"Come live with me and be my love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat valleys, groves, or hills, or fields,Or woods and steepy mountains yields;"Where we will sit upon the rocksAnd see the shepherds feed our flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals."And I will make thee beds of roses,And then a thousand fragrant posies;A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;"A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull;Slippers lined choicely for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold;"A belt of straw and ivy buds,With coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my love."
"Come live with me and be my love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat valleys, groves, or hills, or fields,Or woods and steepy mountains yields;
"Where we will sit upon the rocksAnd see the shepherds feed our flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.
"And I will make thee beds of roses,And then a thousand fragrant posies;A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
"A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull;Slippers lined choicely for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold;
"A belt of straw and ivy buds,With coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my love."
As the song ended, little Martha came forth from thethrong, and holding in her hand a small crook, went round with a very laughing face asking charity from the applauding company.
"Only a penny, sir!" she said, motioning back a pistole which Mr. Jack Denis held out gaily.
And then—the collection ended—the young girls of the masquerade hurried back to rid themselves of their pyramid.
Mr. Jack Denis and Miss Lucy Mowbray, who had just arrived with her brother, bent their steps toward the grove, through which ran a purling stream; and thither they were followed after a little by Miss Martha Wayles and her admirer, Bathurst. We cannot follow them and listen to their conversation—that would be indecorous. But we may be permitted to say that two young ladies—one very young—on that morning plighted their troth to two young gentlemen—one very young. And if they blushed somewhat upon returning, it was an honest blush, which the present chronicler for one will not laugh at.
In the garden all by this time was joyous and wild merriment. The young ladies were running here and there; servants were preparing in a flowery retreat a long table full of fruits and every delicacy; and merriest of all, Miss Philippa was scattering on every side her joyous and contagious laughter.
Suddenly this laughter of the young lady ceased, and she colored slightly.
She saw Mowbray looking at her with a glance of so much love, that she could not support his gaze.
In a moment he was at her side. "Will you not walk with me?" she said, without waiting for him to addressher; and in a moment her arm was in his own, and they were strolling away. They went toward a noble old oak, in the branches of which was fixed a platform, and this platform was approached by a movable sort of ladder. The leaves around the platform were so dense that it was impossible to see any one who might be sitting within.
As Mowbray and Philippa approached, the ladder was seen suddenly to move, a little exclamation was heard, and the next moment the movable steps rose erect, balanced themselves for an instant, and fell to the ground, cutting off all connection between the platform and the ground.
At the same moment a triumphant voice muttered:
"Now let me see them interrupt me!"
Mowbray and Philippa did not hear it; they passed on, silent and embarrassed.
Philippa, it was evident, had something to say, and scarcely knew how to begin; she hesitated, laughed, blushed, and patted the ground petulantly with her little foot. At last she said, with a smile and a blush:
"I asked you to offer me your arm for an especial purpose. Can you guess what that purpose was?"
Mowbray smiled, and replied:
"I am afraid not."
"I wished to tell you a tale."
"A tale?"
"A history, if you please; and as you are a thinker, and an impartial one, to ask your opinion."
"I am sure you do me a great deal of honor," said Mowbray, smiling with happiness; "I listen."
Philippa cast down her eyes, patted the ground moreviolently than before with her silken-sandalled foot, and biting her lip, was silent.
Mowbray looked at her, and saw the blush upon her cheek. She raised her head—their eyes met; and the blush deepened.
"Do not look at me," she said, turning away her head and bursting into a constrained laugh; "I never could bear to have any one look at me."
"It is a very severe request, but I will obey you," he said, smiling; "now for your history."
"It will surprise you, I suppose," she said, with her daring laugh again; "but listen. Do not interrupt me. Well, sir, once upon a time—you see I begin in true tale fashion—once upon a time, there was a young girl who had the misfortune to be very rich. She had been left an orphan at an early age, and never knew the love and tenderness of parents. Well, sir, as was very natural, this young woman, with all her wealth, experienced one want—but that was a great one—the necessity of having some one to love her. I will be brief, sir—let me go on uninterruptedly. One day this young woman saw pass before her a man whose eyes and words proved that he had some affection for her—enough that it was afterwards shown that she was not mistaken. At the time, however, she doubted his affection. Her unhappy wealth had made her suspicious, and she experienced a sort of horror of giving her heart to some one who loved her wealth and not herself. Let me go on, sir! I must not be interrupted! Well, she doubted this gentleman; and one day said to him what she afterwards bitterly regretted. She determined to charge him with mercenary intentions, and watch his looks and listen to hiswords, and test him. He listened, replied coldly, and departed, leaving her nearly heart-broken, for his nature was not one which any woman could despise."
