand by the purchase, that he should no longer be called deacon, and should be suspended till he had made the above payment, asked forgiveness of the church, and satisfied them of his repentance. This verdict was very acceptable to the community, and added greatly to the popularity and influence of Parson Briggs. It was remarked that the Sunday following the meeting house was unusually full, and the number since then has so much increased that an addition of fifteen feet by sewing through the centre is seriously talked of.
The last time the writer was at Tabbable, a great change had occurred. The land fever had subsided, And the description of number six, as given by Tuttle, was so far at variance with all other accounts that it was evident he had entered another lot. Mr. Grays was then endeavouring to compromise with his creator by giving up his purchase, losing his first payment, and, with the conveyance of a moiety of the homestead, to liquidate the balance. The Bellow-Stark cheese with green body was long ago sold at auction. It was now owned by Mrs. Tuttle. But in justice to that lady we must add that she caused it to be painted brown, out of regard to the feelings of Mrs. Graves, and that the latter is to be seen on her left when she rides to the West Parish.
Master Tuttle is now too unweirdly to gain admission. Nevertheless he contrives to reach the gallery in season for the first tune, and still sustains his reputation on the voile. Deacon Grace, for he is again a deacon, is an altered man. and a prominent member of the Taberville Association for Moral Reform. In a speech at a recent meeting, he urged the necessity of circulating tracts, and would have succeeded in his motion had it not been seconded by Master Tuttle. The latter remarked that he could speak from experience on that subject, having derived no little benefit from them by only one day's reading, while at the mug-and-poker. This speech, while it flushed the countenance of Deacon Grace, Disturbed in no small measure the gravity of the audience.
Even Parson Briggs found it difficult to cry order, the corners of his mouth having a strong tendency upward in spite of his efforts to pull them down. Portland, Maine
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4 04 - The Dairyman's Bill 11:36
21. The Rover, Volume 1, Number 21, edited by Seba Smith and Laurence Libri. Section 4, The Daring Man's Bill. A dark and stormy evening in February is not a time when anyone who has freedom of choice will leave a warm fire-side for a walk in the sheltered streets. But with the worthy man whom we are about to introduce to our readers, there was no alternative. Sandy Patterson was a dairyman in the suburbs of Edinburgh, who maintained his little family by the sale of produce of two cows. His wife and their only child, a company good of nineteen, were all Sandy's household, and every member of it took a share of the labour, which supplied the few and humble wants. Their small cottage was neat and clean, as were also the inmates themselves.
Low their countenances on the rainy February night in question betokened depressed and sorrowful hearts. "'Heaven speed, the good man,' said the wife, as Sandy Patterson threw his plate about his shoulders, and prepared to encounter the blast without. "'Heaven speed, ye, or else will we harried and ruin creatures the more. What a nice two to gang-o-doors in. Help yourself up, Sandy, and put the bonnet firm on your head.' For that wind is enough to tear the coat off your back. But the trial ma'en be made. Her husband drew his point tightly over his grey and scanty hairs as he was desired, and, after speaking a few words of hope and comfort, left his spouse and daughter alone in their lonely tenement.
The dairyman was too much enough exposure at all seasons to feel any great distress from the sleety rain, which fell in fitful showers around him as he proceeded along the cause's side toward the centre of the city. Few passengers were in the streets that night. The many closed shutters showed that all who could remain within doors could enjoy themselves in their parlours. Poor Sandy Patterson walked on, scarcely conscious of the storm having that on his mind which rendered him heedless of any personal inconvenience. He reached at last one of the most fashionable streets in the new quarter of the city, and stopped in front of a handsome mansion, which, unlike the journality of those around it, was not closed and shuttered up.
On the contrary, A brilliant flood of light came from the windows, and the sound of music and mirth were audible even in the street. Sandy Patterson was the least envious of mortals. Still, he could not forbear a sign, as he listened and gazed. With a slow step, he mounted the stair of that abode of enjoyment, as it seemed to be, and applied his hand timidly to the bell. No answer followed his gentle pull. The sound was perhaps drowned in the revelry within. Sandy pulled again, and with a very little additional energy. A man's servant, in plain clothes, now opened the door to the question, What do you want? Patterson replied, I am sorry to give you trouble, sir, but I am the milkman. I have been once or twice of late about the bitter count for the milk that the family has forgotten, and though it is an untimious hour, I would be greatly obliged if it could be settled and night.
I would have been late to trouble, yea, but I am in so want of it. The servant, who had been listening to the speech with the door open to the least possible extent that the blast might not visit the interior, now asked the petitioner to come into the lobby while he should mention the matter to his master. Sandy, with many scrubbing of his feet, did as he was required, and took a chair pointed out to him. Here his patience, and he had a great deal of it, was not long tried. The man, having gone upstairs, returned in a minute or two with the answer. It was not convenient to settle recount at present. This was an extraordinary time to come in quest of money. He must call again in a day or two, on Saturday, perhaps, or Monday.
The answer was a dreadful blow to the humble done. The sum, which was owing by this family to him, amounted to more than between four and five pounds. But that sum was of the greatest consequence to him. He had already called for payment between nearly a dozen times, although he had modestly mentioned only once or twice, and sad necessity alone had pressed him to renew his claim on the present occasion. Unless he procured the sum he was in quest of, his cattle and his furniture, his all in short, would be seized on the morrow by legal execution, and brought to public sale. The disconsolate petitioner attempted, in language broken by the heaviness of his heart, to make the footman aware of the state of matters.
But seeing that his word made not the slightest impression, he drew his blade about him, and turned away from the scene of his disappointment. On returning to his home, Sandy Patterson well-may gave way to an agony of despair. Without hearing a word from his lips, his wife and daughter read in his look the frustration of their hopes. "'So they have served you as usual, Sandy,' said the wife at last. "'Just the old story,' all again, not convenient,' was the husband's sorrowful reply. "'What is to be done now, Nanny?' continued the poor man, rising in striding an agitation up and down the floor. "'What is it to be done now?' I do to be a clean-ruined, not even the means left to us of winning our morsel of meat.
And you too, Peggy, poor thing, stopping and laying his hand on his daughter's head. This disgrace may guard some folks slight you, and that would be sair for you to bite. Nae fears o'er that father, said the daughter. If William, if anybody, continued she, correcting herself, were to slight us for the misfortunes that we couldna have, this corn wouldna wax me sae. Who can blame you for handing out a helping hand to your ain't brother? He may be not to blame neither poor man, but if a foot can be laid at anybody's door, it's his, and no to yours, father, and the craters that may take a you half the morn are his and no yours. Sure, and that's true, Peggy, said Sandy, sitting down with something like composure.
There's nae disgrace, in't at least, and that's a great consolation. The poor family, Though divested of all hope of acquiring the sum of money which Sandy had gone in search of, now sat down calmly to speak of their affairs. Twenty pounds was the sum for which their stock was to be seized. Of this they had mustered only ten pounds. And their anxiety about the account which had been sought that night arose from the promise of the principal creditor to stop proceedings and allow more time if fifteen pounds were paid. In this their hopes had been disappointed, as we have seen. Before retiring to seek their repose, which none of them, it is to be fair, enjoyed that night, Sandy Patterson and his family knelt down as usual, and thanked their maker for all his mercies, beseeching at the same time strength to submit to his will.
The performance of this act of devotion was not without its effect in composing the spirits of the suffering family. As it brought to their minds the refreshing recollection that whatever might happen to them on this earth, there was one whose protection man could not deprive them of. We now asked the reader's company while we returned to that mansion of comparative luxury from the door of which Sandy Patterson had turned away in sorrow and sickness of heart. Several hours after his visit, the doors of that house once more opened, not to admit dunce, but to admit the gay and fashionable to pass out after the entertainment was over. It is not what then we have to do, however. Therefore, let us walk upstairs and into the room now emptied of its visitors and tenanted only by the ordinary inhabitants of the mansion.
