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Title
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1836
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DANIEL PRIME.
___________
“Beware of Covetousness.”
[p. 215]
I remember, when a child, having my curiosity strongly excited by the fag end of a story which an old family servant was telling to my elders when I entered the room. “But are you sure,” asked a gentle lady, who could not give credit to such a demonstration of emotion, “are you sure his hair actually stood up?”
“As sure as that I see you now, ma’am; and an awful sight it was. He was a thickset, strong-built fellow, with a tripy skin—lips, cheeks, forehead, all one colour; his eyes were gray and large, and his eyebrows black as jet, and solid; but his hair was considerable gray, and cut shortish—stiff, ugly hair it was—and, altogether, he looked as cruel as a meat-axe. He stood all as one as where ma’am stands now. There were two cotton-wicked candles on the table, burning bright, for I had just snuffed them. The colonel sat in his armchair, looking terrible—he could look so on them that desarved it—and the clark had his pen in his hand. The colonel gave me a sign; I opened the door, and he came in, as it were into that door, right in Prime’s face. I kept
[p. 216]
my eye on Prime. His hair rose and stood on end, straight and stiff as bristles. Every one took notice of it, and often have I heard the colonel speak of it.”
“But what made his hair rise?” I naturally asked. “Do not tell her,” interposed the aforesaid gentle lady; “it is too horrid a tale for a child’s ears.” Then followed the trite hint about “little pitchers,” and the promise, usually broken to the hope, that the story should be told me “one of these days.” That day did not, however, in this case, prove an illusion. The story was, in due time, told to me by that dear old servant and friend, who was one of the most acute observers I ever knew. On her veracious testimony I now repeat it.
Many more complicated and startling criminal cases may be found among “les causes celébres.” This is chiefly interesting, as illustrating the tendency of the indulgence of any one passion of the human mind to destroy its balance, and produce the diseases termed fixidity and monomania. These are, doubtless, actual diseases. The great truth to be learned from them is, that they might, in most instances, be avoided by moral education. The mind cannot safely dwell long and intently on one subject. The effect is precisely analogous to that produced on the physical system by bearing on one muscle—the muscle is inevitably weakened, if not destroyed.
[p. 217]
John Dorset was a wealthy yeoman in the southwestern part of Massachusetts. His was the best farm under the shadow of the Tahconnic, there where its swelling and lofty summits bound the western horizon of the pretty village of Sheffield. Dorset was a hard-working, sagacious farmer, acute, or, in rustic phrase, close at a bargain, but liberal in his ordinary transactions. “He gave freely of his bread to the poor, and his bountiful eye was blessed.” He was violent in his temper and self-willed, liable to sudden bursts of feeling, and governed by impulses. His heart was somewhat like iron, hard and resisting; but, if sufficient heat was applied, it glowed intensely, and might be worked at will. He had a fit helpmate; such as abounded in the good olden time of undisputed authority on the part of the husband and unquestioning submission on that of the wife. Dame Dorset worked diligently with wool and flax, and looked well to the ways of her household; in short, she was a wife after the old Puritan pattern. One only child had this thriving pair, to whom her father gave the name he deemed indicative of the condition and virtues of her sex, Submit, and truly did it express the very essence of her character. She was a gentle, comely, well-nurtured lass. Her father was wont to boast her accomplishments in such phrases as these: “Submit need not turn her back upon any gal in the New-England States. She can spin on the great wheel and
[p. 218]
the little wheel”—alas! for the cheerful, domestic sounds that have passed away from the farmer’s home—“she can make butter and cheese equal to her mother’s, roast a pig without cracking the skin, and make an Indian pudding that you can slice like wax; read, write, and cipher as well as any woman need to, and, what is more than larning, she never disobeyed me in her life !” With such store of accomplishments, and sole apparent heir of John Dorset’s wealth, no wonder that the fair Submit heard every day the preliminary question in the rustic treaty of marriage of that good olden time, “Will you undervaly yourself so much as to overvaly me so much as to keep company with me?” But none of the aspirants was she known to vouchsafe the propitious response, “No undervalyment at all, sir!”
Submit lost her mother, and her father, seeing his domestic affairs prosper in her hands, and loving her with all the strength of his undivided affection, was well pleased with her maidenly reserve.
“You are right, Submit,” he would say, when he had seen her close the door after some suiter in holyday array; “when the right one comes will be time enough. I despise those gals that are ready to say snip to every man’s snap.” Poor Dorset! who shall prophesy of human wisdom? The heaviest storms are sometimes brewing when not a cloud is to be seen.
[p. 219]
The proprietor of the farm adjoining Dorset’s was a certain Rube Prime, a careless, rack-rent fellow, negligent of his own rights, and regardless of the rights of others; an unprofitable acquaintance, and a most inconvenient neighbour, annoying in every way to a man of Dorset’s irritable temper and thrifty habits. Dorset’s dislike of the father was extended to his brood of marauding boys, with the exception of one among them, Daniel. “He,” Dorset said, “was different from the rest”—he did not mark the blush on Submit’s cheek when he said so; and once, when he was anathematizing the whole Prime race, he made a notable and long-remembered exception in favour of Daniel. “There is not a mother’s son of them worth a curse,” said Dorset, in his fury. “Yes, yes,” he added, “I will except Daniel.” Daniel was indebted for the honour of this exception to being the pet of a maiden aunt, Marah Prime, who had carefully trained him in the way in which she thought he should go, and HE DID GO THEREIN. “A penny saved is a penny gained,” was the first lore his infant lips learned. He was taught to exchange his share of pudding and cakes with his short-sighted brothers for something that could be kept or again bartered. His thriftless father was held up before him as a beacon; and modes of practising on the old man were suggested, similar to Jacob’s upon the unwary Laban, and this, he learned, “was a way to
[p. 220]
thrive.” Women of all ages, conditions, and tempers, will weave a thread of love into the web of a favourite’s destiny. It was when Submit was receiving her name over the baptismal font that Aunt Marah predestined her the wife of Daniel; and from that moment of sordid election, she shaped all device and action to this end.
“For once,” boasted one of the young Primes, “I’ve made a bargain out of Dan; he’s given me three fourpence ha’pennies for my string of birds’ eggs!”
The birds’ eggs might be seen the next day festooned round Submit’s looking-glass.
“What has become of Bob?” asked all the little Primes, in a breath, and asked again without being answered. Bob was a pet squirrel, tamed by Aunt Marah, and, in due time, conveyed, by Daniel’s hand, to Submit. Daniel was the only Prime permitted to enter Dorset’s premises, and he was only suffered, not encouraged. He, however, in the reputed spirit of his countrymen, made the most of his opportunity by gaining the heart of the gentle heiress. We are compelled to pass in this etching style over the years that brought Daniel to man’s estate. In the mean time his father died, his brothers scattered over the world, and he remained—“a rolling stone gathers no moss,” said Aunt Marah—he remained rooted to the farm, toiling hard to redeem it from encumbering mortgages. Now he fancied himself
[p. 221]
securely floating into the harbour so long desired, and day after day did his eye feast on Dorset’s fertile fields, and night after night did he reckon up the value of the lands, tenements, stock, goods, and chattels, that were to be conveyed to him by that sure and precious instrument, Submit. Aunt Marah felt his grasp so certain that she began to grumble at the liberality of Dorset’s housekeeping. “But time,” she trusted, “would change with masters!” Submit, and Submit alone, had secret forebodings that her father, though he tolerated Daniel, would not fancy him for a son-in-law; and, with all a woman’s timid forebodings, she saw the evening approach on which, by her acquiescence, consent was to be asked. Her father had been out all day. He came home with a ruffled countenance, and she saw they had fixed on an inauspicious moment. As he threw off his coat, he grumbled, “A pretty business! A chip of the old block! I knew the devil would out, in some shape or other!” And when Submit suppressed her ominous fears, and asked, in a low voice, “What has taken place, sir?” he narrated a transaction of Daniel Prime’s with a friend of his—whose simplicity Dorset had always sheltered under the wing of his superior sagacity—in which his friend had been overreached: a mode of cheating particularly odious to a man of Dorset’s frank temper. “I always told you, Submit,” he added, after finishing his narration, “you
[p. 222]
can’t ‘wash a checked apron white;’ ‘what’s bred in the bone’—but I’ll fix him, that I will.” At this moment Daniel entered. Dorset did not return his deferential greeting; but Dorset often had his surly moments, and when all seemed murky, the sun shot forth from the clouds. Submit in vain tried to give her lover a warning signal. Prime’s mind was intent on his purpose; and when she, hoping he might have understood her, and trusting, at any rate, that he was too discreet to unfold his purpose in her father’s present humour, left the room, Daniel spoke, or tried to speak; for no sooner did Dorset comprehend his meaning, than he broke out upon him, poured forth epithets as stinging as blows, and finished by opening the doors, and actually kicking him out of the house. Daniel slunk home, and calculated the cost of a lawsuit, and the probable amount of a verdict in a suit for assault and battery; but, after repeated consultations with Aunt Marah, he made a better estimate of the chances of profit and loss, and the next week, while Dorset was gone to Boston, he took a ride with Submit to the adjacent territory of New-York, where his marriage was effected without the previous publication of “intentions of marriage,” which the prudent Puritans prefixed to that rite.
We pass over the rage of the wronged father. We have no space to record his reiterated vows—too faithfully kept—that he would
[p. 223]
never again speak to his child, and that never a penny of his should pass into Daniel Prime’s hands. He made a will at once, and published it, formally disinheriting his daughter, and devising his property to various public institutions. Dorset tried to appear as cheerful as was his wont, for he was a proud man, and loth, even tacitly, to confess his dependence on any human being or circumstance; but nature was too strong for him; and when he was alone, walking over those fine fruitful fields, whose transmission to his posterity he had so often contemplated as a sort of self-perpetuation, his disappointment would break forth in exclamations and audible groans; and when he returned to his home, and missed his gentle, patient child, who had anticipated his wants, and endured his impatience without a murmur, his parental tenderness would find its way in tears; but, after the first ebullition of passion, never a word of complaint or regret escaped him. He went on as if nothing had happened, enriching his farm, and dispensing liberally from storehouses always full.
In the mean time, Submit, born to be an unresisting thrall to whatever power might master her, faithfully kept her vow of allegiance to her new lord, though her heart pined in secret for the abundance and cheerfulness of her old home. Her father’s temper was gusty, but the storms were short, and succeeded by sunshine and a healthy atmosphere. Her husband’s
[p. 224]
disposition was of the brooding, anxious, forecasting sort, that hangs like a leaden sky and pestilential fog over the domestic scene. He was not severe or unkind to her. As the means of attaining the great end of his life, she was inestimable to him; but he was apprehensive and restless till that was secured. He never, for a moment, believed that her fitful, impulsive father would persevere in his disinheritance of his only child; but there was no passion keener than avarice, and he was continually forcing her on active measures to recover her father’s favour. This imbittered her life. She could endure and suffer to the end of the chapter; there was no limit to her passive virtue; but to execute what her husband planned—to confront her storming father—was an enterprise for Submit similar to a passage under the sheet of water at Niagara.
In obedience to her husband, she repeatedly wrote to her father. The letters were returned unopened. She even, like a trembling victim, went to his house again and again. The good-natured servants—they were slaves, for our story dates before the Revolution—gathered about her with their honest, hearty welcomes, but her father passed by her without one glance of recognition; and if she ventured, in a half-stifled voice, to address him, he gave no sign of hearing her. Thus matters went on for three years. Aunt Marah, whose whole life was devoted to that most teasing
[p. 225]
domestic alchymy by which one man’s shilling can be made to go as far as another man’s dollar, was a continual thorn in Submit’s side.
At the end of three years the light broke in upon her weary existence. She had a child! that best of Heaven’s blessings—that ray of celestial light which penetrates the intensest darkness that can encompass a mother’s soul. A child! Who could be miserable with such a treasure? a gift that enriches every other possession: that is riches to poverty; meat and drink to the hungry and thirsty; rest to the wearied; health to the sick; an immeasurable present joy, and an infinite promise!
Our poor mother’s soul was kindled with new life; her home was no longer a waste and desolate place. She turned her eye from the dark spirit brooding in her husband’s face, and felt the smiles of her child warming her heart. She listened to the first sweet sounds from its lips, and was deaf to Aunt Marah’s eternal chidings.
“You say your father likes babies,” said her husband. “Sibyl begins to take notice”—the child had been warily named Sibyl Dorset, after its maternal grand-parents—“dress her up in her best, and take her to your father’s; don’t be scared away by the first frown—stay a while—he’ll come to at last: an old dog don’t turn for the first whistle.”
Submit obeyed with alacrity, because with hope. She believed her child irresistible, and
[p. 226]
longed to see it her father’s arms. The little girl had arrived at the prettiest stage of infancy; she was fat, and fair, and bright, and dressed in her prettiest, all-conquering in her mother’s eye. No wonder she walked with a light step up the narrow lane that led to the only place her heart called home. She was humbly making her way towards the kitchen door, when the old house-dog sprang upon her, and licked the baby’s hands. Dorset stood, unseen, at a window, stealthily watching the approach. The baby, instead of crying, clapped her little hands in reply to the dog’s caress. An exclamation of pleasure escaped from Dorset. Submit, unconscious of the auspicious omen, proceeded. The door was opened by Juno, an old negro matron. She summoned her daughters, Minerva and Venus; and the three goddesses exhausted on the child every epithet of endearment and admiration in their vocabulary. The doors communicating with the “dwelling-room” were open, and there was the grandfather, all ear.
“My!” cried Juno, “what pretty black eyes; for all the world like master’s!”
“That’s well!” thought Dorset; “no black eyes among the Primes—gray, squint, or walleyed, every d—l of them.”
“Dear! what a cunning little cherry mouth!” said Venus.
“Dan Prime’s mouth is like a wolf’s!” murmured Dorset.
[p. 227]
“This beats the Dutch—master’s peaked ear!” exclaimed Minerva; “and on the left side, too.”
“I saw, when I first looked at her, she favoured father,” said Submit, tremulously; “I suppose it was thinking of him so much!”
Dorset longed to take mother and child to his heart, but the remembrance of his rash vow checked the impulse. A project by which he might, in part, evade its consequences, dawned upon him. He went into the kitchen. Juno—experience made her the boldest—Juno held the baby up to him: “Isn’t she a beauty, master? as pretty as a London doll.”
“Put out your hands, Sibyl Dorset,” said the trembling mother. The little girl, instinctively eloquent in her own cause, stretched out her hands, smiled, and jumped towards her grandfather. He caught her in his arms, looked steadily in her face for a moment, exclaimed, “All Dorset, by Jupiter!” and then returning her to the servant, his eyes blinded with tears, he made his way to his apartment, slamming the doors after him as a sort of expression or echo to his feelings. Poor Submit, after lingering in faint hope or fear till the day closed, was obliged to return to her disappointed, sullen husband.
Two years after this first meeting, as Dorset was returning home, he saw a little girl tottling along the roadside, picking dandelions. His old dog Cæsar sprang upon her and threw her
[p. 228]
down. She patted him, calling him “naughty Cæsar.” They were familiar friends. “It is she!” thought Dorset; and he quickened his steps, and gave her his hand to help her up. She grasped his, and retained it. The pressure of a child’s soft, chubby hand is an electric touch to the heart.
“Ain’t you my danfather?” said Sibyl.
“Yes.”
“Then do you come and live with us. Mother tells me every day I must love you, and how can I love you if I don’t see you?”
“I can’t go to live with you, child, but would you like to come and live with me?”
“With you and Cæsar! yes, if mother will come too.”
“And your father?”
The child started at his changed tone of voice. “No, no, not father; let father and Aunt Marah stay at home.”
Dorset conducted the little runaway to her own premises, went home, passed a sleepless night, and the next morning sent the following note to Prime’s:
“TO DANIEL PRIME AND WIFE.
“If you will send me your child, Sibyl Dorset, and sign a quitclaim to her, and you, Daniel Prime, promise, under oath, never intentionally to see, and never speak with her during my life, I, in return, will take her as my own child, and will endeavor so to bring her up,
[p. 229]
that, when come to woman’s estate, she’ll not quit me for any rascal on earth.
“Signed, JOHN DORSET.”
