"——birds of paradise had lentTheir plumage to his wings,"
"——birds of paradise had lentTheir plumage to his wings,"
and when the colonel took out his watch and discovered the lateness of the hour, the ladieslookedtheir surprise, and his was denoted by a very handsome compliment to them. He then concluded his visit by requesting permission to resume their acquaintance on his return from Washington.
As soon as he had finally departed, and Robert had locked the door after him, the girls broke out into a rhapsody of admiration, mingled with regret at the state in which he had surprised them, and the entire failure of their first impression, which they feared had not been retrieved by their second appearance in an improved style.
"Well," said Bob, "yours may have been a failure, but I am sure that was not the case with Aunt Sophia. It is plain enough that the colonel's impression ofherturned out very well indeed, notwithstanding that she kept on her wrapper, and had her hair pinned up all the time. Aunt Sophy is a person that a man may fall in love with in any dress; that is, a man who has as much sense as herself."
"As I am going to be a midshipman," continued Robert, "there is one thing I particularly like in Colonel Forrester, which is, that he is not in the least jealous of the navy. How handsomely he spoke of the sea-officers!"
"A man of sense and feeling," observed Sophia, "is rarely susceptible of so mean a vice as jealousy."
"How animated he looked," pursued the boy, "when he spoke of Midshipman Hamilton arriving at Washington with the news of the capture of the Macedonian, and going in his travelling dress to Mrs. Madison's ball, in search of his father the secretary of the navy, to show his despatches to him, and the flag of the British frigate to the President, carrying it with him for the purpose. No wonder the dancing ceased, and the ladies cried."
"Did you observe him," said Harriet, "when he talked of Captain Crowninshield going to Halifax to bring home the body of poor Lawrence, in a vessel of his own, manned entirely by twelve sea-captains, who volunteered for the purpose?"
"And did not you like him," said Caroline, "when he was speaking of Perry removing in his boat from the Lawrence to the Niagara, in the thickest of the battle, and carrying his flag on his arm? And when he praised the gallant seamanship of Captain Morris, when he took advantage of a tremendous tempest to sail out of the Chesapeake, where he had been so long blockaded by the enemy, passing fearlessly through the midst of the British squadron, not one of them daring, on account of the storm, to follow him to sea and fight him."
"The eloquence of the colonel seems to have inspired you all," said Sophia.
"Aunt Sophy," remarked Caroline, "at supper to-night, did you feel as firm in your resolution of never marrying an officer, as you were at the tea-table?"
"Colonel Forrester is not the only agreeable man I have met with," replied Miss Clements, evading the question. "It has been my good fortune to know many gentlemen that were handsome and intelligent."
"Well," said Robert, "one thing is plain enough to me, that Colonel Forrester is exactly suited to Aunt Sophy, and he knows it himself."
"And now, Bob," said Sophia, blushing, "light your candle, and go to bed."
"Bob is right," observed Harriet, after he had gone; "I saw in a moment that such a man as Colonel Forrester would never fancyme."
"Nor me," said Caroline.
Sophia kissed her nieces with more kindness than usual as they bade her good-night. And, they, retired to bed impatient for the arrival of morning, that they might give their mother all the particulars of Colonel Forrester's visit.
In a fortnight, he returned from Washington, and this time he made his first visit in the morning, and saw all the ladies to the best advantage. His admiration of Sophia admitted not of a doubt. Being employed for the remainder of the winter on some military duty in Philadelphia, he went for a few days to Boston and brought his mother (whose friend had recovered from her illness), to fulfil her expected visit. The girls found Mrs. Forrester a charming woman, and, fortunately for them, very indulgent to the follies of young people. The colonel introduced to them various officers that were passing through the city, so that they reallydidwalk in Chestnut street with gentlemen in uniform, and sat in boxes with them at the theatre.
Before the winter was over, Sophia Clements had promised to become Mrs. Forrester as soon as the war was at an end. This fortunate event took place sooner than was expected, the treaty having been made, though it did not arrive, previous to the victory of New Orleans. The colonel immediately claimed the hand of the lady, and the wedding and its preparations, by engaging the attention of Harriet and Caroline, enabled them to conform to the return of peace with more philosophy than was expected. The streets no longer resounded with drums and fifes. Most of the volunteer corps disbanded themselves—the army was reduced, and the officers left off wearing their uniforms, except when at their posts. The military ardour of the young ladies rapidly subsided—citizens were again at par—and Harriet and Caroline began to look with complacence on their old admirers. Messrs. Wilson and Thomson were once more in favour—and, seeing the coast clear, they, in process of time, ventured to propose, and were thankfully accepted.
"Let the players be cared for."—Shakspeare.
"Let the players be cared for."—Shakspeare.
In the early part of the present century, there lived in one of the long streets in the south-eastern section of Philadelphia, a tailor, whom we shall introduce to our readers by the name of Peter Jones. His old-fashioned residence, which (strange to say) is yet standing, was not then put out of countenance by the modern-built structures that have since been run up on each side of it. There were, it is true, three or four new houses nearly opposite, all of them tenanted by genteel families—but Peter's side of the way (at least for the length of a square), was yet untouched by the hand of improvement, his own domicile being the largest and best in the row, and moreover of three stories—an advantage not possessed by the others. It had a square-topped door lighted by three small square panes—the parlour window (there was but one) being glazed to match, also with small glass and heavy wood work. The blue-painted wooden door-step was furnished with a very convenient seat, denominated the porch, and sheltered above by a moss-grown pent-house. The whole front of the mansion was shaded by an enormous buttonwood tree, that looked as if it had been spared from the primeval forest by the axe of a companion of William Penn. The house, indeed, might have been the country seat of one of the early colonists. Under this tree stood a pump of excellent water.
Adjoining to the house was a little low blue frame, fronting also the street—and no ground speculator could pass it without sighing to think that so valuable a lot should be thus wasted. But Peter Jones owned both house and shop—his circumstances were comfortable, his tastes and ideas the reverse of elegant, and he had sense enough to perceive that in attempting a superior style of life he should be out of his element, and therefore less happy. Assisted at times by a journeyman, he continued to work at his trade because he was used to it, and that he might still have the enjoyment of making clothes for three or four veterans of the revolution; and also for two old judges, who had been in Congress in those sensible times when that well-chosen body acted more and talked less. All these sexagenarians, having been enamoured of Peter Jones's cut when he was the Watson of his day, still retained their predilection for it; liking also to feel at ease in their own clothes, and not to wear garments that seemed as if borrowed from "the sons of little men." These gentlemen of the old school never passed without stopping at the shop window to chat a few words with Peter; sometimes stepping in, and taking a seat on his green Windsor chair—himself always occupying the shop-board, whether he was at work or not.
Our hero, though a tailor, was a tall, stout, ruddy, well-looking old man, having a fine capacious forehead, thinly shaded with gray hair, which was tied behind in a queue, and a clear, lively blue eye. He had acquired something of a martial air while assisting in the war of Independence, by making regimental coats—and no doubt this assistance was of considerable importance to the cause, it being then supposed that all men, even Americans, fight better, and endure hardships longer, when dressed in uniform.
Peter Jones was a very popular man among his neighbours, being frank, good-natured, and clever in all manner of things. As soon as the new houses opposite were occupied, he made acquaintance with their inhabitants, who all regarded him as what is called a character; and he never abused the degree of familiarity to which they admitted him. He was considered a sort of walking directory—but when applied to, by a new settler, for the "whereabout" of a carpenter who might be wanted for a job, his usual answer was—"I believe I will bring over my saw and plane, and do it myself"—also, if a lock-smith or bell-hanger was inquired for, Peter Jones generally came himself, and repaired the lock or re-fixed the bell; just as skilfully as if he had been "to the manner born."
