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Pencil Sketches; or, Outlines of Character and Manners

by Eliza Leslie · English · Gutenberg #37573 · 1,013,967 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Pencil Sketches; or, Outlines of Character and Manners

Author: Eliza Leslie


        
Release date: September 30, 2011 [eBook #37573]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

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Produced by Julia Miller, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)











                             PENCIL SKETCHES:

                                   OR,

                    OUTLINES OF CHARACTER AND MANNERS.

                             BY MISS LESLIE.

    INCLUDING "MRS. WASHINGTON POTTS," AND "MR. SMITH," WITH OTHER STORIES.


                "So runs the world away."--SHAKSPEARE.


    PHILADELPHIA:
    A. HART, LATE CAREY & HART,
    126 CHESTNUT STREET.
    1852.

    Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
    A. HART, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
    States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

    E. B. M
    EARS, STEREOTYPER. T. K. & P. G. COLLINS, PRINTERS.




ADVERTISEMENT.


The work from which the following is a selection, has been long out of
print; and many inquiries have been made concerning it. Since its first
appearance, a new generation of young people has grown up; and they may,
perhaps, find amusement and improvement in pictures of domestic life,
that were recognised as such by their mothers.

The present volume will probably be succeeded by another, containing the
remainder of the original Pencil Sketches, with additional stories.


    ELIZA LESLIE.

    UNITED STATES HOTEL,
    Philadelphia, March 25th, 1852.




CONTENTS.



MRS. WASHINGTON POTTS                                        13

MR. SMITH                                                    50

UNCLE PHILIP                                                 82

THE ALBUM                                                   131

THE SET OF CHINA                                            147

LAURA LOVEL                                                 157

JOHN W. ROBERTSON; A TALE OF A CENT                         197

THE LADIES' BALL                                            217

THE RED BOX; OR, SCENES AT THE GENERAL WAYNE                240

THE OFFICERS; A STORY OF THE LAST WAR WITH ENGLAND          266

PETER JONES; A SKETCH FROM LIFE                             297

THE OLD FARM-HOUSE                                          314

THAT GENTLEMAN; OR, PENCILLINGS ON SHIP-BOARD               333

THE SERENADES                                               358

SOCIABLE VISITING                                           376

COUNTRY LODGINGS                                            402

CONSTANCE ALLERTON; OR, THE MOURNING SUITS                  415




MRS. WASHINGTON POTTS.

     "The course of _parties_ never does run smooth."--SHAKSPEARE.


Bromley Cheston, an officer in the United States navy, had just returned
from a three years' cruise in the Mediterranean. His ship came into New
York; and after he had spent a week with a sister that was married in
Boston, he could not resist his inclination to pay a visit to his
maternal aunt, who had resided since her widowhood at one of the small
towns on the banks of the Delaware.

The husband of Mrs. Marsden had not lived long enough to make his
fortune, and it was his last injunction that she should retire with her
daughter to the country, or at least to a country town. He feared that
if she remained in Philadelphia she would have too many temptations to
exercise her taste for unnecessary expense: and that, in consequence,
the very moderate income, which was all he was able to leave her, would
soon be found insufficient to supply her with comforts.

We will not venture to say that duty to his aunt Marsden was the young
lieutenant's only incentive to this visit: as she had a beautiful
daughter about eighteen, for whom, since her earliest childhood, Bromley
Cheston had felt something a little more vivid than the usual degree of
regard that boys think sufficient for their cousins. His family had
formerly lived in Philadelphia, and till he went into the navy Bromley
and Albina were in habits of daily intercourse. Afterwards, on returning
from sea, he always, as soon as he set his foot on American ground,
began to devise means of seeing his pretty cousin, however short the
time and however great the distance. And it was in meditation on
Albina's beauty and sprightliness that he had often "while sailing on
the midnight deep," beguiled the long hours of the watch, and thus
rendered more tolerable that dreariest part of a seaman's duty.

On arriving at the village, Lieutenant Cheston immediately established
his quarters at the hotel, fearing that to become an inmate of his
aunt's house might cause her some inconvenience. Though he had performed
the whole journey in a steamboat, he could not refrain from changing his
waistcoat, brushing his coat sleeves, brushing his hat, brushing his
hair, and altering the tie of his cravat. Though he had "never told his
love," it cannot be said that concealment had "preyed on his damask
cheek;" the only change in that damask having been effected by the sun
and wind of the ocean.

Mrs. Marsden lived in a small modest-looking white house, with a green
door and green venetian shutters. In early summer the porch was canopied
and perfumed with honeysuckle, and the windows with roses. In front was
a flower-garden, redolent of sweetness and beauty; behind was a
well-stored _potager_, and a flourishing little orchard. The windows
were amply shaded by the light and graceful foliage of some beautiful
locust trees.

"What a lovely spot!" exclaimed Cheston--and
innocence--modesty--candour--contentment--peace--simple
pleasures--intellectual enjoyments--and various other delightful ideas
chased each other rapidly through his mind.

When he knocked at the door, it was opened by a black girl named Drusa,
who had been brought up in the family, and whose delight on seeing him
was so great that she could scarcely find it in her heart to tell him
that "the ladies were both out, or at least partly out." Cheston,
however, more than suspected that they were wholly at home, for he saw
his aunt peeping over the bannisters, and had a glimpse of his cousin
flitting into the back parlour; and besides, the whole domicile was
evidently in some great commotion, strongly resembling that horror of
all men, a house-cleaning. The carpets had been removed, and the hall
was filled with the parlour-chairs: half of them being turned bottom
upwards on the others, with looking-glasses and pictures leaning against
them; and he knew that, on such occasions, the ladies of a family in
middle life are never among the missing.

"Go and give Lieutenant Cheston's compliments to your ladies," said he,
"and let them know that he is waiting to see them."

Mrs. Marsden now ran down stairs in a wrapper and morning cap, and gave
her nephew a very cordial reception. "Our house is just now in such
confusion," said she, "that I have no place to invite you to sit down
in, except the back porch."--And there they accordingly took their
seats.

"Do not suppose," continued Mrs. Marsden, "that we are cleaning house:
but we are going to have a party to-night, and therefore you are most
fortunate in your arrival, for I think I can promise you a very pleasant
evening. We have sent invitations to all the most genteel families
within seven miles, and I can assure you there was a great deal of
trouble in getting the notes conveyed. We have also asked a number of
strangers from the city, who happen to be boarding in the village; we
called on them for that purpose. If all that are invited were to come,
we should have a complete squeeze; but unluckily we have received an
unusual number of regrets, and some have as yet returned no answers at
all. However, we are sure of Mrs. Washington Potts."