Mowbray looked at her strangely. She went on.
"She watched for him day after day—he did not come. She was angry, and yet troubled; she doubted, and yet tried to justify herself. But even when he left her, she had conceived a mad scheme—it was to go and become his companion, and so test him. This she did, assuming the dress of a man: was it not very indelicate, sir, and could she have been a lady? I see you start—but do not interrupt me. Let me go on. The young woman assumed, as I said, an impenetrable disguise—ingratiated herself with him, and found out all his secrets. The precious secret which she had thus braved conventionality to discover, was her own. He loved her—yes! he loved her!" said the young girl, with a tremor of the voice and a beating heart; "she could not be mistaken! In moments of unreserve, of confidence, he told her all, as one friend tells another, and she knew that she was loved. Then she threw off her disguise—finding him noble and sincere—and came to him and told him all. She saw that he was incredulous—could not realize such indelicacies in the woman he loved; and to make her humiliation complete, she proved to him, by producing a trifle he had given her, in her disguise—like this, sir."
And Philippa with a trembling hand drew forth the fringed gloves which she had procured from Mowbray at the Indian Camp. They fell from her outstretched hand—it shook.
Mowbray was pale, and his eyes were full of wonder.
"Before leaving him, this audacious young girl was more than once convinced that the wild and unworthy freak she had undertaken to play, would lower her in his estimation; but she did not draw back. Her training had been bad; she enjoyed her liberty. Not until she had resumed the dress of her sex, did she awake to the consciousness of the great social transgression she had been guilty of. She then went to him and told him all, and stopped him when he tried to speak—do not speak, sir!—and bade him read the words she had written him, as she left him——"
Mowbray, with an unconscious movement, took from his pocket the letter left by Hoffland in the post-office, on the morning of the ball.
Philippa took it from his hand and opened it.
"Pardon, Ernest!"
These words were all it contained; and the young girl pointing to them, dropped the letter and burst into a flood of passionate tears. Her impulsive nature had fairly spent itself, and but for the circling arm of Mowbray she would have fallen.
In a moment her head was on his bosom—she was weeping passionately; and Mowbray forgot all, and only saw the woman whom he loved.
Need we say that he did not utter one word of comment on her narrative? Poor Mowbray! he was no statue, and the hand which she had promised him laughingly on that morning, now lay in his own; the proud and haughty girl was conquered by a power far stronger than her pride; and over them the merry blossoms showered, the orioles sang, and Nature laughed to see her perfect triumph.
When Philippa returned to the company she was very silent, and blushed deeply, holding to her face the handkerchief which Hoffland had picked up. But no one noticed her; all was in confusion.
Where wasBelle-bouche? That was the question, and a hundred voices asked it. She had disappeared; and Jacques too was nowhere to be seen. The banquet was ready; where was the hostess?
It was in the middle of all this uproar that a voice was heard from the great oak, and looking up, the laughing throng perceived the radiant face of Jacques framed among the leaves, and looking on them.
"My friends," said Jacques, "the matter is very simple—be good enough to raise those steps."
And the cavalier pointed to the prostrate ladder.
With a burst of laughter, the steps were raised and placed against the oak. And then Jacques was observed to place his foot upon them, leading by the hand—Belle-bouche.
Belle-bouchewas blushing much more deeply than Philippa; and Jacques was the picture of happiness. Is it too much to suppose that he had this time stolen a march on the inimical fates, and forcedBelle-boucheto answer him? Is it extravagant to fancy that her reply wasnot, No?
And so they descended, and the company, laughing at the mishap, hastened toward the flower and fruit decorated table, and the banquet inaugurated itself joyously.
And in the midst of all, who should make his appearance but—the gallant Sir Asinus! Sir Asinus, no longer intending for Europe, but satisfied with Virginia; nolongerwoful, but in passable good spirits; no longermelancholy, but surveying those around him with affectionate regard.
And see him, in the midst of laughter and applause, mount on the end of a barrel which had held innumerable cakes, holding a paper in his hand, and calling for attention.
Listen!