He took several of the opposite gardens under his special protection, and supplied them with seeds and roots from his own stock. He was as proud of their morning-glories, queen margarets, johny-jump-ups, daffydowndillies (for so in primitive parlance he called all these beautiful flowers), as if they had been produced in his own rather extensive ground, which was always in fine order, and to see which he often invited his neighbouring fellow-citizens. In flower season, he was rarely seen without a sprig or two in one of the button-holes of his lengthy waistcoat, for in warm weather he seldom wore a coat except on Sundays and on the Fourth of July, when he appeared in a well-kept, fresh-looking garment of bottle-green with large yellow buttons, a very long body, and a broad, short skirt.
His wife, Martha, was a plump, notable, quiet, pleasant-faced woman, aged about fifty-five, but very old-fashioned in looks and ideas. During the morning, when she assisted her servant girl, Mrs. Jones wore a calico short gown, a stuff petticoat, and a check-apron, with a close muslin cap—in the afternoon her costume was a calico long gown, a white linen apron, and a thinner muslin cap with brown ribbon; and on Sundays a silk gown, a clear muslin apron, and a still thinner and much larger cap trimmed with gray ribbon. Everything about them had an air of homely comfort, and they lived plainly and substantially. Peter brought home every morning on his arm an amply-filled market basket; but on Sundays their girl was always seen, before church time, carrying to the baker's a waiter containing a large dish that held a piece of meat mounted on a trivet with abundance of potatoes around and beneath, and also a huge pudding in a tin pan.
Peter Jones, who proportioned all his expenses so as to keep an even balance, allowed himself and his wife to go once in the season to the theatre, and that was on the anniversary of their wedding, an event of which he informed his neighbours he had never found cause to repent. This custom had been commenced the first year of their marriage, and continued ever since; and as their plays were few and far between, they enjoyed them with all the zest of novices in the amusement. To them every actor was good, and every play was excellent; the last being generally considered the best. They were not sufficiently familiar with the drama to be fastidious in their taste; and happily for them, they were entirely ignorant of both the theory and practice of criticism. To them a visit to the theatre was a great event; and on the preceding afternoon the neighbours always observed symptoms of restlessness in Peter, and a manifest disinclination to settle himself to anything. Before going to bed, he regularly, on the eve of this important day, went round to the theatre to look at the bills that are displayed in the vestibule a night in advance; being too impatient to wait for the announcement in the morning papers. When the play-day actually came, he shut up his shop at noon, and they had an earlier and better dinner than usual. About three, Peter appeared in full dress with a ruffled shirt and white cravat, wandering up and down the pavement, going in and out at the front-door, singing, whistling, throwing up his stick and catching it, stopping every one he knew, to have a talk with them on theatricals, and trying every device to while away the intervening hours. At four, the tea-table was set, that they might get over the repast in good time, and, as Mrs. Jones said, "have it off their minds."
The play-day was late in the spring, and near the close of the season; and while the sun was yet far above the horizon, Mr. and Mrs. Jones issued from their door, and walked off, arm-in-arm, with that peculiar gait that people always adopt when going to the theatre: he swinging his clouded cane with its ivory top and buckskin tassel, and she fanning herself already with a huge green fan with black sticks; and ambling along in her best shoes and stockings, and her annual silk gown, which, on this occasion, she always put on new.
As they went but once a year, they determined on doing the thing respectably, and on having the best possible view of the stage; therefore they always took seats in an upper front box. Arriving so early, they had ample time to witness the gradual filling of the house, and to conjecture who was coming whenever a box door was thrown open. To be sure, Peter had frequent recourse to his thick, heavy, but unerring silver watch, and when he found that it still wanted three quarters of an hour of the time for the curtain to rise, his wife sagely remarked to him that it was better to be even two hours too early than two minutes too late; and that they might as well get over the time in sitting in the play-house as in sitting at home. Their faces always brightened exceedingly when the musicians first began to emerge from the subterrany below, and took their places in the orchestra. Mrs. Jones pitied extremely those that were seated with their backs to the stage, and amusing herself with counting the fiddles, and observing how gradually they diminished in size from the bass viol down; till her husband explained to her that they diminished up rather than down, the smallest fiddle being held by the boss or foreman of the band. Great was their joy (and particularly that of Peter), when the increasing loudness of the instruments proclaimed that the overture was about to finish; when glimpses of feet appearing below the green curtain, denoted that the actors were taking their places on the stage, when the welcome tingle of the long-wished-for bell turned their eyes exultingly to the upward glide of the barrier that had so long interposed between them and felicity.
Many a listless and fastidious gentleman, having satiated himself with the theatre by the nightly use of a season ticket (that certain destroyer of all relish for dramatic amusements), might have envied in our plain and simple-minded mechanic the freshness of sensation, the unswerving interest, and the unqualified pleasure with which he regarded the wonders of the histrionic world.
To watch Peter Jones at his annual play was as amusing as to look at the performance itself (and sometimes much more so), such was his earnest attention, and his vivid enjoyment of the whole; as testified by the glee of his laugh, the heartiness of his applause, and the energy with which he joined in an encore. If it chanced to be a tragedy, he consoled his wife in what she called the "forepart of her tears," by reminding her that it was only a play; but as the pathos of the scene increased, he always caught himself first wiping his eyes with the back of his hand; then blowing his nose, trumpetwise, with his clean bandanna pocket-handkerchief; and then calling himself a fool for crying. Like Addison's trunk-maker, he frequently led the clap; and on Peter Jones's night there was certainly more applause than usual. The kindness of his heart, however, would never allow him to join in a hiss, assuring those about him that the actors and the play-writers always did their best, and that if they failed it was their misfortune, and not their fault.
That all the old observances of the theatre might be duly observed, he failed not to produce between the play and farce an ample supply of what children denominate "goodies," as a regale for Mrs. Jones and himself; also presenting them all round to every one within his reach; and if there were any little boys and girls in the vicinity, he always produced a double quantity.
It is unnecessary to say that Mr. and Mrs. Jones always stayed to the extreme last; not quitting their seats till the curtain had descended to the very floor, and shut from their view, for another year, the bows and curtsies of the actors at the final of thefinalein the concluding scene of the after-piece. Then our happy old couple walked leisurely home, and had a supper of cold meat and pickles, and roasted potatoes; and talked of the play over the supper-table; and also over the breakfast-table next morning; and also to all their acquaintances for a month or two afterwards.
In those days, when Peter Jones found the enjoyment of one play sufficient to last him a twelvemonth, the Philadelphia theatre was in its "high and palmy state." There was an excellent stock company, with a continual succession of new pieces, or judicious revivals of old ones of standard worth. The starring system, as it is called, did not then prevail. The performers, having permanent engagements, were satisfied to do their duty towards an audience with whose tastes they were familiar. Each actor could play an infinite number of parts—each singer could sing an infinity of songs—and all considered it a portion of their business to learn new characters, or new music.
