As Mr. Jinks went along, thus absorbed in his dreams of vengeance, he chanced to raise his head; which movement made him aware of the fact that a gentleman with whom he was well acquainted rode in the same direction with himself—that is to say, toward Bousch's tavern.
This was Verty, who, absorbed as completely by his own thoughts as was Mr. Jinks, did not see that gentleman until Cloud very nearly walked over the diminutive Fodder.
Mr. Jinks laid his hand on his sword, and frowned; for it was one of the maxims of this great militaire, that one is never more apt to escape an attack than when he appears to hold himself in readiness, and seems prepared for either event.
Verty did not consider himself bound, however, to engage in a combat at the moment; and so with grave politeness, bowed and passed on his way.
They arrived at the tavern nearly at the same moment.
Ralph was sitting on the porch, inhaling the fresh October air, gazing at the bright waves of the little stream which sparkled by beneath the willows; and at times varying these amusements by endeavoring to smoke from a pipe which had gone out, He looked the picture of indolent enjoyment.
Within a few feet of him sat the ruddy, full-faced landlord, as idle as himself.
At sight of Mr. Jinks and Verty, Ralph rose, with a smile, and came toward them.
"Ah! my dear Jinks," he said, after bowing to Verty familiarly, "how did you get out of that scrape? I regret that business of a private and important nature forced me to leave you, and go round the corner. How did it result?"
"Triumphantly, sir!" said Mr. Jinks, dismounting, and, with great dignity, entrusting Fodder to a stable-boy, lounging near; "that hound, O'Brallaghan, knew his place, sir, and did not presume to complain—"
"Of Fodder?"
"Of anything, sir."
"The fact is, it would have been ridiculous. What had he to complain of, I should like to be informed. So he retreated?"
"He did, sir," said Mr. Jinks, with dignity, "amid the hisses of the assembled crowd."
"Just as I suspected; it would take a bold fellow to force such a DonQuixote and Dapple, as yourself and Fodder!"
"Yes; although I regretted," said Mr. Jinks, with great dignity, "the accident which occurred when we set out, I rejoice at having had an occasion to inform that Irish conspirator and St. Michael-hater, that I held him in opprobrious contempt."
And Mr. Jinks glanced at the landlord.
"He was making the breeches for St. Michael, whom he is to represent," said Mr. Jinks, "day after to-morrow; and I have not done with him—the Irish villain!"
Mr. Jinks looked again, significantly, at the host.
That gentleman had not lost a word of the conversation, and his sleepy eyes now opened. He beckoned to Mr. Jinks. A smile illumined the countenance of the worthy—the landlord was a German;—the plot against Irish O'Brallaghan was gaining strength.
The landlord rose, and, with a significant look, entered the house, followed by Mr. Jinks, who turned his head, as he disappeared, to cast a triumphant look upon Ralph.
No sooner had he passed from sight, than Ralph turned to Verty, who had sat quietly upon Cloud, during this colloquy, and burst into laughter.
"That is the greatest character I have ever known, Verty," he said; "and I have been amusing myself with him all the morning."
Verty was thinking, and without paying much attention to Ralph, smiled, and said:
"Anan?—yes—"
"I believe you are dreaming."
"Oh, no—only thinking," said Verty, smiling; "I can't get out of the habit, and I really don't think I heard you. But I can't stop. Here's a note Redbud asked me to give you—for Fanny. She said you might be going up to old Scowley's—"
"Might be! I rather think I am! Ah, Miss Redbud, you are a mischievous one. But why take the trouble to say that of the divine sex? They're all dangerous, scheming and satirical."
"Anan?" said Verty, smiling, as he tossed Ralph the note.
"Don't mind me," said Ralph; "I was just talking, as usual, at random, and slandering the sex. But what are you sitting there for, my dear Verty? Get down and come in. I'm dying of weariness."
Verty shook his head.
"I must go and see Mr. Roundjacket," he said.
"What! is he sick?"
"Yes."
"Much?"
Verty smiled.
"I think not," he said; "but I don't know—I havn't much time; good-bye."
And touching Cloud with the spur, Verty went on. Ralph looked after him for a moment, twirled the note in his fingers, read the superscription,—"To Miss Fanny Temple,"—and then, laughing carelessly, lounged into the house, intent on making a third in the councils of those great captains, Mr. Jinks and the landlord.
We shall accompany Verty, who rode on quietly, and soon issued from the town—that is to say, the more bustling portion of it; for Winchester, at that time, consisted of but two streets, and even these were mere roads, as they approached the suburbs.
Roundjacket's house was a handsome little cottage, embowered in trees, on the far western outskirts of the town. Here the poet lived in bachelor freedom, and with a degree of comfort which might have induced any other man to be satisfied with his condition. We know, from his own assertion, that Roundjacket was not;—he had an excellent little house, a beautiful garden, every comfort which an ample "estate" could bring him, but he had no wife. That was the one thing needful.
Verty dismounted, and admiring the beautiful sward, the well tended flowers, and the graceful appendages of the mansion—from the bronze knocker, with Minerva's head upon it, to the slight and comfortable wicker smoking-chairs upon the porch—opened the little gate, and knocked.
An old negro woman, who superintended, with the assistance of her equally aged husband, this bachelor paradise, appeared at the door; and hearing Verty's request of audience, was going to prefer it to Mr. Roundjacket.
This was rendered unnecessary, however, by the gentleman himself. He called from the comfortable sitting-room to Verty, and the visitor entered.
Roundjacket was clad in a handsome dressing-gown, and was heading, or essaying to read—for he had the rheumatism in his right shoulder—a roll of manuscript. Beside him lay a ruler, which he grasped, and made a movement of hospitable reception with, as Verty came in.
"Welcome, welcome, my young friend," said Roundjacket; "you see me laid up, sir"
"You're not much sick, I hope, sir?" said Verty, taking the arm-chair, which his host indicated.
"I am, sir—you are mistaken."
"I am very sorry."
"I thank you for your sympathy," said Roundjacket, running his fingers through his straight hair; "I think, sir I mentioned, the other day, that I expected to be laid up."
"Mentioned?"
"On the occasion, sir—"
"Oh, the paper!" said Verty, smiling; "you don't mean—"
"I mean everything," said Roundjacket; "I predicted, on that occasion, that I expected to be laid up, and I am, sir."
This was adroit in Roundjacket. It was one of those skillful equivocations, by means of which a man saves his character for consistency and judgment, without forfeiting his character for truth.