Mr. Davidson, for such was the name of the host, then remained alone in the drawing-room with his wife and eldest daughter. Davidson, let us premise, was a man of easy and somewhat indolent nature, but remarkably liable to be affected by general impulses. The income which he derived from his profession was ample, and it was rather from a want of system in the management of his household than any other cause that poor Sandy had remained so long unpaid. Stretching himself listlessly on a sofa, he began with his lady to chat over the incidents of the party, and among other circumstances to which he alluded was that ludicrous application of a daily man for the payment of his bill, by which he had been interrupted in the midst of a very profound discussion on the merits of her squadrons.
At this allusion his daughter, a fine child of eleven years, approached and with a tear in her eyes said, Ah, but papa, the poor man was obliged to come tonight. For his cows are to be sold tomorrow for his own debts. I heard him tell John so, as I was crossing the lobby. Poor man! He cried as he went away. "'Good heavens!' exclaimed the conscious, stricken debtor. "'Can it be possible?' Was this the cause of his late application? "'Which I only laughed at. Can anyone tell me where he lives?' Inquiry was made below stairs. But no one knew more than that Sandy lived somewhere in the south side of the town. They did not even know his last name. "'I will instantly go.' cried Davidson, and find out myself.
And in spite of his wife's demonstrances, he dressed himself for the weather, and accompanied by a servant, set out to the dark and rainy streets. Long and anxiously did he search, but in so populous a district, with so imperfect a knowledge of the individual he was in quest of, it is not wonderful that he did not discover Sandy's residence. At length, from an old lady who kept a small shop in which milk was one of the articles sold, he learnt enough to give him the strongest hopes of having discovered the man he sought. The residence of this man, however, was at so great a distance from the spot in which he was that Mr. Davidson saw the necessity of returning home for the time to relieve his wife's anxiety.
At an early hour, he was resolved to resume his inquiries in the quarter to which he had been directed. Mrs. Davidson and her husband slept but little in the few hours that now intervened between night and morning. So deep was the impression which the incident we have awaited made on their minds. Davidson had been directed fortunately to the right quarter. The officials of the law had reached Sandy Patterson's humble abode. He refused his request for a little time, in consequence of his inability to produce the fifteen pounds. Nanny and her daughter were sitting in a corner, hopeless. and soon to be, to all appearance, houseless. One of the cows was already brought out from its stall, and stood lowing at the door, amid a crowd of intended purchasers.
Already was the poor cow put up when Mr. Davidson arrived, made himself known, and put a stop to the proceedings. Conceiving himself to be in some measure the cause of all their distress, he was not contented with paying the sum he owed to the poor daily man, but advanced enough to settle the whole amount of claims. The worthy Sandy could only speak his gratitude by tears. This affair was no less an error in this honest family's history than it was in that of Mr. Davidson. This night's experience taught him the lesson that the whole hope of family may be dependent on a sum altogether unimportant to the individual who owes it, and in the discharge of such obligation, benevolence is as much as to be gratified in many instances as conscientiousness.
It may serve to show the interest which he and his family ever after this period took in the Patersons when we mention that the little girl to whose accidental presence in her father's lobby the happy issue of this affair was owing, was permitted by her parents no long time afterward to dance at the wedding of Sandy's pretty daughter Peggy, who married a certain William hinted at, as the attentive reader may have observed at an early part of this true story.
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5 05 - Isadore, by C. D. Stuart 1:51
Isidore by C. D. Stewart Devotion's child is Isidore, with sunny curl and placid eye, a worshipper beneath the sky, to-day, henceforth, and evermore. Oh, I would love to kneel with her, to bow before the pleasant shrine, where she has plead with love divine, that sweet and holy worshipper. No stain of earth upon her brow, The trusting, meek, and gentle One, no deed her hand has ever done which asks for her repentance now. For love alone she fondly kneels, and lifts to heaven those quiet eyes, that blend their azure with the skies, as night around her forehead steals. Oh, when there comes a sadness o'er, This grieved and aching heart of mine, I'll turn to thee, sweet child divine, and kneel and pray with Isidore.
New York, July 1843.
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6 06 - A Mother's Story, by Elizabeth Oakes Smith 25:29
A Mother's Story My daughter, cherish that guilelessness and purity of feeling, which is now thy greatest charm. May the time never come when thy cheek shall be tinged with the blush of shame, or thy eye be averted with the consciousness of insincerity. Youthful purity is like a mirror, that a breath may tarnish, like the down upon the peach, which the rude hand may brush away. Ever mayest thou shrink from the imputation of evil, and recoil from the breath of suspicion. When the shadows of age shall gather about thee, and the commingling of physical infirmities shall make, in the beautiful metaphor of scripture, Even the grasshopper a burden, and thou shalt be compelled to say, in weariness and loneliness of heart, all is vanity and vexation of spirit.
Then may that period never be embittered by the consciousness of concealed errors and the remorse of a stricken conscience. Let me tell thee of one. Of personal beauty and mental endowment that might have made her pre-eminent even among the most gifted of her sex, and yet she passed away with a shadow upon her name, and the remembrance of her early glory made her final ruin more appalling. I remember the youth of Mary G., how she looked when she first appeared in the gay saloon, Her brilliant face glowed with animation, and she drank in the idolatry of gazing eyes and the murmurs of admiration that followed in her footsteps. She looked the impersonation of youth and happiness. Her very limbs seemed to partake of the innocent buoyancy of a fresh and guileless spirit.
To be almost airy with a delicious sensation of dreamlike pleasure. The learned paused at her side to partake of her easy and graceful nonsense, to listen to her beautiful sentimentality, and hear her talk of the great world, that to her fresh and innocent spirit looked another Eden. She had lived in retirement, and her knowledge of the multitudes of fellow-beings with whom she was Now, to associate, was collected from the perusal of her favorite authors, and having passed the alembic of her own pure and ideal intellect, had come forth elevated and purified. The gay and the fashionable gathered about her to listen to the thrilling melody of her voice, and look upon her beaming face. She talked with that freedom and eloquence which A woman of strong mind and ready knowledge will exhibit, when conscious of her powers, and full of the unsuspicious confidence of early life.
The votary of fashion looked upon her as a being of a higher order, a creature of intellect and beauty, with a heart, innocent and loving, and even childlike in its ever-gushing-up tenderness. I cannot describe her eyes. There was an almost thrilling brilliancy about them, together with a beaming loveliness, a half-veiled tenderness in their expression that made it dangerous to look upon them. Were the spirit prone to idolatry, Mary G. seemed the very one to lure the soul to the unhallowed worship. Thus did she move from one brilliant circle to another, the wonder, the admiration of all, even her own sex, perhaps slow to award, The mead to loveliness, caressed and quartered the smiles of one who apparently bore her honours so meekly.
Even Mary was deceived by the speciousness of her own appearance, nor thought of looking scrutinizingly into her own heart. So she clasped her arms upon her breast, unconscious that she held within a volcano of passion, Of woman's pride, of woman's weakness, and woman's fearful and unutterable love. All these were slumbering within, undisciplined, unsubdued, and ready to start into fearful energy when circumstances should rouse them from their sleeping. Yes, hers was the ease of conscious loveliness and amiability, resulting not from mental discipline, but from a mind untouched by care, and a spirit gratified in its unbounded pride. She smiled because the hidden mysteries of her own heart had never been revealed to her, or the fountain of human passion stirred up.
But the time came when she was to know the depth, the fearfulness and devotion of woman's love, when her very existence was to be swallowed up in that of another's, when her smiles and tears were no longer to obey her own will but to come and go at the bidding of another. Who shall teach the young heart to bound its affections, or say to the tide of early love, Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther? Mary loved with the fervour of girlhood. She yielded up all the energies of her soul to the dangerous passion, and in one of her high intellectual character and ardent temperament, the passion is exhibited in all its fearfulness and all its fascinations. It absorbed everything. Her lover became an object of idolatry.