This proposition was rather more than Prime could at once submit to; but, after a little reflection on the precariousness of Dorset’s life—how very uncertain other men’s lives seem!—his cupidity prevailed over his pride and every manly sentiment, as well as over his affections. “We must make hay while the sun shines,” said Aunt Marah; and many a case did she recount of breaches healed by the intervention of grandchildren. So little Sibyl was to be sent to serve the purpose of patent cement, and make the broken parts adhere more firmly than ever.
The weakest, most timid animal will turn to defend her young, and Submit, for the first time in her life, when she heard her husband’s decision, resisted. To give up Sibyl was to resign all that made existence tolerable to her.
“I cannot consent to this,” she said, with unprecedented firmness; “all the land on the round earth would not tempt me; no, not all my father’s money, ten thousand times told.”
“You talk like a fool, wife.”
“Oh, Daniel Prime, I think there is no folly like that of craving for more and more. You are always toiling, and selling, and gaining, and it all does no good to any one, and least of all
[p. 230]
to you. Are you happy? are you even content?”
“No, I am not; but I have been disappointed—balked. I shall be happy,” he stretched his hand towards Dorset’s, “when I get that farm.”
“No, Prime, there is neither good nor happiness to those that forget the laws of God, and you are breaking his tenth commandment. But,” she added, raising her voice, “you will never get it. I cannot part with Sibyl. I was taught never to give away the least trifle given to me, and can I give away God’s gift? No, never!”
Prime would at once have enforced obedience, but he feared that his wife, driven to extremity, might fly to her father, and remonstrate; he therefore let her exhaust her courage, and then urged compliance as a duty to her father. At this point she was vulnerable. From her child’s birth, and the simultaneous burst of parental feeling in her own breast, she had—a very common case—experienced a new sense of filial duty; had lamented her infidelity to her father, and ventured to express her remorse in Prime’s presence. She had now, as her husband urged, an opportunity to atone for her fault, and this foregone, would be lost forever. Her father was old; more children she might have, never another father. And when she ceased to answer, but still wept, he suggested that her father’s terms might be
[p. 231]
softened; he might consent to her seeing the child; and, finally, and more than all, Sibyl must prove a successful mediator between them.
Submit at last yielded so far as to write to her father. The letter was modified by her husband, blotted with her tears, and sent. The following reply was immediately returned: “The mother and child may meet as often as is reasonable; but Daniel Prime must be to Sibyl as though he were not. Let no more be written or said about it. Send her—on these conditions, mind ye!—to-morrow.”
Sibyl was sent, and her mother left to solitude and pining. She saw her child often. She found her always affectionate and kind, but there was little sympathy between them. Sibyl was a healthy, bright, stout-hearted girl, living and laughing in sunshine, and unable to sympathize with her weak, drooping mother, who had no pleasure in life but her meetings with her child, and those imbittered by Dorset’s unrelaxing adherence to his vow.
Eight dreary years passed away. There was no change in Daniel Prime but a gradual deepening of the lines of his character; or, rather, the one line, the channel to which everything tended, wore deeper and deeper. Not one of all the passions of the human race is so insatiable as avarice. The poet has well selected the wolf as its symbol, always hungry, never satiated—“E dopo ‘l pasto ha piu fama
[p. 232]
che pria” (and, after eating, he is more hungry than before). And if to avarice is added hoarding—a passion without motive, without present contentment or future reward—the folly is complete, the spirit is extinct, the image of God effaced. Prime grew more and more acute at his bargains, and with every acquisition more greedy of gain. Like his prototype, so well described by the satirist, he was always pouring into his grand reservoir from other men’s scanty cisterns, going hither and yon to add to his stores, and withering away for the want of one refreshing draught. So cautiously and securely did he keep within the bounds of legal honesty, that no one could have suspected the fatal trespass for which the inordinate growth of his ruling passion was preparing him. Every circumstance tended to sharpen this passion. The riches which had seemed to him within his grasp were before his eyes, whetting his appetite, like a plentiful table spread in the presence of the hungry man, who is always approaching, but never attains it. He knew the will alienating Dorset’s property from his posterity had been burned—Was there another made? Prime believed not; for Dorset was proverbially open in all his affairs.
Eight years, as we have said, passed away, and Submit was again a mother. Prime, who till this time had been like a rock over which the billows are continually rolling, so that nothing
[p. 233]
that thrives by the kind processes of nature could take root in his sordid soul, now felt something like affection at his heart, and with it came a jealousy and dislike of his eldest child. He hoped the pride of transmitting a name might induce Dorset to transfer his favour, and the boy too was sent to the grandfather to seek his fortune, but in vain. Sibyl had her citadel in the old man’s heart, and no one could dispossess her. She loved her brother, and would gladly have divided all her possessions, even her dearest, her grandfather’s affections, with him. But these were not a transferable treasure. He loved Sibyl better than he had ever loved his own daughter. Sibyl had a mind of her own, independent thought, and free action, and he liked her the better for it. He felt too late that there was no reliance on a machine worked by another’s will.
He had some natural dreads when his favourite approached the marriageable age, and strong likings and dislikings were manifested towards the aspirants for her favour. Fortunately, hers—as if their affections were governed by the same spring—coincided with his; and, finally, when, with untold hopes and purposes, he brought home a distant relative whom he had known and liked as a boy, the full measure of his contentment was filled up by a sudden and mutual liking between the young people.
[p. 234]
All went on smoothly. Dorset was perfectly happy; his own child was like a dropped and forgotten link. Bountiful preparations were made for celebrating the marriage, and Sibyl was maturing a plot for effecting a reconciliation with her mother at this auspicious moment, when all these fair prospects were forever overcast by the sudden death of the old man from a fall from his horse.
While poor Sibyl, in a paroxysm of grief, was lamenting over his lifeless body, and her mother, in more subdued, but far more bitter sorrow, was weeping in silence, Daniel Prime was prowling over the house, searching desks and drawers for a will. None was forthcoming; and with an exulting heart and decent countenance he performed the offices of the occasion. The funeral over, the servants were disposed of, the house shut up, Sibyl removed to her father’s, and he was proceeding to take out letters of administration, when a friend of Dorset returned from a journey, and produced a will deposited with him. The entire of Dorset’s property was bequeathed to his granddaughter. The will was simple and direct. There was no flaw, no pretext for a cavil.
Daniel Prime afterward confessed to a spiritual director and friend, that the thought which first occurred to him after the shock of the discovery of the will was over, was—but we will give it in his own words: “The devil put it into my head that, if Sibyl died a minor,
[p. 235]
and without issue of her body, I was her heir.” “Whoso breaketh a hedge, a serpent shall bite him.”
Long before this Aunt Marah had fretted herself into that resting-place which awaits even such harassed and harassing souls as hers, and Daniel Prime was left without even her counsel and sympathy in the final failure of the hopes and plans of years. He was always a man of few words; now he was more moody and brooding than ever. Sibyl had painful recollections of his influence on her childhood; she had since been taught to shun him; she perceived her mother’s fear and dread of him; and now, whenever she met his evil eye, she felt a shiver pass over her as if a blight were upon her. Sad is it when nature’s sweet fountains are turned to bitterness.
When the letters she wrote at this juncture to her absent lover, intimating secret unhappiness, were afterward exhibited, it was believed by the superstitious that she had received some warning of the impending future; but in our rational days we find the natural explanation in the shock she had received from her grandfather’s violent death, and the sadness resulting from the transition from a cheerful home to a murky atmosphere. She loved her mother, but their natural relation was reversed; she was the sustainer, her mother the dependant; and now Sibyl was too weak and dejected to bear the burden. Her little brother
[p. 236]
seems to have been her sole comfort. She often alludes to him in her letters, recounts anecdotes of his manliness, his devotion to her, and always interweaves his destiny with the web of her future life.
The time appointed for her marriage drew near. She would not listen to her father’s suggestion to delay it. The day for her lover’s return arrived. She went out alone, at twilight, to await him at a secluded spot a mile distant from her father’s dwelling, where the road, after winding along the declivity of a steep, wooded hill that descended to the Housatonic, crossed a rickety old bridge. The river, noisy and shallow above the bridge, was there made deep and still by a dam erected a short distance below.
For the first time since her grandfather’s death, Sibyl went out with her natural light step, and her face bright and smiling, and looking, as she cast aside her mourning veil, like the sun beaming forth from a drapery of clouds.
In less than an hour she returned, her face muffled in her veil, her dress disordered, and the agitation of her whole frame betraying emotions that she vainly struggled to conceal. Her mother—whose whole life was an illustration of that axiom made for woman,
“’Tis meet and fit,
In all we feel, to make the heart submit”—
[p. 237]
William, her lover, might yet arrive to-night, or, if he did not, another was coming;” and concluded with that common comfort of the experienced, which passes by the young like idle wind, “we must all learn to bear disappointments!” Sibyl’s mother knew little of the manifestations of feeling, or she would have guessed a different cause than the mere delay of a lover’s return for the horror painted on her child’s countenance. She seemed to have shrank to half her usual size. In reply to her mother, she only said, “I cannot help it; I am disappointed;” and when she heard her father’s footstep, returning at his usual hour, she said, in a half-suffocated voice, “For mercy’s sake, mother, take no more notice of it!”
It was not observed at the time, but Sibyl’s mother afterward remembered, in recalling all the circumstances, that her husband was less reserved than usual; that he mentioned some particulars of business he had been transacting in the village; said he had brought a letter from the postoffice for Sibyl; asked where she was—she had left the room before he entered—and sent her brother with the letter to her, telling him to wait and ask “what news there was in it.”
The boy lingered till called by his father, and then he said, “Sibyl was crying because William was not coming for a week.”
“So much the better! so much the better!” said Prime. He ate heartily, sat for a long time
[p. 238]
looking intently at the embers, and then went to bed, muttering to himself, “Not coming for a week!”
His wife, after waiting till she had sure tokens her husband was sleeping, stole to Sibyl’s room. She was not there! Submit was returning, alarmed, by a back passage, through her boy’s little room, when she found Sibyl sitting by his bedside, her head on the pillow close to his, and her cheek as white as the linen it pressed. She signed to her mother to leave the room, and she obeyed, as she always obeyed the motions of others; but she subsequently confessed that she had vague apprehensions excited. Sibyl did not appear the next morning till her father had gone to his daily occupations. It was evident she had passed a sleepless night. She was all day nervous and restless. In the afternoon, having ascertained that her father was gone to the village, and would not return till late in the evening, she announced to her mother a sudden determination to go to a friend’s, five miles from them, and remain there till her lover’s return. Her mother remonstrated. There was no way of going but on foot, and the rustic girls of those days were not better pedestrians than those of ours. But the walk seemed no obstacle to Sibyl; she only asked that her brother might accompany her through “that dismal bit of woods”—so she called it—and as far as the bridge. To this her mother
[p. 239]
consented; but when, at parting, Sibyl threw her arms round her, and sobbed hysterically on her bosom, she felt some sad presentiment, and wished she had resisted, and kept her children at home.
The time came for the boy’s return. He did not appear. The mother grew anxious. Again and again she went to the window, but there was no sign of him; again and again she fancied she heard his footsteps, but it proved to be the dog tramping up the steps, or some other sound as unlike that of his light tread. At last, beginning to feel that, where happiness is at stake, we never “learn to bear disappointments,” she went forth in quest of him. She traversed the “dismal bit of woods,” crossed and recrossed the bridge—which never could she cross again—and then, calming her mind with the conclusion that Sibyl must have taken her brother to her place of destination, she returned home.
Her husband came from the village, where he had been, as was afterward proved, detained, settling some complicated accounts. On first entering the house, he inquired for Sibyl. His wife told him, in an apologetic tone, as if deprecating his displeasure, that “poor Sibyl seemed as if she could not content herself,” and had gone to spend a week with her friend. He grumbled something about “it being a poor bringing up that made a girl uneasy in her own father’s house,” and,
[p. 240]
as his wife said, seemed to think no more of it, for he was eating his supper as usual, when suddenly he broke off, and asked “if Dorset were abed.” His wife communicated the boy’s absence, and the supposition by which she explained it. Prime was not satisfied, but started up, exclaiming, “He did not go with her!” and after standing for a moment in evident agitation, he added, “I’ll go and look after him,” and left the house, but soon returned, saying, “To-morrow will be time enough.” He went to bed at his customary hour, but not to sleep, as his wife thought, excepting once, for a few moments, when he started up, exclaiming, “No, it is not a dream; it is all mine.” Ah, that word mine!
He was up with the first ray of light, professedly anxious about his boy. There could be no doubt he was intensely so; but, notwithstanding this, one of his neighbours afterward deposed that he saw him, soon after daylight, walking over John Dorset’s cornfield, and pulling up some weeds that, since the proprietor’s death, had, for the first time, been permitted to grow unmolested in the rich soil. After breakfast, he announced his intention of going in quest of his boy. His wife wondered when she saw him set forth on the circuitous road that did not pass over the bridge. He had not long been gone, when some men arrived from the village. One dismounted, entered the house, and
[p. 241]
inquired for Prime; his wife said he was absent, and told the occasion of his absence. There was something that alarmed her in the inquirer’s face. She watched his return to his companions, saw them confer together, and afterward a part of them rode off, while the rest remained lurking about the house.
We must leave her wondering at this procedure, and tormented with apprehensions for her boy, to follow Prime, who, having gone to Sibyl’s friend’s on the pretence of ascertaining if his son were there, and being told that neither he nor Sibyl had been seen there, turned his course, and went up the river to Barrington, where an uncle of his wife resided, who had been observed the preceding evening driving on the road Sibyl had taken, and with whom, as he professed to believe, his children might have gone. Returning from Barrington, he was met by the party in search of him, and, in virtue of a warrant issued by Colonel Ashley, he was taken into custody, and conveyed to that magistrate’s house. He submitted at once, declaring, however, that he was not conscious of having offended against the laws of God or man.
And here we have arrived at that point in the story where the narrator, with whom I began it, became an eye-witness. She was then a slave, belonging to Colonel Ashley—I believe the sole, but certainly the most eminent magistrate in the western part of Massachusetts
[p. 242]
in those days, when either the magistracy made great men, or great men were appointed to the magistracy. I remember seeing him in his extreme old age, when his “youthful hose” was
“A world too wide for his shrunk shank;”
but even then I was impressed with traditionary respect for his magisterial attributes, and for the gentler qualities that tempered the pride of office. He might have sat for the picture of Allworthy, for his temper was ever of the cream of the milk of human kindness.
It was twilight when Prime arrived at his house. He was immediately conducted to the office, where preparations had been made to receive him. When he entered, Colonel Ashley, instead of manifesting the compassion that seemed his instinct, turned away his face, as if an evil spirit in mortal shape had come before him. “Prime was the first guilty person,” said my informer, “that I ever saw the colonel look upon without pity!” Prime was himself undaunted, and was the first to speak. He demanded why he was brought there. Colonel Ashley signed to him to advance, and stand beside the table, and bade his clerk be ready to take notes. Then, after a solemn admonition to Prime to deport himself as became the solemnity of the occasion, he said, “The body of your child, Sibyl Prime, has been found in the river, below Pine Hill bridge, with evident tokens of having been placed there by violent hands.”
[p. 243]
“Who dares say it was I that put her there?” demanded Prime, fiercely.
“It would better befit you to be both still and humble,” replied the magistrate.
“I will be neither till I know who dares accuse me.”
“Miserable man, forbear! you shall both know and see your accuser;” and, turning to the servant, “Call in the witness,” he said.
Prime fixed his eyes on the door through which the witness was to enter, and, for the first time, some fading of colour was evident through his dark, leathery skin. He did not speak. It did not seem to have occurred to him that nature demanded some expression of horror and surprise at hearing of the murder of his child. His heart had ossified under one indurating passion, and he had forgotten the ebb and flows of nature’s current. Yet now the possibility of what might ensue to himself and his possessions thrilled through his frame; and while his eye was fixed with intense eagerness on the door, he vainly tried to subdue the throbbings of his heart with repeating mentally, “There was no witness!” The door was reopened. A witness did appear—his own son! It was at this moment that Daniel Prime’s hair rose and stood like quills upon his head; so said my informant, and I believed her; for, though a woman, her observation and judgment were stronger than her imagination. The boy seemed inspired
[p. 244]
with supernatural strength and intrepidity. He bore, without flinching, the scowling brow and burning glance of his father. “One would have reckoned,” said my eye-witness, “that he had grown ten years older in twenty-four hours.” The usual preliminary forms over, Colonel Ashley asked,
“Did your sister request you to accompany her on the Canaan road yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did she give any reason for wishing your company?”