"Well, itwasvery bad," said Verty.
"Bad is not the word—abominable is the word—disgraceful is the word!" cried Roundjacket, flourishing his ruler, and suddenly dropping it as a twinge shot through his shoulder.
"Yes," assented Verty; "but talking about it will make you worse, sir.Mr. Rushton asked me to come and see how you were this morning."
"Rushton is thanked," said Mr. Roundjacket,—"Rushton, my young friend, has his good points—so have I, sir. I nursed him through a seven month's fever—a perfect bear, sir; but he always isthat. Tell him that my arm—that I am nearly well, sir, and that nothing but my incapacity to write, from—from—the state of my—feelings," proceeded Roundjacket, "should keep me at home. Observe, my young sir, that this is no apology. Rushton and myself understand each other. If I wish to go, I go—or stay away, I stay away. But I like the old trap, sir, from habit, and rather like the bear himself, upon the whole."
With this Mr. Roundjacket attempted to flourish his ruler, from habit, and groaned.
"What's the matter, sir?" said Verty.
"I felt badly at the moment," said Roundjacket; "the fact is, I always do feel badly when I'm confined thus. I have been trying to wile away the time with the manuscript of my poem, sir—but it won't do. An author, sir—mark me—never takes any pleasure in reading his own writings."
"Ah?" said Verty.
"No, sir; the only proper course for authors is to marry."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Yes: and why, sir?" asked Mr. Roundjacket, evidently with the intention of answering his own question.
"I don't know," replied Verty.
"Because, then, sir, the author may read his work to his wife, which is a circumstance productive of great pleasure on both sides, you perceive."
"It might be, but I think it might'nt, sir?" Verty said.
"How, might'nt be?"
"It might be very bad writing—not interesting—such as ought to be burned, you know," said Verty.
"Hum!" replied Roundjacket, "there's something in that."
"If I was to write—but I could'nt—I don't think I would read it to my wife—if I had a wife," added Verty.
And he sighed.
"A wife! you!" cried Mr. Roundjacket.
"Is there anything wrong in my wishing to marry?"
"Hum!—yes, sir; there is a certain amount of irrationality inanybody desiring such a thing—not in you especially."
"Oh, Mr. Roundjacket, you advised me only a few weeks ago to be alwayscourtingsomebody—courting was the word; I recollect it."
"Hum!" repeated Roundjacket; "did I?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, sir, I suppose a man has a right to amend."
"Anan, sir?"
"I say that a man has a right to file an amended and supplemental bill, stating new facts; but you don't understand. Perhaps, sir, I was right, and perhaps I was wrong in that advice."
"But, Mr. Roundjacket," said Verty, sighing, "do you think I ought not to marry because I am an Indian?"
This question of ethics evidently puzzled the poet.
"An Indian—hum—an Indian?" he said; "but are you an Indian, my young friend?"
"You knowma mereis, and I am her son."
Roundjacket shook his head.
"You are a Saxon, not an Aboriginal," he said; "and to tell you the truth, your origin has been the great puzzle of my life, sir."
"Has it?"
"It has, indeed."
Verty looked thoughtful, and his dreamy gaze was fixed upon vacancy.
"It has troubled me a good deal lately," he said, "and I have been thinking about it very often—since I came to live in Winchester, you know. As long as I was in the woods, it did not come into my thoughts much; the deer, and turkeys, and bears never asked," added Verty, with a smile. "The travellers who stopped for a draught of water or a slice of venison atma mere's, never seemed to think anything about it, or to like me the worse for not knowing where I came from. It's only since I came into society here, sir, that I am troubled. It troubles me very much," added Verty, his head drooping.
"Zounds!" cried Roundjacket, betrayed by his feelings into an oath, "don't let it, Verty! You're a fine, honest fellow, whether you're an Indian or not; and if I had a daughter—which," added Mr. Roundjacket, "I'm glad to say I have not—you should have her for the asking. Who cares! you're a gentleman, every inch of you!"
"Am I?" said Verty; "I'm glad to hear that. I thought I was'nt. And so, sir, you don't think there's any objection to my marrying?"
"Hum!—the subject of marrying again!"
"Yes, sir," Verty replied, smiling; "I thought I'd marry Redbud."
"Who? that little Redbud!"
"Yes, sir," said Verty, "I think I'm in love with her."
Roundjacket stood amazed at such extraordinary simplicity.
"Sir," he said, "whether you are an Indian by blood or not, you certainly are by nature. Extraordinary! who ever heard of a civilized individual using such language!"
"But you know I am not civilized, sir."
Roundjacket shook his head.
"There's the objection," he said; "it is absolutely necessary that a man who becomes the husband of a young lady should be civilized. But let us dismiss this subject—Redbud! Excuse me, Mr. Verty, but you are a very extraordinary young man;—to have you for—well, well. Don't allude to that again."
"To what, sir?"
"To Redbud."
"Why, sir?"
"Because I have nothing to do with it. I can only give you my general ideas on the subject of marriage. If you apply them, that is your affair. A pretty thing on an oath of discovery," murmured the poetical lawyer.
Verty had not heard the last words; he was reflecting. Roundjacket watched him with a strange, wistful look, which had much kindness and feeling in it.
"But why not marry?" said Verty, at last; "it seems to me sir, that people ought to marry; I think I could find a great many good reasons for it."
"Could you; how many?"
"A hundred, I suppose."
"And I could find a thousand against it," said Roundjacket. "Mark me, sir—except under certain circumstances, a man is not the same individual after marrying—he deteriorates."
"Anan?" said Verty.
"I mean, that in most cases it is for the worse—the change of condition.
"How, sir?"
"Observe the married man," replied Roundjacket, philosophically—"see his brow laden with cares, his important look, his solemn deportment. None of the lightness and carelessness of the bachelor."
Verty nodded, as much as to say that there was a great deal of truth in this much.
"Then observe the glance," continued Roundjacket, "if I may be permitted to use a colloquialism which is coming into use—there is not that brilliant cut of the eye, which you see in us young fellows—it is all gone, sir!"
Verty smiled.