"Whereas," reads Sir Asinus, "the undersigned has heretofore at different times expressed opinions of his Majesty, and of the Established Church, and of the noble aristocracy of England and Virginia, derogatory to the character of the said Majesty, and so forth;—also, whereas, he has unjustly slandered the noble and sublime College of William and Mary, so called from their gracious majesties, deceased;—and whereas, the said opinions have caused great personal inconvenience to the undersigned, and whereas he is tired of martyrdom and exile: Therefore, be it hereby promulgated, that the undersigned doth here and now publicly declare himself ashamed of the said opinions, and doth abjure them: And doth declare his Majesty George III. the greatest of kings since Dionysius of Syracuse and Nero; and his great measure, the Stamp Act, the noblest legislation since the edict of Nantz. And further, the undersigned doth uphold the great Established Church, and revere its ministers, so justly celebrated for their piety and card-playing, their proficiency in theology, and their familiarity with that great religious epic of the Reformation, 'Reynard the Fox'—the study of which they pursue even on horseback. And lastly, the said undersigned doth honor the great college of Virginia, and revere the aristocracy, and respect entails, and spurn the commonclasses as becomes a gentleman and honest citizen; and in all other things doth conform himself to established rules, being convinced that whatever is, is right: and to the same hath set his hand, this twentieth day of May, in the year 1764."
Having finished which, Sir Asinus casts a melancholy glance upon little Martha, and adds:
"Now, my friends, let us proceed to enjoy the material comforts. Let us begin to eat, my friends."
And sitting down upon the barrel, the knight seizes a goblet and raises it aloft, and drinks to all the crowd.
And all the crowd do likewise, laughing merrily; and over them the blossoms shower with every odorous breeze; and with the breeze mingles a voice which whispers in a maiden's ear:
"Arcadia at last!"(Back to Table of Content.)
Perhaps a few veritable extracts from the published correspondence of him whom, following a habit of his own, we have called Sir Asinus, may show the origin of some allusions in our chronicle. These short selections are arranged of course to suit the purpose of the narrative. Beginning with the "rats," we very appropriately end with a marriage—as in the case of that gentleman who was "led such a life" by the rats, that "he had to go to London to get himself a wife."
... "This very day, to others the day of greatest mirth and jollity, sees me overwhelmed with more and greater misfortunes than have befallen a descendant of Adam for these thousand years past, I am sure. I am now in a house surrounded with enemies who take counsel together against my soul, and when I lay me down to rest, they say among themselves, Come, let us destroy him. I am sure if there is such a thing as a devil in this world, he must have been here last night, and have had some hand in contriving what happened to me. Do you think the cursed rats (at his instigation, I suppose) did not eat up my pocket-book, which was in my pocket, within a foot of my head? And not contented withplenty for the present, they carried away my jemmy-worked silk garters, and half a dozen new minuets I had just got, to serve, I suppose, as provision for the winter. But of this I should not have accused the devil, (because you know rats will be rats, and hunger, without the addition of his instigations, might have urged them to do this,) if something worse, and from a different quarter, had not happened. You know it rained last night, or if you do not know it, I am sure I do. When I went to bed I laid my watch in the usual place, and going to take her up after I arose this morning, I found her in the same place, 'tis true, but,quantum mutatus ab illo! afloat in water, let in at a leak in the roof of the house, and as silent and still as the rats that had eat my pocket-book. Now you know if chance had had any thing to do in this matter, there were a thousand other spots where it might have chanced to leak as well as this one, which was perpendicularly over my watch. But I'll tell you, it's my opinion that the devil came and bored the hole over it on purpose. Well, as I was saying, my poor watch had lost her speech. I should not have cared much for this, but something worse attended it; the subtle particles of the water with which the case was filled, had by their penetration so overcome the cohesion of the particles of paper, of which my dear picture and watch-paper were composed, that in attempting to take them out to dry them, my cursed fingers gave them such a rent as I fear I never shall get over!Multis fortunæ vulneribus percussus, huic uni me imparem sensi, et penitus succubui.I would have cried bitterly, but I thought it beneath the dignity of a man, and a man too who had readτων οντων, τα μεν εφ' ἡμιν τα δουκ εφ' ἡμιν. I dowish the devil had old Coke, for I am sure I never was so tired of an old dull scoundrel in my life. The old fellows say we must read to gain knowledge, and gain knowledge to make us happy and be admired.Mere jargon!Is there any such thing as happiness in this world? No. And as for admiration, I am sure the man who powders most, perfumes most, embroiders most, and talks most nonsense, is most admired."
... "This letter will be conveyed to you by the assistance of our friend Warner Lewis. Poor fellow! never did I see one more sincerely captivated in my life. He walked to the Indian Camp with her yesterday, by which means he had an opportunity of giving her two or three love-squeezes by the hand; and like a true Arcadian swain, has been so enraptured ever since that he is company for no one."