She invested him with all the glorious attributes of a creature of romance. She overlooked the realities of life, and the hopes of futurity became blended with the felicity of the present moment. Time and space were as nothing to her lofty imagination, and she and her lover were the pure and happy inmates of a glorious star, far off in the wilderness of worlds, dwelling in perpetual quietude, and rejoicing for ever and ever in the happiness of beings who, like themselves, were created for holiness and love. With her, religion was rather a feeling than a principle, and her lover became associated with all the lofty and beautiful ideas of heaven-like grandeur and protecting love. Though absent, she believed his spirit might commune with hers, and she loved to dwell upon the mysterious sympathy between congenial spirits.
Indeed, her religious sentiments seemed to have become deepened by the awakening of this new passion, similar in its nature, though dissimilar in its object, to religious fervour. She knew nothing of the great world, where the lofty and holy aspirations of the human soul, those that assimilate us, boast, to the glorious image of our Creator, must be forever locked in the human breast, like a magnificent treasure, to be looked upon only in secrecy and solitude, when every eye is withdrawn, and none present except Him, who has thus endowed the spirit He has made, and poured into it a part of His own divine essence. She spake of religion as she would upon any subject that called unto exercise the exalted Sentiments of her mind, as unhesitatingly among the brilliant and the gay, as others would discuss the changes of the weather, or the attractions of a bell.
There was a gay party assembled at my friend Mr. O'blank. Mary was there, the one particular star that attracted all eyes. She stood beside a vase, filled with flowers of rare and delicate hue. She selected an amaranth, from the blossoms about her, and her mind in its native loveliness failed not to associate the idea of the undecaying hue of the amaranth with the perpetuity and indestructible nature of mind. She raised her dark, brilliant, soul-like eyes, and spake of the spirit, its powers, its capabilities, its longing for something holier and more enduring than the things of Earth, its capacity for assimilation to the Deity. Then she spake of earth as being only the great thoroughfare to eternity.
How beauty and splendour are scattered in our pathway, not to bind us to earth, but to cheer us on our pilgrimage and give us a foretaste of better things to come. There was an enthusiasm and simplicity in her words and manners that disarmed criticism and won all hearts. At length, with a blushing cheek and a voice thrillingly low, and distinct in its intonations, she spake of love, which, as it is the most absorbing of all the passions, so when unadulterated it becomes the most holy, the most in accordance with the spirit of the deity. In the spirit true to itself she likened it to the amaranth, which may be rent asunder and trodden underfoot, yet its beautiful hue will gleam up in the midst of its desolation, crushed but not destroyed.
Her lover looked What language could never express? Mary raised her beautiful, loving eyes with all the trustingness of her young heart, and smiled and blushed, and then, with a playful turn, at once, graceful and happy, such as only a woman of sentiment and talent is capable of turned the conversation upon another subject. Time passed away, and the brilliancy and bloom of Mary were no more. Let me pass over the details of devotion, of trustingness, childlike and innocent, Pass over the history of perfidy and art, the insidious wiles and heartless hypocrisy that finally triumphed over innocence and virtue. Let us turn from all these and leave the betrayer to his conscience and his God. Let woman ever look with compassion upon the frailties of her sex, and humbly bless him who has hedged her pathway so that evil may not enter.
The high-souled, the intellectual, and beautiful Mary was no more seen. In the gay saloon, the heartless crowd triumphed and derided. They told me the reproaches and unkindness of the haughty mother had driven the daughter to the very verge of insanity. Mrs. G. had gloried in the intellectual supremacy of her daughter, in her beauty and brilliancy, and had thus cultivated the head, while the passions were left to their own blind will, had made her the idol of the crowd, A creature of sentiment and impulse, with no fixed and determinate principle of action. And now, that the consequences of her own ill-judged course of education had recoiled upon herself, in humiliation and shame, the fountain of maternal love, powerful only as it administered to her own pride, became dry and embittered, And she returned harsh and upbraiding replies to the deprecating and remorseful words of her suffering daughter.
Poor Mary, her former brilliancy was now exhibited only in the fitful and uncertain energy of the maniac, and the fearful language of a ruined mind revealed what pride and wealth would have given worlds to conceal. I resolved to visit her and see if the kindness of friendship might not bind up the wounds of a broken spirit. When I entered the chamber, Mary was reclining upon the couch near the open window. Her face was turned from me, and I noted the fearful change which a few months had wrought in her appearance. Her limbs were thrown forward with a listlessness that indicated a total self-abandonment, and the languid clasping of her little hands showed an entire prostration of physical strength.
Her hair was parted simply upon her forehead that now shone with a clearness and transparency resembling a surface into which one might look. Her dark, melancholy eyes were turned listlessly to the window. The haughty mother seemed to suppress with difficulty the unfeeling words that struggled for utterance. Her cold, imperious demeanour would probably have compelled almost anyone except myself to retire. But I would have suffered anything in my own feelings, ere I would relinquish my determination to say something comforting to poor Mary. She seemed so absorbed in her own melancholy thoughts that she took no notice of the conversation that passed between me and her mother. "'I beg of you,' said Mrs.
G. "'Don't speak to Mary. I hate to hear her rave. Mother—dear mother,' cried Mary, turning suddenly toward us. Her fine eyes strained with a heart-rending expression of anguish. Mother, do you think it was the drug? My heart aches, dear mother. It yearns for the—' Peace!' cried she, springing with rage from her chair. "'I will send you to the hospital, where nobody will care for your ravings.' Mary relapsed silently into her former listlessness, and I perceived with horror Her features gradually settling into an idiotic immobility. All fear of her mother's displeasure, all thought of what Mary had been vanished. I saw only the friend of my girlhood, the loving and much-loved friend of my early years, when the heart is so prodigal of its treasures, when we never doubt that the friend we so tenderly love to-day will be equally beloved to-morrow.
I threw my arms about her neck and burst into a passion of tears, Poor Mary! She clung to me and wept, and sobbed like an infant, fearful of being torn from the arms of its nurse. Dear, dear Mary, I said, can you not pray? It will comfort your heart, Mary. It will ease your troubled spirit. Remember my religious feelings, rising in energy as I dwelt upon this subject. Remember that when father and mother forsake you, the Lord will take you up. Our father in heaven is more kind than earthly friends. He knoweth our weakness. He remembereth we are but dust. Mary sobbed convulsively. Her mother attempted to tear her arms from my neck. Don't, don't! We both cried beseechingly. But suddenly Mary started from my arms.
Mother! And she raised her slight form to its proudest height. Her little hand was raised, not with a menacing, but a determined air. Her pale lips were compressed, and her dark, glorious eyes were almost fearful in their haughty brilliancy. Mother, you may incarcerate me in a prison. You may bind fetters upon my limbs, and proclaim me a maniac, anything to conceal my humiliation. And for a moment her head dropped, and a crimson flush overspread her face. But, mother, pride may conceal, but it cannot destroy the canker at the heart. There it will be forever gnawing, the worm that never dies. Nay, stop me not. She added in a deep, firm tone as her mother attempted to approach her. I must speak.
There are things never designed to be locked in the human breast, things that cry in vain for the rocks, to cover them. Mother, mother, I am a murderer. But the guilt be upon your own head. What I am, you have made me. My ungovernable passions, my pride, my recklessness, are all your own. You have trained me year by year to be what you behold me, and now you loathe the work of your own hands. And the laugh and scorn of the maniac rang through the apartment. She started at the sound of her own voice, and for a moment pressed her little hand upon her forehead. Yes, yes, you tore me from the purity and sanctity of my own thoughts to glitter in the whirlpool of fashion. You taught me to debase the aspirations of a mind that would have gloried in its assimilation to the deity, to the unholy purpose of bowing down hearts that should be consecrated to God, to the unhallowed worship of one of his creatures.
What I at first loathed, at length became necessary, To my very existence. Who can stay the bounds of female vanity? Mother, mother, you gloried in all this. Daily and hourly did you help me to make me what I am. Had you but cautioned me, had you sought to guide me in the path in which I gladly would have trod? But no, you pushed me to the brink of the precipice. And yes, mother, behold in me your own handiwork. And again that fearful laugh, rang in our ears. Her mother, stamped with rage, I implored, almost on my knees, that I might visit her the next day, and took my leave. When I called the ensuing day, Mary was seated, in a little recess, where the light, struggling through the ample folds of the fringed curtain, fell, softened and flickering about her, and gave an indistinctness to the elegant contour of her figure as she sat with her head reclined, and her luxuriant hair, shading one side of her neck and bosom, and one might have imagined her some beautiful creation of the chisel, a magdalen, shrinking from observation and weeping over remembered frailties.