Having seen Mr. Bluster in Hamlet, Pierre, and Romeo, we were not expected, after a short interval, to crowd again to the theatre to applaud Mr. Fluster in Romeo, Pierre, and Hamlet. Having laughed sufficiently at Mr. Skipabout in Young Rapid, Bob Handy, and Rover, we were not then required, in the lapse of a few weeks, to laugh likewise at Mr. Tripabout in Rover, Bob Handy, and Young Rapid. Also, if we had been properly enraptured with Madam Dagolini Dobson in Rosina and Rosetta, we were not compelled, almost immediately, to re-prepare ourbravosandbravissimasfor Madame Jomellini Jobson in Rosetta and Rosina.
The list of acting plays was not then reduced to about five comedies, and six tragedies; served out night after night, not in the alternate variety of one of each sort successively, but with a course of tragedy for a hero of the buskin, and a course of comedy for the fortunate man that was able to personate a livelygentleman. Neither were the lovers of vocal harmony obliged to content themselves with the perpetual repetition of four musical pieces, regularly produced, "when certain stars shot madly from their spheres" in the brilliant andrecherchéopera-houses of Europe (where princes and kings pay for a song in diamonds), to waste their glories on yankees, buckeyes, and tuckahoes, whose only idea of pay is in the inelegant form of things called dollars.
It is true that in those days the machinery and decorations of the Philadelphia stage, and the costume of the actors, were far inferior to thematerielof the present time; but there was always a regular company of sterling excellence, the pieces were various and well selected, and the audience was satisfied.
Years had passed on, and Peter and Martha Jones were still "keeping the even tenor of their way," and enjoying the anniversary play with all their might, when a house on the other side of the street was taken by a respectable hair-dresser, whose window soon exhibited all the emblems of his profession, arranged with peculiar taste, and among them an unusual assortment of wigs for both sexes.
Now, if Mrs. Jones had a failing (and who is perfect), it was in indulging a sort of anti-barber prejudice, very unaccountable, certainly—but so are most prejudices. This induced her rather to discourage all demonstrations of her husband's usual disposition to make acquaintance with the new neighbours, whom she set down in her own mind as "queer people"—a very comprehensive term. To be sure, Mr. Dodcomb's looks and deportment differed not materially from those of any other hair-dresser; but Peter Jones could not help agreeing that the appearance of his family were much at variance with the imputed virtues of the numerous beautifying specifics that were set forth in his shop. For instance, notwithstanding the infallibility of his lotions and emollients, and creams and pastes, the face and neck of Mrs. Dodcomb obstinately persisted in remaining wrinkled, yellow, speckled, and spotty. And in spite of Macassar oil, and bear's oil, and other certain promoters of luxuriant, soft, and glossy tresses, her locks continued scanty, stringy, stiff, and disorderly. By-the-bye, though there were "plenty more in the shop," she always wore a comb whose teeth were "few and far between."
Though Mr. Dodcomb professed to cut hair in a style of unrivalled elegance, the hair of his children was sheared to the quick, their heads looking nearly as bald as if shaved with a razor; and this phrenological display was rather unbecoming to the juvenile Dodcombs, as their ears were singularly prominent and donkey-like. Then as to skin, the faces of the boys were sadly freckled, and those of the girls surprisingly coarse and rough.
Mrs. Jones came to a conclusion that their new neighbour must be a remarkably close man, and unwilling to waste any of his stock in trade upon his own family; and Peter thought it would be more politic in Mr. Dodcomb to use his wife and children as pattern cards, exhibiting on their heads and faces the success of his commodities; which Mrs. Jones unamiably suspected to be all trash and trickery, and far inferior to plain soap and water.
Things were in this state when election day came; and on the following morning Mr. Dodcomb came over to look at Mr. Jones's newspaper, and see the returns of the city and county; complaining that ever since he had lived in the neighbourhood, his own paper had been shamefully purloined from the handle of the door so early as before the shop was open. To steal a newspaper appeared to honest Peter the very climax of felony, for, as he said, it was stealing a man's sense and knowledge; and, being himself the earliest riser in the neighbourhood, he volunteered to watch for the offender. This he did by rising with the first blush of dawn, and promenading the pavement, stick in hand. It was not long before he discovered the abstractor in the person of an ever-briefless lawyerling, belonging to the only family in the neighbourhood who professed aristocracy, and discountenanced Peter Jones. And our indignant old hero saw "the young gentleman of rank" issue scarcely half dressed from his own door, pounce rapidly upon the newspaper, and carry it off. "Stop thief!—stop thief!" was loudly vociferated by Peter, who, brandishing his stick, made directly across the street, and the astonished culprit immediately dropped the paper, and took refuge in his own patrician mansion.
As soon as the Dodcomb house was opened, Peter Jones went over with the trophy of his success. Mr. Dodcomb was profuse of thanks, making some remarkably handsome speeches on the occasion, and Peter went home and assured his wife that, though a barber, their new neighbour was a very clever man and well worth knowing. Mrs. Jones immediately saw things in their proper light, did not perceive that the Dodcombs were at all queerer than other people, concluded that they had a right to look as they pleased, and imputed their indifference to hair and cosmetics to the probability that they were surfeited with the sight of both; as confectioners never eat cakes, and shoemakers' families are said to go barefoot.
The same evening, Mrs. Jones accompanied her husband to make a neighbourly visit to the Dodcombs, whom, to their great surprise, they found to be extremelyau-faitof the theatre; Mr. Dodcomb being barber to that establishment, and his sister-in-law, Miss Sarah Ann Flimbrey, one of the dressmakers.
The progress of the intimacy between the Jones and Dodcomb families now increased rapidly, making prodigious strides every day. By the next week, which was the beginning of January, they had made up a party to go together to the theatre on New Year's night; Peter Jones having been actually and wonderfully over-persuaded to break through his time-honoured custom of going but once a twelvemonth. The Dodcombs had an irregular way of seeing the plays from between the scenes, from the flies over the stage, and from all other inconvenient and uncomfortable places where they could slip in "by virtue of their office;" but on New Year's night they always went in form, taking a front box up stairs, that their children might have an uninterrupted view of the whole show; Mr. Dodcomb on that evening employing a deputy to arrange the heads of the performers.
Early on New Year's morning, Peter Jones put into the hands of his neighbour two dollars, to pay for the tickets of himself and wife; and during the remainder of the day (which, fortunately for him, was at this season a very short one) he had his usual difficulty in getting through the time.
It was in vain that the Joneses were dressed at an early hour and had their usual early tea. The Dodcombs (to whom the theatre was no novelty) did not hurry withtheirpreparations, and on Peter going over to see if they were ready, he found them all in their usual dishabille, and their maid just beginning to set the tea-table. That people (under any circumstances) could be so dilatory with a play in prospect, presented to the mind of the astonished Peter a new view of the varieties of the human species. But as all things must have an end, so at last had the tea-drinking of the Dodcombs; and luckily their toilets did not occupy much time, for they only put themselves in full dress from their waist upward; to the great surprise of Mrs. Jones, who was somewhat scandalized at their oldish shoes and dirtyish stockings.
To the utter dismay of the Joneses, the curtain, for the first time in their lives, was up when they arrived; and to this misfortune the Dodcombs did not seem to attach the least consequence, assuring them that in losing the first scene of a play they lost nothing.
The five children were ranged in front, each of the three girls wearing a rose-bud on one side of her closely trimmed head, which rose-bud, as Mrs. Jones afterwards averred to her husband, must have been stuck there and held in its place by some hocus pocus, which no one but a play-house barber could contrive or execute. During the progress of the play, which was a melo-drama of what is called "thrilling interest," Peter Jones, who always himself paid the most exemplary attention to the scene before him, was annoyed to find that his wife was continually drawn in to talk, by the example of Mrs. Dodcomb and Miss Flimbrey, one of whom sat on each side of her, and who both kept up a running fire of questions, answers, and remarks during the whole of the performance—plays, as they said, being mere drugs to them.