"I see," said Cheston, "you are having your parlours papered."--"Yes,"
replied Mrs. Marsden, "we could not possibly have a party with that
old-fashioned paper on the walls, and we sent to the city a week ago for
a man to come and bring with him some of the newest patterns, but he
never made his appearance till last night after we had entirely given
him up, and after we had had the rooms put in complete order in other
respects. But he says, as the parlours are very small, he can easily put
on the new paper before evening, so we thought it better to take up the
carpets, and take down the curtains, and undo all that we did yesterday,
rather than the walls should look old-fashioned. I _did_ intend having
them painted, which would of course be much better, only that there was
no time to get _that_ done before the party; so we must defer the
painting now for three or four years, till this new paper has grown
old."

"But where is Albina?" asked Cheston.

"The truth is," answered Mrs. Marsden, "she is very busy making cakes;
as in this place we can buy none that are fit for a party. Luckily
Albina is very clever at all such things, having been a pupil of Mrs.
Goodfellow. But there is certainly a great deal of trouble in getting up
a party in the country."

Just then the black girl, Drusa, made her appearance, and said to Mrs.
Marsden, "I've been for that there bean you call wanilla, and Mr. Brown
says he never heard of such a thing."

"A man that keeps so large a store has no right to be so ignorant,"
remarked Mrs. Marsden. "Then, Drusa, we must flavour the ice-cream with
lemon."

"There a'n't no more lemons to be had," said the girl, "and we've just
barely enough for the lemonade."

"Then some of the lemons must be taken for the ice-cream," replied Mrs.
Marsden, "and we must make out the lemonade with cream of tartar."

"I forgot to tell you," said Drusa, "that Mrs. Jones says she can't
spare no more cream, upon no account."

"How vexatious!" exclaimed Mrs. Marsden. "I wish we had two cows of our
own--one is not sufficient when we are about giving a party. Drusa, we
must make out the ice-cream by thickening some milk with eggs."

"Eggs are scace," replied the girl, "Miss Albinar uses up so many for
the cakes."

"She must spare some eggs from the cakes," said Mrs. Marsden, "and make
out the cakes by adding a little pearl-ash. Go directly and tell her
so."

Cheston, though by no means _au fait_ to the mysteries of confectionary,
could not help smiling at all this making out--"Really," said his aunt,
"these things are very annoying. And as this party is given to Mrs.
Washington Potts, it is extremely desirable that nothing should fail.
There is no such thing now as having company, unless we can receive and
entertain them in a certain style."

"I perfectly remember," said Cheston, "the last party at which I was
present in your house. I was then a midshipman, and it was just before I
sailed on my first cruise in the Pacific. I spent a delightful evening."

"Yes, I recollect that night," replied Mrs. Marsden. "In those days it
was not necessary for us to support a certain style, and parties were
then very simple things, except among people of the first rank. It was
thought sufficient to have two or three baskets of substantial cakes at
tea, some almonds, raisins, apples, and oranges, handed round
afterwards, with wine and cordial, and then a large-sized pound-cake at
the last. The company assembled at seven o'clock, and generally walked;
for the ladies' dresses were only plain white muslin. We invited but as
many as could be accommodated with seats. The young people played at
forfeits, and sung English and Scotch songs, and at the close of the
evening danced to the piano. How Mrs. Washington Potts would be shocked
if she was to find herself at one of those obsolete parties!"

"The calf-jelly won't be clear," said the black girl, again making her
appearance. "Aunt Katy has strained it five times over through the
flannen-bag."

"Go then and tell her to strain it five-and-twenty times," said Mrs.
Marsden angrily--"It must and shall be clear. Nothing is more vulgar
than clouded jelly; Mrs. Washington Potts will not touch it unless it is
transparent as amber."

"What, Nong tong paw again!" said Cheston. "Now do tell me who is Mrs.
Washington Potts?"

"Is it possible you have not heard of her?" exclaimed Mrs. Marsden.

"Indeed I have not," replied Cheston. "You forget that for several years
I have been cruising on classic ground, and I can assure you that the
name of Mrs. Washington Potts has not yet reached the shores of the
Mediterranean."

"She is wife to a gentleman that has made a fortune in New Orleans,"
pursued Mrs. Marsden. "They came last winter to live in Philadelphia,
having first visited London and Paris. During the warm weather they took
lodgings in this village, and we have become quite intimate. So we have
concluded to give them a party, previous to their return to
Philadelphia, which is to take place immediately. She is a charming
woman, though she certainly makes strange mistakes in talking. You have
no idea how sociable she is, at least since she returned our call;
which, to be sure, was not till the end of a week; and Albina and I had
sat up in full dress to receive her for no less than five days: that is,
from twelve o'clock till three. At last she came, and it would have
surprised you to see how affably she behaved to us."

"Not at all," said Cheston, "I should not have expected that she would
have treated you rudely."

"She really," continued Mrs. Marsden, "grew quite intimate before her
visit was over, and took our hands at parting. And as she went out
through the garden, she stopped to admire Albina's moss-roses: so we
could do no less than give her all that were blown. From that day she
has always sent to us when she wants flowers."

"No doubt of it," said Cheston.

"You cannot imagine," pursued Mrs. Marsden, "on what a familiar footing
we are. She has a high opinion of Albina's taste, and often gets her to
make up caps and do other little things for her. When any of her
children are sick, she never sends anywhere else for currant jelly or
preserves. Albina makes gingerbread for them every Saturday. During the
holidays she frequently sent her three boys to spend the day with us.
There is the very place in the railing where Randolph broke out a stick
to whip Jefferson with, because Jefferson had thrown in his face a hot
baked apple which the mischievous little rogue had stolen out of Katy's
oven."

In the mean time Albina had taken off the brown holland bib apron which
she had worn all day in the kitchen, and telling the cook to watch
carefully the plum-cake that was baking, she hastened to her room by a
back staircase, and proceeded to take the pins out of her hair; for
where is the young lady that on any emergency whatever, would appear
before a young gentleman with her hair pinned up? Though, just now, the
opening out of her curls was a considerable inconvenience to Albina, as
she had bestowed much time and pains on putting them up for the evening.

Finally she came down in "prime array;" and Cheston, who had left her a
school-girl, found her now grown to womanhood, and more beautiful than
ever. Still he could not forbear reproving her for treating him so much
as a stranger, and not coming to him at once in her morning-dress.