As I seated myself beside her, she languidly shook back the rich folds of her hair that had escaped from their confinement, and swept in waving masses to her lap. As she raised her eyes to my face, I perceived they were red with weeping. I took her attenuated fingers in mine, and we sat long and silently together. What could I say to comfort the weary, the desolate, the brokenhearted? I wept silently by her side. Poor Mary! The tears dropped one after another from her eyes, as if in the language of the weeping prophet of old her head had become waters. So noiseless was her sorrow that not a finger was moved. Her hand lay utterly motionless in mine, and not a sigh told of the hopelessness of her grief.
The tears dropped passively from her eyes, as if she had lost all recollection of her real situation, and retained only a vague, indistinct sensation of utter wretchedness. I put my arm about her waist, and rested her head upon my bosom, and with my fingers gently parted the masses of beautiful hair from her brow. "'Don't weep,' she said, looking compassionately in my face. "'It will make your heart dry and aching, and the bright and glorious sun will seem forever enveloped in a pall, and no one will smile upon you.' "'Then why do you weep, Mary?' I said, pressing my hand to her cheek. "'I weep to see you weep.' She laid her hand upon her forehead. Do you really weep because I weep? Did you never love and trust?
And—no, Mary, I've never sorrowed as you have. But tell me, love, what can I do to comfort you? Oh, lay your hand upon my heart, love, dear, and sing to me, sing to me. I am weary, weary, weary. Methinks could I lay my head upon my mother's bosom as I used to do when a weary child. And she would speak softly to me, and kiss my cheek. I might be happy once more, or might lay down my head and die, and sweet, sweet would be the rest of the cold grave. But do you really love me? Oh, what it is to love? And she dropped the hand she had raised to my cheek, and settled into my arms, overpowered by some sudden recollection. Her tears ceased to flow, and she lay utterly passive in my arms. Her weight seemed scarcely that of an infant's, so emaciated had she become.
"'Mary,' I said, breaking the oppressive silence, "'do you ever pray?' And I pressed her fervently to my bosom, even as a mother would caress a sick infant. She gasped for utterance. "'I have tried, tried, but it cannot be. I am a—that drug,' and she turned wildly round. And pressed her clasped hands upon her forehead. That drug! She compelled me to take it. She held it to my lips, and then not to afford me one glance, methinks one glance, even if it must die, would have been forever like a balm to my heart, would have been forever in my memory, like a perpetual pleading for mercy for me, for me its murderer. Oh, the fire that consumes this aching brain! Pray, oh, I have pressed my lips to the earth.
Have bowed till my limbs refused to sustain me, and then sunk prostrate to the earth, but not a word could I utter. Oh! Had the crime of the penitent on the cross been like mine? Mercy would have shuddered at the presumptuous cry for pardon. While she gave utterance to these passionate expressions of remorse, she had risen from my arms and stood before me with her hands clasped in the agony of despair. I dared not interrupt her. Oh, that I could pray, but when I make the attempt, a vision rises before me that seems to say, Dare the murderer pray, what I might have been, had it not been for thy pride and thy crime, eternity alone can disclose. Yes, when I would kneel and weep and pray, an infant with snowy robes, and radiant wings appears before me, and its pale, melancholy face seems to say, There is no hope for thee.
But once, once, it smiled, and it was an angel's smile, soothing, compassionating. This morning it sat with pitying look upon me, but it did not smile. Tears came to her relief, and I placed her beside me. Her mother entered. She spoke kindly and even looked tenderly upon her daughter. She proposed a ride. Mary looked earnestly in her mother's haughty face, but she could read nothing there except the unwanted expression of affection. She quietly permitted her mother to bind up her beautiful hair and arrange her shawl and hat. When all was finished, she cast a hurried and mournful glance around the apartment, threw her arms about my neck, and as she kissed, my cheek whispered, "'I shall never see you again.'" Poor Mary was indeed the last time.
Many were the conjectures as to her ultimate fate. At length that curiosity that contemns mystery of every kind discovered her in a lunatic asylum. Though I might have questioned her insanity, I dared not vouch for the sanity of her mind. I should have relied upon time, kindness, and religion to work their gradual ministering to a mind diseased. But the miserable mother— who had thus recklessly sacrificed all the kindly and holy affections of nature upon the altar of her pride. Wretched indeed were the days and the years of her pilgrimage. She spurned all human sympathy, encased in a triple armour of pride, fought to conceal the wounds of a stricken spirit and the gnawings of a conscience that would not slumber.
She gradually forsook That society which no longer welcomed her with its blandishments, and in the solitude of home, among her own dependents, indulged in that haughtiness and tyranny that could no longer be tolerated abroad. As sickness and finally palsy laid its trembling hand upon her, the few friends that had still adhered to her, weary with her incessant repinings, left her to the care of servants, and it is to be feared she often lacked Those attentions and kindnesses, which wealth can never purchase, but which must be the spontaneous offering of love. She was found one morning by the servants, dead in her bed, cold and distorted, as if the last struggle had been one of fearful agony.
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7 07 - The Spectre Ship of Salem 10:59
The Rover, Volume One, Number 21, edited by Siba Smith and Laurence Labrie. Section 7, the Spectre Ship of Salem. The Reverend Cotton Mather, Doctor of Divinity and Fellow of the Royal Society, an eminent clergyman of Boston in Massachusetts, who flourished about the end of the 17th century, wrote a curious book entitled Magnalia Christi Americana, in which he has exhibited not only his own but the prevalent superstitions of the times in which he lived, The country had been in the language of that period exposed to war from the invisible world, during which the inhabitants were afflicted with demons, and so wrought upon by spectres as to pine, languish, and die, under excruciating torments. Sometimes the demons attacked one part of the country, and sometimes another, and the object of the learned and reverend doctor's book is to authenticate the very tragical instances in which they infested the houses and afflicted the persons of the inhabitants.
Fleshy people says no. May burlesque these things, but when hundreds of the most sober people in the country, where they have as much mother-whip certainly as the rest of mankind, know them to be true, nothing but the absurd and forward spirit of Sadduceeism can question them. I have not mentioned so much as one thing that will not be justified if it be required by the oaths of more consistent persons than any that can ridicule these odd phenomena. And certainly few facts, if we may judge by the evidence, have been better established than the existence of witchcraft and the wars of prodigious spirits in the provinces of New England during the time of Dr. Mather. We have accounts of trials conducted with all the forms and implements of jurisprudence, in which many persons were convicted of holding communication with demons, and we have what is still more remarkable voluntary confessions of parties acknowledging themselves in league with the devil.
So far, therefore, as the records and archives of courts of law can verify the truth of any investigation, we must believe that many of the things which Dr. Mather has set forth are not only true as historical events, but also naturally incident, however rarely, to the condition and fortunes of men. It is not for us, however, to argue this matter. But many of the doctor's stories are really striking, reviewing them merely as creations of fancy, and some of the phenomena which he describes and boasts of having witnesses to confirm have in different ages been seen in similar forms, and in countries far remote from New England. The prodigy of the cross, which Constantine and his army beheld in the air, is of this description, and the apocalypse vouchsafed to Godfrey in the Crusade is of the same character.
Dr. Mather describes noise and hustlings heard in the air, a short time prior to the Indian War of 1675, accompanied with the beating of drums as in a battle. But without entering into any particular disquisition concerning these omens and argueries, We shall here present a version of his story of the naval apparition, only promising that it contained several particulars which the doctor has not noticed, but which, we are persuaded, are not less true than those he has related. Blackwood's Magazine. A ship called Noah's Dove was preparing to sail from the port of Salem for Old England when a young man, accompanied by his bride, came and engaged berths for himself and her as passengers. No one in all Salem was in the slightest degree acquainted with this handsome couple, nor did they themselves seek any acquaintance in the town, but until the vessel was ready, lived in the most secluded state.