“No, sir. She always loved to have me go with her, and I always loved to go.”
“How far did you go?”
“To Pine Hill bridge, sir.”
The examination was for a moment interrupted by a convulsive cough from Prime.
“Did your sister say anything by the way?” proceeded the magistrate.
“Yes, sir. She asked me if I would not be afraid to go back through the woods alone. I told her, not a bit, and asked her if she was afraid; she said, not when I was with her. And then I told her I would go all the way; but she said she should not be afraid after she got over the bridge, and down to the mill, for the road beyond there was not so lonesome.”
“Did she say anything more?”
“Yes, sir. She said she never should come home again, and she cried, and I told her I did not want to live at home when she was
[p. 245]
gone; and then she said she hoped, one of these days, mother and I would come and live with her and William; she said she was not coming to live in grandfather’s house, but as soon as she was married she should move off somewhere.”
“Was anything more said?”
“No, sir; only when we came near the bridge, she squeezed my hand so tight that I told her she hurt me. When we got over the bridge, she told me I must make haste home, and she bid me good-by, and said I must always be very kind to mother—and these were the last words she spoke.”
“Go on, my child. What happened then?”
“I knew there was a sassafras tree that grew on the bank just above, and I wanted some sassafras, so I got over the fence; and when I got up the hill, I thought I’d just go on to Deacon Sam’s Rock, as they call it, and watch Sibyl till she got past the mill, and the minute I stepped on to it I saw him.”
“Saw whom?”
“Father.”
At this point of the testimony Prime’s knees shook together, and he was obliged to support himself by leaning on the colonel’s desk, against which he stood.
“Go on, my poor child,” said the good magistrate.
“He had a club,” continued the boy; “Sibyl had just come to the corner—she heard him,
[p. 246]
and looked back—he struck the club across her face.” The boy paused, and became intensely pale. Colonel Ashley passed his arm around him, and supported him.
“And what then?” he asked.
“Then,” replied the boy, with a burst of tears and sobs, “then Sibyl fell back
and—died—sir.”
“He lies! he lies!” cried Prime, vehemently. Colonel Ashley commanded silence, soothed the boy, and bade him proceed.
“Then, sir, he dragged her down the bank, and through that miry place where the trees are so thick, and he put her in the river, and put a stone on her head, and another on her feet.”
“Did he then come away?”
“Yes, sir, a few steps; but he went back again, and got her purse out of her pocket, and put it inside his leather pocket-book.”
“Lord have mercy on us!” murmured Colonel Ashley. After a moment’s pause of horror at this proof of the man’s cupidity, he asked the boy “if he knew whether his sister had any money in her purse?”
“Yes, sir, she had five gold pieces that grandfather gave her. She was showing them to mother only two days ago; and he took them, and chinked them in his hand.”
“Did your father then leave the spot?”
“Yes, sir; he got over the fence, and went across the lots very fast.”
[p. 247]
“Why did you not scream when first you saw him?”
“It was not half a minute, sir, before he struck, and I never thought of any harm till it was all done.”
“Why did you not then scream?”
“I don’t know, sir; I suppose I could not.”
“If you were so frightened, why did you not run away?”
“I don’t know, sir. After Sibyl fell dead, I can’t remember about feeling afraid, or feeling anything. I only stood there and looked. After he was gone, I began to think. I felt as if I could not go home and tell mother; then I thought I would stay in the woods till I died, and nobody would ever know he did it; and the night came—oh! such a long night! I did not sleep—I think I shall never sleep again. When daylight came, I felt as if I should burst if I did not tell somebody. I thought of you, sir. I remembered mother telling me you never punished anybody more than you could help, and so I came here, sir.”
Here ended the poor boy’s story, which hardly seemed to require the corroborating proof afterward derived, from finding Sibyl’s purse within her father’s pocket-book, and from ascertaining that he had informed himself of her intention of leaving home on that fatal afternoon.
It is hardly necessary to add, that Prime was committed for trial. After his trial and
[p. 248]
condemnation to death, he confessed he had made an attempt on his child’s life on the day preceding the murder, and near the same place. He had been baffled by the sudden appearance of a horseman on the road.
It appears that the boy’s grief at the fatal result of his accusation of his father so moved Colonel Ashley’s kind heart, that he accompanied the child to Boston, and seconded his affecting appeal to the governor in behalf of his parent. It was alleged that the man’s mind was so clouded and diseased by the predominance of his ruling passion, that he might be regarded as insane. This consideration, combining with compassion for his unfortunate and respectable family, induced the governor to commute the sentence of death to banishment.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Daniel Prime
Subject
The topic of the resource
Avarice, murder.
Description
An account of the resource
A father disinherits his daughter because he disapproves of the man she marries. The husband's plot to regain his father-in-laws estate leads to fatal consequences.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Sedgwick, Catharine Maria.
Source
A related resource from which the described resource is derived
Tales and Sketches, Second Series.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Harper & Brothers
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1844
Contributor
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Anna Mullis, L. Damon-Bach, D. Gussman
Relation
A related resource
Originally published in The Magnolia, edited by Henry William Herbert, 281-311. New York: Bancroft & Holley, 1837 [pub. 1836]. Also collected in The Irish Girl and Other Tales, 95-128, 1850, and in Stedman, Edmund Clarence and Ellen Mackay Hutchinson, eds. A Library of American Literature: An Anthology in Eleven Volumes, Vol. V , 199-215, 1891.
Language
A language of the resource
English
1836
1844
As You Like It
avarice
colonial New England
colonies
covetousness
Ecclesiastes 10:8
filial piety
George Crabbe
inheritance
magistrate
maiden aunt
marriage
Massachusetts
murder
Shakespeare
slavery
Tales and Sketches
The Magnolia
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/8794115e66edc8f9b0ad858877ad56ef.pdf?Expires=1712793600&Signature=OvtU7oNz11KbfAAjNLHVfmPCfEkoThuS26jiSqxBdM6yN9Z4ZtRDF2zuuLcVpYjkQJ%7ESORNWs8V6Il3TKyODZKqU%7ERwHOOCdbWt4s2JrYJDi-YDyhuoEy6sbzVoXBCEuqwrjT6h8imCVGGFjAgS4B400EjGnzSgpqsJqkC-ce03m7hlM9f2Eoe-KRPtLgKj%7Eis0flPhiCGy5MdzLdQjzZpP%7EQ%7EBs%7EhE5uxMMTCDnUoucSKGM00VR-PnHeECfo9zITPZykuyZZYUl8g3jDQWGdCOfgQhi1fM8rxhbI-Z00%7EEvB7ozxt5dg2vpN6zFiefkJUOyhthmYa7f6%7EpOEI1ziw__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
33b34a0b5f9689eac7295e3a24f3d665
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
1836
Document
A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text.
Text
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UNCLE DAVID.
BY MISS SEDGWICK.
_____
[p. 17]
The return of Uncle David, after an absence of three years, was impatiently expected by two families of nephews and nieces—the Masons and the Cliffords—who resided in New York. He was a bachelor who, at the period of which I am speaking, had fulfilled more than half of life's allotted term, during the greater part of which he had been a rover—only returning among his friends often enough to keep their memory of him fresh, and to make the acquaintance of those new claimants to his favour with which the circle was from time to time enlarged.
He was what is called a queer man; perfectly independent in his modes of thinking and acting; shrewd, a little bit sarcastic, and strict in his antiquated notions of economy, propriety, deference to superiors, and all such old-fashioned
[p. 18]
things. But he was, withal, very warm hearted, and so fond of children, and so devoted to them, as to make himself a great favourite, in spite of that sin of strictness commonly considered by the young the greatest of all offences on the part of their elders. He was, besides, rich and generous, and although he never thought of administering to the pleasure of children through their appetites, or by providing expensive sources of amusement whose attraction lasted only while they were new—and therefore never showered upon them either bonbons or toys, he had his own very acceptable methods of making them exceedingly happy whenever he chose to do so.
For instance, he secured the lasting gratitude of George Mason, who had quite a taste for mineralogy, by fitting up and storing a cabinet of minerals—of Mary Clifford, by his sympathy in her love of drawing, which he manifested by providing her with every possible facility for cultivating her talent, and furnishing her, from time, to time, with beautiful prints and pictures. These at length accumulated to such a degree, that he said she must have a picture-room: which was accordingly fitted up, under his direction, with great taste.
Frank Clifford had a taste for whatever was curious; and to him his uncle brought, from all
[p. 19]
parts of the world, every variety of curiosity. Sarah Mason, on the contrary, was more interested in her own species than in any thing else —had quick feelings and a tender heart. Her he made his almoner; and in nothing did she take more pleasure than in dispensing his charities. When he was at home he very often employed her in this way; and never went away without leaving with her a fund, part of which was to be appropriated to specific purposes, and the rest to such objects of charity as she could discover and her mother should pronounce worthy.
And this reminds me to mention the great importance he attached to the inculcation, upon young persons, of a wise and proper use of money. Previous to his last departure from the country, he made to each of these four children whom I have named, a present of ten dollars— saying that he was like the man in the parable going into a far country—that he should not give to one ten talents, to another two, and to another one—but should give to each a small sum, that he might be able to test, by their mode of spending it, their idea of the value and uses of money. He wished them to spend it with- out advice,—in whatever manner they thought best; remembering that he expected they would turn it to some good account.
[p. 20]
All these children felt quite a weight of responsibility in regard to what they called their trust-money. George Mason resolved that he would not be in haste, but would wait and see what occasions might offer for its use. Sarah Mason seemed to feel less troubled than the rest, put her money in a place of safety, and said nothing more about it. Frank Clifford declared that he should take an early opportunity to dispose of his; for he had rather fail to please his uncle, than be bothering himself about such a paltry sum: while Mary was sure she should have no difficulty, as not a day passed in which she had not a dozen opportunities for spending money usefully, if she only had it to spend.
Not long after Uncle David's departure, Mary Clifford lost a little brother, and she did not hesitate to expend her ten dollars in a locket made to contain his hair. Frank was sent into the country to school—and, notwithstanding his previous intention of a hasty appropriation, determined to leave his at home, in Mary's care. His spending money exhausted, he fell into the habit of borrowing, as one little imaginary want after another arose, and at length sent for his ten dollars to discharge his debts—saying he did not know any better use money could be put to, than paying one's debts.
[p. 21]
Mary wrote an account of her brother's death to her uncle, and took the same opportunity to mention the purchase of the locket. Receiving Frank's application for his money before her letter was sent, she mentioned it, together with his accompanying observations, in a postscript. In process of time she received an answer. Her uncle expressed, very kindly, his sympathy in her affliction and sorrow for the loss sustained, he said, by himself in common with the rest,— for he always identified himself completely with each of the families. With regard to the locket he expressed himself thus—" It is certainly agreeable, and often very proper, to have such mementos of our de- parted friends; but considering, my dear Mary, that my very object in giving you those ten dollars, was to set your mind at work for the sake of finding out how you might do the greatest amount of good by so small a sum, I confess I am a little disappointed at the result. Men of business talk about dead capital—that is, money that yields no interest. Such is now your ten dollars. Do you think I regret this on account of the money itself? Far from it—but then it might have procured, either for yourself or some one of your fellow creatures, a lasting and substantial good—the best of all modes of preventing
[p. 22]
its becoming dead capital. As to Frank, I believe I must make the information you have given me in regard to him the subject of a special message, as the presidents say."
Accordingly, Frank received, by the same packet, a note from his uncle to the following effect:—
My Dear Frank—You may think it very strange that I should " make or meddle," as the phrase goes, with whatever disposal you may have chosen to make of the small sum with which I presented you on my departure. 'Tis true it was your own—that you had full liberty to do with it as you pleased—and were you not so well satisfied with yourself on the matter, I might let it pass. But I perceive, my dear fellow, that you are already beginning to delude yourself with false pretences, such as mankind are ever prone to, when duty clashes with inclination, and I wish to put you on your guard in this respect; because, to this very propensity at least one half of the sin, sorrow, and mortification, there are in the world, may be traced. It is certainly true that debts ought to be paid, but it is no less true that foolish and unnecessary debts ought not to be incurred; and your reasoning is very much like that of a merchant who should
[p. 23]
buy his own goods, and live extravagantly, in order to increase his business, or a lawyer, who should get into foolish quarrels, in order to give himself professional employment. Excuse me, ray dear Frank, and believe me,
Your truly affectionate uncle, David Mason.
"What a queer man Uncle David is!" said Mary Clifford, after reading his letter to her. "He was very fond of little David, his name- sake, too. I cannot conceive why he should object to my having that locket. In regard to Frank, however, I think he is quite right,"—and Frank thought so too.
Six months passed away, and neither George nor Sarah Mason had yet found a sufficient reason for parting with their trust-money. Sarah, in her capacity of almoner to her uncle, had become acquainted with many poor families in the city; but for these objects of charity she had a separate fund, which she did not feel authorised to increase by adding to it that which had been given her to spend upon her own responsibility.
There was employed in Mrs. Mason's family a dressmaker—Miss Walker—very lovely in her character, whose parents, old and infirm, depended upon her exertions for their support. During the
[p. 24]
winter after Uncle David's departure, they had a great deal of sickness, and died late in the spring. Miss Walker, exhausted in mind, body and estate, looked as if on the very borders of a decline.
Mrs. Mason's physician, having attended Miss Walker's parents, became extremely interested in her; and speaking of her to Mrs. Mason, said it was exceedingly desirable that she should leave off work entirely, and go into the country to recruit.
Mrs. Mason took the earliest opportunity to persuade her to do so; but she replied that it was out of the question, for she had not the means.
Sarah, having overheard the conversation, immediately conferred with George; and they agreed that if their mother thought their united fund sufficient, it should be appropriated to a journey for Miss Walker. Fortunately the latter had a friend, living in a healthy village at the distance of a hundred and fifty miles, with whom she might pass some time very pleasantly; and by way of removing her scruples to accepting the money, Mrs. Mason gave her its history.
The plan took effect, and Miss Walker, after spending two months away, returned quite renewed, happy, and fit for exertion. The Cliffords did not know of this investment
[p. 25]
made by George and Sarah, until Miss Walker told them of it. Her check glowed, and a tear stood in her eye as she spoke of it; and she finished by saying, "I do believe, Mrs. Clifford, that it was not more the journey itself, than the delightful feeling which such kindness and sympathy in those dear young hearts produced, that cured me." Mary, as she looked at her animated, happy countenance, remembered what her uncle had said about —looked at her locket, and for the first time regretted the purchase.
Uncle David returned; and after this long absence was hailed, if possible, with greater joy than ever. When he left home, Mary Clifford and Sarah Mason were both just about fourteen, and therefore the three years of his absence were precisely those of their life in which that most marked change from the girl to the young lady takes place.
The Masons and the Cliffords were brought up under very different influences. The Masons were made to respect themselves and others only for what is intrinsic and permanent; while the Cliffords were taught, indirectly, to place the highest value upon externals. The Masons were led to find their greatest happiness in useful improving occupation, and in devoting themselves to the happiness of others; the Cliffords to depend upon
[p. 26]
others, rather than upon themselves, for happiness, and to consider amusement as the chief end of man, or at least of woman.
Uncle David was struck with surprise and deep interest in seeing the change which had come over his two nieces. They were both good-looking, graceful, and lady-like; but there were intrinsic differences in them which became more marked as they advanced in life. Their uncle closely watched them both, and was not sparing in his criticisms whenever he thought there was occasion for them. Mary affected, a little, the blue stocking—that is, without any great taste for literature, or love of knowledge, she liked to have the credit of both. She always walked to school with a pile of books under her arm, and when sitting at home had always some book about her, to make it appear that they were her constant companions.
She used, too, occasionally to hint that the paleness of her countenance was owing to her intense application—although the fact was that Sarah surpassed her in scholarship, as much as in flesh and colour.