"The married man frequently delegates his soul to his better half," continued Roundjacket, rising with his subject; "all his independence is gone. He can't live the life of a jolly bachelor, with pipe and slippers, jovial friends and nocturnal suppers. The pipe is put out, sir—the slippers run down—and the joyous laughter of his good companions becomes only the recollection of dead merriment. He progresses, sir—does the married man—from bad to worse; he lives in a state of hen-pecked, snubbed, unnatural apprehension; he shrinks from his shadow; trembles at every sound; and, in the majority of cases, ends his miserable existence, sir, by hanging himself to the bed-post!"
Having drawn this awful picture of the perils of matrimony, Mr.Roundjacket paused and smiled. Verty looked puzzled.
"You seem to think it is very dreadful," said Verty; "are you afraid of women, sir?"
"No, I am not, sir! But I might very rationally be."
"Anan?"
"Yes, sir, very reasonably; the fact is, you cannot be a lady's man, and have any friends, without being talked about."
Verty nodded, with a simple look, which struck Mr. Roundjacket forcibly.
"Only utter a polite speech, and smile, and wrap a lady's shawl around her shoulders—flirt her fan, or caress her poodle—and, in public estimation, you are gone," observed the poet; "the community roll their eyes, shake their heads, and declare that it is very obvious—that you are so far gone, as not even to pretend to conceal it. Shocking, sir!"
And Roundjacket chuckled.
"It's very wrong," said Verty, shaking his head; "I wonder they do it."
"Therefore, keep away from the ladies, my young friend," added Roundjacket, with an elderly air—"that is the safest way. Get some snug bachelor retreat like this, and be happy with your pipe. Imitate me, in dressing-gown and slippers. So shall you be happy!"
Roundjacket chuckled again, and contemplated the cornice.
At the same moment a carriage was heard to stop before the door, and the poet's eyes descended.
"I wonder who comes to see me," he said, "really now, in a chariot."
Verty, from his position, could see through the window.
"Why, it's the Apple Orchard chariot!" he said, "and there is MissLavinia!"
At this announcement, Mr. Roundjacket's face assumed an expression of dastardly guilt, and he avoided Verty's eye.
"Lavinia!" he murmured.
At the same moment a diminutive footman gave a rousing stroke with the knocker, and delivered into the hands of the old woman, who opened the door, a glass dish of delicacies such as are affected by sick persons.
With this came a message from the lady in the carriage, to the effect, that her respects were presented to Mr. Roundjacket, whose sickness she had heard of. Would he like the jelly?—she was passing—would be every day. Please to send word if he was better.
While this message was being delivered, Roundjacket resembled an individual caught in the act of felonious appropriation of his neighbors' ewes. He did not look at Verty, but, with; a bad assumption of nonchalance, bade the boy thank his mistress, and say that Mr. Roundjacket would present his respects, in person, at Apple Orchard, on the morrow. Would she excuse his not coming out?
This message was carried to the chariot, which soon afterwards drove away.
Verty gazed after it.
"I say, Mr. Roundjacket," he observed, at length, "how funny it is forMiss Lavinia to come to see you!"
"Hum!—hum!—we are—hum—ah—! The fact is, my dear Verty!" cried Mr. Roundjacket, rising, and limping through apas seul, in spite of his rheumatism—"the fact is, I have been acting the most miserable and deceptive way to you for the last hour. Yes, my dear boy! I am ashamed of myself! Carried away by the pride of opinion, and that fondness which bachelor's have for boasting, I have been deceiving you! But it never shall be said that Robert Roundjacket refused the amplest reparation. My reparation, my good Verty, is taking you into my confidence. The fact is—yes, the fact really is—as aforesaid, or rather asnotaforesaid, myself and the pleasing Miss Lavinia are to be married before very long! Don't reply, sir! I know my guilt—but you might have known I was jesting. You must have suspected, from my frequent visits to Apple Orchard—hum—hum—well, well, sir; it's out now, and I've made a clean breast of it, and you're not to speak of it! I am tired of bachelordom, sir, and am going to change!"
With these words, Mr. Roundjacket executed a pirouette upon his rheumatic leg, which caused him to fall back in his chair, making the most extraordinary faces, which we can compare to nothing but the contortions of a child who bites a crab-apple by mistake.
The twinge soon spent its force, however; and then Mr. Roundjacket and Verty resumed their colloquy—after which, Verty rose and took his leave, smiling and laughing to himself, at times.
He had reason. Miss Lavinia, who had denounced wife-hunters, was about to espouse Mr. Roundjacket, who had declared matrimony the most miserable of mortal conditions; all which is calculated to raise our opinion of the consistency of human nature in a most wonderful degree.
Leaving Mr. Roundjacket contemplating the ceiling, and reflecting upon the various questions connected with bachelorship and matrimony, Verty returned to the office, and reported to Mr. Rushton that the poet was rapidly improving, and would probably be at his post on the morrow.
This intelligence was received with a growl, which had become, however, so familiar an expression of feeling to the young man, that he did not regard it.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Rushton, "what news is there about town?"
"News, sir? I heard none."
"Did'nt you pass along the streets?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you met nobody?"
"Oh, yes; I met Ralph, and Mr. Jinks, and others."
"Jinks! I'll score that Jinks yet!" said Mr. Rushton; "he is an impertinent jackanapes, and deserves to be put in the stocks."
"I don't like him much," said Verty, smiling, "I think he is very foolish."
"Hum! I have no doubt of it: he had the audacity to come here once and ask anopinionof me without offering the least fee."
"An opinion, sir?"
"Yes, sir; have you been thus long in the profession, or in contact with the profession," added Mr. Rushton, correcting himself, "without learning what anopinionis?"
"Oh, sir—I think I understand now—it is—"
"A very gratifying circumstance that you do," said Mr. Rushton, with the air of a good-natured grizzly bear. "Well, sir, that fellow, I say, had the audacity to consult me upon a legal point—whether the tailor O'Brallaghan, being bound over to keep the peace, could attack him without forfeiting his recognizances—that villain Jinks, I say, had the outrageous audacity to ask my opinion on this point, and then when I gave it, to rise and say that it was a fine morning, and so strut out, without another word. A villain, sir! the man who consults a lawyer without the preparatory retainer, is a wretch too deep-dyed to reform!"
Having thus disposed of Jinks, Mr. Rushton snorted.
"I don't like him," Verty said, "he does not seem to be sincere, and I think he is not a gentleman. But, I forget, sir; you asked me if there was any news. Ididhear some people talking at the corners of the street as I passed.
"About what?"
"The turn out of the Dutch and Irish people the day after tomorrow, sir."