"Mrs. Washington Potts," said Albina, "is of opinion that a young lady
should never be seen in dishabille by a gentleman."

Cheston now found it very difficult to hear the name of Mrs. Potts with
patience.--"Albina," thought he, "is bewitched as well as her mother."

He spoke of his cruise in the Mediterranean; and Albina told him that
she had seen a beautiful view of the bay of Naples in a souvenir
belonging to Mrs. Washington Potts.

"I have brought with me some sketches of Mediterranean scenery," pursued
Cheston. "You know I draw a little. I promise myself great pleasure in
showing and explaining them to you."

"Oh! do send them this afternoon," exclaimed Albina. "They will be the
very things for the centre-table. I dare say the Montagues will
recognise some of the places they have seen in Italy, for they have
travelled all over the south of Europe."

"And who are the Montagues?" inquired Cheston.

"They are a very elegant English family," answered Mrs. Marsden,
"cousins in some way to several noblemen."

"Perhaps so," said Cheston.

"Albina met with them at the lodgings of Mrs. Washington Potts," pursued
Mrs. Marsden, "where they have been staying a week for the benefit of
country air; and so she enclosed her card, and sent them invitations to
her party. They have as yet returned no answer; but that is no proof
they will not come, for perhaps it may be the newest fashion in England
not to answer notes."

"You know the English are a very peculiar people," remarked Albina.

"And what other lions have you provided?" said Cheston.

"Oh! no others except a poet," replied Albina. "Have you never heard of
Bewley Garvin Gandy?"

"Never!" answered Cheston. "Is that all one man?"

"Nonsense," replied Albina; "you know that poets generally have three
names. B. G, G. was formerly Mr. Gandy's signature when he wrote only
for the newspapers, but now since he has come out in the magazines, and
annuals, and published his great poem of the World of Sorrow, he gives
his name at full length. He has tried law, physic, and divinity, and has
resigned all for the Muses. He is a great favourite of Mrs. Washington
Potts."

"And now, Albina," said Cheston, "as I know you can have but little
leisure to-day, I will only detain you while you indulge me with 'Auld
lang syne'--I see the piano has been moved out into the porch."

"Yes," said Mrs. Marsden, "on account of the parlour papering."

"Oh! Bromley Cheston," exclaimed Albina, "do not ask me to play any of
those antediluvian Scotch songs. Mrs. Washington Potts cannot tolerate
anything but Italian."

Cheston, who had no taste for Italian, immediately took his hat, and
apologizing for the length of his stay, was going away with the thought
that Albina had much deteriorated in growing up.

"We shall see you this evening without the ceremony of a further
invitation?" said Albina.

"Of course," replied Cheston.

"I quite long to introduce you to Mrs. Washington Potts," said Mrs.
Marsden.

"What simpletons these women are!" thought Cheston, as he hastily turned
to depart.

"The big plum-cake's burnt to a coal," said Drusa, putting her head out
of the kitchen door.

Both the ladies were off in an instant to the scene of disaster. And
Cheston returned to his hotel, thinking of Mrs. Potts (whom he had made
up his mind to dislike), of the old adage that "evil communication
corrupts good manners," and of the almost irresistible contagion of
folly and vanity. "I am disappointed in Albina," said he; "in future I
will regard her only as my mother's niece, and more than a cousin she
shall never be to me."

Albina having assisted Mrs. Marsden in lamenting over the burnt cake,
took off her silk frock, again pinned up her hair, and joined
assiduously in preparing another plum-cake to replace the first one. A
fatality seemed to attend nearly all the confections, as is often the
case when particular importance is attached to their success. The jelly
obstinately refused to clarify, and the blanc-mange was equally
unwilling to congeal. The maccaroons having run in baking, had neither
shape nor feature, the kisses declined rising, and the sponge-cake
contradicted its name. Some of the things succeeded, but most were
complete failures: probably because (as old Katy insisted) "there was a
spell upon them." In a city these disasters could easily have been
remedied (even at the eleventh hour) by sending to a confectioner's
shop, but in the country there is no alternative. Some of these
mischances might perhaps have been attributed to the volunteered
assistance of a mantua-maker that had been sent for from the city to
make new dresses for the occasion, and who on this busy day, being "one
of the best creatures in the world," had declared her willingness to
turn her hand to anything.

It was late in the afternoon before the papering was over, and then
great indeed was the bustle in clearing away the litter, cleaning the
floors, putting down the carpets, and replacing the furniture. In the
midst of the confusion, and while the ladies were earnestly engaged in
fixing the ornaments, Drusa came in to say that Dixon, the waiter that
had been hired for the evening, had just arrived, and falling to work
immediately he had poured all the blanc-mange down the sink, mistaking
it for bonnyclabber.[1] This intelligence was almost too much to bear,
and Mrs. Marsden could scarcely speak for vexation.

[Footnote 1: Thick sour milk.]

"Drusa," said Albina, "you are a raven that has done nothing all day but
croak of disaster. Away, and show your face no more, let what will
happen."

Drusa departed, but in a few minutes she again put in her head at the
parlour door and said, "Ma'am, may I jist speak one time more?"

"What now?" exclaimed Mrs. Marsden.

"Oh! there's nothing else spiled or flung down the sink, jist now," said
Drusa, "but something's at hand a heap worse than all. Missus's old Aunt
Quimby has jist landed from the boat, and is coming up the road with
baggage enough to last all summer."

"Aunt Quimby!" exclaimed Albina; "this indeed caps the climax!"

"Was there ever anything more provoking!" said Mrs. Marsden. "When I
lived in town she annoyed me sufficiently by coming every week to spend
a day with me, and now she does not spend days but _weeks_. I would go
to Alabama to get rid of her."

"And then," said Albina, "she would come and spend _months_ with us.
However, to do her justice, she is a very respectable woman."

"All bores are respectable people," replied Mrs. Marsden; "if they were
otherwise, it would not be in their power to bore us, for we could cut
them and cast them off at once. How very unlucky! What will Mrs.
Washington Potts think of her--and the Montagues too, if they _should_
come? Still we must not affront her, as you know she is rich."

"What can her riches signify to us?" said Albina; "she has a married
daughter."

"True," replied Mrs. Marsden, "but you know riches should always command
a certain degree of respect, and there are such things as legacies."

"After all, according to the common saying, 'tis an ill wind that blows
no good;' the parlours having been freshly papered, we can easily
persuade Aunt Quimby that they are too damp for her to sit in, and so we
can make her stay up stairs all the evening."