Their conduct was perfectly blameless, and their appearance was highly respectable, but the sharp-sighted people of Salem knew the prestigious appearance of the demons which afflicted the country, and they discerned something about them which could not be deemed otherwise than mysterious. Many persons intending to visit their friends in the old country took passages also in the Noah's Dove, but the friends of some of them thought they were rash in doing so, and that it would be as well to learn something of their two questionable fellow-passengers before hazarding themselves at sea with persons so unknown and singular. These admonitions gave occasion to much talk in Salem, but instead of having the effect intended, a fatal obstinacy became prevalent, and prevented every one who proposed to sail with the vessel from paying the slightest attention to them.
This strange infatuation only served to deepen the interest which the town took in the departure of the ship. At last the day appointed for her sailing arrived. Never had such a solemn day been seen in Salem, and moreover it happened to be a Friday. For the captain was not such a godly man as the mariners of Salem generally were in those days. A great multitude crowded the wharves to see their relations embark. All were sorrowful and many in tears. At last the ship hoisted the signal for sailing, and wonderful to tell, at the same time that the flag was unfurled, a blackbird much like a raven, alighted on the hand of the town clock, and by its weight pushed it forward some said full ten minutes.
Every one who witnessed this sight was struck with horror, and some laid hands upon their relation to prevent them from embarking, but those who had engaged to go with the fated vessel were wilful and would not be controlled. During these struggles the two unknown strangers came also to embark, and she that was the bride was in tears, weeping bitterly. However they stepped on board, and a sudden gust of wind at that moment, the ship being cast loose from her moorings, made her yaw off, and she was almost instantly at sea. The crowd, however, remained anxiously watching her progress until she was out of sight. They then returned to their respective houses, and the whole conversation of Salem for that evening was saddened with resentments and forebodings concerning the Noah's Dove.
In the course of the night the breeze freshened into a gale, which before the morning was heightened to a tempest. The sea raged with tremendous fury, and the rack of clouds that careered in the heavens was scarcely less tumultuous than the angry waves in the ocean below. All the inhabitants of Salem were persuaded that the hurricane had something to do with the mysterious passengers in the Noah's Dove. Many were instinctively convinced that the ship had perished, and resigned themselves to grief. For three days and three nights the wrath of the storm was unmitigated. On the contrary, it seemed to increase, for although it was then midsummer, dreadful showers of hail mingled with fire and thunder, louder than had ever been heard before, pealed continually.
No man could doubt the fate of Noah's death. Indeed, it was the persuasion of all that every vessel which was so unfortunate as to be within the sweep and frenzy of the winds and waves could not survive the vehemence of their destruction. The sun on the morning of the fourth day burst through the clouds in great splendor, the winds almost instantly became calm, the hail ceased, the thunder was mute, and the billows from raging surges rolled themselves into a noiseless swell. A change so abrupt convinced the pious inhabitants of Salem that the doom of the vessel was sealed, and although it was in vain to expect that the sea would present them with any sight of her wreck or of that of other vessels.
They hastened in great numbers down to the shore, where they stood until sunset, gazing and wondering with anxiety and sorrow. Just as the sun disappeared, a sound of exclamation and hurry, accompanied by movements, arose from a group of persons who were standing on the top of the rock, considerably elevated above the crowd, and someone cried that a vessel was in sight. The whole multitude on hearing this were thrown into commotion, and fluctuated to and fro, eager to catch a glimpse of this unexpected phenomenon. It was, however, long before she came, distinctly in sight, for any wind which was then blowing was off the shore and against the vessel, insomuch that an old gray-headed sailor among the spectators declared that it was impossible she could work into the harbor that night.
But to their astonishment she still came forward, with her yards squared and her sails full, notwithstanding she was staring in the wind's eye. Before her haul could be properly seen, it was the opinion of all who beheld her that it was the Noah's Dove. By this time the twilight was much faded, but it began to be observed that the ship brightened as if some supernatural light shone upon her alone. This wonderful circumstance was not long matter of doubt or question, for when the stars appeared she was seen as distinctly as if she had been there in the blaze of noonday, and a panic of dread and terror fell upon the whole multitude. The Rev. Zebedee Stubbin, who was then in the crowd, an acute man and one who feared the Lord, knew that the Appearance ship was a device of the prestigious spirits, and that it behooved all present to pray for protection against them.
He therefore mounted upon a large stone, and called on the spectators to join him in the forty-sixth Psalm, which he himself began, repeating the line aloud, and then singing. The shores echoed with the solemn melody, and the rising wind wafted it along the increasing waves. While the worship was going on, the sound of sudden cries and lamentations as a person in jeopardy was heard in the air. The ship at the same time came straight on into the harbor, and being illuminated as described, was seen rigged out in every part exactly like the Noah's dove. Many of the spectators saw their friends on board, and would have shouted to them with joy, but there was something dismal and strange in their appearance, which awed them to remain silent.
The strange young man and his bride were seen tenderly embracing each other, but no noise or voice. was heard on board. At that moment the masts and rigging fell into the sea as if they had been struck down, with lightning, and signals of distress were displayed, but still no sound was heard. The multitude suspended their breathing, convinced that the vision before them was the unsubstantial creation of the prestigious spirit. This belief entered all their minds simultaneously, and in the same moment the mighty spectre vanished. The Noah's dove was never heard of. And it was believed that in that hour, riven by the lightning and the tempest, she had foundered. Count me not, says the Rev. Dr. Mather, at the conclusion of his narration, struck with the Livian superstition in reporting prodigies for which I have such incontestable proofs.
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8 08 - Sir Patrick Hume; A Tale of the House of Marchmont. From Tales of the Borders, by John Mackay Wilson 22:47
NUMBER 21. Section 8. Sir Patrick Hume, A Tale of the House of Marchmont, from Tales of the Borders, by John Mackay Wilson.
Sir Patrick Hume of Polworth was elected representative of the County of Berwick in the year 1665. Being then in the twenty-fifth year of his age, he was a lover of freedom, a lover of his country. and a staunch Presbyterian. The tyrant Charles, whom some falsely called the Merry Monarch, was then attempting to rule the Empire with a rod of iron. You have all heard of his long Parliament, and of his afterward governing the country like an absolute tyrant, without a Parliament at all. Fettered and servile as Parliaments then were, young Hume had boldly stood forward as the advocate of civil and religious liberty. And when the arbitrary monarch sent down a mandate to Scotland for a levy of men and of money, that he might carry his plans of despotism the more effectually into execution, Sir Patrick resisted the slavishness with which he was about to be obeyed.
"'What!' exclaimed he. "'Are we mere instruments in the hands of the king?' Creatures appointed to minister to his pleasure? Are we not representatives of the people of Scotland, the representatives of their wants and their wishes, and the defenders of their rights? And shall we, as such, at the mere nod of a monarch, drag them from following their plough in the valley, or attending their hersels on the hill? Shall we do these things, and lay contributions on their cattle? On their corn, and on their coffers, merely because his majesty wills it? Pause, my countrymen. The king has no authority to compel such a measure, and it can only be rendered legal by the concurrence of the assembled representatives of the people.
Treason! vociferated the Duke of Waterdale, who was the archminian of Charles. Before the Parliament of Scotland, I denounce Sir Patrick Hume as a dangerous man, as a plotter against the life and dignity of our sovereign Lord the King. What? exclaimed Sir Patrick, indignantly fixing his eyes upon Lauderdale. Though there may be among us a slave who would sell his country for a royal smile, I still hope that this is a free Parliament, and it concerns all the members to be free. in what concerns the nation. From that day Sir Patrick Hume became a suspected man, and the eyes of the king's creatures were upon him, and when two years afterward Charles endeavored to put down the people with the sword and established garrisons throughout the country, again the laird of Polwarth stood foremost in the ranks of opposition and resisted his power.