"How do you like that scarlet and gold dress?" said Mrs. Dodcomb.
"Oh! it's beautiful!" replied Mrs. Jones, "and he's a beautiful man that wears it! What handsome legs he has?—and what a white neck for a man!—and such fine curly hair—"
"You would not say so," said Mrs. Dodcomb, "if you were to see him in daylight without his paint, and without his chestnut wig (they have all sorts of wigs, even flax, tow, and yarn). His natural face and hair are both of the same clay-colour. As to his neck, it's nothing when it is not coated all over with whitening—and then his stage legs are always padded."
"Mr. Jones, you are a judge of those things—what do you suppose that man's dress is made of?" asked Mr. Dodcomb.
"Scarlet cloth and gold lace."
"Fudge! it's only red flannel, trimmed with copper binding."
"I'm sorry to hear that," observed Mrs. Jones—and during the remainder of the piece she designated him as "the man in the flannel jacket."
"That's a pretty hat of his sweetheart's," she remarked, "that gauze hat with the long white feathers—how light and airy it looks!"
Miss Flimbrey now giggled. "I made it myself, this morning," said she, "it's only thin catgut, with nothing at all outside—but at a distance, it certainly may be taken for transparent gauze."
From this time Mrs. Jones distinguished the actress as "the woman with the catgut hat."
The hero of the piece appeared in a new and magnificent dress, which was very much applauded, as new and showy dresses frequently are. It was a purple velvet, decorated profusely with gold ornaments, somewhat resembling rows of very large buttons; each button being raised or relieved in the centre, and having a flat rim round the edge. They went up all the seams of the back, and down the front of the jacket, and round the cuffs; and, being very bright and very close together, the effect was rich and unique. Also, one of them fastened the plume and looped up the hat, and two others glittered in the rosettes of the shoes.
"Oh! how grand!—how very grand!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones. "This dress beats all the others!"
"Upon my word, that trimming is fine," said Peter.
"Ain't they big gold buttons, put very close together?" asked his wife.
"Why, no," replied Peter. "They ain't buttons at all—not one of them. Surely I ought to know buttons, when theyarebuttons. I can't make out these things exactly. But they're handsome, however."
Mr. Dodcomb now began to laugh. "I'll tell you," said he, "the history of these new-fashioned ornaments. It was a bright idea of the actor's own when he was planning his new dress. He went to one of the great hardware stores in Market Street, and bought I don't know how many gross of those shining covers that are put over the screw-holes of bedsteads to hide the screws, and that are fastened on by a small thing at the top of each, like a loop, having a hole for a little screw, to fix them tight in their places. And these holes in the loops were just convenient for the needle to go through when they were sewed on to the dress. So you see what a good show they make now."
"Of all contrivances!" exclaimed Peter. "To think that bed-screw covers should trim so well!"
"Wonders will never cease!" ejaculated Mrs. Jones. And whenever the actor reappeared, she jogged her husband, and reminded him that "here came the man all over bed-screws."
"What beautiful lace cuffs and collars all those gentlemen have, that are gallanting the ladies to the feast!" said Mrs. Jones.
"Cut paper, my dear—only cut paper," replied Mrs. Dodcomb. "Sally Flimbrey cuts them out herself—don't you, Sally?"
Miss Flimbrey (who was not proud), nodded in the affirmative—"You would never guess," said she, "my dear Mrs. Jones, what odd contrivances they have—did you observe the milk-maid's pail in the cottage scene?"
"Yes—it was full to the brim of fine frothy new milk—I should like to have taken a drink of it."
"You would have found it pretty hard to swallow, for it was only cotton wadding," said Miss Flimbrey.
"Well now! if ever I heard the beat of that!" interjected Mrs. Jones.
"How do you like the thunder and lightning?" said Mr. Dodcomb to Mr. Jones.
"It's fine," replied Peter, "and very natural."
"I'll tell you what it is," replied Dodcomb, "the lightning is made by sprinkling a handful of powdered rosin into a ladle heated over a pan of charcoal. A man stands between the scenes and does it whenever a flash is wanted. The thunder is produced by a pair of cannon balls joined across a bar to which is fixed a long wooden handle like the tongue of a child's basket wagon, and by this the balls are pushed and hauled about the floor behind the back scene."
"Astonishing!" exclaimed Mr. Jones. "But the rattling of the rain—thatsounds just as if it was real."
"The rain!" answered Mr. Dodcomb. "Oh, the rain is done by a tall wooden case, something on the plan of a great hour glass, lined with tin and filled half full with small shot, which when the case is set on end, dribbles gradually down and rattles as it falls."
"Dear me," ejaculated Mrs. Jones, "what a wonderful thing is knowledge of the stage! I nevershallsee a thunder-gust again (at the play-house, I mean) without thinking all the time of rosin and ladles, and cannon balls with long handles, and the dribbling of shot."
"Then for snow," pursued Mr. Dodcomb, "they snip up white paper into shreds, and carry it up to the flies or beams and rafters above the stage, and scatter it down by handfuls."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones—
"Well—now the storm is over," said Mrs. Dodcomb, "and here is a castle scene by moonlight."
"And a very pretty moon it is," observed Mrs. Jones, "all solemn and natural."
"Not very solemn to me," said Mr. Dodcomb, "as I know it to be a bit of oiled linen let into a round hole in the back scene, with a candle put behind it."
"Wonders will never cease!" ejaculated Mrs. Jones. "And there's an owl sitting up in that old tumble-down tower—how natural he blinks!"
"Yes," said Mr. Dodcomb, "his eyes are two doors, with a string to each; and a man climbs up behind, and keeps jerking the doors open and letting them shut again—that's the way to make an owl blink. But here comes the bleeding ghost, that wanders about the ruins by moonlight."
The children all drew back a little, and looked somewhat frightened; it happening to be the first ghost they had ever seen.
"Dear me!" said Mrs. Jones, drawing her shawl closely round her, "what an awful sight a ghost is, even when we know it's only a play-actor! This one seem to have no regular clothes, but only those white fly-away things—how deadly pale it is—and just look at the blood, how it keeps streaming down all the time from that great gash in the breast!"
"As to the paleness," explained Miss Flimbrey, "it's only that the face is powdered thick all over with flour; and as to what looks to you like blood, it's nothing but red ribbon, gathered a little full at the top where the wound is, and the ends left long to flow down the white drapery."
"Why this beats all the rest!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones, "Well—I nevershallsee a bloody ghost again without thinking of meal and red ribbon."
Previous to the last act of the melo-drama, a man belonging to the theatre came and called Mr. Dodcomb out of the box to ask him if he would be so obliging as to go on the stage for a senator in the trial scene, one of the big boys that usually assisted in making out this august assemblage having unexpectedly run away and gone to sea. Mr. Dodcomb (who was not entirely unused to lending himself to similar emergencies) kindly consented; and, after returning to whisper the circumstance to his wife, he slipped out unobserved by the rest of the party. When the drop-curtain again rose, eight or ten senators, with venerable white wigs, were seen sitting in a sort of pews, and wearing pink robes and ermine capes; which ermine, according to Miss Flimbury, was only white paper spotted over with large regular splotches of ink at equal distances.