At this moment the old lady's voice was heard at the door, discharging
the porter who had brought her baggage on his wheelbarrow; and the next
minute she was in the front parlour. Mrs. Marsden and Albina were
properly astonished, and, properly delighted at seeing her; but each,
after a pause of recollection, suddenly seized the old lady by the arms
and conveyed her into the entry, exclaiming, "Oh! Aunt Quimby! Aunt
Quimby! this is no place for you."

"What's the meaning of all this?" cried Mrs. Quimby; "why won't you let
me stay in the parlour?"

"You'll get your death," answered Mrs. Marsden, "you'll get the
rheumatism. Both parlours have been newly papered to-day, and the walls
are quite wet."

"That's a bad thing," said Mrs. Quimby, "a very bad thing. I wish you
had put off your papering till next spring. Who'd have thought of your
doing it this day of all days?"

"Oh! Aunt Quimby," said Albina, "why did you not let us know that you
were coming?"

"Why, I wanted to give you an agreeable surprise," replied the old lady.
"But tell me why the rooms are so decked out, with flowers hanging about
the looking-glasses and lamps, and why the candles are dressed with cut
paper, or something that looks like it?"

"We are going to have a party to-night," said Albina.

"A party! I'm glad of it. Then I'm come just in the nick of time."

"I thought you had long since given up parties," said Mrs. Marsden,
turning pale.

"No, indeed--why should I--I always go when I am asked--to be sure I
can't make much figure at parties now, being in my seventy-fifth year.
But Mrs. Howks and Mrs. Himes, and several others of my old friends,
always invite me to their daughters' parties, along with Mary; and I
like to sit there and look about me, and see people's new ways. Mary had
a party herself last winter, and it went off very well, only that both
the children came out that night with the measles; and one of the lamps
leaked, and the oil ran all over the side-board and streamed down on the
carpet; and, it being the first time we ever had ice-cream in the house,
Peter, the stupid black boy, not only brought saucers to eat it in, but
cups and saucers both."

The old lady was now hurried up stairs, and she showed much
dissatisfaction on being told that as the damp parlours would certainly
give her her death, there was no alternative but for her to remain all
the evening in the chamber allotted to her. This chamber (the best
furnished in the house) was also to be 'the ladies' room,' and Albina
somewhat consoled Mrs. Quimby by telling her that as the ladies would
come up there to take off their hoods and arrange their hair, she would
have an opportunity of seeing them all before they went down stairs. And
Mrs. Marsden promised to give orders that a portion of all the
refreshments should be carried up to her, and that Miss Matson, the
mantua-maker, should sit with her a great part of the evening.

It was now time for Albina and her mother to commence dressing, but Mrs.
Marsden went down stairs again with 'more last words' to the servants,
and Albina to make some change in the arrangement of the centre-table.

She was in a loose gown, her curls were pinned up, and to keep them
close and safe, she had tied over her head an old gauze handkerchief.
While bending over the centre-table, and marking with rose-leaves some
of the most beautiful of Mrs. Hemans' poems, and opening two or three
souvenirs at their finest plates, a knock was suddenly heard at the
door, which proved to be the baker with the second plum-cake, it having
been consigned to _his_ oven. Albina desired him to bring it to her, and
putting it on the silver waiter, she determined to divide it herself
into slices, being afraid to trust that business to any one else, lest
it should be awkwardly cut, or broken to pieces; it being quite warm.

The baker went out, leaving the front door open, and Albina, intent on
her task of cutting the cake, did not look up till she heard the sound
of footsteps in the parlour; and then what was her dismay on perceiving
Mr. and Mrs. Montague and their daughter.

Albina's first impulse was to run away, but she saw that it was now too
late; and, pale with confusion and vexation, she tried to summon
sufficient self-command to enable her to pass off this _contre-tems_
with something like address.

It was not yet dusk, the sun being scarcely down, and of all the persons
invited to the party, it was natural to suppose that the English family
would have come the latest.

Mr. Montague was a long-bodied short-legged man, with round gray eyes,
that looked as if they had been put on the outside of his face, the
sockets having no apparent concavity: a sort of eye that is rarely seen
in an American. He had a long nose and a large heavy mouth with
projecting under-teeth, and altogether an unusual quantity of face;
which face was bordered round with whiskers, that began at his eyes and
met under his chin, and resembled in texture the coarse wiry fur of a
black bear. He kept his hat under his arm, and his whole dress seemed as
if modelled from one of the caricature prints of a London dandy.

Mrs. Montague (evidently some years older than her husband) was a
gigantic woman, with features that looked as if seen through a
magnifying glass. She wore heavy piles of yellowish curls, and a crimson
velvet tocque. Her daughter was a tall hard-faced girl of seventeen,
meant for a child by her parents, but not meaning herself as such. She
was dressed in a white muslin frock and trowsers, and had a mass of
black hair curling on her neck and shoulders.

They all fixed their large eyes directly upon Albina, and it was no
wonder that she quailed beneath their glance, or rather their stare,
particularly when Mrs. Montague surveyed her through her eye-glass. Mr.
Montague spoke first. "Your note did not specify the hour--Miss--Miss
Martin," said he, "and as you Americans are early people, we thought we
were complying with the simplicity of republican manners by coming
before dark. We suppose that in general you adhere to the primitive
maxim of 'early to bed and early to rise.' I forget the remainder of the
rhyme, but _you_ know it undoubtedly."

Albina at that moment wished for the presence of Bromley Cheston. She
saw from the significant looks that passed between the Montagues, that
the unseasonable earliness of this visit did not arise from their
ignorance of the customs of American society, but from premeditated
impertinence. And she regretted still more having invited them, when Mr.
Montague with impudent familiarity walked up to the cake (which she had
nicely cut into slices without altering its form) and took one of them
out.--"Miss Martin," said he, "your cake looks so inviting that I cannot
refrain from helping myself to a piece. Mrs. Montague, give me leave to
present one to you. Miss Montague, will you try a slice?"

They sat down on the sofa, each with a piece of cake, and Albina saw
that they could scarcely refrain from laughing openly, not only at her
dishabille, but at her disconcerted countenance.

Just at this moment, Drusa appeared at the door, and called out, "Miss
Albinar, the presarved squinches are all working. Missus found 'em so
when she opened the jar." Albina could bear no more, but hastily
darting out of the room, she ran up stairs almost crying with vexation.

Old Mrs. Quimby was loud in her invectives against Mr. Montague for
spoiling the symmetry of the cake, and helping himself and his family so
unceremoniously. "You may rely upon it," said she, "a man that will do
such a thing in a strange house is no gentleman."