"Hum!" growled Mr. Rushton, "we'll see about that! The authorities ofWinchester are performing their duty after a pretty fashion, truly—topermit these villainous plots to be hatched tinder their very noses.What did you hear, sir?"
"They were whispering almost, sir, and if I had'nt been a hunter I could'nt have heard. They were saying that there would be knives as well as shillalies," said Verty.
"Hum! indeed! This must be looked to! Will we! The wretches. We are in a fine way when the public peace is to be sacrificed to the whim of some outlandish wretches."
"Anan?" said Verty.
"Sir?" asked Mr. Rushton.
"I do not know exactly whatoutlandishmeans," Verty replied, with a smile.
A grim smile came to the lips of the lawyer also.
"It means a variety of things," he said, looking at Verty; "some people would say thatyou, sir, were outlandish."
"Me!" said Verty.
"Yes, you; where are those costumes which I presented to you?"
"My clothes, sir—from the tailor's?"
"Yes, sir."
Verty shook his head.
"I did'nt feel easy in them, sir," he said; "you know I am anIndian—or if I am not, at least I am a hunter. They cramped me."
Mr. Rushton looked at the young man for some moments in silence.
"You are a myth," he said, grimly smiling, "a dream—a chimera. You came from no source, and are going nowhere. But I trifle. If I am permitted, sir, I shall institute proper inquiries as to your origin, which has occasioned so much thought. The press of business I have labored under during the last month has not permitted me. Wretched life. I'm sick of it—and go to it like a horse to the traces."
"Don't you like law, sir?"
"No—I hate it."
"Why, sir?"
"'Why!'" cried Mr. Rushton, "there you are with your annoying questions! I hate it because it lowers still more my opinion of this miserable humanity. I see everywhere rascality, and fraud, and lies; and because there is danger of becoming the color of the stuff I work in, 'like the dyer's hand.' I hate it," growled Mr. Rushton.
"But you must see many noble things, sir, too,—a great deal of goodness, you know."
"Well, sir, so I do. I don't deny it. There aresomemen who are not entirely corrupt,—some who do not cheat systematically, and lie by the compass and the rule. But these are the exceptions. This life and humanity are foul sin from the beginning. Trust no one, young man—not even me; I may turn out a rogue. I am no better than the rest of the wretches!"
"Oh, Mr. Rushton!"
"There you are with your exclamations!"
"Oh, I'm sure, sir—"
"Be sure of nothing; let us end this jabber. How is your mother?" saidMr. Rushton, abruptly.
"She's very well, sir."
"A good woman."
"Oh, indeed she is, sir—I love her dearly."
"Hum! there's no harm in that, though much selfishness, I do not doubt—all humanity is narrow and selfish. There are some things I procured for her."
And Mr. Rushton pointed to a large bundle lying on the chair.
"Forma mere!" said Verty.
"Yes; I suppose that, in your outlandish lingo, meansmother. Yes, for her; the winter is coming on, and she will need something warm to wrap her—poor creature—from the cold."
"Oh, how kind you are, Mr. Rushton!"
"Nonsense; I suppose I am at liberty to spend my own money."
Verty looked at the lawyer with a grateful smile, and said:
"I don't think that what you said about everybody's being selfish and bad is true, sir. You are very good and kind."
"Flummery!" observed the cynic, "I had a selfish motive: I wished to appear generous—I wished to be praised—I wished to attach you to my service, in order to employ you, when the time came, in some rascally scheme."
"Oh, Mr. Rushton!"
"Yes, sir; you know not why I present that winter wardrobe to your mother," said the lawyer, triumphantly; "you don't even know that it is my present!"
"How, sir?"
"May I not stop it from your salary, I should like to know, sir?"
And Mr. Rushton scowled at Verty.
"Oh!" said the young man.
"I may do anything—I may have laid a plot to have you arrested for receiving stolen goods," said the shaggy cynic, revelling in the creations of his invention; "I may have wrapped up an infernal machine, sir, in that bundle, which, when you open it, will explode like a cannon, and carry ruin and destruction to everything around!"
This terrific picture caused Verty to open his eyes, and look with astonishment at his interlocutor.
"I may have bought them in to spite that young villain at the store. I heard him," said Mr. Rushton, vindictively—"yes, distinctly heard him whisper, 'There's old Rushton again, come to growl, and not buy anything.' The villain! but I disappointed him; and when he said, "Shall they be sent to your office, sir?" in his odious obsequious voice, I replied, 'No, sir! I am not a dandy or fine gentleman, nor a woman;—you, sir, may be accustomed to have your bundlessent—I carry mine myself.' And so, sir, I took the bundle on my shoulder and brought it away, to the astonishment of that young villain, who, I predict, will eventually come to the gallows!"
And the lawyer, having grown tired of talking, abruptly went into his sanctum, and slammed the door.
Verty gazed after him for some moments with a puzzled expression—then smiled—then shook his head; then glanced at the bundle. It was heavy enough for two porters, and Verty opened his eyes at the thought of Mr. Rushton's having appeared in public, in the town of Winchester, with such a mass upon his back.
"He's very good, though," said Verty; "I don't know why he's so kind to me. Howma merewill like them—I know they are what she wants."
And Verty betook himself to his work, only stopping to partake of his dinner of cold venison and biscuits. By the afternoon, he had done a very good task; and then mounting Cloud, with the bundle before him, he took his way homeward,viaApple Orchard.
Our fine Virginia autumn not only dowers the world with beautiful forests, and fresh breezes, and a thousand lovely aspects of the beautiful world—fine golden sunsets, musical dawns, and gorgeous noontides full of languid glory;—it also has its direct influence on the mind.
Would you dream? Go to the autumn woods; the life there is one golden round of fancies, such as come alone beneath waning forests, where the glories of the flower-crowned summer have yielded to a spell more powerful, objects more enthralling—because those objects have the charm of a maiden slowly passing, with a loveliness a thousand times increased, and sublimated, to the holy skies.
Would you have active life? That is there too—the deer, and sound of bugles rattling through the trees, and rousing echoes which go flashing through the hills, and filling the whole universe with jubilant laughter. Every mood has something offered for its entertainment in the grand autumns of our Blue-Ridge dominated land: chiefly the thoughtful, however, the serene and happy.