"Mary," said Uncle David, one day, "since you hang out your flag so constantly, why don't you prove to us your right to your colours? I have sometimes seen pictures with explanations
[p. 27]
appended—as, 'This is a cow—This is a bunch of roses;' your books are your inscription, which is I suppose intended to run thus: 'This is a literary, learned lady.' Now I think it should be with the lady, as with the true, fine picture, which explains itself. Miss Edgeworth it is, I think, who says that knowledge is like a deep stream, known not by the noise it makes but by the rich verdure and vegetation which it produces. Now if you really have a well improved, highly cultivated mind, let us perceive it in your conver- sation and conduct, but don't be for ever hanging out a sign."
Poor Mary used sometimes to be not very submissive to her uncle's reproofs, and declared that he was the only person in the world from whom she would endure them. His manner was not that of a grave censor, but of a regular tease, and teasing, though it may be just as severe as scolding, is generally much less offensive, perhaps because it is usually carried on in a jesting manner, and therefore the subjects of it have the apparent liberty of taking it in jest, if they choose.
Another of Mary's infirmities was an excessive sensitiveness upon the subject of gentility. The fear that she should not be strictly genteel, in every thing, was a constant source of annoyance, and led to the commission of many follies.
[p. 28]
One day Uncle David was walking in Broadway, with a niece on each arm. They were directly joined by a fashionable young man of their acquaintance who offered his arm, to Mary. Soon after, they met Miss Silsby, a charming young woman, who taught the girls drawing. Mary hardly seemed to recognise her, and passed on—while Sarah stopped, took her cordially by the hand, and had many kind enquiries to make as to what had happened to her in a period of some five or six weeks that she had just been absent from the city.
Uncle David was much attracted by Miss Silsby's appearance, and learned from Sarah the circumstances of her history, such as have been told of many a young person reduced, by misfortune, from affluence, to the necessity of earning her own livelihood.
Nothing connected with his nieces ever escaped his observing eye. He had perceived Mary's contemptible pride, and determined, if possible, to make her ashamed of it. "Mary," said he, a few days after, "what sort of a young lady is Miss Silsby; is she cultivated, and pleasing?"
"Yes; very."
"And she draws beautifully?"
"Yes."
"And her pupils are quite attached to her?"
[p. 29]
"Yes, they like her very much."
"Does she visit you?"
“No, sir."
"Why not?"
"Why it is not the custom, you know, to associate with one's teachers."
"Associate with one's teachers!—but you do constantly associate with them, else how could they teach you?"
"Oh ! that is not what I mean; I mean that you don't invite them to your house."
"But I am sure I have heard Sarah speak of Miss Silsby's visiting her."
"Oh, well—Sarah is different from the rest of the world, and does as she chooses."
"Then you don't do as you choose in excluding Miss Silsby from your visiting circle?"
"Oh, yes, I do—I feel and think differently and as the rest of the world do—not as Sarah does."
"Well, if you do not choose to admit Miss Silsby to your intercourse upon terms of equality, it must be on account of some superiority on your part. Are you better than she?”
"Oh ! no, not half so good."
"Are you better educated?"
"No."
"More accomplished?"
"No—not half so much so."
[p. 30]
"Are you of better parentage?"
"No."
"What then! your circumstances do not compel you to turn your talents to account in procuring you a livelihood?"
"Yes, sir"—Mary was compelled, though half reluctant, to reply.
"Then a person is more respectable who uses her talents not at all, or for show, or for amusement, than one who uses them for a useful and necessary purpose?"
"So the world has it."
"And accomplishments, which, while they are merely ornamental, command admiration and respect, the moment they are turned to useful account, become a source of degradation?"
"Oh ! uncle!"
"Make their possessor unfit for the society of elegant idlers—unworthy of being spoken to in Broadway—when a young lady has a fashionable beau in her train?”
Mary blushed.
"Oh, how I should like to see both my nieces superior to this ridiculous nonsense of the world, which makes people esteemed just in proportion to their total want of every useful aim and occupation in life; which holds them in honour, not for what God has endowed them with, but for
[p. 31]
what they or their friends for them have accumulated of this world's dross."
Not long after this conversation, Uncle David planned, for his nephews and nieces, including Frank and George, who were just now at home during a vacation, an excursion to West Point, and he requested Sarah that she would invite Miss Silsby to make one of the party. He then informed Mary of this last arrangement, saying, "I hope we shall not lose your company in consequence of it, my dear."
All the Masons and all the Cliffords, little and big, were of this joyous party; but Miss Silsby was evidently the nucleus of the whole. The little ones sought her, instinctively, as one ever ready to devote herself to their happiness. She could tell the best stories, sing the prettiest songs, and attend to them when every one else was too busy to notice them at all. Nor were the elder ones less dependent upon her. She was always ready for a ride, a walk, or a scramble— the most courageous, the most resolute, the most agile, and the most enthusiastic of the party. Her pencil was ever at hand to sketch a pretty scene which any one of the party was particularly desirous to retain fresh in his mind; she would rise early and sit up late, or vice versa, according to the humour of her companions; a pleasant
[p. 32]
joke called forth, on her part, that joyous peal of laughter, which rings so pleasantly upon the ear; and her sympathy was equally prompt and hearty when any occasion arose of trouble or sorrow.
Nor was this all: being extremely well versed in the history of our country, and especially of its most eventful period, the revolution, this circumstance of course added to her attractions as a companion at West Point, so famous in our revolutionary annals.
It was one afternoon when they were sitting in Kosciusko's garden, that Frank and George began to beg her for a story, saying they did not know why she might not indulge them, as well as the little children, in that way. She replied that she could not possibly draw upon her invention as in their case; but, if they liked, she would give them some history of Kosciusko's romantic and noble career.
They accepted the proposition most gladly, and she detailed the events of his life from its commencement to its close, in such a manner as awakened the deepest interest in every one of her audience, especially in the boys. "How much pleasanter and more interesting this garden seems now," said George; "I wonder I have never had more curiosity about Kosciusko." After this, the boys gave Miss Silsby no rest
[p. 33]
until they had obtained from her the whole story of Arnold's treason and Andre's capture and execution, and every historical fact associated with West Point. Uncle David was not always present when these stories were told, but the children did not fail to tell him of all their pleasures, and he said to Mary, "Why Miss Silsby is a literary lady too, it seems, although she never hangs out a sign, that I can perceive."
"Oh! do be still, uncle," said Mary.
Uncle David had never been a very great admirer of women. In fact, he had known very few, but he seemed to be particularly attracted by Miss Silsby. He planned many little excursions of pleasure from time to time, in which she was always included, and he hardly ever failed to offer Mary in explicit terms the alternative of remaining at home, if she objected to the ungentility of her companions; for "I think," said he, "by this time we must all, in your eyes, come under the same condemnation." Now and then, she had more than half a mind to take him at his word, but could not resist the attraction of a party of pleasure.
The period allotted for his visit at home passed delightfully away, and the time fixed for his departure was rapidly approaching. Loud and frequent were the lamentations poured out by the
[p. 34]
whole tribe of nephews and nieces, and all joined in an unanimous petition for what they called a reprieve. At length he told them that his future plans depended on what he should hear from a correspondent to whom he was shortly to write. They begged the letter might be sent without delay, and he gave his promise to that effect.
The following evening, there was an assembling of the two families in honour of Mary Clifford's birthday. Contrary to his usual custom Uncle David took his leave early in the evening. When all remonstrated, he told them that the correspondent of whom he had spoken was in the city, and he must have an interview; but would return, if possible, before they dispersed.
When he came in, late in the evening, he was immediately asked his decision.
"I shall not go," said he; "I am about to form a partnership in the city, and shall give up going abroad, at least for the present."
"Oh! rejoicing, rejoicing!" cried all the little ones.
"Dear uncle! how glad we are," said Sarah, throwing her arms around his neck, while all the rest closed around him, with looks and expressions of great pleasure.
"Bless your dear hearts," said he, "I did not know that I was of so much importance among
[p. 36]
you; but I shan't be contented, for all that, unless you like my partner as well as me."
"Your partner as well as you! that is a droll idea," several of them exclaimed.
"An ungenteel partner, too, Mary," he continued.
"O, uncle," said Mary, "now I suspect you. I know, I know."
"Know what, know what?" asked one and another, impatiently.
"Is it not so? uncle?"
"Is it not how, my child?"
"It is a matrimonial partnership you are going to form?"
"Ah-ha! uncle," said Sarah, "I might have known as much. I wonder that I could have been so stupid; children, Uncle David is going to be married, and I guess I know to whom."
"Well, I know who I had rather have for an aunt than any body else," cried little Julia Mason, "and that is Miss Silsby."
"And, God willing, you shall have her, my darling," cried Uncle David, embracing her, "for she has given her consent."
And then there was a clapping of hands, a jumping, and shouting among the little folks, and the most indubitable testimonies of sympathy and satisfaction on the part of the seniors of the
[p. 36]
company, saving Mary, who it must be confessed felt a little awkward.
"If you are only half glad, Mary," said her uncle, "it is all that I can possibly expect, and therefore I shall be quite satisfied."
"Well, I am at least that, and perhaps I may, in time, become entirely so," she replied, kissing him.
The wedding was, of course, a most important affair to the young folks. Indeed it would have been no wedding to Uncle David, without the presence and sympathy of his nephews and nieces.
On the morning of his wedding day he enclosed, to George and Sarah Mason $100 each, in an envelope, on which was written "we must celebrate our wedding with good works." To Frank Clifford he enclosed ten, saying, "If you have debts, my dear boy, pay them; if not, make what use of this little sum you please."
Frank was delighted to be able to say that he owed nothing, and never had incurred the most trifling debt, since his uncle's reproof and advice. Mary Clifford received, on the same occasion, a pretty ring. She felt the delicate reproof, but was, nevertheless, pleased with her gift.
George and Sarah regarded their gift almost as heaven-directed. Miss Walker, the dress-maker, had, for some time, been engaged to a very worthy young man, who, from no fault of his
[p. 37]
own, was as poor as herself. He had, at one time, amassed by his industry a sum sufficient to set himself up in his trade, and the marriage was to take place very soon; but a long and severe fit of illness involved him in expenses, by which his little capital was so much reduced as to be altogether insufficient for his purposes. The two hundred dollars made good the deficiency, and Miss Walker's marriage followed closely upon Uncle David's. Of course the pleasure of this charity, was one in which Uncle David felt peculiar sympathy just at this time.
Aunt Fanny, Uncle David's wife, became a greater favourite than ever, with all the nephews and nieces; and would not, for any thing, that their uncle should cease to have the same fond familiar intercourse with them as formerly. Her house was ever their chosen place of resort; her influence over them was highly valued by their parents, and delightful to themselves. She was charming in her own home, and occupied a commanding position in society.
Uncle David firmly believed himself the happiest man in the world. "What a pretty mistake I should have made," said he, after he had been married about a twelvemonth, "if I had weighed my wife only in the balance by which your genteel people measure merit; hey, Mary?"
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Uncle David
Subject
The topic of the resource
Economics, gentility.
Description
An account of the resource
An uncle teaches his nieces and nephews lessons about economics, gentility, and falls in love with a worthy woman.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Sedgwick, Catharine Maria.
Source
A related resource from which the described resource is derived
The Pearl; or Affection's Gift, 17-37.
Publisher
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Philadelphia: Thomas T. Ash & Henry F. Anners
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1837 [pub. 1836]
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
D. Gussman
Language
A language of the resource
English
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Document
1836
Benedict Arnold
blue stocking
Broadway
capital
charity
economics
investment
Major John André
Maria Edgeworth
marriage
nephew
New York City
niece
or Affection's Gift
Tadeusz Kościuszko
The Pearl
uncle
West Point
-
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5300b53043dc1cb493d8cbce565ae0f7
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
1836
Document
A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text.
Text
Any textual data included in the document.
FULL THIRTY.
By Miss Sedgewick.
[p. 212]
‘In faith Lady, you have a merry heart.’
‘Yea my Lord, I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care.’
THE first visit I paid after coming to town this winter, (this, to New York, most disastrous winter of 1836) was to Mrs. Orme, and her daughter Augusta.
Augusta I knew well and loved. She is the very impersonation of the spirit of cheerfulness, if brightness, intelligence, youth and health should be the indicated attributes of that spirit. Mrs. Orme was a stranger to me except by report. She was a southern lady by birth, and had resided with her family for many years at New Orleans, and at her house there, and her plantation in the neighborhood, some of my friends had enjoyed that hospitality which the southern members of our great family so generously and so gracefully extend to their brethren of the north. She had had several children, healthy and promising till they approached the age of maturity, when they were in turn the victims of the bilious diseases of their native climate. The anxiety consequent upon these repeated losses, induced the mother to consent to a proposal that Augusta should go to the North, where a different climate might avert the anticipated danger. Augusta came to Massachusetts, and the separation that was to have been for one year, was, by various circumstances, prolonged to five. At
[p. 213]
the expiration of that period, her mother, having in the mean time lost two younger children, and buried her husband, came to the north with impaired health and a fortune reduced, but still ample for her wants. Here, either from the change of climate or the more potent influence of the re-union with her daughter, she was in a very few months so renovated, that she determined to remain at least till time (“Time, the consoler !” ) should render the local association with her sorrows less vivid. She had relatives in the fashionable circles of New York, who she thought would give éclat to Augusta's introduction to society, and this decided her to fix her residence in this city. No two persons, of the same sex and country, and both amiable and well principled, could be more different than my laughing, singing, self-relying friend Augusta, and her timid, nervous, dependent mother. This difference, in part constitutional, was confirmed by education. Education, though it may bend the tree, does not change its nature. In any classification of the human family, the mother and daughter belong to different orders; but this will, if I mistake not, be manifest in the circumstances I am about to relate.
I found them at one of the fashionable boardinghouses at the lower end of Broadway. Mrs. Orme received me with her usual gentle courtesy, Augusta with her usual animation. My first enquiries were as to their accommodations, fellow-boarders, &c.
‘Accommodations!’ replied Mrs. Orme, shrugging her shoulders, ‘we do as well as we can — you know, of course, that I am obliged to dispense with a private drawing-room.’
‘Yes,’ said Augusta, ‘but then we have such a delightful room — see what a nice place for my piano.’
[p. 214]
‘A nice place enough,’ said the mother in a sad tone, ‘but what is the use, Augusta, when there is no one to hear you?’
‘Nobody, mama!’ she replied, laughing, and rattling her fingers over the keys,’ when I have you and myself— where else should I find such admiring, patient listeners?’
‘Dear child!’ said her mother, ‘I believe she would be content in a prison.’
‘Your sound reasons for such faith, mama?’
Mrs. Orme turned to me, slightly blushing, as if she feared I might think she had overpraised her child. ‘I am sure,’ she said, ‘if you knew how well she bears her trials, you would not think I speak with a mother's partiality.’
‘Trials! mama,’ echoed Augusta.
‘Yes, my love — it certainly is a trial to be obliged to shut ourselves in our own room, or be liable to mix with any one who chooses to share the common drawing-room with us.’
‘A trial, mama!’
‘You may call it what you please, Augusta — I call it a trial.’
‘Well, I never once thought of it being disagreeable even.’
‘Then,’ continued the mother, still addressing me, ‘it is so very inconvenient not to have a servant of your own.’
‘It seems so to mama, because she has been accustomed to having so many; but the servants of the house, though somewhat resembling those spirits who 'will not come when you do call them,’ yet, when they do come, they are very civil and kind.’
[p. 215]
‘But they do not belong to me,’ urged Mrs Orme.
‘But do I not belong to you, mama?’ replied Augusta, and am I not always ready
‘To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly,
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curled clouds,’’ -----
‘Thou art a dainty spirit,’ thought I, as I looked on her bright face, sun-lit from the soul; and then to turn my friends’ thoughts from the evident discomforts of a boarding house, I asked if they had any agreeable inmates?
A list of them followed, by which it appeared they had the average fortune of persons so domiciliated. There were gentlemen and their wives, who had private drawing rooms — very kind they were to Augusta; but Mrs. Orme did not like to accept civilities which she could not return on equal terms. Then there were two or three pairs who were very much inclined to be sociable; but they were those sort of persons that one does not care to be intimate with.
‘Very good, kind persons, for all,’ interrupted Augusta.
‘There were some young merchants, very civil, --- but ---’
‘But merchants,’ said Augusta archly, ‘mama cannot divest herself of her southern prepossessions against all persons engaged in trade.’
‘That is not strange, Augusta, our prejudices are the last infirmities we get rid of.’
‘Just what Mr. Rayson said yesterday, and because, he said, not having any real foundation, you could not oppose truth to them.’