"On the contrary," observed Mrs. Marsden, "I have no doubt that in
England these free and easy proceedings are high ton. Albina, have not
you read some such things in Vivian Grey?"

"I do not believe," said Mrs. Quimby, "that if this Englishman was in
his own country, he would dare to go and take other people's cake
without leave or license. But he thinks any sort of behaviour good
enough for the Yankees, as they call us."

"I care not for the cake," said Albina, "although the pieces must now be
put into baskets; I only think of the Montagues walking in without
knocking, and catching me in complete dishabille: after I had kept poor
Bromley Cheston waiting half an hour this morning rather than he should
see me in my pink gingham gown and with my hair in pins."

"As sure as sixpence," remarked Mrs. Quimby, "this last shame has come
upon you as a punishment for your pride to your own cousin."

Mrs. Marsden having gone into the adjoining room to dress, Albina
remained in this, and placed herself before the glass for the same
purpose. "Heigho!" said she, "how pale and jaded I look! What a
fatiguing day I have had! I have been on my feet since five o'clock this
morning, and I feel now more fit to go to bed than to add to my
weariness by the task of dressing, and then playing the agreeable for
four or five hours. I begin to think that parties (at least such parties
as are now in vogue) should only be given by persons who have large
houses, large purses, conveniences of every description, and servants
enough to do all that is necessary."

"Albina is talking quite sensibly," said Aunt Quimby to Mrs. Marsden,
who came in to see if her daughter required her assistance in dressing.

"Pho!" said Mrs. Marsden, "think of the eclat of giving a party to Mrs.
Washington Potts, and of having the Montagues among the guests! We shall
find the advantage of it when we visit the city again."

"Albina," said Aunt Quimby, "now we are about dressing, just quit for a
few moments and help me on with my long stays and my new black silk
gown, and let me have the glass awhile; I am going to wear my lace cap
with the white satin riband. This dark calico gown and plain muslin cap
won't do at all to sit here in, before all the ladies that are coming
up."

"Oh! no matter," replied Albina, who was unwilling to relinquish the
glass or to occupy any of her time by assisting her aunt in dressing
(which was always a troublesome and tedious business with the old lady);
and her mother had now gone down to be ready for the reception of the
company, and to pay her compliments to the Montagues. "Oh! no matter,"
said Albina, "your present dress looks perfectly well; and the ladies
will be too much engaged with themselves and their own dresses, to
remark anything else. No one will observe whether your gown is calico or
silk, and whether your cap is muslin or lace. Elderly ladies are always
privileged to wear what is most convenient to them."

Albina put on the new dress that the mantua-maker had made for her. When
she tried it on the preceding evening Miss Matson declared that "it
fitted like wax." She now found that it was scarcely possible to get it
on at all, and that one side of the forebody was larger than the other.
Miss Matson was called up, and by dint of the pulling, stretching, and
smoothing well known to mantua-makers, and still more by means of her
pertinacious assurances that the dress had no fault whatever, Albina was
obliged to acknowledge that she _could_ wear it, and the redundancy of
the large side was pinned down and pinned over. In sticking in her comb
she broke it in half, and it was long before she could arrange her hair
to her satisfaction without it. Before she had completed her toilette,
several of the ladies arrived and came into the room; and Albina was
obliged to snatch up her paraphernalia, and make her escape into the
next apartment.

At last she was dressed--she went down stairs. The company arrived fast,
and the party began.

Bromley Cheston had come early to assist in doing the honours, and as he
led Albina to a seat, he saw that, in spite of her smiles, she looked
weary and out of spirits; and he pitied her. "After all," thought he,
"there is much that is interesting about Albina Marsden."

The party was _very_ select, consisting of the élite of the village and
its neighbourhood; but still, as is often the case, those whose presence
was most desirable had sent excuses, and those who were not wanted had
taken care to come. And Miss Boreham (a young lady who, having nothing
else to recommend her, had been invited solely on account of the usual
elegance of her attire, and whose dress was expected to add prodigiously
to the effect of the rooms), came most unaccountably in an old faded
frock of last year's fashion, with her hair quite plain, and tucked
behind her ears with two side-combs. Could she have had a suspicion of
the reason for which she was generally invited, and have therefore
perversely determined on a reaction?

The Montagues sat together in a corner, putting up their eye-glasses at
every one that entered the room, and criticising the company in loud
whispers to each other; poor Mrs. Marsden endeavouring to catch
opportunities of paying her court to them.

About nine o'clock, appeared an immense cap of blond lace, gauze riband,
and flowers; and under the cap was Mrs. Washington Potts, a little,
thin, trifling-looking woman with a whitish freckled face, small sharp
features, and flaxen hair. She leaned on the arm of Mr. Washington
Potts, who was nothing in company or anywhere else; and she led by the
hand a little boy in a suit of scarlet, braided and frogged with blue: a
pale rat-looking child, whose name she pronounced Laughy-yet, meaning La
Fayette; and who being the youngest scion of the house of Potts, always
went to parties with his mother, because he would not stay at home.

Bromley Cheston, on being introduced to Mrs. Washington Potts, was
surprised at the insignificance of her figure and face. He had imagined
her tall in stature, large in feature, loud in voice, and in short the
very counterpart to Mrs. Montague. He found her, however, as he had
supposed, replete with vanity, pride, ignorance, and folly: to which she
added a sickening affectation of sweetness and amiability, and a flimsy
pretension to extraordinary powers of conversation, founded on a
confused assemblage of incorrect and superficial ideas, which she
mistook for a general knowledge of everything in the world.

Mrs. Potts was delighted with the handsome face and figure, and the very
genteel appearance of the young lieutenant, and she bestowed upon him a
large portion of her talk.

"I hear, sir," said she, "you have been in the Mediterranean Sea. A
sweet pretty place, is it not?"

"Its shores," replied Cheston, "are certainly very beautiful."

"Yes, I should admire its chalky cliffs vastly," resumed Mrs. Potts;
"they are quite poetical, you know. Pray, sir, which do you prefer,
Byron or Bonaparte? I dote upon Byron; and considering what sweet verses
he wrote, 'tis a pity he was a corsair, and a vampyre pirate, and all
such horrid things. As for Bonaparte, I never could endure him after I
found that he had cut off poor old King George's head. Now, when we talk
of great men, my husband is altogether for Washington. I laugh, and tell
Mr. Potts it's because he and Washington are namesakes. How do you like
La Fayette?"--(pronouncing the name à la canaille).

"The man, or the name?" inquired Cheston.