... "Last night, as merry as agreeable company and dancing with Belinda in the Apollo could make me, I never could have thought the succeeding sun would have seen me so wretched as I now am! Affairs at W. and M. are in the greatest confusion. Walker, McClury, and Wat Jones are expelledpro tempore, or as Horrox softens it, rusticated for a month. Lewis Burwell, Warner Lewis, and one Thompson have fled to escape flagellation."
... "I wish I had followed your example and wrote in Latin, and that I had called my dear,Campana in die, instead ofαδνιλεβ."—("The lady here alluded to ismanifestly the Miss Rebecca Burwell mentioned in his first letter; but what suggested the quaint designation of her is not so obvious. In the first of them, Belinda, translated into dog Latin, which was there as elsewhere one of thefacetiæof young collegians, becameCampana in die, that is,bell in day. In the second, the name is reversed, and becomesAdnileb, which for farther security is written in Greek characters, and the lady spoken of in the masculine gender."—Note of Editor.)
... "When you see Patsy Dandridge, tell her, 'God bless her.' I do not like the ups and downs of a country life: to-day you are frolicking with a fine girl, and to-morrow you are moping by yourself. Thank God! I shall shortly be where my happiness will be less interrupted. I shall salute all the girls below in your name, particularly S——y P——r. Dear Will, I have thought of the cleverest plan of life that can be imagined. You exchange your land for Edgehill, or I mine for Fairfields; you marry S——y P——r, I marry R——a B——l, join and get a pole chair and a pair of keen horses, practise the law in the same courts, and drive about to all the dances in the country together. How do you like it? Well, I am sorry you are at such a distance I cannot hear your answer; however, you must let me know it by the first opportunity, and all the other news in the world which you imagine will affect me."
... "With regard to the scheme which I proposed to you some time since, I am sorry to tell you it is totallyfrustrated by Miss R. B.'s marriage with Jacquelin Ambler, which the people here tell me they daily expect. Well, the Lord bless her! I say: but S——y P——r is still left for you. I have given her a description of the gentleman who, as I told her, intended to make her an offer of his hand, and asked whether or not he might expect it would be accepted. She would not determine till she saw him or his picture. Now, Will, as you are a piece of a limner, I desire that you will seat yourself immediately before your looking-glass and draw such a picture of yourself as you think proper; and if it should be defective, blame yourself. (Mind that I mentioned no name to her.) You say you are determined to be married as soon as possible, and advise me to do the same. No, thank ye; I will consider of it first. Many and great are the comforts of a single state, and neither of the reasons you urge can have any influence with an inhabitant, and a young inhabitant too, of Williamsburg. Who told you that I reported you was courting Miss Dandridge and Miss Dangerfield? It might be worth your while to ask whether they were in earnest or not. So far was I from it, that I frequently bantered Miss J——y T——o about you, and told her how feelingly you spoke of her. There is scarcely any thing now going on here. You have heard, I suppose, that J. Page is courting Fanny Burwell. W. Bland and Betsy Yates are to be married Thursday se'nnight. The Secretary's son is expected in shortly. Willis has left town entirely, so that your commands to him cannot be executed immediately; but those to the ladies I shall do myself the pleasure of delivering to-morrow night at the ball. Tom Randolph of Tuckahoe has a suit of Mecklenburgsilk which he offered me for a suit of broadcloth."
... "I have not a syllable to write to you about. Would you that I should write nothing but truth? I tell you I know nothing that is true. Or would you rather that I should write you a pack of lies? Why, unless they were more ingenious than I am able to invent, they would furnish you with little amusement. What can I do then? Nothing, but ask you the news in your world. How have you done since I saw you? How did Nancy look at you when you danced with her at Southall's? Have you any glimmering of hope? How does R. B. do? Had I better stay here and do nothing, or go down and do less? or in other words, had I better stay here while I am here, or go down that I may have the pleasure of sailing up the river again in a full-rigged flat? You must know that as soon as the Rebecca (the name I intend to give the vessel above mentioned) is completely finished, I intend to hoist sail and away. I shall visit particularly, England, Holland, France, Spain, Italy, (where I would buy me a good fiddle,) and Egypt, and return through the British provinces to the northward, home. This, to be sure, would take us two or three years, and if we should not both be cured of love in that time, I think the devil would be in it.
T. Jefferson."
Many of these letters are written from "Devilsburg," which was the college name for the metropolitan city in the days of yore. The reader is referred to the first volume of Mr. Tucker's Life of Jefferson.
We shall make but one addition to our chronicle of those former personages and their boyish pranks, and that shall be a quotation:
"On the 1st of January, 1772, I was married to Martha Skelton, widow of Bathurst Skelton, and daughter of John Wayles, then twenty-three years old."
See his memoir of himself.(Back to Table of Content.)