[p. 218]
‘There is a widow here,’ continued Mrs Orme, ‘a convenient sort of chronicler, who knows all the world, in all places and in all their affairs.’
‘And what she does not know,’ said Augusta, ‘she invents. Mamma, did you not overhear Mr. Rayson say to his next neighbour yesterday, when Mrs Wilson finished her long story about that poor man — I forget his name —that committed suicide, but she related every particular of the deed — not only the circumstances that preceded it, but the motives that led to it, and all that his wife said, and his father said, and his friends said, did you not hear Mr. Rayson whisper ‘founded on fact?’
‘Yes, I heard that, but I think there is no love lost between Mrs Wilson and Mr. Rayson.’
‘No, he can't like her, and of course she wont like him.’
‘There may have been some reason for her dislike — he is very satirical.’
‘I like such satire,’ said Augusta, ‘it only falls where it is provoked and deserved, for instance, this morning when those Englishmen were finding fault with every thing here, and blustering about every thing in that pattern little island of theirs, how aptly he quoted, from their own poet too — no, not theirs, ours — the world's,
‘Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,
Are they not but in Britain— Pr'ythee, think
there's livers out of Britain.’
‘Who is this Mr. Rayson, Augusta, that seems such a prodigious favorite,’ I asked, and added to my friend Mrs Orme, ‘you must look out — these boarding-house likings are dangerous.’
[p. 217]
Augusta laughed, as is her wont on all occasions, and then said, ‘Even Mamma will not be alarmed at that danger — why dear lady, Mr. Rayson is an old bachelor.’
‘How old, Augusta?’
‘Oh, old as the hills —full thirty.’
I know that 'full thirty' seems to eighteen almost the extreme limit of human life, but I had known too, stranger things happen than the approach of these distant points; and so I told my young friend.
Augusta laughed again, and said unless Mr. Clement Rayson was an illustration of the old syllogism ‘I move or I do not move; I do not move, therefore I move,’ she did not see how they were to become acquainted; for he was the only person in the house, that had not, directly or indirectly, sought an introduction to them.
This was true. Clement Rayson, though not soured to the world, (he had no acidulating tendencies in his character,) was shy of it, and particularly distrustful of the fashionable world. He had his reasons, as our chronicling widow had told the Ormes, in a long spun out fiction that had, as is usual in such romances, a substratum of truth. This short and simple truth was, that at the all-believing age he had loved, and had plighted his troth to a beautiful girl who had deserted him for a man full fifty years old, but who was rich and fashionable, neither of which, at that period, was Clement Rayson. He had since acquired a moderate fortune. His lacerated affections were much longer than is usual in such cases, in the process of healing.
In the mean time he withdrew from society, and having no family ties in the city to counteract his disposition to solitude, it grew upon him. He appeared to have
[p. 218]
the peculiarities incident to the single condition — appeared—but never was there a spirit less exclusive, and more unselfish. One class, and one alone, was excluded from his sympathies — the fashionable. He thought them all heartless fainéants, ‘unproductive consumers,’ cumberers of the ground. He knew that Mrs Orme belonged to this class, and he perceived that to her the world had but two phases — the one enlightened, the other unenlightened; the fashionable, and the unfashionable. Of course, his orbit could never cross hers. But with this undeniable infirmity, Mrs Orme had so much gentleness, such feminine softness, so much of the spirit, as well as of the letter of politeness, that it was difficult to sustain a sturdy dislike towards her. At first, Augusta did not impress him agreeably. He admired her Hebe freshness, her well-turned features, and the good humour and animation that almost made her beautiful, but he thought she wanted the timidity and reserve that so becomes a young creature on the threshold of an unknown world, a world veiled in shadow, and beset with danger. But he misjudged my young friend. Her boldness arose from what some philosophers, of the German school, have called the ‘unconscious.’ She did not, if we may use the expression, feel herself, nor was she looking in others' faces to see her own image reflected there. The present was to her for action and enjoyment, and if the future brought dangers, (she apprehended none,) she had resolution and strength to overcome them. Her most happy temperament seemed a sort of charm, an amulet against the principle of evil, in all its proteus shapes. ‘Miss Orme is not troubled with bashfulness,’ whispered
[p. 220]
Mrs. Wilson to Clement Rayson, as Augusta, at a first request, sat down to the piano, and played with great expression, a Spanish national air.
A similar criticism had clouded the clearer atmosphere of Rayson's mind; but there are some persons whose touch always produces discord, and Mrs. Wilson was eminently one of these. ‘Miss Orme is not bashful,’ he replied somewhat testily, ‘but bashfulness as often springs from vanity, and a craving for admiration, as from delicacy and self-distrust.’
‘Bless me! I thought you did not admire Miss Orme.’
‘I do not know her.’
‘Of course you would if you admired her. She is not of the thistle order. Every one in the house has observed your distant manner to the Ormes.’
Clement Rayson was, as we have said, reserved: he liked no intruding observers within his own little world of feelings — of likings and dislikings; and towards Mrs. Wilson he had an antipathy, resembling that which is often cherished for the feline race, to which she seemed to him to belong. He was annoyed by her remark, but he did not choose to enter into a defence, or explanation, and therefore he remained silent. The shield of silence is the most effectual defence against a thorough gossip; and if generally resorted to, their offensive weapons would rest for want of use.
‘Of all people on earth,’ said Mrs Wilson, crossing the room and seating herself next Augusta Orme, who had already forgotten her musical triumph, and was absorbed in a book she had taken from the table, ‘of all people on earth, I detest your close-mouthed ones.'
‘Do you, Mrs. Wilson?— thought we were apt to like our opposites.’
[p. 220]
‘No inuendo, I trust, Miss Orme?’
‘Certainly not, I merely meant that you were communicative.’
This was so much more flattering a term than that suggested by the lady's conscience, that she took it as a compliment, and replied that she was naturally frank, and added that she thought Miss Orme and herself much alike.
‘Heaven forefend!’ thought Augusta, and laughed, a laugh that could not have stirred a feather on the ‘fretful porcupine,’ and therefore it did not ruffle the widow Wilson's plumes. On the contrary, she gave a proof of her graciousness by whispering —‘ How strange it is that Clement Rayson is so prejudiced against you!’
‘Is he? I am sorry for it.’
‘You do not look much disturbed.’ There was something almost provoking to our touchy lady in the serenity she could not cloud.
‘Why should I, Mrs. Wilson? I have done nothing that I am conscious of to create the prejudice, and therefore can do nothing to remove it. But I do sincerely wish the good man would get rid of it, for prejudices must be uncomfortable burdens, and Mr. Rayson seems a very clever and a very agreeable person to those he likes.’
Mrs. Wilson, finding the daughter impracticable, transferred her efforts to the mother, who, as she found, was more facile. It was no difficult achievement to make Mrs. Orme uncomfortable on any given subject, and the next time I saw her, I found her very much puzzled in solving the riddle of ‘that Mr. Clement Rayson's dislike to her and Augusta.’ Her consolation
[p. 221]
was, that he knew nobody that they knew, and therefore she did not see how it could very well do them any injury; but still it was dangerous to have an enemy, especially for a young lady just ‘coming out.’
All this fabric of Mrs. Wilson's mischievous brain would have been harmless, but that it augmented Mrs. Orme's horror of the society of boarding houses; infused a double quantity of coldness into her deportment towards Mr. Rayson; heightened the barriers between herself and the cleverest and best person in the family; confirmed our friend's prejudices against all fashionable people; and finally gratified widow Wilson's petty malignity against him. How true it is, that the lesser as well as the greater evils of life, are of our own creation!
In the mean while, Clement Rayson's eye (doubtless without the consent of his will) often turned towards Augusta's face, so bright with health and happiness. There is a peculiar charm in this sunny character, to men who have passed the zenith of youth. This may account for the devotion of sexagenarian bachelors to the youngest girls in company. We do not mean to implicate Rayson in any such foible; for, if guilty of the count in the indictment — if ‘full thirty,’ he was not much more. Regarding himself as a fixture in this aforesaid boarding house, he had surrounded himself with those rare comforts in this city, where persons rather alight than abide, provisions for permanence. He had his dressing-room, his sleeping apartments, and his library. [1]* This library adjoined the room occupied by
[p. 222]
Mrs. Orme and her daughter, and here, secure from observation, Clement Rayson would lay aside his book, to listen from beginning to end, to songs that he had often wished, with a certain licensed churl, ‘were impossible as well as difficult.’ He even began to entertain a secret fondness for Italian music, which he had deemed all monotonous, and like a certain friend of ours, had affected to believe, and dared to say, there was but one Italian song. Augusta had a collection of fine old English ballads. These she occasionally sung, and he heard them, every word, for her piano was placed against the wall that separated the two rooms. Of course her face was towards him, and often did he wish that this wall, like him who enacted ‘lime and and roughcast,’ in Pyramus and Thisbe,
‘----- having thus its part discharged so,
And being done, this wall away would go.’
that he might have a glimpse of the bright face behind. ‘That face,’ he said to himself, ‘that is like a gleam of sunshine to every thing it looks upon.’
‘I must have my library removed — I can never read a word here,’ thought he, as he smiled in silent response, to the merry peals of laughter that ever and anon came from that apartment over which a ‘dancing star’ seemed to him to preside. And as he listened to the cheerful tones
[p. 223]
that responded to Mrs. Orme's low monotonous voice, ‘how can she’ thought he, ‘resist such an influence! but she will soon be exposed to worse and more potent influences: to the parrotry, frivolity, and heartlessness of the world, and there this enchanting buoyancy of spirit, the mere virtue, perchance after all, of health of constitution! will soon be dimmed and lost.’ Alas! Augusta's buoyancy was soon to be tried by a very different pressure from that he anticipated, and a far heavier.
The evening of the sixteenth of December I passed with Mrs. Ornie and Augusta. They were both in a state of pleasurable excitement. The floor was strewn with boxes, and the table, sofa, and chairs were covered with dresses, caps, artificial flowers, and curious decorations just sent home in time for the gay season. Invitations had been sent out and accepted to parties and balls. Under what circumstances of overwhelming distress these invitations were soon after recalled, will long be remembered in the brilliant circles of our metropolis, where the bridal array was changed for mourning weeds.
Mrs. Orme was in all the flutter of indecision as to the dress to be selected for the coming out evening. She preferred the blue embroidered Seraphine crape which a friend had selected in Paris; she was certain, absolutely certain that it was perfectly new. There is magic in that word which may not convey its true import to the ears of our rustic reader. It does not mean simply that it is unworn, but that it is fresh from the inventive loom of a Paris milliner around whose head ‘such light visions float.’ While I was examining and
[p. 224]
duly admiring the blue Seraphine, Augusta put her veto upon it. She would not come out in a dress that would make her so conspicuous. In vain her mother urged the importance of the first impression — the coup de théatre. Augusta laid the Seraphine crape aside, and was wavering between a silk that her mother pronounced ‘the loveliest pink,’ and a white muslin, when a servant entered with a Camelia Japonica directed to Miss Orme. One pure, stately white flower sat upon the stalk, between two buds, like a queen between her maids of honor. ‘This decides me,’ exclaimed Augusta ‘my white muslin, and this Camelia in my hair.’
‘Who sent it?’ asked the mother. The servant did not know, and all that we could ascertain was that it had been left at the door by a man who merely said it was ordered at their green-house, but whether that green-house was Thorburn's, Smith's, or Hogg's, was uncertain, and Mrs. Orme concluded her enquiries by saying she was glad on the whole not to know, for she preferred Augusta should come out unshackled by even so slight an obligation as the gift of a flower imposed.
Augusta's curiosity, as was natural, was more excited than ours, and before the Camelia was deposited in a glass of water, she had run over the list of her gentlemen acquaintance, and in turn guessed all but — the right one.
People who are well advanced in life are prone to look upon its events and circumstances in the light of a shell enclosing a kernel, for their picking, the moral of the tale. And this kernel, like the jewel found by a certain classic bird, is apt to prove sweet or bitter, valueless or priceless, according to the character of the
[p. 225]
finder. This tendency must excuse the moralizing humor I fell into, on seeing my young friend so much engrossed and fluttered by the approach of this grand era of her life — her coming out.
‘If Augusta,’ thought I ‘rational, well educated, with a mind so well balanced that all its motions are harmonious, is thus affected by her advent, what a perilous moment it must be to those who are neither fitted by nature nor education, for the sudden transit from obscurity to notoriety. Inexperienced and unreflecting, what views must they have of the social laws, of their nature, of the objects of society, of the purposes and responsibilities of existence.’
Man has been justly called an imitative animal. Here we are, a young nation, set apart from the families of the old world, with every incitement to, and facility for making a new experiment in the economy of human life, and like the Chinese, who made the new shoes slip-shod, after the pattern, we copy the forms of European society, bad enough where they exist, but as ill adapted to our use as the slip-shod shoes to the wearer — as fantastical for us as a fan for an Iceland belle.
For example, in this working country, where the gentlemen must be at their offices and counting-houses by nine o'clock — where the domestic machine must stop, or the springs be set in motion by the mistress of the family before that hour, — with the pressure of this necessity upon us, we assemble at our evening parties at ten and eleven, because forsooth the fainéants of Europe do so! And for the same sufficient reason, our young ladies must have their comings out!
But what is to be done? How are their school-days and society compatible? The processes of nature are to be imitated. The dawn preludes the day: the bud slowly unfolds to the sun, gathering strength with every expanding leaf to bear its rays.
We are aware that there are no Quixotes more extravagant than those who preach revolutions in manners and customs; but where, as in our case, they are not the natural result of the condition of the people, may we not hope for modifications and ameliorations? for the dawn of a millennium on our social world, when the drawing-room shall no longer be an arena, where there is a short contest for a single prize, (what are the modes of that contest, and what the prize so obtained ? ) but shall become the social ground where men and women shall be players, as well as spectators, — where rational christian people may meet without a sacrifice of health or duty; and where young people and children shall come for the formation of their social character, and where all may enjoy on equal terms the very highest pleasure of our gregarious natures ? — But we beg pardon, our tale is becoming a homily.
Before the evening closed, I perceived, and with secret satisfaction, that Augusta manifested some weariness at her mother's endless anxieties upon the details of the coming evening, such as ‘whether they should go at ten or a quarter past ? — whether, in case Augusta were asked, she had best sing ? — whether there could be any objection to her waltzing, with her cousin ? — she waltzed so well! and sundry other momentous questions. When the field of vision is narrow, the objects are magnified. ‘Dear mamma,’ said Augusta, ‘pray leave these trifles to fate.’
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‘Life is made up of such trifles, my child.’
‘Mine shall not be,’ replied Augusta. Little did she think what a seal was soon to be set to this lightly uttered resolution.
The mercury was below zero, and as I walked briskly home I heard the first stroke of the bell that sounded the alarm of that fire which before morning laid so rich a portion of our city in ruins.
The bells rang at first, for the most part, unheeded, for as the Turk moves tranquilly amidst the plague, hardened by use, so we, familiarised to the every-day tocsin, pursue our usual avocations when it sounds throughout the city. But there were some who, on that memorable night, answered from the first with quickened pulses to the boding sound. They knew the firemen were exhausted by a severe labor of the preceding night, that their hose were frozen, and that there was no supply of water in the city. They reflected that the fire had broken out amidst packed warehouses, filled with combustibles; that the perfect dryness of the atmosphere and the extreme cold must accelerate its progress; but reason, fear, imagination, all fell far short in their anticipations of the horrid reality.
We have no intention to perpetrate such a presumption as an attempt to describe the scene would imply; we can only note the particulars — the spreading of the fire, quicker than thought, windward and leeward from house to house, and from street to street — the pillar of flame that shot up from the lofty dome of the Exchange — the crash of its falling — the calmness, though sublime courage of the men, who, with their casks of gunpowder proceeded through showers of sparks
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to the edifices marked for explosion — the momentary wavering of those edifices when the match was fired — the explosion — and at the very instant the stately pile was a prostrate mass of ruins — the consternation of the citizens— the firemen, the very men who had so often seemed the chartered masters of the devouring element, looking on, mute, paralyzed, impotent spectators — the piles and masses of merchandise moved twice and thrice, and finally consumed. Merchants hurrying from their up-town residences to the scene of action, and coaches bearing ladies to the spectacle!