You dream there, under the boughs all gold, and blue, and crimson. Little things which obscured the eternal landscape, pass away, and the great stars, above the world, come out and flood the mind with a far other light than that which flowed from earthly tapers and rushlights. The heart is purer for such hours of thought; and as the splendid autumn marches on with pensive smiles, you see a glory in his waning cheek which neither the tender Spring, nor the rich, glittering Summer ever approached—an expression of hope and resignation which is greater than strength and victory. Ah, me! if we could always look, like autumn, on the coming storms and freezing snows, and see the light and warmth beyond the veil!
Verty went on beneath the autumn skies, and through the woods, the rustle of whose leaves was music to his forest-trained ear; and so arrived at Apple Orchard as the sun was setting brightly behind the pines, which he kindled gloriously.
Redbud was seated at the window; and the kind eyes and lips brightened, as the form of the young man became visible.
Verty dismounted and entered.
"I am very glad to see you!" said Redbud, smiling, and holding out her small hand; "what a sweet evening for your ride home."
Redbud was clad with her usual grace and simplicity. Her beautiful golden hair was brushed back from the pure, white forehead; her throat was enveloped in a circlet of diaphanous lace, and beneath this, as she breathed, the red beads of the coral necklace were visible, rising and falling with the pulsations of her heart. Redbud could not have very readily explained the reason for her fancy in wearing the necklace constantly. It was one of those caprices which every one experiences at times;—and so, although the girl had quite a magazine of such ornaments, she persisted in wearing the old necklace bought from the pedlar. Perhaps the word Providence may explain the matter.
To the girl's observation, that he had a fine evening for his ride homeward, Verty replied—Yes, that he had; that he could not go by, however, without coming to see her.
And as he uttered these words, the simple and tender glances of the two young persons encountered each other; and they both smiled.
"You know you are not very well," added Verty; "and I could'nt sleep well if I did not know how you were, Redbud."
The girl thanked him with another smile, and said:
"I believe I am nearly well now; the cold I caught the other day has entirely left me. I almost think I might take a stroll, if the sun was not so low."
"It is half an hour high—that is, it will not get cool until then,"Verty said.
"Do you think I would catch cold?" asked the girl, smiling.
"I don't know," Verty said.
"Well, I do not think I will, and you shall wrap me in your coat, if I do," she said, laughing.
In ten minutes, Redbud and Verty were strolling through the grove, and admiring the sunset.
"How pretty it is," she said, gazing with pensive pleasure on the clouds; "and the old grove here is so still."
"Yes," Verty said, "I like the old grove very much. Do you see that locust? It was just at the foot of it, that we found the hare's form, when Dick mowed the grass. You recollect?"
"Oh, yes," Redbud replied; "and I remember what dear little creatures they were—not bigger than an apple, and with such frightened eyes. We put them back, you know, Verty—that is, I made you," she added, laughing.
Verty laughed too.
"They were funny little creatures," he said; "and they would have died—you know we never could have got the right things for them to eat—yes! there, in the long grass! How Molly Cotton jumped away."
They walked on.
"Here, by the filbert bush, we used to bury the apples to get mellow," Verty said; "nice, yellow, soft things they were, when we dug them up, with a smell of the earth about 'em! They were not like the June apples we used to get in the garden, where they dropped among the corn—their striped, red sides all covered with dust!"
"I liked the June apples the best," Redbud said, "but I think October is finer than June."
"Oh, yes. Redbud, I am going to get some filberts—will you have some?"
"If you please."
So Verty went to the bushes, and brought his hat full of them, and cracked them on a stone—the sun lighting up his long, tangled curls, and making brighter his bright smile.
Redbud stooped down, and gathered the kernels as they jumped from the shell, laughing and happy.
They had returned to their childhood again—bright and tender childhood, which dowers our after life with so many tender, mournful, happy memorials;—whose breezes fan our weary brows so often as we go on over the thorny path, once a path of flowers. They were once more children, and they wandered thus through the beautiful forest, collecting their memories, laughing here, sighing there—and giving an association or a word to every feature of the little landscape.
"How many things I remember," Verty said, thoughtfully, and smiling; "there, where Milo, the good dog, was buried, and a shot fired over him—there, where we treed the squirrel—and over yonder, by the run, which I used to think flowed by from fairy land—I remember so many things!"
"Yes—I do too," replied the girl, thoughtfully, bending her head.
"How singular it is that an Indian boy like me should have been brought up here," Verty said, buried in thought; "I think my life is stranger than what they call a romance."
Redbud made no reply.
"Ma merewould never tell me anything about myself," the young man went on, wistfully, "and I can't know anything except from her. I must be a Dacotah or a Delaware."
Redbud remained thoughtful for some moments, then raising her head, said:
"I do not believe you are an Indian, Verty. There is some mystery about you which I think the old Indian woman should tell. She certainly is not your mother," said Redbud, with a little smiling air of dogmatism.
"I don't know," Verty replied, "but I wish I did know. I used to be proud of being an Indian, but since I have grown up, and read how wicked they were, I wish I was not.
"You are not."
"Well, I think so, too," he replied; "I am not a bit likema mere, who has long, straight black hair, and a face the color of that maple—dearma mere!—while I have light hair, always getting rolled up. My face is different, too—I mean the color—I am sun-burned, but I remember when my face was very white."
And Verty smiled.
"I would ask her all about it," Redbud said.
"I think I will," was the reply; "but she don't seem to like it,Redbud—it seems to worry her."
"But it is important to you, Verty."
"Yes, indeed it is."
"Ask her this evening."
"Do you advise me?"
"Yes. I think you ought to; indeed I do."
"Well, I will," Verty said; "and I know whenma mereunderstands that I am not happy as long as she does not tell me everything, she will speak to me."
"I think so, too," said Redbud; "and now, Verty, there is one thing more—trust in God, you know, is everything. He will do all for the best."
"Oh, yes," the young man said, as they turned toward Apple Orchard house again, "I am getting to do that—and I pray now, Redbud," he added, looking toward the sky, "I pray to the Great Spirit, as we call him—"
Redbud looked greatly delighted, and said:
"That is better than all; I do not see how any one can live without praying."
"I used to," Verty replied.
"It was so wrong."
"Yes, yes."
"And Verty gazed at the sunset with his dreamy, yet kindling eyes.
"If there is a Great Spirit, we ought to talk to him," he said, "and tell him what we want, and ask him to make us good; I think so at least—"
"Indeed we should."