The king accordingly ordered his privy council to crush so dangerous a spirit, and Sir Patrick was confined in Stirling Castle, where, with the exception of a short interval, he was imprisoned two years. Britain had long been distracted with the pretended discovery of the fabulous or ridiculous plots against the royal family, and the perjury of paid miscreants Like the infamous Titus Oates was causing the scaffolds to run with blood. But tyranny being glutted with Catholic blood, and the extinguishing of what were called poppish plots, the Myrmidons of Charles, who lived a libertine and died a papist, professed that they had discovered a Protestant plot against this royal person. In this plot were included the incorruptible Algernon Sidney, Lord Russell, Mr.
Bailey of Jerviswood, and Sir Patrick Hume. They beheld their common country withering and wasting beneath the grasp of a tyrant, and, true it is, they had united together to restore it to freedom. But they were innocent of designs against his life, or even of a wish to dethrone him. They did not, however, act sufficiently in concert, and were unable to bring their plans into operation. A price was set upon their heads. Some fled into exile, and others sought refuge on the mountain and in the wilderness, while the amiable Russell died upon the scaffold. It was near nightfall in the month of September, 1684, when Jamie Winter, who was joiner on the estate of Polworth, ran breathless up to Red Brace Castle.
and knocked loudly at the door. It was opened by John Allen, the land steward, who, perceiving his agitation, inquired, "'In the name of goodness, Jamie, what's happened? Or what do ye want?' "'Den's ask, meister Allen,' replied Jamie, "'but for heaven's sake, tell me, is Sir Patrick at home? And let me speak to him presently, as he value his life.' "'Follow me, then, Jamie,' said the other, and come in quietly, that the servants may not observe anything extraordinaire, for we live in times when a man cannot trust his own brother. The honest joiner was ushered into a room where Sir Patrick sat in the midst of his family, acting at once as their schoolmaster and their playmate. "'Weel, James,' said the laird.
"'I understand he had been at Berwick the day. You've got early back. What's uncoze heard you here?' "'I want Sir Patrick.' replied the other. Nowadays I think there's nothing uncouth that can happen. Satan seems to have been let loose on our poor, misgoverned country, but I wish to speak to your honor very particularly, and in private, if you please." You may speak on, James," said the laird. I am private in the midst of my own family. Will your good leave, sir, returned the cautious servant. I would rather the bairns were Oot out of the way, for what I has to say is no prosper for them to hear, and the sooner ye are acquainted with it, the better. Sir Patrick led his younger children out of the room, but requested Lady Paulworth and their eldest daughter, Griselle, a lovely dark-haired girl, about twelve years of age, to remain.
You are the bearer of evil tidings, James, said he, as he returned, but you may tell them now. It is meet that my wife should hear them. If they concern me—and," added he, taking Griselle's hand in his,—I keep no secrets from my little secretary. "'God bless her,' said James. "'She's an old-farent bairn, as wise as she's bonnie Ikeen at. But, Your Honor, I am indeed the bearer of evil tidings. A party o' troopers arrived at Berwick this morning, and it was nae secret that there would be Bath at Jerviswood and Red Brace before midnight.' I heard them talk of the premium that was set upon your life, and slipped out of the town immediately, without performing a single transaction, or speaking a word to a living creature.
How I've got along the road is more than I can tell you, for I was literally sick, blind, and desperate with grief. I've this minute arrived, and whatever can be done to save you, ma'en be done instantly." Lady Palworth burst into tears. Sir Patrick grasped the hand of his faithful servant. Little Grizel gazed into her father's face with a look of silent despair, but neither spoke nor wept. "'Oh, fly! I fly instantly, my dear husband,' cried Lady Polworth. "'And heaven direct you!' "'Be composed, my love,' said Sir Patrick. "'I fear that flight is impossible, but some means of evading them may perhaps be devised.' "'Oh, my lady,' said Jamie Winter, "'to flee is out of the question altogether.' Government has its spies at every turn of the road, in every house in the country, even in this house.
Our only hope is to conceal Sir Patrick, but how or where is it not my comprehension?" Many were the schemes devised by the anxious wife, many the suggestions of her husband, and honest Jamie proposed numerous plans, but each was, in its turn, rejected as being unsafe. More than an hour had passed in these anxious deliberations. Within three hours more, and the king's troops would be at his gate. Grisel had, till now, remained silent, and dashing away the first tear that rolled down her cheek, she flung her arms around her father's neck, and exclaimed in an eager and breathless whisper, "'I canna place, father. I canna place that the king's troopers and his spies will never find out, and I'll stop beside ye.' "'To bear you company.' "'Bless my bairn,' said Sir Patrick, pressing her to his bosom.
"'And where's this place, dearest?' "'The isle below Polworth Kirk, father,' returned Griselle. "'Nay trooper will find out such a hiding-place, for the mouths a bit we whole, and the long grass and the docks and the nettles grow over it, and I could slip out and in without trampling them down. And nobody would think of seeking you there, father.' Lady Polworth shuddered. And Sir Patrick pressed the cheek of his lovely daughter to his lips. "'Save us, our bairn,' said Jamie. "'There's surely something no earthly about your ladyship, for you have mere senses than us put together. The isle is the very place. I'll steal away and a kind of bed put up in it, and take other two or three bits of necessary things, and, Sir Patrick, you'll step out of the house and meet me there as soon as possible.'" Within an hour, Sir Patrick had joined Jamie Winter in the dark and dismal aisle.
The humble bed was soon and silently fitted up, and the faithful servant, wishing his master farewell, left him alone in his dreary prison-house. Slow and heavily the hours of darkness moved on. He heard the trampling of the trooper's horses galloping in quest of him. The oaths and imprecations of the riders fell distinctly on his ears. Amid such sounds he heard them mention his name, but his heart failed not. He knelt down upon the cold, damp floor of his hiding-place, upon the bones of his fathers, and there, in soundless but earnest prayer, supplicated his father's God to protect his family, to save his country, to forgive his persecutors, and to do with him as seemed good in his sight. He arose, and, laying himself upon his cold and comfortless bed, slept calmly.
He awoke shivering and benumbed. Faint streaks of light stole into the place through its narrow aperture, dimly revealing the ghastly sights of the charnel-house, and the slow reptiles that crawled among the floor. Again night came on, and the shadows of light, if I may use the expression, which revealed his cell, died away. A second morning had come, and a second time, The feeble rays had been lost in utter darkness. It was near midnight, and the slender stock of provisions which he had brought with him were nigh exhausted. He started from his lowly couch. He heard a rustling among the weeds at the mouth of the isle. He heard someone endeavoring to remove the fragment of an old gravestone that covered it.
"'Father,' whispered in an eager voice, "'Father, it is me, your ain gazelle.' "'My devoted, matchless child,' said Sir Patrick, stretching his hands towards the aperture, and receiving her in his arms. He sat down beside him on the bed. She detailed the search of the troopers. She stated that they were watched in their own house, that a spy was set over the very victuals that came from their table, lest he should be concealed near and fed by his family. "'But what of that?' continued the light-hearted and heroic girl. While my plate is supplied, my father shall not be empty. And here," added she, laughing, here is a flask of wine, cakes, and a sheep's head. But I will tell you a story about the sheep's head.
It was placed on the plate before me at dinner-time. The servant was out of the room, nobody was looking, and I whooped it into my apron. Little Sandy wanted a piece, and, turning round for it, and missing the head, He cried. Our Grizzly has swallowed a sheep's head, bones, and I at this moment. We's glad he, said Mother. Eat she next and then. Oh, ye greedy Grizzly, shaking his little neave in my face. I'll mind you for this. I'm sure Sandy will never forget me, said I, and slipped away out to hide the sheep's head in my own room. And as soon as I thought nobody was astir, I creeped out quietly by the window and got down here. Behind the hedges, and I'll come every night, Father. But last night the troopers were still about the house.
In spite of his misery, Sir Patrick laughed at the ingenuity of his beloved and heroic daughter, then wept and laughed again, and pressed her to his bosom. He had passed many weeks in this cheerless dungeon, with no companion during the day, save a volume of Buchanan's Psalms. But every night he was visited by his intrepid daughter, who at once supplied him with food, and beguiled the hours of his solitude. He was sitting in the gloomy cell, conning over his favorite volume. The stone at the aperture had been pushed aside a few inches to emit the light more freely, and the weeds of the entrance were now bowled down and withered by the frost. A few boys were playing in the churchyard, and tossing a ball against the kirk.