The appearance to the more distant observer, to whom the flames looked like a solid wall against the clear blue sky, and the gems of Heaven, like celestial witnesses, calmly gazing on this mortal coil — all this will not be forgotten, and cannot be described. But there were instances of self-command, generosity, and heroism, the moral phœnixes which rose from the gross elemental fire that may be recorded by the humblest pen, and will at least live longer on the pages of an annual than in the columns of a forgotten newspaper.
One anecdote was given in the journals of the city, the day after the fire, which we have since heard from unquestionable witnesses, and which we shall repeat unvarnished. Who would try, by coloring, to add beauty or grace to such truth?
A gallant young man belonging to our navy, who a few days before, for some slight misdemeanor had been ejected from it, was busied with thousands in removing merchandise, when he heard piercing shrieks from a woman. He made his way to her. In the general distress she was little heeded. She seemed like a maniac.
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In answer to his demand of ‘what is the matter?’ she pointed to one of the burning houses and said, ‘my child is there!’ ‘In what part of the house?’ She was calmed by his interposition, and described the room in the third story. He darted towards the house. As he placed his foot on the threshold, the firemen adjured him to come back, and told him if he went on he could not return. They were attempting to force him back, but he sprang beyond their grasp, and unchecked by the flames that were crackling along the beams, he mounted to the apartment and entered it — the fire was glancing around the cornice of the room. — The child, a sturdy infant of some six or seven months, was awake, and holding up its hand before its eyes, and twining it around, delighted with the reflection of the flame, that in another moment would have reduced its little frame to ashes. His preserver caught the boy in his arms, and descended to the last landing place. The bannister was on fire. He hesitated—he had passed an open window — should he return and leap from that? — he might crush the child. So pressing against the wall, he rushed down uninjured, save the scorching of his coat — a scorch that will make it a precious relic.
Those who have never heard the spontaneous gushings from that holy fountain which is never quite dried in any heart, should have heard the shoutings and clappings of hands when the young man reappeared and placed the boy in his mother's arms — they should have seen how, for a moment, every other interest was suspended in admiration, and how the young hero, finishing his generous act with the only grace that could be added to
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it, modestly shrank from the tribute he had so well earned, and disappeared. [2 *]
The morning of the 17th found the city in indescribable anxiety, dismay, and bewilderment. No one could calculate the extent of the loss — the direct loss — no one dared to anticipate the loss from the bankruptcy of merchants, the failure of monied institutions, and the suspension of business and payments. All sympathy was directed to the merchants, for to few had it then occurred that the ruin would pass over the palace, and prostrate the cottage.
The first intimation I had of such a result was from a gentleman who said to me, ‘I fear your friend Mrs. Orme has lost every thing. I am told her agent Robert Smith invested all her property in fire insurance stock.’ I knew such ill news as this must have flown to her ears, and I determined immediately to go to her.
The streets were a wild exhibition of the horrible and the ludicrous — the strange motley that human affairs so often wear. Here were militiamen called out as guards, bustling along in all the mock importance of their brief authority, and there were firemen dragging themselves to their homes — looking like ghosts who had outstayed their time.
Here was timid, shivering poverty, stealing stealthily along, amid bales of blankets, and stacks of woolen goods, eyeing them wishfully from beneath the half lifted lid — and there, (a timely admonition!) were
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police-men dragging detected pilferers to justice. Here the merchant on whose face was written ‘sudden calamity has overtaken me,’ and beside him the bold beggar, her shoulders laden with piles of half consumed blankets, ends of shawls, and bits of silk that yesterday made a part of his countless wealth!
‘Take physic, pomp,
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou may'st spare the superflux to them
And show the Heavens more just.’
I crossed a street, making my way through carts, wagons, and coaches laden with boxes and cases of the richest merchandise, and turned out of my course to a point of view where a group of amateur spectators were gazing at the ruins — not with tearless eyes. We all stood for a few moments in profound silence looking at the standing fragments of walls — the smouldering piles of brick that covered thousands (millions?) of unconsumed and inaccessible property — at the fire still burning unresisted, because irresistible, towards the water's edge — at the ashes of to-day — the millions of yesterday. ‘This’ said a gentleman next me, ‘is the levelling system with a vengeance!’
‘Yes, but it is a levelling to teach levellers,’ replied another, ‘those ignorant and corrupt persons who would construct barriers between the rich and poor, out of their evil passions, must now acknowledge their mutual dependence — the demonstrated identity of their interests. The working men will realise that the enterprise and industry of the wealthy merchant feeds the channels of their prosperity. Heaven grant they may not long feel it from a loss of the supply.’
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‘The rascals! it's a good lesson for them.’ This bitter exclamation was made by one of those who look upon themselves as having a chartered right to their accidental prosperity, and who, as far as they can oppose the laws of Providence, obstruct those supplies of Heaven-directed bounty to the poor.
I turned from the idlers and pursued my course, winding as well as I might, along the walks encumbered with the various merchandise that comes from every explored corner of our globe to this great commercial mart; bales of cotton, piles of domestic goods — hard ware and porcelain — English woolens and Dutch toys— French silks and stacks of German baskets, &c, &c.— a volume might be filled with the specifications indicated by these et cetéras, but I have already abused the curiosity of my readers, if perchance they have any, in the fate of my heroine.
I found my friend Mrs. Orme, as I had feared, plunged into the depths of despair. She was pacing up and down her room. As I entered, she clasped her hands, exclaiming, ‘ruined ! — totally ruined!’
‘But my dear friend, your property was not surely all invested in fire insurance stock?’
‘Yes, all. At least, I have no reason to doubt it. — Of course you know, being totally unacquainted with business myself, [3]* I leave my affairs entirely to the discretion of my agent, and Mrs Wilson says she heard him say only last week that he had vested my money — all of it — in six different companies, so that I should be quite safe. I remember, too, he asked me about fire stock, and I told him it would make me uncomfortable
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whenever the bell rung. But he said something about the companies always making good dividends; and I have not thought of it since, till Mrs. Wilson came into my room at two o'clock, to prepare my mind, as she said. Mrs. Wilson blames Mr. Smith, and so do I.’
‘I did not controvert this position, for I know it is the most common solace of undisciplined minds, to impute the blame to another. ‘Where,’ I asked, ‘was Augusta?’
Her mother did not know. She believed she had gone out —‘Strange that she could go out, and leave me, at such a moment. She is a dear child, but she has one defect — it is a natural one, and she can not cure it. I do not blame her, but I often feel it. She wants sensibility. I dont mean to complain of her, but think how I must have felt to see her go, just as usual, about her ordinary avocations this morning. She even, once or twice, while she was putting away the things you saw here last night, sang! I suppose it was involuntary — but it is so strange — so unlike me!’
Mrs. Orme is not the only person that measures the qualities of others by her own, as if that were an infallible standard. I ventured to intimate that it was very fortunate for Augusta if she could meet such a reverse with firmness.
‘Firmness — oh, yes! but then do you know she has been- trying to convince me that it is not a calamity to weep for? that, I think, as Mrs. Wilson says, is carrying firmness a little too far; but she is a dear child, and, except in this blemish, every thing I could wish. And this perhaps spares her a great deal of suffering.’
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‘Useless suffering,’ thought I, ‘suffering never designed by him who chasteneth because he loveth.’
‘But where,' continued the mother, ‘can Augusta stay! It is not considerate of her, as Mrs. Wilson says, to leave me this morning.’
Her perplexities were ended by Augusta's entrance. Her face was beaming. ‘Good news, mama! she cried, ‘the last ten thousand remitted from New Orleans, is safe.’ She kissed her mother, and wiped the tears that flowed afresh at this unexpected intelligence.
‘These shall be the last tears this business costs you, mama; then turning round, she saw me, apologized for having overlooked me, and instinctively sought a shelter for the undue grief she knew her mother must have exhibited to me.
‘This horrid fire,’ she said, ‘has kept mama up all night, and made her so nervous!’
‘But are you certain you are rightly informed, Augusta?’ asked the mother, ‘Mrs. Wilson was so sure!’
‘Oh, Mrs. Wilson! I was sure from the moment that trumpery woman said it, it could not be so. Her reports, like dreams, go by contraries. But I was afraid, mama, of inspiring any false hope, so I resolved to go at once to Mr. Smith.’
‘And that was what you went out for ? — Dear child!’
I ventured to say, for I could not help it, ‘there are other manifestations of sensibility than passiveness and tears.’
‘I went first,’ continued Augusta, ‘to Mr. Smith's house, but, as I ought to have foreseen, he was not at home.’
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‘But surely, my child, you did not go alone down Wall street.’
‘No; fortunately, just as I was turning into Wall street, and thinking what a piece of work I should have to make my way, I met Mr. Clement Rayson. He stopped, and asked me where I was going, and begged leave to attend me. It was very kind of him, and amusing too, after we had sat opposite for three weeks, without speaking. Well, I found Mr. Smith with a face as long as my arm; but he seemed quite relieved, when I told him it was so much better than we expected, and assured him, mama, you would not care for the loss, since we had enough left.’
‘Enough!’ sighed the mother, who already began to shift her unhappiness from the total loss of their finances to their reduction.
Augusta did not hear her mother, or else, to turn the current of her thoughts, she said, ‘Oh, mama, Mr. Rayson has told me such a sad piece of news — quite enough to put the loss of property out of one's head. That beautiful, lovely woman, Mrs. Moreson, whom we saw at Dr. Hayward's, is dead. She died without a moment's warning, while her sister was dressing for her cousin's wedding.’
After the usual exclamations of sympathy and sorrow, Mrs. Orme said she supposed the parties, then, would be given up.
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Augusta, ‘and there is my beautiful Camelia must fade unseen.’
‘Your fit emblem, I fear, my child; for now, you cannot come out.’
‘But I can stay in, mama, without drooping. There
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are some hardy plants that do not need sunshine — I think I am one of those.’
And so it proved. A few days after, I was again with my friends, anxious to know what their arrangements were to be, for I was well aware that the income of ten thousand dollars could not maintain them in their present style of living — would not even pay their board. I found Mrs. Orme troubled and undecided — Augusta, strong and cheerful in her self-reliance.
‘You have come,’ she said, receiving me affectionately, ‘just in time to aid our deliberations. We find that we can live independently and pleasantly in the country on our present income.’
‘It comes very hard upon me, though,’ said Mrs. Orme, ‘for I have an antipathy to a country life.’
‘And therefore,’ continued Augusta, ‘I wish mama not to think of it. Her income is quite sufficient to secure her an agreeable town residence, and I should be ashamed of myself if I could not earn my own support. I have a double object in this. Mama has grown so nervous about losses, that she is afraid of being stripped of what remains; and I want to convince her, that even in that event we should do well enough.’
‘But how, my dear girl, can you earn your living?’
‘Oh, in twenty ways. I can turn governess.’
‘I utterly object to that,’ said the mother, ‘I have seen too many of them, and I know what dog's lives they lead.’
I ventured to suggest that I had seen some very happy ones.
‘I should have no fears on that score,’ said Augusta, ‘for I believe our own happiness is in our own hands;
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but then any employment that will separate me from mama, is objectionable. I can give music lessons; combine music and singing lessons, which would be very profitable.’
‘Dear child, dont use such words — they make me so nervous. I cannot consent to your giving music lessons, there is something so degrading in running from house to house, and selling your time to other people.’
‘This is what ninety-nine hundredths of the world do, mama, and I do not wish to be among the exempts. I would,’ she continued, addressing me, ‘open a school, but I am afraid I am too young to have children confided to my care.’
‘Pity you are not ‘full thirty,’ said I.
‘Ah,’ replied Augusta, ‘that reminds me of Clement Rayson. Last night I was speaking of that beautiful camelia, and I do suspect he knows where it came from, but he will not give me the least clew. He merely said it must be from some very young man, for they were addicted to such fooleries! That was a saying, was it not, that marked the sayer ‘full thirty ?’ — But what were we talking of— my occupation; it is not, like Othello's ‘gone’ — would that it were come!’
‘I have an excellent plan,’ interposed the mother, ‘if we can only persuade Augusta to adopt it. When summer comes, I shall be quite willing to make an experiment of country life. In the mean time, a very slight addition to our income would pay our expenses here without intrenching on our capital. Perhaps you do not know it, but Augusta excels in all sorts of ingenious, lady-like manufactures — worsted work in particu-
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lar. And she is so quick! she net the loveliest purse for Clement Rayson — all of it yesterday.’
‘I trust, Augusta,’ said I, ‘you marked it ‘full thirty,’ for ladies' favors are sometimes misinterpreted.’
‘Clement Rayson is past the danger of such coxcomberies,’ replied Augusta.
‘Now,’ resumed the mother, ‘Augusta could dispose of her work at the ‘Ladies' Depository,’ without the slightest exposure. The utmost delicacy is observed there, Mrs. Wilson tells me. By the way, Augusta, it just occurs to me that Mrs. Wilson must work for the Depository, how else could she afford to wear blond capes ? — but, as I was saying, she tells me that the names of those who deposite articles there, are religiously kept secret. Your orders are referred to numbers, not names.’
‘And why all this reserve?’ I innocently asked.
‘My dear friend, the institution is designed for ladies of reduced fortune, to enable them to dispose of their work without it ever being known that they work for their living.’ [4]*
I smiled, and Augusta said, ‘you think as I do, I am sure of it.’
‘And how is that, Augusta?’
‘Why, that these same reduced ladies might as well
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be ashamed of giving bread to their children, as of earning it for them; and that this very labor of which they are ashamed, is most creditable — perchance the most honorable act of their whole lives.’
‘Pity,’ I ventured to add, ‘it does not occur to them, that working for their living, places' them in the same category with the first in the land — the lawyer, the clergyman, the merchant, &c., — and rescues them from the helplessness and dependence into which misfortune usually casts females of their class.’
Those little understand the country they live in, who, by such an institution, virtually pronounce labor degrading, and virtually insult those of their sex, who professedly work for their living.’ [5]*
‘As you agree with me,’ resumed Augusta, ‘I hope you will persuade mama to let me do something more productive than lady-like work. I have three projects — pray dont laugh at me—if one fails, another may succeed, you know. When I was at school in Boston, I made some translations from the French and Spanish, for a work a friend of ours was publishing there. He paid me compliments on my success, which, making due allowance for his partiality, and gratitude, &c, allow me to aspire to the place of a hack translator to the Harpers, or some other publishing house here.’
I knew my young friend understood French and Spanish well, and wrote her own language with correctness and freedom. I gave my hearty concurrence to the plan.
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‘When I can't get work from a publisher, continued Augusta, ‘I can copy music — I can do that very rapidly. I have often copied songs for poor Stefani to sell to her scholars.’
‘Now for your third project, Augusta.’
‘You will think me a great braggart — but you know I must give an inventory of my commodities. When I was staying at Mr. Johnson's, he had an accumulation of law papers to be copied. Grace Johnson and I assisted him, and he gave me the credit of doing mine in right clerkly style. Mama herself taught me to write, and now, dear mama, I may pay you for the pains you took in forming my hand.’
‘It is the only thing, my child, I ever taught you.’
‘But, my dear Mrs. Orme, you have given her a firstrate education, and she is now going to prove to you that this is the safest investment of capital.’
My friend, propitiated by these agreeable truths, was evidently leaning our way, when a new difficulty occurred to her.
‘But how,’ she asked, ‘is Augusta to get this work? I had rather starve than she should go bustling about to book stores, music shops, and lawyers' offices.’
‘I have thought of all that, mama, and I mean to get Mr. Rayson to make inquiries for me. I shall ask the favor of him as freely as if he were my father.’
‘Your acquaintance, Augusta,’ said I, ‘with Clement Rayson, has made astonishing progress since the fire.’
‘Yes, our walk down Wall street, that morning, put us on a friendly footing at once, and ever since, he has been as kind to mama and me as possible. He has a very fine library, and he lends us his books, and obliges us in every possible way.’
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‘I knew,’ said I, ‘his library occupied the apartment next yours, and to tell you the truth, I was afraid your piano might annoy him — he is not fond of music.’
‘Oh pardon me ! indeed he is, for he has asked me again and again to play the songs I had unconsciously sung to him through the wall. I am sure you are wrong, no one seems to relish them as he does.’