Presently, on recognising their beloved parent among the conscript fathers, the Dodcomb children became rather too audible in expressing their delight, exclaiming: "Oh! there's pappy. Only see pappy on the stage. Don't pappy look funny?"
The pit-people looked up, and the box-people looked round, and Mrs. Dodcomb tried to silence the children by threats of making them go home. Peter Jones quieted them directly by stopping their mouths with cakes from his well-stored pocket; thus anticipating the treat he had provided for them as a regale between the play and after-piece.
The scene over, Mr. Dodcomb speedily got rid of his senatorial costume, and returned to the box inpropriâ personâ, where he was loudly greeted by his children, each insisting on being "the one that first found out their pappy among the men in wigs and gowns."
"Well if ever!" exclaimed Mr. Jones. "There's no knowing what good's before us! Little did we expect when we came here to-night, that we should be sitting here in the same box with anybody that ever acted on the stage. I am so glad."
The after-piece was the Forty Thieves, which Peter and Mrs. Jones had never seen before, and which had extraordinary charms for the old man, who in his youth had been well versed in the Arabian Tales. Giving himself up, as he always did, to the illusion of the scene, he could well have dispensed with the explanations of the Dodcombs, who began by informing Mrs. Jones that the fairy Ardanelle, though in her shell-formed car she seemed to glide through the water, was in reality pulled along by concealed men with concealed ropes.
When the equestrian robbers appeared one by one galloping across the distant mountains, and Mrs. Jones had carefully counted them all to ascertain that there was the full complement of exactly forty, Miss Flimbrey laughed, and assured her that in reality there were only three, one mounted on a black, one on a bay, and one on a white horse, but they passed round and appeared again, till the precise number was accomplished. "And the same thing," said she, "is always done when an army marches across the stage, so that a few soldiers are made to seem like a great many."
"You perceive, Mrs. Jones," said Mr. Dodcomb, "these robbers that ride over the distant mountains are not the real men; but both man and horse is nothing more than a flat thin piece of wood painted and cut out."
On Peter remarking that there was certainly a look of life or reality in the near leg of each rider as it was thrown over the saddle, Mr. Dodcomb explained that each of these equestrian figures was carried by a man concealed behind, and that one arm of the man was thrust through an aperture at the top of the painted saddle; the arm that hung over so as to personate a leg, being dressed in a Turkish trowser, with a boot drawn on the hand.
"Do you mean," said Peter, "that these men run along the ridge, each carrying a horse under his arm?"
"Exactly so," replied Dodcomb, "the horse and rider of painted board being so arranged as to hide the carrier."
"Well—I never did hear anything so queer," said Mrs. Jones, "I wonder how they can keep their countenances. But, there are so many queer things about play-acting. Dear me! what a pug-nose that cobbler has! Let me look at the bill and see who he is—why I saw the same man in the play, and his nose was long and straight."
"Oh! when he wants a snub nose," replied Miss Flimbrey, "he ties up the end with a single horse-hair fastened round his forehead, and the horse hair is too fine to be seen by the audience."
During the scene in which Morgiana destroys the thieves, one at a time, by pouring a few drops of the magic liquid into the jars in which they are hidden, Mrs. Jones found out of her own accord that the jars were only flat pieces of painted board; but Mrs. Dodcomb made her observe that as each of the dying bandits uttered distinctly his own separate groan, the sound was in reality produced from the orchestra, by he of the bass viol giving his bow a hard scrub across the instrument.
"Well," said Mrs. Jones on her way home, "now that my eyes are opened, I must say there is a great deal of deception in plays."
"To be sure there is," replied Peter, "and that we knew all along, or might have known if we had thought about it; but people that go to the theatre only once a year are quite willing to take things as they see them; and they have pleasure enough in the play itself and in what passes before their eyes, without wondering or caring about the contrivances behind the scenes. I never supposed their finery to be real, or their handsome looks either; but that was none of our business, as long as they appeared well to us—I said nothing toyou, for I know if you were once put on the scent, you would be the whole time trying to find out their shams and trickeries."
Next morning, while talking over the play in Peter's shop, Mr. Dodcomb kindly volunteered to procure for him and Mrs. Jones, bones or orders from the managers or chief performers, that would insure a gratuitous admission. Peter, much as he liked plays, demurred awhile about availing himself of this neighbourly offer, but the urgency of his wife prevailed on him to consent; and a day or two after, Mr. Dodcomb put into his hand two circular pieces of lettered ivory, which on giving them to the doorkeeper admitted Mr. and Mrs. Jones to the house for that evening; and thus, for the first time in their lives, they found themselves at the theatre twice in one week.
In this manner they went again and again; and a visit to the theatre soon ceased to be an event. It was no longer eagerly anticipated, and minutely remembered. The sight of one play almost effaced the recollection of another. The edge of novelty was fast wearing off, and the sense of enjoyment becoming blunted in proportion. Weariness crept upon them with satiety, and they sometimes even went home before the concluding scene of the farce, and at last they did not even stay to see the first. Often they caught themselves nodding shamefully during the most moral and instructive dialogues of sentimental comedy, and they actually slept a duett through the four first acts of the Gamester, in which, however, they were accompanied by a large portion of the audience.
Their friends the Dodcombs escorted them one afternoon all through the interior of the theatre, so that they obtained a full comprehension of the whole paraphernalia, with all its illusions and realities; and of this knowledge Mrs. Jones made ample use in her comments at night during the performance.
As Peter's enjoyment of the drama grew less, he became more fastidious, particularly as to the ways and means that were employed to produce effect. He now saw the ridicule of the armies of the rival roses being represented by half a dozen men, who when they belonged to King Richard were distinguished by white stockings, but clapped on red ones when, in the next scene, they personated the forces of Richmond. The theatrical vision of our hero being cleared and refined, he ceased to perceive a moving forest when the progress of Birnam Wood to Dunsinane was represented by six or seven men in plaid kilts, each holding up before his face, fan-wise, a little bunch of withered pine twigs. He now discovered that the proper place for the ghost of Banquo was a seat at the table of his murderer, in the midst of the company, and not on a modern parlour chair, set conspicuously by itself near one of the stage doors. He also perceived that in Antony's oration over Cæsar, the Roman populace was illy represented by one boyish-looking, smooth-faced young man (plebeians must have been strangely scarce) who at the words, "Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up to sudden mutiny"—always made sundry futile attempts to look mutinous.[76]
To conclude—in the course of that season and the next, Peter Jones and his wife by dint of bones and Dodcombs, became so familiar with theatricals that they ceased entirely to enjoy them; and it finally became a sort of task to go, and a greater task to sit through the play.
Mrs. Jones thought that the old actors had all fallen off, and that the new ones were not so good as the old ones; but her more sagacious husband laid the fault to the right cause, which was, "that plays were now a drug to them."
The Dodcombs removed to New York, and the Joneses gave up without regret the facilities of free admission to the theatre. After a lapse of two years, they determined to resume their old and long-tested custom of seeing one single play at the close of the season, and on the anniversary of their wedding. But the charm was broken, the illusion was destroyed; the keenness of their relish was palled by satiety, and could revive no more.
In a less humble sphere of life, and in circumstances of far greater importance than the play-going of Peter Jones, how often is the long-cherished enjoyment of a temperate pleasure destroyed for ever by a short period of over-indulgence!
"Her charm around, the enchantress Memory throws."—Rogers.
"Her charm around, the enchantress Memory throws."—Rogers.