Being driven from the hand of an unskillful player, it suddenly bounded into the aisle. Sir Patrick started, and the book dropped from his hand. Immediately the aperture was surrounded by the boys, and the stone removed. They stood debating who should enter, but none had sufficient courage. At length, one more bold than the rest volunteered to enter, if another would follow him. The laird gave himself up as lost. For he knew that even the tale of a schoolboy would affect his ruin. He was aware he could disperse these with a single groan. But even that, when told to his enemies, might betray him, at length three agreed to enter, and the feet of the first protruded into the aisle. Sir Patrick crept silently to his furthest corner, when the gruff voice of the old grave-digger reached his ears, shouting, "'The mischiefs and the callons and the gould.
What are you doing there? Do you want the guests of the old homes about your logs?' The boys fled in Maine, and the old man came growling to the mouth of the isle. "'The devil's in the bairns, old Palworth,' said he, for they would disturb the very dead in their graves. I'll declare they've the same free the mouth of the isle.' He stooped down, and Sir Patrick saw his grim visage through the aperture, and heard him thus continue his soliloquy as he replaced the stone. "'Sorrow take the hands that move the stone, yet hardly worth the covering up again. Fear are a profitless hold to me, and I fancy that him I should lay his knee next. But he where he likes will gang the gate that is freed Bailey, gate yesterday on a scaffold.'" The grave-digger's a poor business, I'm sorry to say, and our kings reign, and faint inane thrives but the common executioner.
So saying, he enveloped Sir Patrick in utter darkness. That night, Griselle and her father left the isle together, and from her he learned the particulars of what he had heard muttered by the grave-digger, that his friend, Mr. Bailey of Jervis Wood, had been executed the day previous. Disguised, and in the character of a surgeon, he, by byways, reached London, and from thence fled to France. On the death of Charles, and when the bigot James ascended the throne, Sir Patrick was one of the leaders of the band of patriots, who drew their swords on behalf of Protestant succession. That enterprise was unsuccessful, and, after contending almost single-handed against the enemies of his religion and his country, In his family sought refuge in a foreign land.
He assumed the name of Dr. Peter Wallis, and they took up their abode in Utrecht. There, poverty and privation sought, and found the exiles. They had parted with every domestic, and the lovely gazelle was the sole servant and helper of her mother. And when their work was done, the assistant of her father in the education of the younger children For he had no longer the means of providing them a tutor. Theirs was a family of love, a family of happiness, and poverty purified their affections. But their remittances from Scotland were not only scanty, but uncertain. Till now, Sir Patrick had borne his misfortunes with resignation, and even cheerfulness. He cared not that he was stripped of attendance, and of every luxury of life.
Yet, at times, the secret and unbidden tears would start in his eyes, as he beheld his wife and his fair daughter performing without a murmur the most menial offices, but the measure of his trials were not yet full. Luxuries were not only denied him, but he was without food to set before his children. The father wept, and his spirit heaved with anguish. Grizel beheld his tears, and she knew the cause. She spoke not. But, hastening to her little cabinet, she took from it a pair of jeweled bracelets, and wrapping herself up in a cloak, she took a basket under her arm, and hurried to the street. The gentle being glided along the streets of Utrecht, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and shunning the glances of the passengers as if each knew her errand.
She stood before a shop in which all manner of merchandise was exposed. and three golden balls were suspended over the door. She cast a timid glance into that shop. Thrice she passed and re-passed it, and repeated the timid glance. She entered. She placed the bracelets upon the counter. How much? was the laconic question of the shopman. Grizel burst into tears. He handed her a sum of money across the counter, and deposited the bracelets in his desk. She bounded from the shop with a heart and a step, light as a young bird in its first pride of plumage. She hastened home with her basket well filled. She placed it upon the table. Lady Polworth wept and fell upon her daughter's neck. "'Where have you been, Grizel?' faltered her father.
"'Purchasing provisions for a bauble,' said she, and the smile and the tear were seen on her cheek together. But many were the visits which the gentle grizel had to pay to the golden balls, while one piece of plate was pledged after another, that her father and her mother and her brethren might eat and not die. And even then the table of Sir Patrick, humble as it was, and uncertainly provided for, was open to the needy of his countrymen. Thus three years passed, and the memorable 1668 arrived. Sir Patrick was the friend, the counsellor, and supporter of King William. He arrived with him in England. He shared in his triumph. He was created Lord Polworth, and appointed Sheriff of Berwickshire. And, in 1696, though not a lawyer, but an upright man, he was made Lord Chancellor of Scotland, and created Earl of Marchmont, and Lord of Polworth, Redbrace, and Greenlaw.
He was one of the most ardent promoters of the Union, and with it ceased his political career. In 1710, when the Tories came into power, the Earl being the staunchest Whig in Scotland, who was deprived of the office of Sheriff of Berwickshire, was reinstated in 1715. His lady being dead, he came to take up his residence in Berwick-upon-Tweed, and there, when the heroic Griselle, who was now a wife and a mother, Being married to the son of his unfortunate friend, Mr. Bailey of Jerviswood, came with her children and friends to visit him for the last time. As they danced in the hall, though unable to walk, he desired to be carried into the midst of them, and beating time with his foot. "'See, Grizel!' exclaimed the old patriot.
"'Though your father is unable to dance, he can still beat time with his foot.' Shortly after this, he died in Berwick. On the 1st of August, 1724, in the eighty-third year of his age, leaving behind him an example of piety, courage, and patriotism, worthy the imitation of posterity.
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9 09 - First Minister from the United States to Great Britain 9:56
The Rover, Volume One, Number 21, edited by Siba Smith and Laurence Labrie.
Section Nine. First Minister from the United States to Great Britain.
The following narrative will be interesting to those of our readers who have not met with it. The introduction of the First Minister from the rebel colonies to the court of the mother country was a scene worth a voyage across the Atlantic to witness. In June, 1785, John Adams, the first minister plenipotentiary from the United States to the Court of London, had his introductory audience with King George, the third. An event so extraordinary, with circumstances so novel to us in America, led Mr. Adams to narrate the particulars in a letter to an intimate friend, which was kept private until after his death. It was thus. At one o'clock on Wednesday, the first of June, the master of ceremonies called at my house, and went with me to the Secretary of State's office in Cleveland Row, where the Marquis of Carmarthen received me, and introduced me to Mr.
Frazier, his under-secretary, who had been, as his lordship said, Uninterruptedly in that office through all the changes of administration for thirty years, having first been appointed by the Earl of Holderness. After a short conversation upon the subject of importing my effects from Holland, which Mr. Frazier himself introduced, Lord Carmarthen invited me to go with him in his coach to court. When we arrived in the antechamber, the master of the ceremonies introduced him, and attended me while the Secretary of State went to take the commands of the king. While I stood in this place, where it seems all ministers stand upon such occasions, always attended by the master of ceremonies, the room was very full of ministers of state, bishops, and all other sorts of courtiers, as well as the next room, which is the king's bedchamber.
You may well suppose I was the focus of all eyes. I was relieved, however, from the embarrassment of it by the Swedish and Dutch ministers, who came to me and entertained me with a very agreeable conversation during the whole time. Some other gentlemen, who I had seen before, came to make their compliments, too, until the Marquis of Carmarthen returned, and desired me to go with him to his Majesty. I went with his lordship through the levee room into the king's closet. The door was shut, and I was left with his majesty and the secretary of state alone. I made the three reverences, one at the door, another about halfway, and another before the present, according to the usage established at this and all the northern courts of Europe.
And then I addressed myself to his Majesty in the following words. Sire, the United States have appointed me Minister Plenipotentiary to your Majesty, and have directed me to deliver to your Majesty this letter which contains the evidence of it. It is in obedience to their express commands that I have the honor to assure your majesty of their unanimous disposition and desire to cultivate the most friendly and liberal intercourses between your majesty's subjects and their citizens, and of their best wishes for your majesty's health and happiness, and for that of your family. The appointment of a minister from the United States to your Majesty's Court will form an epoch in the history of England and America.