I believed I was right, but I had the grace not to persist in saying so, while I admired the rare happiness of Augusta's mind, in being unsusceptible to small as well as great evils. Mrs. Orme, after a good deal of persuasion, more availing with her than reason, came into our plans, and I was deputed to engage Clement Rayson's friendly offices.
At my request, I was admitted to his library, where I unfolded my errand. I spoke of Augusta as I felt, and I am sure his heart responded, for never did I see his fine face so lit with animation, till I chanced to quote, as a sort of apology for the trouble we were giving him, the reason Augusta had assigned for the freedom she felt in applying to him. His countenance changed — he repeated my words with a vexed accent, ‘as soon as if I were her father! would she?’ At that moment, fortunately, Augusta commenced one of his favorite songs, and exorcised the evil spirit. He was all ear till she finished, and then reverting to our last words, ‘tell me,’ he asked, ‘honestly, do I look so desperately old?’
‘Oh no! two minutes ago, you might have passed for a gallant lover, who indited sonnets to his mistress' eye brow, and secretly sent her those orthodox love-tributes — bouquets!’ He blushed, and knocked down half a dozen books by a sudden movement of his arm. While
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he was replacing them, I added, ‘when my friends first came to this house, I confess you looked to me careworn— I might have taken you for full thirty.’
‘I am thirty-one precisely. That, however, is not quite old enough for Miss Augusta's father. However he added, wisely shifting the subject to a better point of view, ‘I am content to make any impression that affords me an opportunity of serving her. An admirable creature she is, and most fortunate!’
‘Admirable she certainly is, but I should not select this moment of her life to call her fortunate.’
‘Is she not plucked from the brink of fashionable life, and an opportunity afforded her of using her fine faculties to some purpose?’
Every man has his mania. I was aware of Clement Rayson's and forbore to oppose it.
Nothing could be more zealous, than was Rayson in procuring employment for Augusta. His zeal might have been stimulated by the certainty that if her earnings were intermitted, she and her mother must seek less expensive lodgings. So never a day passed over her head that she had not that prime blessing — plenty of work; and time to read, to sew, to walk, (how, in spite of the snow-storms, ice, slop, and avalanches of this worse than polar winter, has she daily achieved a two or three mile walk!) to play, and sing, and be agreeable; in short, to do every thing, even ‘lady-like work.’ Best of all was it, in her mother's opinion, that she found time to accept the civilities of certain fashionable people, whose attentions to her were no wise abated, by their knowledge of the fact that she worked for her living. Superior people are not superior to
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prejudices, but if truth can be fairly brought to bear upon them, it dissolves them as the direct rays of the sun melt away the ice. As a fashionable equipage that had brought visiters to the Ormes, drove away from the door, ‘there are exceptions to my rule,’ thought Clement Rayson. ‘I was wrong to involve a whole class in the opinion I had conceived of individuals of that class.’ For the first time it occurred to him, that the inconstancy of his early love might have been rather owing to some inherent defect in her, than to the influence of her fashionable associates. ‘After all,’ thus he concluded his mental reverie, ‘there is no character to be relied on but that which, instead of being subdued by circumstances, resists and controls them — a character like Augusta Orme's.’
When a man — be he full thirty — begins to make a young lady his standard of ideal perfection, the next act of his drama may be anticipated.
I knew my friends were getting on well, that Augusta was turning her industry to good account, often earning by mere copying three dollars a day, [6]* and that Mrs. Orme was enjoying the sense of independence and security naturally inspired by the exercise of her daughter's power, and satisfied they were happy, and being otherwise occupied, I had not seen them for more than a month when, one fine morning, a ring at the street door was followed by Augusta's appearance in my room. Her face was full of meaning. I could not guess what
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it meant. She was embarrassed too, the first time I had ever seen her so.
She untied and retied her bonnet, sat down, rose, and sat down again—then after a vain struggle burst into tears, the first I had ever seen flow from her bright eyes; and finally, throwing a letter into my lap exclaimed, ‘what a fool I am!’ and laughed.
‘That laugh at any rate, proves you are yourself,’ I said, ‘which I very much doubted.’
I read the letter. It was from Clement Rayson—the very ‘quotidian of love’ was upon him.
‘You find it hard to say no to so ardent a lover.’ No reply. ‘There is no evidence here,’ I continued, ‘that the climate of full thirty has chilled his heart.’
‘How can you always remind me of that foolish speech?’
‘Then you do not mean to say no?’
‘I mean to do just what you advise me—if ’ she added archly, and in her natural vein, ‘you advise me as I wish. Here is anothyer letter, and this it is that perplexes me.’ The second letter was brief, and like its precursor, unfit for quite sane readers. Therefore we copy it.
‘The enclosed I wrote two days ago, but had not the courage to send it to you. Necessity now makes me bold. Within the last hour I have received intelligence that obligers me to go to Europe—for two years! – perhaps longer—I must sail next week. I cast all on a single die—happiness or misery is before me. If I go alone, I go the most wretched outcast on earth.’
‘If you invest me with the right, I shall beg Mrs. Orme to go with us. Us! Am I not presumptuous?’
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My pencil was in my hand. 'Shall I cross out this us, Augusta?'
‘First tell me, do you not think it is quite too hasty?’
‘Why, let us see, your acquaintance began on the morning of the 17th of December. January, February, March — three months under the same roof, beginning with paternal protection on the one part, and filial confidence on the other—‘
‘Pray — if you love me, pray do not again advert to that, but tell me honestly, do you not think it is quite too short a time to have matured a sentiment to be relied on for life?’
‘Some fruits ripen wonderfully fast in some soils, and under certain influences.’
‘But you do think — I am sure of it from your repeated hints--’ now there was a tremulousness in her voice, as in the patient's when he discloses his worst symptom to his physician, ‘you do think the difference of age an objection?’
‘An inferior objection to thousands that are every day surmounted.’
Her face brightened. ‘And you think it possible perfectly to recover from a first love — from an attachment so strong as that which Clement confesses in his first foolish letter he long cherished for that jilt?’
‘Possible! every day's experience proves it to be very easy.’
‘There is no use’ she said, her pretty lips curling into their natural smile, ‘in urging any more objections, for you will certainly obviate them.’
‘Yes, Augusta, just as long as I see you urge them to be obviated. That decides the affair in my opinion.
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This affection which is the staple of life springs up and is matured under every variety of circumstances, character and condition. The only point to be settled, is that it exists in its purity and perfection. In this case, I am quite sure as to that point, so are you, my dear ; now run home and write a fit answer to this ‘foolish’ letter.’ She threw her arms around my neck. Love, like a fire kindled for a specific purpose, imparts its warmth to whatever approaches it. One propriety occurred to me that my young friend seemed to have overlooked. ‘Is mama propitious?’ I asked.
‘Not yet consulted, because I feared to tell her while there was the least uncertainty as to which way the scale would turn — Clement is such a prodigious favorite with her nowadays.’
‘Then all is well.’ A few days after, in obedience to a previous summons from Augusta, I joined a male friend, and we, with her mother, were the only witnesses of her marriage vows before the altar of Grace Church. She was dressed in the white muslin she had selected for her coming out, and a white camelia in her hair, so like the one presented to her for that occasion, that I at once came to the right conclusion — it was the gift of the same donor.
My friends had secured the best boon of human life, and therefore I resigned without a sigh the expectation that Augusta Orme would have gone on to illustrate my favorite theory — that a good education, and a well principled and happily balanced mind, will render a woman independent of the vicissitudes of fortune.
[*Notes]
[1]* Many persons suppose that a library is not a natural appurtenance for a merchant. This is a mistake. Our merchants constitute a cultivated class, and many among them indulge in the refined luxury of books, to an extent that would be incredible to those who have formed their opinion of the body from some of the impotent members. We happen to know that one of our merchants has a fine library at his house, and another, for his leisure moments at his counting house, where there are duplicates of books of reference — expensive editions of such works as Boyle's Dictionary. This is indeed the luxury of fortune — if that can be called luxury, which, as the political economists say, is reproduced by its consumption.
[2]* We have just heard that the President has fitly rewarded his heroism by a restoration to his place in the navy. An opportunity thus offered him, his promotion may be safely left in his own hands.
[3]* So are most women. Should they be so?
[4]* It is but justice to state that this institution, though originally set on foot for the purpose specified in the text, is no longer limited to that. With the exception of this one very objectionable feature, viz: the facility afforded for the indulgence of a false pride, and sickly sensibility, it is a most creditable institution, and, from the character of the ladies who manage it, we may hope that this imperfection will not long be permitted in deference to prejudices that should be exploded.
[5]* I once heard a young lady say of a gentleman, — a teacher of the learned languages — that he was ‘a charming person, but not in society.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Oh, he works for his living, you know.’ ‘Straws show,’&c.
[6]* Lest the example of our favorite should be impotent for want of credibility, we inform our young lady readers that we have known this amount of labour performed in six hours out of the twenty four , day after day, by a girl minus fifteen.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Full Thirty
Subject
The topic of the resource
The Great Fire of 1835, women and work, May-December romance.
Description
An account of the resource
A young woman and her mother find themselves in reduced circumstances after a fire that devastates New York City. The daughter is supported in her efforts to earn a living by an older female friend of the family, who narrates the story, and a mature bachelor who develops romantic feelings for the young woman.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Sedgwick, Catharine Maria
Source
A related resource from which the described resource is derived
The Token and Atlantic Souvenir, [edited by Samuel G. Goodrich], pp. 214-246.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Boston: Charles Bowen
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1837 [pub. 1836]
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
D. Gussman
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Document
1836
As You Like It
bachelors
boarding house
camelias
class
coming out
Cymbeline
fashion
Female education
fire insurance stock
Grace Church
Harpers
heroism
King Lear
Ladies' Depository
marriage
May-December romance
Much Ado About Nothing
New York City
Pyramus and Thisbe
self reliance
Shakespeare
society
The 1835 Great Fire of New York
The Tempest
The Token and Atlantic Souvenir
the unconscious
Wall Street
women and work
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/d2ad7d6c90a01bae227a30feb1825b5e.pdf?Expires=1712793600&Signature=Aps0RijM2-8nC4mWqa4HOxuXOlThAGmnWBrp7epI6mefBnHTGfOtYEqSajtDOZLkz6nuUbD87d4M0Y9TG7dtHS7iKFvtLhABjcnRR3wYj74M3JG9PTM1xJ853c-4Ov%7EKPOhGPxtalEYdiy0Z33ocvX2ceBVElr%7Esuzoy4%7EoIPayJ8nz7ORH731HLT-cfUePissH6evXqlauX52vWGhSzRcrA9j%7EPudLsdCkDtNYpjuWpmCQ-wjjQzm9yDBKh1ssz%7E7OlgSZqP5Uf9TpuTxUlTRkstBouQJSBU1WRBgVtoIUaP3t89Xt2QTr4uY3M2QSahICfW0KkB53NPy-JwvlWzA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
30ee78c748a67e4b47d0bf76bc9de689
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
1835
Document
A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text.
Text
Any textual data included in the document.
THE UNPRESUMING MR. HUDSON.
BY MISS SEDGWICK.
[p. 17]
It chanced to me, during the last travelling season, to fall in with a party who, like myself, were destined for a fashionable watering-place. The most conspicuous members of this party were Mrs. Campbell, (a widow,) and her only and very pretty daughter, Louisa, whose name, according to modern usage, was gallicised into Louise. The mother was educated in the old school, or, to speak more accurately, in no school at all; but, if she were ignorant, she was unpretending; and it is, perhaps, as well to have the mind vacant, as to have it filled with foreign, ill-assorted, and undigested materials, that encumber it without increasing its riches or productiveness.
All Mrs. Campbell's pride, of every kind and degree, was concentrated in Louise. She had been,
[p. 18]
till this summer of her seventeenth year, at a fashionable boarding-school in one of our large cities. She had had approved masters, and, as her doting mother said, and reiterated, neither time nor expense had been spared in her education; and accordingly, in her mother's acceptation of the word, she was educated. She played and sang so well, that Mrs. Campbell averred she had rather listen to her than to Pedrotti or Mrs. Wood. She drew very prettily—she had learned by heart two entire plays of Goldoni—she made wax flowers, which her mother assured us were quite as natural as real ones —and she spoke French—like other young ladies. If the circumstances, relations, and issues of this brief life require anything more, the balance, (as our mercantile friends have it,) had not been thought of by the mother, or prepared for by the daughter. To do Miss Louise justice, however, she had not been spoiled. She was gay and good-humoured; she had the most good-natured self-complacency— no uncomfortable awe of her superiors—(I rather think she did not believe in their existence)—no jealousy of her equals, and to her inferiors she was kind-hearted.
[p. 19] It was in a stage-coach on a warm day in June that the day broke on our acquaintance. Mrs. Campbell was a lady of facilities, and we had not travelled a half-day together, before, by means of half a dozen ingenious, wayfaring questions, she had ascertained all she cared to know of us, and had liberally repaid us with what she thought we must care to know of her. Besides us there were two persons in the coach not so easily perused. The one a Colonel Smith, (Smith, happily called the anonymous name, and certainly that most tormenting and baffling to an inquirer,) and the other a Mr. Charles Hudson. Col. Smith's demeanour was very unlike his name, marked, high-bred, and a little aristocratic. "A gentleman, he certainly was," Mrs. Campbell said, as soon as we had an opportunity of holding a caucus on our fellow- travellers, but whether he were of the Smiths of New York, Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, Carolina, and so on, through the States, she could not ascertain. However, the cardinal point was settled. He was a gentleman, by all our suffrages; and this most important matter established,
[p. 20]
we were at liberty to interchange with him the common civilities of life!
Mr. Hudson was a more puzzling case for our inquest. Mrs. Campbell remembered to have met a very respectable family of Hudsons at Saratoga, who were from Boston—at least she was almost sure they were, but our Mr. Charles Hudson, in reply to certain leading remarks of hers, had said he had never been in Boston. She remembered, too, when she was in Baltimore, some twenty years before, to have seen a family of Hudsons who were very intimate with the Carrolls—this was equivalent to a patent of gentility—but Mr. Hudson affirmed he did not know the Baltimore Hudsons. One of us remembered a certain Mr. Hudson who once had unquestioned circulation in the beau monde of New York, but whence he came, was either not known or forgotten. Miss Louise had heard a young friend say she had danced with a Mr. Hudson in Washington—this could hardly be admitted as a credential, and we were at last compelled to wait till we could adjust the gentleman's claims by his merits! The disquieting anxieties of
[p. 21]
some good people in our country, on the head of family or rank, is very like a satire on the fancied equality resulting from republican institutions.
Mrs. Campbell was not inclined to be over-fastidious, but she gave it in charge to her daughter to be "rather reserved," while we remained on the level arena of a stage-coach. Miss Louise paid as much deference to her mother as could be expected, reserve not being the quality par excellence of American young ladies. In the course of the morning, an accident to the coach compelled the passengers to walk for some distance down a steep and winding descent. The morning was beautiful. The air deliciously tempered. The majestic oaks and maples of Virginia, like its inhabitants (to borrow a rustic phrase from one of their mountaineers), “stout of their country,” threw their broad dense shadows over our path—the rhododendron, then in its glory, was in profusion around us, and wild roses, with other unknown and unnumbered flowers on every side.