Edward Lindsay had recently returned from Europe, where a long series of years passed in the successful prosecution of a lucrative mercantile business, had gained for him an independence that in his own country would be considered wealth. Continuing in heart and soul an American, it was only in the land of his birth, that he could resolve to settle himself, and enjoy the fruits of well-directed enterprise, and almost uninterrupted good fortune.
Early impressions are lasting; and among the images that frequently recurred to the memory of our hero, were those of a certain old farm-house in the interior of Pennsylvania, and its kind and simple-hearted inhabitants. The farmer, whose name was Abraham Hilliard, had been in the practice of occasionally bringing to Philadelphia a wagon-load of excellent marketing, and stopping with his team at the doors of several genteel families, his unfailing customers. It was thus that Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay obtained a knowledge of him, which eventually induced them to place in his house, as a boarder, their only surviving child Edward: that during the summer season, the boy, whose constitution was naturally delicate, might have a chance of acquiring confirmed health and hardihood, united with habits of self-dependence; it being clearly understood by all parties, that young Lindsay was to be treated, in every respect, like the farmer's own children. The experiment succeeded: and it was at Oakland Farm that Edward Lindsay's summers were chiefly spent from the age of eight to eighteen, at which time he was sent to Bordeaux, and placed in the counting-house of his maternal uncle. And twice when Philadelphia was visited by the malignant fever which in former years spread such terror through the city, and whose ravages were only checked by the return of cold weather, the anxious parents of our hero made him stay in the country till the winter had fairly set in.
During his long residence in Europe, Edward Lindsay was so unfortunate as to lose both father and mother, and, therefore, his arrival in his native town was accompanied by many painful feelings. The bustle of the city, and the company into which the hospitality of his friends endeavoured to draw him, were not in accordance with his present state of mind, and he imagined that nothing would be more soothing to him than a visit to the country, and particularly to the place where so much of his boyhood had been passed. While his mother lived, she had frequently sent him tidings of his old friends at Oakland Farm, none of whom were letter writers; but since her death, they seemed to be lost sight of, and it was now many years since Edward had heard anything of them.
Oakland Farm was not on a public road, and it was some miles remote from the route of any public conveyance. As the season was the close of spring, and the weather delightful, Lindsay determined to go thither on a fine horse that he had recently purchased; taking with him only a small valise, it being his intention to remain there but a few days.
He set out in the afternoon, and passed the night at a tavern about ten miles from the city, formerly known as the Black Bear, but now dignified with the title of the Pennsylvania Hotel, expressed in immense gilt letters on a blue board above the door. Lindsay felt something like regret at the ejectment of his old acquaintance Bruin, who, proclaiming "Entertainment for Man and Horse," had swung so many years on a lofty sign-post under the shade of a great buttonwood tree, now cut down to make room for four slender Lombardy poplars, which, though out of favour in the city, had become fashionable in the country.
We will pass over many other changes which our hero observed about the new-modelled inn, and accompany him as he pursued his way along the road which had been so familiar to him in his early youth, and which, though it retained many of its original features, had partaken greatly of the all-pervading spirit of improvement. The hills were still there. The beautiful creek, which in England would have been termed a river, meandered everywhere just as before, wide, clear, and deep; but its rude log bridges had now given place to substantial structures of masonry and wood-work, and he missed several well-known tracts of forest-land, of which the very stumps had long since been dislodged.
His eye, for years accustomed to the small farms and miniature enclosures of Europe, now dwelt with delight on immense fields of grain or clover, each of them covering a whole hill, and frequently of such extent that a single glance could not take in their limits. He saw vast orchards that seemed to contain a thousand trees, now white with blossoms that, scattered by the slightest breeze, fell around them like showers of scented snow. He missed, it is true, the hawthorn hedges of England; those beautiful walls of verdure, whose only fault is that their impervious foliage shuts out from view the fields they enclose; while the open fences of America allow the stranger to regale his eye, and satisfy his curiosity with a free prospect of the country through which he is travelling.
Oakland Farm, as we have said, lay some miles from the great highway, and Lindsay was glad to find with how much ease he recollected the turnings and windings of the by-roads. It even gave him pleasure to recognise a glen at the bottom of a ravine thickly shaded with crooked and moss-grown trees, where half a century ago a woman had been guilty of infanticide, and whose subsequent execution at the county town is talked of still; it being apparently as well remembered as an event of yesterday. The dogwood and the wild grape vine still canopied the fatal spot, for the thicket had never been cleared away, nor the ground cultivated. A little beyond, the road lay through a dark piece of woods that countrywomen, returning late from the store, were afraid to ride through after night-fall; as their horses always started and trembled and laid back their ears at the appearance of a mysterious white colt, which was frequently seen gamboling among the trees, and which no sensible people believed to be a real or living colt, as one horse is never frightened at the sight of another. Shortly after, our traveller stopped for a few moments to gaze at the transformation of a building on the verge of a creek. He had remembered it as a large old house chequered with bricks alternately blackish and reddish, and having dark red window-shutters with holes cut in them to admit the light; some of the apertures being in the form of hearts, others in the shape of crescents. There had been a red porch, and a red front door which for years had the inconvenient property of bursting open in the dead of night; at which time, a noise was always heard as of the hoofs of a calf trotting in the dark, about the rooms up stairs. This calf was finally spoken to by a very courageous stranger, who inquired its name. The calf made not a word of answer, but from that night was heard no more. This house, being now painted yellow, and the red shutters removed, had been altered into an establishment for carding and spinning wool, as was evident by surrounding indications, and by the noise of the machinery, which could be heard plainly as far as the road. Lindsay began to fear that he should never again see Polly Nichols, a tall, gaunt, hard-featured spinning girl, whose untiring strength and immoveable countenance, as she ran all day at the "big wheel," had often amazed him, and whom Mrs. Hilliard considered as the princess of wool-spinners. His conscience reproached him with having one day, while she was at dinner, mischievously stolen the wheel-finger of the said Polly Nichols, and hidden it in the dough trough, thereby occasioning a long search to the industrious damsel, and the loss of an hour's spinning to Mrs. Hilliard.
He next came to the old well-known meeting-house, embosomed in large elms of aboriginal growth. He saw it as in former days, with its long range of stalls for the horses of the congregation, and its square horse-blocks at the gate with steps ascending on all their four sides, to which the country beaux gallantly led up the steeds of the country belles. Just beyond the meeting-house, he looked in vain for a well-known little brook, distinguished of old as "Blue Woman's Run," and which had formerly crossed the road, murmuring over its bed of pebbles. It had derived this cognomen from the singular apparition of a woman in a blue gown, with a pail of water on her head, which had on several Sundays boldly appeared even in the brightness of the noon-day sun, and was seen walking fearlessly among the "meeting folks," and their horses, as they stopped to let them drink at the brook; coming no one knew from whence, and going no one knew where; but appearing and disappearing in the midst of them. But the streamlet was no longer there, diverted perhaps to some other channel, and the hollow of its bed was filled up and made level with the road.
About two miles further, our hero looked out for a waste field at some distance from the road, and distinguished by an antique persimmon tree of unusual size. This field he had always known of a wild and desolate aspect, bristled with the tall stalks of the mullein. Here, according to tradition, had once lived a family of free negroes, probably runaways from the south. They had lost their children by an epidemic, buried them at the foot of the persimmon tree, and soon after quitted the neighbourhood. All vestiges of their hut had vanished long before Edward Lindsay had known the place, but the graves of the children might have been traced under the grass and weeds. The deserted field had the reputation of being haunted, because whoever had the temerity to cross it, even in broad daylight, never failed, that is if they had faith, to see the faces of two little black boys looking out from behind the tree, and laughing merrily. But on approaching the tree no black boys were there.