"Then," continued Verty, "if that is true, we ought to think whether there is or is not such a spirit. There may be people in towns who don't believe there is—but I am obliged to. Look at the sun, Redbud—the beautiful sun going away like a great torch dying out;—and look at the clouds, as red as if a thousand deer had come to their death, and poured their blood out in a river! Look at the woods here, every color of the bow in the cloud, and the streams, and rocks, and all! There must be a Great Spirit who loves men, or he never would have made the world so beautiful."
Verty paused, and they went on slowly.
"We love him because he first loved us," said Redbud, thoughtfully.
"Yes, and what a love it must have been. Oh me!" said the young man, "I sometimes think of it until my heart is melted to water, and my eyes begin to feel heavy. What love it was!—and if we do not love in return, what punishment is great enough for such a crime!"
And Verty's face was raised with a dreamy, reverent look toward the sky. Youth, manhood, age—if they but thought of it!—but youth is a dream—manhood the waking—age the return to slumber. Busy, arranging the drapery of their couches, whether of royal purple or of beggar's rags, they cannot find the time to think of other things—even to listen to the grim breakers, with their awful voices roaring on the lee!
So, under the autumn skies, the young man and the maiden drew near home. Apple Orchard smiled on them as they came, and the bluff Squire, seated upon the portico, and reading that "Virginia Gazette" maligned by Roundjacket, gave them welcome with a hearty, laughing greeting.
The Squire declared that Redbud's cheeks were beginning to be tolerably red again; that she had been pretending sickness only—and then, with a vituperative epithet addressed to Caesar, the old gentleman re-commenced reading.
Redbud and Verty entered; and then the young man held out his hand.
"Are you going?" said the girl.
"Yes," he said, smiling, "unless you will sing me something. Oh, yes! let me go away with music in my ears. Sing 'Dulce Domum' for me, Redbud."
The young girl assented, with a smile; and sitting down at the harpsichord, sang the fine old ditty in her soft, tender voice, which was the very echo of joy and kindness. The gentle carol floated on the evening air, and seemed to make the autumn twilight brighter, everything more lovely—and Verty listened with a look more dreamy than before.
Then, as she sung, his eye was turned to the picture on the wall, which looked down with its loving eyes upon them.
Redbud ceased, and turned and saw the object of his regard.
"Mamma," she said, in a low, thoughtful voice,—"I love to think of her."
And rising, she stood beside Verty, who was still looking at the portrait.
"She must have been very good," he murmured; "I think her face is full of kindness."
Redbud gazed softly at the portrait, and, as she mused, the dews of love and memory suffused her tender eyes, and she turned away.
"I love the face," said Verty, softly; "and I think she must have been a kind, good mother, Redbud. I thought just now that she was listening to you as you sang."
And Verty gazed at the young girl, with a tenderness which filled her eyes with delight.
"She will bless you out of Heaven," he continued, timidly; "for you are so beautiful and good—so very beautiful!"
And a slight tremor passed over the young man's frame as he spoke.
Redbud did not reply; a deep blush suffused her face, and she murmured something. Then the young head drooped, and the face turned away.
The last ray of sunlight gleamed upon her hair and pure white forehead, and then fled away—the day was ended.
Verty saw it, and held out his hand.
"We have had a happy evening, at least I have," he said, in a low voice; "the autumn is so beautiful, and you are so kind and good."
She did not speak; but a faint wistful smile came to her lips as she placed her hand softly in his own.
"Look! the picture is smiling on you now!" said Verty; "you are just alike—both so beautiful!"
"Oh!" murmured Redbud, blushing; "like mamma?"
"Yes," said Verty, "and I saw the lips smile when I spoke."
They stood thus hand in hand—the tender mother-eyes upon them: then he turned and went away, looking back tenderly to the last.
Had the dim canvas smiled upon them, as they stood there hand in hand—a blessing on them from the far other world?
Sitting by the crackling twigs which drove away the cool airs of the autumn night with their inspiring warmth, the young man, whose early fortunes we have thus far endeavored to narrate, leaned his head upon his hand, and mused and dreamed.
Overhead the shadows played upon the rafters; around him, the firelight lit up the wild and uncouth interior, with its sleeping hounds, and guns, and fishing-rods, and chests; on the opposite side of the fire-place, the old Indian woman was indulging, like Verty, in a reverie.
From time to time, Longears or Wolf would stir in their sleep, and growl, engaged in dreaming of some forest adventure which concerned itself with deer or other game; or the far cry of the whip-poor-will would echo through the forest; or the laughter of the owl suddenly come floating on, borne on the chill autumn wind.
This, with the crackle of the twigs, was all which disturbed the silence of the solitary lodge.
The silence lasted for half an hour, at the end of which time Verty changed his position, and sighed. Then looking at the old woman with great affection, the young man said:
"I was thinking who I was; and I wanted to ask you,ma mere—tell me."
The old woman looked startled at this address, but concealing her emotion with the marvellous skill of her people, replied in her guttural accent—
"My son wants to know something?"
"Yes,ma mere, that is it. I want to know if I really am your son."
The old woman turned her eyes from Verty.
"The fawn knows the deer, and the bear's cub knows his fellows," continued Verty, gazing into the fire; "but they laugh at me. I don't know my tribe."
"Our tribe is the Delaware," said the old Indian woman evasively—" they came from the great woods like a river."
"Like a river? Yes, they know their source. But where did I spring from,ma mere?"
"Where was my son born?"
"Yes, tell me everything," said Verty; "tell me if I am your son. Do not tell me that you love me as a son, or that I love you as my mother. I know that—but am I a Delaware?"
"Why does my son ask?"
"Because a bird of the air whispered to me—'You are not a Delaware, nor a Tuscarora, nor a Dacotah; you are a pale face.' Did the bird lie!"
The old woman did not answer.
"Ma mere," said Verty, tenderly taking the old woman's hand and sitting at her feet, "the Great Spirit has made me honest and open—I cannot conceal anything. I cannot pry and search. I might find out this from some other person—who knows? But I will not try. Come! speak with a straight tongue. Am I the son of a brave; am I a Delaware; or am I what my face makes me out—a Long-knife?"
"Ough! ough! ough!" groaned the old woman; "he wants to go, away from the nest where he was warmed, and nursed, and brought up. The Great Spirit has put evil into his heart—it is cold."