"Oh! both to be sure. You see we have called our youngest blossom after
him. Come here, La Fayette, stand forward, my dear; hold up your head,
and make a bow to the gentleman."

"I won't," screamed La Fayette. "I'll never make a bow when you tell
me."

"Something of the spirit of his ancestors," said Mrs. Potts, affectedly
smiling to Cheston, and patting the urchin on the head.

"His ancestors!" thought Cheston. "Who could they possibly have been?"

"Perhaps the dear fellow may be a little, a very little spoiled,"
pursued Mrs. Potts. "But to make a comparison in the marine line (quite
in your way, you know), it is as natural for a mother's heart to turn to
her youngest darling, as it is for the needle to point out the
longitude. Now we talk of longitude, have you read Cooper's last novel,
by the author of the Spy? It's a sweet book--Cooper is one of my pets. I
saw him in dear, delightful Paris. Are you musical, Mr. Cheston?--But of
course you are. Our whole aristocracy is musical now. How do you like
Paganini? You must have heard him in Europe. It's a very expensive thing
to hear Paganini.--Poor man! he is quite ghastly with his own playing.
Well, as you have been in the Mediterranean, which do you prefer, the
Greeks or the Poles?"

"The Poles, decidedly," answered Cheston, "from what I have heard of
_them_, and seen of the Greeks."

"Well, for my part," resumed Mrs. Potts, "I confess I like the Greeks,
as I have always been rather classical. They are so Grecian. Think of
their beautiful statues and paintings by Rubens and Reynolds. Are you
fond of paintings? At my house in the city, I can show you some very
fine ones."

"By what artists?" asked Cheston.

"Oh! by my daughter Harriet. She did them at drawing-school with
theorems. They are beautiful flower-pieces, all framed and hung up; they
are almost worthy of Sir Benjamin West."[2]

[Footnote 2: The author takes this occasion to remark, that the
illustrious artist to whom so many of his countrymen erroneously give
the title of Sir Benjamin West, never in reality had the compliment of
knighthood conferred on him. He lived and died _Mr._ West, as is well
known to all who have any acquaintance with pictures and painters.]

In this manner Mrs. Potts ran on till the entrance of tea, and Cheston
took that opportunity of escaping from her; while she imagined him
deeply imbued with admiration of her fluency, vivacity, and variety of
information. But in reality, he was thinking of the strange depravity of
taste that is sometimes found even in intelligent minds; for in no other
way could he account for Albina's predilection for Mrs. Washington
Potts. "And yet," thought he, "is a young and inexperienced girl more
blameable for her blindness in friendship (or what she imagines to be
friendship), than an acute, sensible, talented man for his blindness in
love? The master-spirits of the earth have almost proverbially married
women of weak intellect, and almost as proverbially the children of such
marriages resemble the mother rather than the father. A just punishment
for choosing so absurdly. Albina, I must know you better."

The party went on, much as parties generally do where there are four or
five guests that are supposed to rank all the others. The patricians
evidently despised the plebeians, and the plebeians were offended at
being despised; for in no American assemblage is any real inferiority of
rank ever felt or acknowledged. There was a general dullness, and a
general restraint. Little was done, and little was said. La Fayette
wandered about in everybody's way; having been kept wide awake all the
evening by two cups of strong coffee, which his mother allowed him to
take because he would have them.

There was always a group round the centre-table, listlessly turning
over the souvenirs, albums, &c., and picking at the flowers; and La
Fayette ate plum-cake over Cheston's beautiful drawings.

Albina played an Italian song extremely well, but the Montagues
exchanged glances at her music; and Mrs. Potts, to follow suit, hid her
face behind her fan and simpered; though in truth she did not in reality
know Italian from French, or a semibreve from a semiquaver. All this was
a great annoyance to Cheston. At Albina's request, he led Miss Montague
to the piano. She ran her fingers over the instrument as if to try it;
gave a shudder, and declared it most shockingly out of tune, and then
rose in horror from the music stool. This much surprised Mrs. Marsden,
as a musician had been brought from the city only the day before for the
express purpose of tuning this very instrument.

"No," whispered Miss Montague, as she resumed her seat beside her
mother, "I will not condescend to play before people who are incapable
of understanding my style."

At this juncture (to the great consternation of Mrs. Marsden and her
daughter) who should make her appearance but Aunt Quimby in the calico
gown which Albina now regretted having persuaded her to keep on. The old
lady was wrapped in a small shawl and two large ones, and her head was
secured from cold by a black silk handkerchief tied over her cap and
under her chin. She smiled and nodded all round to the company, and
said--"How do you do, good people; I hope you are all enjoying
yourselves. I thought I _must_ come down and have a peep at you. For
after I had seen all the ladies take off their hoods, and had my tea, I
found it pretty dull work sitting up stairs with the mantua-maker, who
had no more manners than to fall asleep while I was talking."

Mrs. Marsden, much discomfited, led Aunt Quimby to a chair between two
matrons who were among "the unavoidably invited," and whose pretensions
to refinement were not very palpable. But the old lady had no idea of
remaining stationary all the evening between Mrs. Johnson and Mrs.
Jackson. She wisely thought "she could see more of the party," if she
frequently changed her place, and being of what is called a sociable
disposition, she never hesitated to talk to any one that was near her,
however high or however low.

"Dear mother," said Albina in an under-voice, "what can be the reason
that every one, in tasting the ice-cream, immediately sets it aside as
if it was not fit to eat? I am sure there is everything in it that ought
to be."

"And something more than ought to be," replied Mrs. Marsden, after
trying a spoonful--"the salt that was laid round the freezer has got
into the cream (I suppose by Dixon's carelessness), and it is _not_ fit
to eat."

"And now," said Albina, starting, "I will show you a far worse
mortification than the failure of the ice-cream. Only look--there sits
Aunt Quimby between Mr. Montague and Mrs. Washington Potts."

"How in the world did she get there?" exclaimed Mrs. Marsden. "I dare
say she walked up, and asked them to make room for her between them.
There is nothing now to be done but to pass her off as well as we can,
and to make the best of her. I will manage to get as near as possible,
that I may hear what she is talking about, and take an opportunity of
persuading her away."

As Mrs. Marsden approached within hearing distance, Mr. Montague was
leaning across Aunt Quimby, and giving Mrs. Potts an account of
something that had been said or done during a splendid entertainment at
Devonshire House.--"Just at that moment," said he, "I was lounging into
the room with Lady Augusta Fitzhenry on my arm (unquestionably the
finest woman in England), and Mrs. Montague was a few steps in advance,
leaning on my friend the Marquis of Elvington."