There is considerable variety in American ghosts. In Europe these phantoms are nearly all of the same stamp: either tall white females that glide by moonlight among the ruined cloisters of old abbeys; or pale knights, in dark armour, that wander, at midnight, about the turrets and corridors of feudal castles. In our country, apparitions go as little by rule as their living prototypes; and are certainly very prosaic both in looks and ways.
The old persimmon tree was still there; but the field had been cultivated, and was now in red clover, and Lindsay knew that mind had marched over it.
He now came to a well-remembered place, the low one-story school-house under the shade of a great birch tree, whose twigs had been of essential service in the hands of Master Whackaboy, and whose smooth and paper-like bark was fashionable in the seminary for writing-pieces. The door and windows were open, and Lindsay expected as formerly, to hear the master say to his scholars, at the sound of horses' feet—"Read out—read out—strangers are going by—;" which order had always been succeeded by a chorus of readers as loud and inharmonious as what children call a Dutch Concert. As Lindsay passed the school-house, he could not forbear stopping a moment to look in; and instead of Bumpus Whackaboy in his round jacket, he saw a young gentleman in a frock coat, seated at the master's desk, with an aspect of great satisfaction, while a lad stood before him frowning and stamping desperately, and reciting Collins's Ode on the Passions.
Our traveller now perceived by certain well-remembered landmarks, that he was approaching the mill in whose scales he had frequently been weighed: a ceremony never omitted at the close of his annual visit to Oakland, that he might go home rejoicing in the number of pounds he had gained during his sojourn in the salubrious air and homely abundance of the farm. When he came to the place, he found three mills; and he was, for a while, puzzled to recollect which of them was his old acquaintance. On the other side of the road were now a tavern, a store, and a blacksmith's shop, with half a dozen dwelling-houses. "This, I suppose, is an incipient city," thought Lindsay—and so it was, as he afterwards found: the name being Candyville, in consequence, perhaps, of the people of the neighbourhood having left off tobacco and taken to mint-stick, for which, and otherbonbonsof a similar character, the demand was so great that the storekeeper often found it necessary to take a journey to the metropolis chiefly for the purpose of bringing out a fresh supply.
At length our hero came to a hill beyond which he recollected that a turn in the road would present to his view the house of Abraham Hilliard, as it stood on the very edge of the farm. It was a lovely afternoon. The sunbeams were dancing merrily on the creek, whose shining waters beautifully inverted its green banks, overshadowed with laurel bushes now in full bloom and covered with large clusters of delicate pink flowers.
He saw the top of the enormous oak that stood in front of the house, and which had been spared for its size and beauty, when the ground was first redeemed from the primeval forest by the grandfather of the present proprietor.
Lindsay turned into the lane. What was his amazement when he saw not, as he expected, the well-known farm-house and its appurtenances!—It was no longer there. The dilapidated ruins of the chimney alone were standing, and round them lay a heap of rubbish. He stopped his horse and gazed long and sadly, on finding all his pleasant anticipations turned at once to disappointment. Finally he dismounted, and securing his bridle to a large nail which yet remained in the trunk of the old tree, having been placed there for that purpose, he proceeded to take a nearer view of what had once been the Oakland Farm-House.
There were indications of the last fire that had ever gladdened the hearth, the charred remains of an immense backlog, now half hidden beneath a luxuriant growth of the dusky and ragged-leaved Jamestown weed. In a corner of the hearth grew a sumach that bid fair in a short time to overtop all that was left of the chimney. These corners had once been furnished with benches on which the children used to sit and amuse themselves with stories and riddles, in the cold autumnal evenings, when fires are doubly cheerful from being the first of the season.
Of the long porch in which they had so often played by moonlight, nothing now remained but a few broken and decaying boards with grass and plantain-weeds growing among them; and some relics of the rough stone steps that had ascended to it, now displaced and fallen aside by the caving in of the earth behind.
The well that had supplied the family with cold water for drinking, had lost its cover—the sweep had fallen down, and the bucket and chain were gone. The dark cool cellar was laid open to the light of day, and was now a deep square pit, overgrown with thistles and toad-flax.
From the cracks of the old clay oven that had belonged to the chimney (and which was now half hidden in pokeberry plants), issued tufts of chick-weed; and when Lindsay looked into the place which he had so often seen filled with pies and rice-puddings, the glare of bright eyes and a rustling noise denoted that some wild animal had made its lair in the cavity. Suddenly a large gray fox sprung out of the oven-mouth, and ran fearfully past him into the thicket. Lindsay thought in a moment of the often-quoted lines of Ossian.
At the foot of the little eminence on which the house was situated, there had formerly been what its inhabitants called theharbour(probably a corruption of arbour), a shed rudely constructed of poles interwoven with branches, and covered with a luxuriant gourd-vine. Here the milk-pans and pails were washed, and much of the "slopping-work" of the family done in the summer. A piece of rock formed the back-wall of a fire-place in which an immense iron pot had always hung. A slight water-gate opened from this place on a branch of the creek, over which a broad thick board had been laid as a bridge, and a short distance below there was a miniature cascade or fall, at which Edward, in his childhood, had erected a small wooden tilt-hammer of his own making; and the strokes of this tilt-hammer could be heard, to his great delight, as far as the house, particularly in the stillness of night, when the sound was doubly audible.
The cauldron had now disappeared, leaving no trace but the blackened stone behind it; the remains of the water-gate were lying far up on the bank; the board had fallen into the water; the rude trellis was broken down; and masses of the gourd-vine, which had sprung from the scattered seeds, were running about in wild disorder wherever they could find anything to climb upon.
Lindsay turned to the spot "where once the garden smiled," and found it a wilderness of tall and tangled weeds, interspersed with three or four degenerate hollyhocks, and a few other flowers that had sowed themselves and dwindled into insignificance. And in the division appropriated to culinary purposes, were some straggling vegetables that had returned to a state worse than indigenous—with half a dozen rambling bushes that had long since ceased to bear fruit.
Lindsay had gazed on the gigantic remains of the Roman Coliseum, on "the castled crag of Drachenfels," and on the ivy-mantled arches of Tintern, but they awakened no sensation that could compare with the melancholy feeling that oppressed him as he explored the humble ruins of this simple farm-house, where every association came home to his heart, reminding him not of what he had read, but of what he had seen, and known, and felt, and enjoyed.
As he stood with folded arms contemplating the images of desolation before him, his attention was diverted by the sound of footsteps, and, on looking round, he perceived an old negro coming down the road, with a basket in one hand, and in the other a jug corked with a corn-cob. The negro pulled off his battered wool-hat, and making a bow and a scrape, said: "Sarvant, masser—" and Lindsay, on returning his bow, recognised the unusual breadth of nose and width of mouth that had distinguished a free black, well known in the neighbourhood by the name of Pharaoh, and in whom the lapse of time had made no other alteration than that of bleaching his wool, which was now quite white.
"Why, Pharaoh—my old fellow!" exclaimed Lindsay, "is this really yourself?"
"Can't say, masser," replied Pharaoh. "All people's much the same. Best not be too personal. But I b'lieve I'm he."
"Have you no recollection of Edward Lindsay?" inquired our hero.
"Lawful heart, masser!" exclaimed the negro. "I do b'lieve you're little Neddy, what used to come from town and stay at old Abram Hilliard's of summers, and what still kept wisiting there, by times, till you goed over sea."