"No, no," said Verty, earnestly—"my heart is red, not white; every drop of my life-blood is yours,ma mere; you have loved me, cherished me: when my muscles were soft and hot with fever, you laid my head upon your bosom, and rocked me to sleep as softly as the topmost bough of the oak rocks the oriole; you loved me always. My heart shall run out of my breast and soak the ground, before it turns white; yet, I love you, and you love me. But,ma mere, I have grown well nigh to manhood; the bird's song is changed, and the dove has flown to me—the dove yonder at Apple Orchard—"
"Ough!" groaned the old woman, rocking to and fro; "she is black! She has made you bad!"
"No, no! she is white—she is good. She told me about the GreatSpirit, and makes me pure."
"Ough! ough!"
"She is as pure as the bow in the cloud," continued Verty; "and I did not mean that the dove was the bird who whispered, that I was no Delaware. No—my own heart says, 'know—find out.'"
"And why should the heart say 'know?'" said the old woman, still rocking about, and looking at Verty with anxious affection. "Why should my son seek to find?"
"Because the winds are changed and sing new songs; the leaves whisper, as I pass, with a new voice; and even the clouds are not what they were to me when I ran after the shadows floating along the hills, and across the hollows. I have changed,ma mere, and the streams talk no more with the same tongue. I hear the flags and water-lilies muttering as I pass, and the world opens on me with a new, strange light. They talked to me once; now they laugh at me as I pass. Hear the trees, yonder! Don't you hear them? They are saying, 'The Delaware paleface! look at him! look at him!'"
And crouching, with dreamy eyes, Verty for a moment listened to the strange sob of the pines, swaying in the chill winds of the autumn night.
"I am not what I was!" he continued; the world is open now, and I must be a part of it. The bear and deer speak to me with tongues I do not understand.Ma mere! ma mere! I must know whether I am a Delaware or pale face!—whether one or the other, I am still yours—yours always! Speak! speak with a straight tongue to your child!"
"Ough! ough! ough!" groaned the old woman, looking at him wistfully, and plainly struggling with herself—hesitating between two courses.
"Speak!" said Verty, with a glow in his eye, which made him resemble a young leopard of the wild—"speak,ma mere!—I am no longer a child! I go into a new land now, and how shall it be? As a red face, or a long knife—which am I? Speak,ma mere—say if I am a Delaware, whose place is the woods, or a white, whose life must take him from the deer forever!"
The struggle was ended; Verty could not have uttered words more fatal to his discovering anything. He raised an insuperable barrier to any revelations—if, indeed, there existed any mystery—by his alternative. Was he a Delaware, and thus doomed to live in the forest with his old Indian mother—or was he a white, in which case, he would leave her? Pride, cunning, above all, deep and pure affection, sealed the old woman's lips, if she had thought of opening them. She looked for sometime at Verty, then, taking his head between her hands, she said, with eyes full of tears:
"You are my own dear son—my young, beautiful hawk of the woods—who said you were not a true Delaware!"
And the old woman bent down, and with a look of profound affection, pressed her lips to Verty's forehead.
The young man's face assumed an expression of mingled gloom and doubt, and he sighed. Then he was an Indian—a Delaware—the son of the Indian woman—he was not a paleface. All the talk about it was thrown away; he was born in the woods—would live and die in the woods!
For a moment the image of Redbud rose before him, and he sighed. He knew not why, but he wished that he was not an Indian—he wished that his blood had been that of the whites.
His sad face drooped; then his eyes ware raised, and he saw the old woman weeping.
The sight removed from Verty's mind all personal considerations, and he leaned his head upon her knee, and pressed her hand to his lips.
"Did the child make his mother weep," he said; "did his idle words bring rain to her eyes, and make her heart heavy? But he is her child still, and all the world is nothing to him."
Verty rose, and taking the old, withered hand, placed it respectfully on his breast.
"Never again,ma mere" he said, "will the wind talk to me, or the birds whisper. I will not listen. Have I made your eyes dark? Let it pass away—I am your son—I love you—more than all the whole wide world."
And Verty sat down, and gazed tenderly at the old woman, whose face had assumed an expression of extraordinary delight.
"Listen," said Verty, taking down his old violin, with a smile, "I will play one of the old tunes, which blow like a wind from my childhood—happy childhood."
And the young man gazed for a moment, silent and motionless, into the fire. Then he raised his old, battered instrument, and began to play one of the wild madrigals of the border.
The music aroused Longears, who sat up, so to speak, upon his forepaws, and with his head bent upon one side, gazed with dignified and solemn interest at his master.
The young man smiled, and continued playing; and as the rude border music floated from the instrument, the Verty of old days came back, and he was once again the forest hunter.
The old woman gazed at him with thoughtful affection, and returned his smile. He went on playing, and the long hours of the autumn night went by like birds into the cloudland of the past.
When the forest boy ceased playing, it was nearly midnight, and the brands were flickering and dying.
Waked by the silence, Longears, who had gone to sleep again, rose up, and came and licked his master's hand, and whined. Verty caressed his head, and laying down his violin, looked at the old Indian woman with affectionate smiles, and murmured:
"We are happy still,ma mere!"
It will be remembered that Mr. Jinks had summed up the probable results of his deep laid schemes that morning when he returned from Mistress O'Calligan's, in the strong and emphatic word-picture, "there will be gory blood, sir!"
Now, while these words, strictly construed, are, perhaps, ambiguous, from a certain redundancy in the arrangement, still, there is little difficulty in determining what Mr. Jinks meant. Death and destruction dwelt in his imagination, and held there a riotous carnival; and to such a pitch of delight was our friend elevated by the triumphant anticipation of revenge upon O'Brallaghan, that he stalked about during the remaining portion of the day, talking to himself in the heroic vein, and presenting the appearance of an imperial grasshopper, arrived at the summit of felicity.
But Mr. Jinks was not idle; no one knew better than himself that vigilance was the price paid for success; and to vigilance our conspirator added cunning—in which noble trait he was by no means deficient.
We have seen how, on returning from the heroic attack upon the peace-bound O'Brallaghan, Mr. Jinks threw out a series of observations which attracted the attention of the landlord at the tavern; and we have further seen these two gentlemen retire together into the hostelry, with significant looks and mutterings. Of the exact nature of that interview we cannot speak, having nowhere discovered any memoranda to guide us, in the authentic documents from which this history is compiled.
But results define causes; and from after events it is not improbable that Mr. Jinks made an eloquent and stirring oration, addressed after the manner of all great orators to the prejudices of the auditor, and indicative of Mr. Jinks' intention to overwhelm, with defeat and destruction, the anti-Germanic league and pageant, on St. Michael's day.