I think myself more fortunate than all my fellow citizens in having the distinguished honour to be the first to stand in your Majesty's royal presence in a diplomatic character. And I shall esteem myself the happiest of men if I can be instrumental in recommending my country more and more to your majesty's royal benevolence, and of restoring an entire esteem, confidence, and affection. Or, in better words, the good old nature and the good old humour between people who, Though separated by an ocean, and under different governments, have the same language, a similar religion, and kindred blood. I beg your majesty's permission to add that although I have some time before been instructed by my country, it was never in my whole life in a manner so agreeable to myself.
The king listened to every word I said, with dignity it is true, but with apparent emotion. Whether it was my visible agitation, for I felt more than I could express, that touched him, I cannot say. But he was much affected, and answered me with more tremor than I had spoken with, and said, Sir, the circumstances of this audience are so extraordinary, the language you have now held is so extremely proper, and the feelings you have discovered so justly adapted to the occasion, that I must say that I not only receive with pleasure the assurance of the friendly disposition of the United States, but that I am glad the choice has fallen upon you to be their minister. I wish you, sir, to believe, and that it may be understood in America, that I have done nothing in the late contest but what I thought myself indispensably bound to do by the duty which I owed to my people.
I will be frank with you. I was the last to conform to the separation, But the separation having been made, and having become inevitable, I have always said, as I now say, that I would be the first to meet the friendship of the United States as an independent power. The moment I see such sentiments and language as yours prevail, and a disposition to give this country the preference, that moment I shall say, let the circumstances of language, religion, and blood have their natural and full effect. I dare not say these were the king's precise words, and it is even possible that I may have, in some particulars, mistaken his meaning. For, though his pronunciation is as distinct as I have ever heard, he hesitated sometimes between members of the same period.
He was indeed much affected, and I was not less so, and therefore I cannot be certain that I was so attentive, heard so clearly, and understood so perfectly, as to be confident of all his words or sense. And I think that all which he said to me should, at present, be kept secret in America, except his Majesty or his Secretary of State should judge proper to report it. This I do say, that the foregoing is his Majesty's meaning, as I then understood it, and his own words as nearly as I can recollect them. The king then asked me whether I came last from France, and upon my answering in the affirmative, he put on an air of familiarity, and smiling, or rather laughing, said, There is an opinion among some people that you are not the most attached of all your countrymen to the manners of France.
I was surprised at this, because I thought it an indiscretion and a descent from his dignity. I was a little embarrassed, but determined not to deny the truth on the one hand, nor lead him to infer from it any attachment to England on the other. I threw off as much gravity as I could, and, assuming an air of gaiety and a tone of decision, as far as was decent, and said, "'That opinion, sir, is not mistaken.' I must have vowed to your Majesty I have no attachment but to my own country. The king replied as quick as lightning, An honest man will never have any other. The king then said a word or two to the Secretary of State, which being between them I did not hear, and then turned round and bowed to me, as is customary with all kings and princes when they give the signal to retire.
I retreated, stepping backwards, as is the etiquette, and making my last reverence at the door of the chamber, I went away. The master of the ceremonies joined me at the moment of my coming out of the king's closet, and accompanied me through all the apartments down to my carriage.
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10 10 - Romance of Real Life 4:51
On the 31st of August, 1778. says Baron Grimm, at nine in the evening. A ship for Rochelle, carrying a crew of eight men with two passengers, approached the head of the pier of Dieppe. The wind was so impetuous that a coasting pilot endeavored in vain four times to go out and direct its entrance into the port. Bouchard, another pilot, perceiving that a pilot of the ship made a maneuver which placed it in great danger, endeavored to guide it by means of the speaking trumpet and by signals. But the darkness of the night, the roaring of the winds, the noise of the waves, and the great agitating of the sea prevented the captain's hearing or seeing anything, and the vessel, running upon a rock, was wrecked about thirty fathoms above the pier.
Bouchard, hearing the cries of the unfortunate crew, who were in the utmost danger of perishing, in spite of all the representations made of him of the impossibility of giving them assistance, resolved to make an effort to save them. and ordered his wife and children, who tried to prevent him, to be carried away. He tied one end of a rope fast to the pier, and girding the other around his waist, threw himself into the midst of the furious waves, to carry the rope to the vessel, by means of which the people might be towed on shore. He approached the ship, but was thrown back again to the shore by the mighty force of the waters. Many times was he thus repulsed, and rolled with violence along the shore, While he was surrounded by broken relets of the ship, which was going to pieces very fast.
His ardor was not diminished. A wave carried him under the wreck, and he was concluded to be lost. But he soon reappeared. Bearing in his arms a sailor who had been thrown from the ship, he brought him on shore motionless and almost lifeless. At length, after a great number of vain attempts, he succeeded to conveying the rope to the vessel, and those of the crew who had strength enough remaining, tying it around them, they were dragged on shore. Bouchard thought he had saved every soul on board. Exhausted with fatigue, bruised and battered with the blows and shocks he had received, he reached his home with difficulty, and there fell down in a swoon. He was just brought to himself, having discharged a vast quantity of sea-water, and was recovering his spirits when he was told that a groaning was still heard on board the wreck.
The moment he learned this, he seemed inspired with new strength, and breaking away from those who were about him, Ran to the shore, got on board, and was fortunate enough to save one of the passengers, who, from weakness, had not been able to avail himself of the assistance given to his companions. Of ten men who had been on the ship, only two perished, and their bodies were found the next day. On this occasion, the following letter was written by Monsieur Necker to Boussard, agreeably to the order of Louis XVI. Brave man, I did not know till yesterday, by means of the Intendant, the courageous action you performed upon the thirty-first of August. I gave an account of it to the King, who has ordered me to express his high satisfaction, and to announce to you his part, that he makes you a present of a thousand livres.
I write with orders to this effect to the Intendant. Continue to succor others when you can, and put up prayers for your King, who loves brave men, and delights to reward them. Signed, Necker. Director General of the Finances. The courageous pilot received the letter, and the reward which accompanied it, with the utmost gratitude, only expressing surprise that his action of the thirty-first of August should have made so much noise, since he had shown the same zeal on many other occasions without ever thinking of any reward or receiving any. After paying his debts and buying new clothes for his wife and children, a thing which he had rarely been able to do before, He asked permission of the intendant to go to Paris, and thank Monsieur Necker, and see, if possible, the young king who loved brave men and delighted to reward them.
He went to Paris in the sailor's dress, which he had formerly bought for his wedding. Someone having asked him what could have inspired him with an intrepidity so where, he answered in these remarkable words, "'Humanity, and the death of my father. He was drowned.' I was not in the way to save him, and I swore from that moment to devote myself to the rescue of all whom I might behold in danger at sea. Was ever a more pure, a more sublime homage offered to filial piety?
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11 11 - Jewish Superstition 1:51
The Rover, Volume One, Number 21, edited by Siva Smith and Lawrence Labrie, Section 11, Jewish Superstition. When a man dies, they believe that the devil stands in ambush before the house in order to get possession of the corpse on its way to its last abode. As the rabbis, however, surround it all the way to interment, his infernal majesty is cowed by their presence, but still he follows the procession in hopes of finding some favorable opportunity, or of slipping it to the grave along with the defunct. When the body, therefore, is near the open grave, the bearers suddenly retreat with it to a certain distance, And a rabbi attending them throws some gold pieces as far as he can in different directions.
The devil, who is by this time either in the grave or near it, is tempted by the avarice to go and pick up the money, and while he is thus employed, the corpse is hurried back to the tomb and earth thrown over it. One day that I had talked about this custom to a more, who has a bigoted hatred to the poor Israelites, I asked him if it was not unlike a Jew to throw away his money. Ah, yes. said he, but it is very like a Jew to cheat the devil. In the burials of females, this scattering of money is never practiced. Satan, it is alleged, has troubles enough upon his hands to wish quitting hold of a woman.