"I am that identical Neddy," replied Lindsay, holding out his hand to the old negro, who evinced his delight by a series of loud laughs.
"Yes—yes," pursued Pharaoh, "now I look sharper at you, masser, I see plain you're 'xactly he. You've jist a same nose, and a same eyes, and a same mouth, what you had when you tumbled down the well, and fall'd out the chestnut tree, and when you was peck'd hard by the big turkey-cock, and butted by the old ram."
"Truly," said Lindsay, "you seem to have forgotten none of my juvenile disasters."
"To be sure not," replied Pharaoh, "I 'member every one of them, and a heap more, only I don't want to be personal."
"And now," said Lindsay, "as we have so successfully identified each other, let me know, at once, what has happened to my good friends the Hilliards, who I thought were fixed here for life. Why do I see their house a heap of ruins? Have the family been reduced to poverty?"
"Lawful heart, no," exclaimed the negro: "Masser Neddy been away so long in foreign parts, he forget how when people here in 'Merica give up their old houses, it's a'most always acause they've got new ones. Now old Abram Hilliard he got richer and richer every minute—though I guess he was pretty rich when you know'd him, only he never let on. And so he build him fine stone house beyont his piece of oak-woods, and there he live this blessed day.—And we goes there quite another road.—And so he gove this old frame to old Pharaoh; and so I had the whole house carted off, all that was good of it, and put it up on the road-side, just beyont here, in place of my old tumble-down cabin what I used to live in, that I've altered into a pig-pen. So now me and Binkey am quite comfabull."
"Show me the way," said Lindsay, "to the new residence of Mr. Hilliard. I have come from Philadelphia on purpose to visit the family."
"Bless your heart, masser, for that," said the old negro, as he held the stirrup for Lindsay to mount; and walking by his side, he proceeded with the usual garrulity of the African race, to relate many particulars of the Hilliards and their transit.
"Of course, Masser Neddy," said Pharaoh, "you 'member old Abram's two boys Isaac and Jacob, what you used to play with. You know Isaac mostly whipped you when you fout with him. Well, when they growed up, they thought they'd help'd their father long enough, and as they wanted right bad to go west, the old man gove 'em money to buy back land. So each took him horse—Isaac took Mike, and Jacob took Morgan, and they started west, and went to a place away back—away back—seven hundred thousand miles beyont Pitchburg. And they're like to get mighty rich; and word's come as Jacob's neighbours is going to set him up for congress, and I shouldn't be the least 'prized if he's presidump. You 'member, Masser Neddy, Jacob was always the tonguiest of the two boys."
"And where are Mr. Hilliard's daughters?" asked Lindsay.
"Oh, as to the two oldest," replied Pharaoh, "Kitty married Billy Pleasants, as keeps the store over at Candyville, and Betsey made a great match with a man what has a terrible big farm over on Siskahanna. And old Abram, after he got into him new house, sent him two youngest to the new school up at Wonderville, where they teaches the gals all sorts of wit and larning."
"And how are your own wife and children, Pharaoh?" inquired Lindsay; "I remember them very well."
"Bless your heart for that, masser!" replied the negro; "why Rose is hired at Abram Hilliard's—you know they brungt her up. And Cato lives out in Philadelphy—I wonders masser did not see him. And as for old Binkey, she holds her own pretty well. You know, masser, Binkey was always a great hand at quiltings, and weddings, and buryings, and such like frolics, and used to be sent for, high and low, to help cook at them times. But now she's a getting old,—being most a thousand,—and her birthday mostly comes on the forty-second of Feberwary—and so she stays at home, and makes rusk and gingerbread and molasses beer. This is molasses I have in the jemmy-john; I've jist come from the store. So she sells cakes and beer—that's the reason we lives on the road-side—and I works about. We used to have a sign that Sammy Spokes the wheelwright painted for us, for he was then the only man in these parts that had paints. There was two ginger-cakes on it, and one rusk, and a coal-black bottle with the beer spouting up high, and falling into a tumbler without ever spilling a drap. We were desperate pleased with the sign, for folks said it looked so nateral, and Sammy Spokes made us a present of it, and would not take it out in cakes and beer, as we wanted him, and that shewed him to be very much of a gemplan."
"As no doubt he is," remarked Lindsay; "I find, since my return to America, that gentlemen are 'as plenty as blackberries.'"
"You say very true, masser," rejoined the negro; "we are all gemplans now-a-days, and has plenty of blackberries. Well, as I was saying, we liked the sign a heap. But after Nelly Hilliard as was—we calls her Miss Ellen now—quit Wonderville school, where she learnt everything on the face of the yearth, she thought she would persecute painting at home, for she had a turn that way and wanted to keep her hand in. So she set to, and painted a new sign, and took it all out of her own head; and gove it to old Binkey and axplaned it to us. There's a thing on it that Miss Ellen calls a urn or wase—thatstands for beer—and then there's a sugarcane growing out of it—thatstands for molasses. And then there's a thick string of green leaves, with roots twisted amongst 'em—thatanswers for ginger, for she told us that ginger grows like any other widgable, and has stalks and leaves, but the root is what we uses. Yet, somehow, folks doesn't seem to understand this sign as well as the old one. A great many thinks the wase be an old sugar-dish with a bit of a corn-stalk sticking out of it, and some passley and hossreddish plastered on the outside, and say they should never guess cakes and beer by it."
"I should suppose not," said Lindsay.
"But, Masser Neddy," pursued the old negro, "all this time, we have been calling Abram Hilliard 'Abram,' instead of saying squire. Only think of old Abram; he has been made a squire this good while, and marries people. After he move into him new house, he begun to get high, and took to putting on a clean shirt and shaving every day, which Rose says was a pretty tough job with him at first; but he parsewered. And he's apt to have fresh meat whenever it's to be got, and he won't eat stale pies: and so they have to do small bakings every day, instead of big ones twice a week. And sometimes he even go so far as to have geese took out of the flock, and killed and roasted, instead of saving 'em all for feathers. And he says that now he's clear of the world, hewilllive as he likes, and have everything he wants, and be quite comfabull. And he made his old woman leave off wearing short gownds, and put on long gownds all the time, and quit calling him daddy, which Rose says went very hard with her for a while. The gals being young, were broke of it easy enough; and now they says pappy."
"Pshaw!" ejaculated Lindsay, whose regret at the general change which seemed to have come over the Hilliard family now amounted nearly to vexation.
"Now, Masser Neddy," continued Pharaoh, "we've got to the new house—there it stands, right afore you. An't you 'prised at it? I always am whenever I sees it. So please a jump off, and I'll take your hoss to the stable, and put him up, and tell the people at the barn that Masser Neddy's come; and you can go into the house and speak for you'mself."
Lindsay, at parting, put a dollar into the hand of the old negro. "What for this, Masser Neddy?" asked Pharaoh, trying to look very disinterested.
"Do whatever you please with it," answered Lindsay.
"Well, masser," replied the negro, "I never likes to hurt a gemplan's feelings by 'fusing him. So I'll keep it, just to 'blige you. But, I 'spect, to be sure, Masser Neddy'll step in some day at negor-man's cabin, and see old Binkey, and take part of him dollar out in cakes and beer. I'll let masser know when Binkey has a fresh baking."
Pharaoh then led off the horse, and Lindsay stood for a few moments to take a survey of the new residence of his old friends. It was a broad, substantial two-story stone house. There was a front garden, where large snow-ball trees