"Pray, sir," said Mrs. Quimby, "as you are from England, do you know
anything of Betsey Dempsey's husband?"

"I have not the honour of being acquainted with that person," replied
Mr. Montague, after a withering stare.

"Well, that's strange," pursued Aunt Quimby, "considering that he has
been living in London at least eighteen years--or perhaps it is only
seventeen. And yet I think it must be near eighteen, if not quite. Maybe
seventeen and a half. Well it's best to be on the safe side, so I'll say
seventeen. Betsey Dempsey's mother was an old school-mate of mine. Her
father kept the Black Horse tavern. She was the only acquaintance I ever
had that married an Englishman. He was a grocer, and in very good
business; but he never liked America, and was always finding fault with
it, and so he went home, and was to send for Betsey. But he never sent
for her at all; and for a very good reason; which was that he had
another wife in England, as most of them have--no disparagement to you,
sir."

Mrs. Marsden now came up, and informed Mrs. Potts in a whisper, that the
good old lady beside her, was a distant relation or rather connexion of
_Mr._ Marsden's, and that, though a little primitive in appearance and
manner, she had considerable property in bank-stock. To Mrs. Marsden's
proposal that she should exchange her seat for a very pleasant one in
the other room next to her old friend, Mrs. Willis, Aunt Quimby replied
nothing but "Thank you, I'm doing very well here."

Mrs. and Miss Montague, apparently heeding no one else, had talked
nearly the whole evening to each other, but loudly enough to be heard by
all around them. The young lady, though dressed as a child, talked like
a woman, and she and her mother were now engaged in an argument whether
the flirtation of the Duke of Risingham with Lady Georgiana Melbury
would end seriously or not.

"To my certain knowledge," said Miss Montague, "his Grace has never yet
declared himself to Lady Georgiana, or to any one else."

"I'll lay you two to one," said Mrs. Montague, "that he is married to
her before we return to England."

"No," replied the daughter, "like all others of his sex he delights in
keeping the ladies in suspense."

"What you say, miss, is very true," said Aunt Quimby, leaning in her
turn across Mr. Montague, "and, considering how young you are, you talk
very sensibly. Men certainly have a way of keeping women in suspense,
and an unwillingness to answer questions, even when we ask them. There's
my son-in-law, Billy Fairfowl, that I live with. He married my daughter
Mary, eleven years ago the 23d of last April. He's as good a man as ever
breathed, and an excellent provider too. He always goes to market
himself; and sometimes I can't help blaming him a little for his
extravagance. But his greatest fault is his being so unsatisfactory. As
far back as last March, as I was sitting at my knitting in the little
front parlour with the door open (for it was quite warm weather for the
time of the year), Billy Fairfowl came home, carrying in his hand a good
sized shad; and I called out to him to ask what he gave for it, for it
was the very beginning of the shad season; but he made not a word of
answer; he just passed on, and left the shad in the kitchen, and then
went to his store. At dinner we had the fish, and a very nice one it
was; and I asked him again how much he gave for it, but he still
avoided answering, and began to talk of something else; so I thought I'd
let it rest awhile. A week or two after, I again asked him; so then he
actually said he had forgotten all about it. And to this day I don't
know the price of that shad."

The Montagues looked at each other--almost laughed aloud, and drew back
their chairs as far from Aunt Quimby as possible. So also did Mrs.
Potts. Mrs. Marsden came up in an agony of vexation, and reminded her
aunt in a low voice of the risk of renewing her rheumatism by staying so
long between the damp, newly-papered walls. The old lady answered
aloud--"Oh! you need not fear, I am well wrapped up on purpose. And
indeed, considering that the parlours were only papered to-day, I think
the walls have dried wonderfully (putting her hand on the paper)--I am
sure nobody could find out the damp if they were not told."

"What!" exclaimed the Montagues; "only papered to-day--(starting up and
testifying all that prudent fear of taking cold, so characteristic of
the English). How barbarous to inveigle us into such a place!"

"I thought I felt strangely chilly all the evening," said Mrs. Potts,
whose fan had scarcely been at rest five minutes.

The Montagues proposed going away immediately, and Mrs. Potts declared
she was _most_ apprehensive for poor little La Fayette. Mrs. Marsden,
who could not endure the idea of their departing till all the
refreshments had been handed round (the best being yet to come), took
great pains to persuade them that there was no real cause of alarm, as
she had had large fires all the afternoon. They held a whispered
consultation, in which they agreed to stay for the oysters and chicken
salad, and Mrs. Marsden went out to send them their shawls, with one for
La Fayette.

By this time the secret of the newly-papered walls had spread round both
rooms; the conversation now turned entirely on colds and rheumatisms;
there was much shivering and considerable coughing, and the demand for
shawls increased. However, nobody actually went home in consequence.

"Papa," said Miss Montague, "let us all take French leave as soon as the
oysters and chicken salad have gone round."

Albina now came up to Aunt Quimby (gladly perceiving that the old lady
looked tired), and proposed that she should return to her chamber,
assuring her that the waiters should be punctually sent up to her--"I do
not feel quite ready to go yet," replied Mrs. Quimby. "I am very well
here. But you need not mind _me_. Go back to your company, and talk a
little to those three poor girls in the yellow frocks that nobody has
spoken to yet, except Bromley Cheston. When I am ready to go I shall
take French leave, as these English people call it."

But Aunt Quimby's idea of French leave was very different from the usual
acceptation of the term; for having always heard that the French were a
very polite people, she concluded that their manner of taking leave must
be particularly respectful and ceremonious. Therefore, having paid her
parting compliments to Mrs. Potts and the Montagues, she walked all
round the room, curtsying to every body and shaking hands, and telling
them she had come to take French leave. To put an end to this ridiculous
scene, Bromley Cheston (who had been on assiduous duty all the evening)
now came forward, and, taking the old lady's arm in his, offered to
escort her up stairs. Aunt Quimby was much flattered by this unexpected
civility from the finest-looking young man in the room, and she
smilingly departed with him, complimenting him on his politeness, and
assuring him that he was a real gentleman; trying also to make out the
degree of relationship that existed between them.

"So much for Buckingham!" said Cheston, as he ran down stairs after
depositing the old lady at the door of her room. "Fools of all ranks and
of all ages are to me equally intolerable. I never can marry into such a
family."

The party went on.

"In the name of heaven, Mrs. Potts," said Mrs. Montague, "what induces
you to patronize these people?"