Our party was not of the most romantic materials, but as we descended the gorge, and looked below us on a sea of the topmost branches of lofty trees,
[p. 22]
and long before us to a narrow and winding ravine, sunk between the mountains, and affording just space enough for a road beside a brawling stream, we were, though, as I have confessed, not of the most susceptible materials, all excited by this fresh and beautiful aspect of nature. The pretty Louise, with the elastic step and joyous spirit of youth, leaped down the rocks and over the runs, singing, laughing, and exclaiming at every step. Her mother toiled after her, calling out, “Louise, my dear, you'll fall. Put on your bonnet, my child, you'll be one freckle—Louise! Louise! your gloves off! how absurd!” But Louise heard not, or heeded not. She ran on like another Atalanta, defying the gentlemen to overtake her, and, like her prototype, giving them a fair chance, by often stepping aside to crop a flower too inviting to be resisted. They all followed her lead—all but Mr. Hudson, who coolly walked beside the elder ladies—pointed out the best stepping-places—gave them his arm when necessary— and gave them the flowers he gathered, reserving only a few of the choicest. Mrs. Campbell touched my arm, and whispered, “We need no ghost to tell
[p. 23]
us for whom those are destined.” The lumbering coach came on, and one after another the pedestrians were picked up. Louise's colour was heightened by exercise, and her eyes were sparkling with excited spirits. She was something like a flower in the desert—the only one among us, young or pretty, and she was flattered and petted on all sides. She sat between her mother and myself, on the back seat, and was continually putting her pretty face forward on one side and on the other, to answer the compliments and sallies directed to her from the gentlemen who occupied the middle and front seats. As, with the exception of Mr. Hudson, they were all of the trustworthy, elderly, papa and uncle order, this did not imply any undue forwardness in our young friend. At any rate, Mr. Hudson, the only member of the party not hors du combat, did not profit by the vantage-ground she offered, to advance his acquaintance with her. He, now and then, glanced his eye at her, and a strikingly open, gentlemanly eye had Mr. Hudson, (so said the mo- ther,) and sometimes smiled at the jeux d'esprit that might have derived a portion of their brilliancy from the bright lips through which they passed, as water
[p. 24]
takes a hue from the precious ore through which it sometimes issues. “Mr. Hudson appears quite to appreciate Louise,” whispered Mrs. Campbell, “and yet did you ever see any one so unpresuming? He has not even ventured to offer her the bouquet he gathered for her!”
“For me, mamma, are you sure he gathered it for me?”
“Certainly, my love, for whom else could it be?”
Louise was determined the flowers should not fail of their destination, through the youth's over-modesty.
“How sweetly pretty your flowers are, Mr. Hudson!” she began.
“They are both sweet and pretty, Miss Campbell.”
“Fragrant, you mean?” Mr. Hudson bowed assentingly; “that is delightful, where could you have found them? I never can find a sweet wildflower. I am passionately fond of fragrant flowers; indeed, I think flowers without fragrance are quite an imposition. Look at these," she held up the bunch with which she had seemed, a few moments before, quite satisfied; “a French flower-girl could
[p. 25]
make quite as good!” she threw them with a pretty toss of her head, out of the window; and still on this hint, Mr. Hudson spake not—to the point.
He very coolly smelt his flowers, and said, he wished a certain Englishman were in the coach, whom he had heard assert that American flowers had no fragrance—that the climate, like the satyr, blew hot and cold on them; melted and froze the odour out of them. He thought he would he satisfied that his opinion, like some other foreign opinions, was rather the result of his own ignorance, than of a just appreciation of the products of the country.
Mrs. Campbell heard his long speech out—begged leave to smell his flowers—then passed them to her daughter, and she, after some eloquent “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” returned them to Mr. Hudson, who received them with a very polite inclination of his head, but without anything like the anticipated, “pray keep them!” I looked at the mother, expecting to see her a little crest-fallen, but no! her face was the very picture of confidingness and good-humour, with a slight touch of pity for the self-denying modesty of her new acquaintance. “I do not
[p. 26]
doubt,” she said to me at the first opportunity, “that Mr. Hudson has been to France, where, they tell me, it is reckoned very improper to offer attentions of any sort to a young unmarried lady. He is uncommonly unpresuming! but do you not think he is a little too particular?”
“He may be so—but particularity is a good fault in a stage-coach, Mrs. Campbell.”
“Certainly, that is a very just remark, and it will be quite time enough to encourage him when we arrive at the Springs.”
At “the Springs” we arrived in the course of the following day, and were received and had our places assigned us as one party, of which the “unpresuming” Mr. Hudson made, so to speak, an integral part. No mode of ripening an acquaintance is so rapid as that of travelling two or three days, more or less, in a stage-coach. In a steamboat, if you are reserved, sullen—Anglois—(we quote a French synonyme)—you may go apart, upon the upper, or the lower deck—fore or aft—you may drop your veil and look down into the water, or turn your back upon the company, and gaze upon the shore— or you may creep into a berth, and draw a curtain
[p. 27]
between yourself and the world; but what art— what device—what panoply, can resist the social system of a stage-coach! Scott somewhere says, I believe in his chapter upon equality, that it exists only among the Hottentots; he overlooked the temporary but perfect democracy of a stage-coach, where each is reduced to a unit, and feels, whatever his rank, fortune, or distinctions may be, as he is packed, crowded, and pinioned in, that his next neighbours virtually address to him what a surly fellow in a “Jackson Meeting” yesterday, said to a poor man who remonstrated against being jostled and squeezed, “What are you, sir? you are nothing, sir, but an individual!”
But with the good-humoured and kind-hearted, instead of hostility, there is a neighbourly fellow- feeling, nurtured by the intimate relations of a stage-coach. Our fellow-passengers seem to us like cotemporaries,—we have set out with the same purposes and hopes—met with the same disappointments and mischances—“we have had our losses together;” in short, in a stage-coach, as in every mode and condition of human life, sympathy—the electric chain of social being—may be developed,
[p. 28]
and, instead of gall and vinegar, we may enjoy the sweetest of all draughts—the milk of human kindness.
Franklin wrote an essay upon the morals of chess. A chapter on the morals of travelling might not be unprofitable in a country like ours, where half the population is afloat three months of every year.
But my short story must be finished without (I fear!) a moral of any kind.
The Springs, or rather the Spring, which we had selected for our poste restante for some days, was the celebrated Sweet Spring in Union County in Virginia. We chanced to have arrived there before the fashionable season. Our pretty Louise was very near the sad predicament of a belle without a beau. She had, however, plenty of admirers and attendants. Bachelors of some forty or fifty years' standing; widowers from the south, who had come up to the springs to get rid of their bile and their sad memories, and young married men there were who were permitted by their good-natured wives to ride and dance with Louise.
Louise was of the happy disposition that takes “the goods the gods provide,” and enjoys them; that
[p. 29]
never, to use a vulgar simile, throws down the actual bread and butter for the possible cake. The Virginia Springs have few artificial contrivances for pleasure, and it was delightful to see in the pretty Louise the inexhaustible resources of a youthful and cheerful spirit. She would talk by the half-hour with the old Frenchman who obtains a little pécule by keeping the bath and furnishing fire and towels for the ladies, “for what it pleases them to give him.” She would listen to his stories of the French revolution, and his assurances in Anglo-French, (forty years of his threescore and ten had been passed in America,) that she spoke French like a Parisienne. She was, like a butterfly, perpetually on the wing over that beautiful lawn, (how profanely marred by the ugly little cabins that dot it!) which swells up from the deep dell in which the Spring is embosomed, and where, like some sylvan divinity it is sheltered and hidden by a guard of magnificent oaks and elms.
Mrs. Campbell, though the essence of good-nature, was not just then in so satisfied a frame of mind. It was her daughter's debut as a young lady, and she had seen visions, and dreamed dreams of lovers
[p. 30]
and their accompaniments, offers, refusals, and an acceptance! No wonder that the scarcity of the raw material, the warp and woof of which the good mother expected to have woven the matrimonial fabric, should have proved trying to her. Its natural effect was to enhance Mr. Hudson's value; and while Mrs. Campbell unceasingly commended his unpresumingness, she gave him the kindest encouragement to dispense with it, and sometimes appeared a little nettled at his obstinate modesty. Walks were often proposed, but Mr. Hudson, instead of taking a tempting and accessible position beside the young lady, would attend her mamma, or modestly leave them both to the elderly gentlemen, and stray along alone. Once, I remember, a stroll was proposed to a romantic waterfall. The gentlemen whose services we had a right to command were playing billiards. “I am sure,” said Mrs. Campbell, “we may venture to ask Mr. Hudson— he is so unpresuming!”
Accordingly he was asked, and politely joined us —Mrs. Campbell (albeit still ignorant of Mr. Hudson's parentage, fortune, &c.) was all affability— Miss Louise was all gaiety and frankness—so pretty,
[p. 31]
so attractive, so aided by the sylvan influences that in “love-breathing June” dispose the young and susceptible to the sentiment par excellence, that I confess I marvelled that our young friend remained the unpresuming Mr. Hudson.
One evening, at Mrs. Campbell's suggestion, a dance was got up. It was a difficult enterprise, but by the aid of one or two married pairs, and a philanthropic elderly single lady, we mustered a sufficient number for a cotillion. “You and Louise will have hard duty this evening. It is to be hoped she may prove an agreeable partner,” said Mrs. Campbell to Mr. Hudson, as he led off her daughter; “of course,” she added, in a whisper, to her next neighbour, “they must dance together, but I should not have hinted it to him if he were not so very unpresuming!”
But Mr. Hudson did not find the necessity strong enough to overcome that quality of his disposition, which now began to appear to us all, as potent as a ruling passion. He evidently enjoyed the dance with his graceful partner, then modestly resigned her hand, and filled up the measure of his virtue by
[p. 32]
dancing with the unattractive married ladies, and finally crowned it by leading off a Virginia reel with the above-mentioned single lady.
When I parted with Louise for the night, “what a gentlemanly, agreeable man is Mr. Hudson!” said she, “and as mamma says, so very unpresuming!”
The next day was fixed for Mrs. Campbell's departure. She was going to the Natural Bridge. I went to her room to pass the last half-hour with her, and while she was expressing her sincere regret at leaving us all, including Mr. Hudson, on whom she bestowed her usual encomium, we saw a servant bring his baggage from his cabin, and place it with that destined for the Natural Bridge. “Well! well!” exclaimed Mrs. Campbell, who could not, and indeed did not attempt to conceal her satisfaction, “still waters run deep! I suspected all the while----”
“Pshaw! Mamma—do hush!” said Miss Louise, whose smiles, in spite of her, betrayed that her mind had, simultaneously with her mother's, seized on the solution of Mr. Hudson's mysterious unpresumingness.
“La! Louise, my darling, we need not mind
[p. 33]
Miss-----; I am sure she is so discerning, she must have seen, as I did long ago, that Mr. Hudson was like young Edwin in “Edwin and Angelina.’”
“Then he has not yet talked of love,” I asked, rather mischievously.
“Bless me! no! This, however, is a pretty bold step, going to the Natural Bridge with us—but—n’importe, as Louise says, he will do nothing hasty--I am sure of it—he is so unpresuming!”
Whilst we were talking, the Fincastle coach arrived, and it was announced to Mrs. Campbell that there must be a delay of an hour or two before it would proceed, as it required some repair, and (as every body knows who has travelled in Virginia) there was no other carriage to take its place en route. The servant who communicated this to Mrs. Campbell, told us that a very nice-looking gentleman, and his lady, and daughter, had arrived in the coach, who were to remain at the Sweet Springs. “Who were they? and what were their names?” She did not know, “but she reckoned they were somebody, for they had a heap of baggage.” It was immediately proposed that we should abandon the cabin, and reconnoitre the drawing-room and
[p. 34]
piazza, in quest of the new-comers. In those strongholds of ennui—watering-places—the perusal of new faces is as exciting as the covers of a fresh novel to the fair patronesses of a circulating library. We were disappointed in our purpose. We met no one but Mr. Hudson. He seemed, since we parted, a changed man; and instead of the listlessness, abstraction, and indifference—to all which it pleased Mrs. Campbell to apply the term unpresumingness—he was all expression and animation. Once only the flow of his spirits was checked for an instant, when Mrs. Campbell said with a complacent smile, “I was very glad to see your baggage brought out for the Fincastle coach.” He stammered and blushed, and she changed the conversation. Louise was touched by the consciousness of having produced a sensation, and was quiet and retiring, and Mr. Hudson so much more attentive and interested than I had ever seen him before, that I began to think the mother was not at fault, and that our Mr. Hudson was as like the unpresuming hermit lover, as a whiskered, well-dressed, Springs’ lounger could be. I was confirmed in this belief, and convinced that he would soon “talk of
[p. 35]
love,” when, on going with Louise to her cabin in search of something she had left behind, we saw, on her table, a book neatly enveloped in white paper, on which was written in pencil, “To L. C. from C. H.,” and under it the trite quotation from the text-book of lovers, “The world is divided into two parts—that where she is, and that where she is not.” “How very odd !” exclaimed Louise, blushing, and smiling, and untying, with a fluttering hand, the blue ribbon wound around the envelope. She opened the book. It was a blank album, with flowers pressed between its leaves, the very flowers that the “unpresuming Mr. Hudson” had not the courage to offer to Louise on the first day of their acquaintance. Here they were embalmed by love and poetry; for on each page was pencilled a quoted stanza from some popular amorous poet. We had hardly time to glance our eyes over them, when the horn of the Fincastle coach sounded its note of preparation. “What am I to do?” said Louise; “why did not that stupid chambermaid give me the book before; he thought I had seen it, and that explains his being in such spirits, and mamma telling him, too, she was glad he was going on with us! he
[p. 36]
must think it as good as settled! What am I to do? I can't leave it—can I?”
“Not if you choose to take it,” I replied, implying the advice she wished.
“Then do, dear Miss, just wrap it up in that shawl of yours, and while I am getting into the coach, you can just tuck it into my carpet-hag. I can show it to mamma, and if I return it, there is no harm done, for he is so unpresuming! but is it not droll, his flaming forth so all of a sudden?”
Very “droll!” and inexplicable, certainly, did appear to me this new phase of the Proteus passion, and marvelling, I followed my young friend, scrupulously concealing the album in the folds of my shawl. As we left the door of the cabin Louise had occupied, we saw, in the walk just before us, the two ladies of whose arrival we had been apprized.
“Oh!” exclaimed Louise, “how much that young lady's walk is like Laura Clay's!”
At the sound of her name the stranger turned, and proved to be an old schoolmate of Louise's. I took advantage of the moment when the young ladies were exchanging their affectionate greetings,
[p. 37]
to perform my delicate commission, and having ordered in the carpet-bag, I had drawn it into one corner of the room, and was just unlacing it, when the two girls came in.
“How very provoking,” said Louise, “that we are going just as you have arrived.”
“And only think,” returned her friend, “of the chambermaid telling me I was to have the room of a young lady going in the Fincastle coach, and my never dreaming of that young lady being you, and we could have had such nice times in that room together, I have so much to tell you!”
“And I have the drollest thing to tell you!” said Louise; “but, by the way, I heard you were engaged,”—the young lady smiled—“is it true?”— she nodded assent—“Oh, tell me to whom? I am dying to know—the deuce take that horn!—just tell his name.”
“Charles Hudson.”
“Charles Hudson!!”
“Yes, my dear—Charles Hudson—is it not too curious you should have been a week here with him, and not found it out?”
Louise was too much astonished to reply. She
[p. 38]
cast an imploring glance towards me, and I, while I relaced the bag, returned a look that assured her the album should be secretly restored to its right place. Mr. Hudson's unnatural coldness to the charms of my pretty little friend, the mystery of the book—Miss Clay's initials being the same as Miss Campbell's—all was explained. Louise concealed her blushes in a hasty parting embrace, and as she stepped into the carriage, I heard her mother saying to Mr. Hudson,
“Not going with us! why did you change your mind?”
“Some friends have arrived here, Madam, whom I expected to have met at the Natural Bridge.”
Mrs. Campbell bowed for the last time to the unpresuming Mr. Hudson. The coach drove off, and left me meditating upon the trials of a pretty young girl who is chaperoned to watering-places by a silly, expecting, and credulous mother.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
The Unpresuming Mr. Hudson
Subject
The topic of the resource
Travel, fashionable-watering places, marriage market.
Description
An account of the resource
A mother and daughter meet an eligible bachelor at a fashionable resort, and are confused by his disinterested behavior.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Sedgwick, Catharine Maria.
Source
A related resource from which the described resource is derived
The Gift, edited by Eliza Leslie, pp. 17-38.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Philadelphia: E.L. Carey & A. Hart.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1836 [published in 1835]
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
D. Gussman
Relation
A related resource
Reprinted in The Boston Weekly Magazine, vol. 1, no. 43, June 29, 1839, p. 337-338.
Language
A language of the resource
English
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Document
"Edwin and Angelina"
1835
1836
Andrew Jackson
Atalanta
bachelors
Benjamin Franklin
Carlo Goldoni
Carlo Pedrotti
dancing
daughters
Eliza Leslie
Female education
Fincastle coach
gentlemen
gift book
Hottentots
individualism
Jackson meetings
love poems
manners
marriage market
Mary Ann Paton (Mrs. Wood)
modesty
Mothers
Natural Bridge
Oliver Goldsmith
single life
Sir Walter Scott
stage-coach
Sweet Spring
The Gift
Virginia
watering-places