That day was very near, as we have seen; but twenty-four hours remained for the conspirators to act in; and Mr. Jinks determined not to lose the opportunity to perfect and render satisfactory his bloody revenge.
Many things conspired to put him in high spirits, and arouse that heroic confidence felt by all great men in undertaking arduous affairs. The landlord had been so much pleased with Mr. Jinks' patriotic ardor in the German cause, that he generously hinted at an entire obliteration of any little score chalked up against the name of Jinks for board and lodging at the hostelry; this was one of the circumstances which inspirited Mr. Jinks. Another was the possession of a steed—a donkey, it is true, but a donkey out of a thousand,nee pluribus impar, and not unworthy of a knight in a great and exciting contest.
Thus it happened that when, upon the following morning, Mr. Jinks arose, assumed his garments, and descended, his face was radiant with anticipated triumph, his sword clattered against his slender legs with martial significance, and his brows were corrugated into a frown, which indicated ruin to all those opposed to him.
Mounted upon Fodder, who was sleek and in high spirits, owing to a good night's rest and a plentiful supply of his favorite provender, Mr. Jinks remained for a moment irresolute before the door of the hostelry, revolving in his mind various and conflicting thoughts of love and war.
Should he go on his handsome animal, and enact the little drama, which he had arranged in his mind, with Miss Sallianna at the Bower of Nature? Should he, on this morning, advance to victory and revenge in that direction? Or should he go and challenge his enemy, Verty, and make his name glorious forever?
These conflicting ideas chased themselves through Mr. Jinks' mind, and rendered him irresolute.
He was interrupted in the midst of them by a voice, laughing and sonorous, which cried from the direction of the gateway:
"Hey, there! What now, Jinks'? What thoughts occupy your mind, my dear fellow?"
And Ralph came out from the yard of the tavern, mounted upon his handsome animal, as fresh and bright-looking as himself.
"I was reflecting, sir," said Mr. Jinks, "I have much to occupy me to-day."
"Ah? Well, set about it—set about it! Don't you know that the great element of success in life, from killing a mosquito to winning an empress, is to strike at once, and at the right moment? Go on, Jinks, my boy, and luck to you!"
"Thanks, sir," replied Mr. Jinks—"I hope I shall have luck."
"Of course, because you have genius! What is luck?" cried Ralph, bending down to smooth the glossy neck of his animal, and laughing gaily,—"why, nothing but a word! Luck, sir, is nothing—genius everything. Luck throws her old shoe after, as says the proverb; but genius catches it, and conquers. Come, you are good at everything, let us have a race!"
"No, I thank you," said Mr. Jinks, drawing back; "I have business, sir—important business, sir!"
"Have you?" said Ralph, restraining his desire to lay the lash of his whip over Fodder's back, and so inaugurate a new Iliad of woes for Mr. Jinks. "Then go on in your course, my dear fellow. I am going to see a young lady, who really is beginning to annoy me."
And the mercurial young fellow passed from laughter to smiles, and even to something suspiciously resembling a sigh.
"Farewell, my dear Jinks," he added, becoming gay again; "fortune favors the brave, recollect. I wish I could believe it," he added, laughing.
And touching his horse, Ralph set forward toward the Bower of Nature, and consequently toward Miss Fanny.
"There goes a young man who is in love," said Mr. Jinks, with philosophic dignity; "regularly caught by a pair of black eyes. Boy!" added Mr. Jinks, after the manner of Coriolanus, "he don't know 'em as I do. He's looking out for happiness—I for revenge!"
And Mr. Jinks scowled at a stable-boy until the terrified urchin hung his head in awe, respect, and admiration. The great militaire was not superior to humanity, and even this triumph elated him. He set forth, therefore, on Fodder, feeling like a conqueror.
If this veracious history were a narrative of the life and adventures of Mr. Jinks alone, we might follow the great conspirator in his various movements on this eventful day. We might show how he perambulated the town of Winchester on his noble steed, like a second Don Quixote, mounted for the nonce upon the courser of Sancho Panza, while Rosinante recovered from his bruises. Though the illustration might fail if carried further, inasmuch as Mr. Jinks encountered no windmills, and indeed met with no adventures worth relating, still we might speak of his prying inquisition into every movement of the hostile Irish—detail his smiling visits, in the character of spy, to numerous domicils, and relate at length the manner in which he procured the information which the noble knight desired. All this we might do; but is it necessary? Not always does the great historic muse fill up the flaws of story, leaving rather much to the imagination. And in the present instance, we might justly be accused of undue partiality. We are not sure that some of our kind readers might not go further still, and declare in general terms, that none of Mr. Jinks' adventures were worth telling—Mr. Jinks himself being a personage wholly unworthy of attention.
To critics of this last description, we would say in deprecation of their strictures—Friends, the world is made up of a number of odd personages, as the animal kingdom is of singular, and not wholly pleasant creatures. Just as the scarabaeus and the ugly insect are as much a part of animated nature as the golden-winged butterfly, and humming-bird, and noble eagle, so are the classes, represented partly by our friend, as human as the greatest and the best. As the naturalist, with laborious care, defines the characteristics of the ugly insect, buzzing, and stinging, and preying on the weaker, so must the writer give a portion of his attention to the microscopic bully, braggart, and boasting coward of the human species. In the one case, it isscience—in the other,art.
But still we shall not give too much space to Mr. Jinks, and shall proceed to detail very briefly the result of his explorations.
The great conspirator had, by the hour of eventide, procured all the information he wished. That information led Mr. Jinks to believe that, on the following day, the opposing races would turn out in numbers, far exceeding those on any previous occasion. They would have a grand pageant:—St. Patrick would meet St. Michael in deadly conflict, and the result would undoubtedly overwhelm one of the combatants with defeat, elevating the other to the summit of joy and victory.
It was Mr. Jinks' object to ensure the success of the worthy St. Michael, and prostrate the great St. Patrick in the dust. But this was not all. Mr. Jinks further desired to procure an adequate revenge upon his friend O'Brallaghan. To overwhelm with defeat and dismay the party to which his enemy belonged, was not enough—any common man could invent so plain a course as that. It was Mr. Jinks' boast, privately, and to himself be it understood, that he would arrange the details of an original and refined revenge—a revenge which should, in equal degree, break down the strength and spirit of his enemy, and elevate the inventor to the niche of a great creative genius.