"Why they are the only tolerable persons in the neighbourhood," answered
Mrs. Potts, "and very kind and obliging in their way. I really think
Albina a very sweet girl, very sweet indeed: and Mrs. Marsden is rather
amiable too, quite amiable. And they are so grateful for any little
notice I take of them, that it is really quite affecting. Poor things!
how much trouble they have given themselves in getting up this party.
They look as if they had had a hard day's work; and I have no doubt they
will be obliged, in consequence, to pinch them for months to come; for I
can assure you their means are very small--very small indeed. As to this
intolerable old aunt, I never saw her before; and as there is something
rather genteel about Mrs. Marsden and her daughter--rather so at least
about Albina--I did not suppose they had any such relations belonging to
them. I think, in future I must confine myself entirely to the
aristocracy."

"We deliberated to the last moment," said Mrs. Montague, "whether we
should come. But as Mr. Montague is going to write his tour when we
return to England, he thinks it expedient to make some sacrifices, for
the sake of seeing the varieties of American society."

"Oh! these people are not in society!" exclaimed Mrs. Potts eagerly. "I
can assure you these Marsdens have not the slightest pretensions to
society. Oh! no--I beg you not to suppose that Mrs. Marsden and her
daughter are at all in society!"

This conversation was overheard by Bromley Cheston, and it gave him more
pain than he was willing to acknowledge, even to himself.

At length all the refreshments had gone their rounds, and the Montagues
had taken real French leave; but Mrs. Washington Potts preferred a
conspicuous departure, and therefore made her adieux with a view of
producing great effect. This was the signal for the company to break up,
and Mrs. Marsden gladly smiled them out; while Albina could have said
with Gray's Prophetess--

    "Now my weary lips I close,
    Leave me, leave me to repose."

But, according to Mrs. Marsden, the worst of all was the poet, the
professedly eccentric Bewley Garvin Gandy, author of the World of
Sorrow, Elegy on a Broken Heart, Lines on a Suppressed Sigh, Sonnet to a
Hidden Tear, Stanzas to Faded Hopes, &c. &c., and who was just now
engaged in a tale called "The Bewildered," and an Ode to the Waning
Moon, which set him to wandering about the country, and "kept him out
o'nights." The poet, not being a man of this world, did not make his
appearance at the party till the moment of the bustle occasioned by the
exit of Mrs. Washington Potts. He then darted suddenly into the room,
and looked wild.

We will not insinuate that he bore any resemblance to Sandy Clark. He
certainly wore no chapeau, and his coat was not in the least à la
militaire, for it was a dusky brown frock. His collar was open, in the
fashion attributed to Byron, and much affected by scribblers who are
incapable of imitating the noble bard in anything but his follies. His
hair looked as if he had just been tearing it, and his eyes seemed "in
a fine frenzy rolling." He was on his return from one of his moonlight
rambles on the banks of the river, and his pantaloons and coat-skirt
showed evident marks of having been deep among the cat-tails and
splatter-docks that grew in the mud on its margin.

Being a man that took no note of time, he wandered into Mrs. Marsden's
house between eleven and twelve o'clock, and remained an hour after the
company had gone; reclining at full length on a sofa, and discussing
Barry Cornwall and Percy Bysshe Shelley, L. E. L. and Mrs. Cornwall
Baron Wilson. After which he gradually became classical, and poured into
the sleepy ears of Mrs. Marsden and Albina a parallel between Tibullus
and Propertius, a dissertation on Alcæus, and another on Menander.

Bromley Cheston, who had been escorting home two sets of young ladies
that lived "far as the poles asunder," passed Mrs. Marsden's house on
returning to his hotel, and seeing the lights still gleaming, he went in
to see what was the matter, and kindly relieved his aunt and cousin by
reminding the poet of the lateness of the hour, and "fairly carrying him
off."

Aunt Quimby had long since been asleep. But before Mrs. Marsden and
Albina could forget themselves in "tired nature's sweet restorer," they
lay awake for an hour, discussing the fatigues and vexations of the day,
and the mortifications of the evening. "After all," said Albina, "this
party has cost us five times as much as it is worth, both in trouble and
expense, and I really cannot tell what pleasure we have derived from
it."

"No one expects pleasure at their own party," replied Mrs. Marsden. "But
you may depend on it, this little compliment to Mrs. Washington Potts
will prove highly advantageous to us hereafter. And then it is
_something_ to be the only family in the neighbourhood that could
presume to do such a thing."

Next morning, Bromley Cheston received a letter which required his
immediate presence in New York on business of importance. When he went
to take leave of his aunt and cousin, he found them busily engaged in
clearing away and putting in order; a task which is nearly equal to that
of making the preparations for a party. They looked pale and
spiritless, and Mrs. Washington Potts had just sent her three boys to
spend the day with them.

When Cheston took Albina's hand at parting, he felt it tremble, and her
eyes looked as if they were filling with tears. "After all," thought he,
"she is a charming girl, and has both sense and sensibility."

"I am very nervous to-day," said Albina, "the party has been too much
for me; and I have in prospect for to-morrow the pain of taking leave of
Mrs. Washington Potts, who returns with all her family to Philadelphia."

"Strange infatuation!" thought Cheston, as he dropped Albina's hand, and
made his parting bow. "I must see more of this girl, before I can
resolve to trust my happiness to her keeping; I cannot share her heart
with Mrs. Washington Potts. When I return from New York, I will talk to
her seriously about that ridiculous woman, and I will also remonstrate
with her mother on the folly of straining every nerve in the pursuit of
what she calls a certain style."

In the afternoon, Mrs. Potts did Albina the honour to send for her to
assist in the preparations for to-morrow's removal to town; and in the
evening, the three boys were all taken home sick, in consequence of
having laid violent hands on the fragments of the feast: which fragments
they had continued during the day to devour almost without intermission.
Also Randolph had thrown Jefferson down stairs, and raised two green
bumps on his forehead, and Jefferson had pinched La Fayette's fingers in
the door till the blood came; not to mention various minor squabbles and
hurts.

At parting, Mrs. Potts went so far as to kiss Albina, and made her
promise to let her know immediately, whenever she or her mother came to
the city.

In about two weeks, Aunt Quimby finished her visitation: and the day
after her departure, Mrs. Marsden and Albina went to town to make their
purchases for the season, and also with a view towards a party, which
they knew Mrs. Potts had in contemplation. This time they did not, as
usual, stay with their relations, but they took lodgings at a
fashionable boarding-house, where they could receive their "great
woman," _comme il faut_.

On the morning after their arrival, Mrs. Marsden and her daughter, in
their most costly dresses, went to visit Mrs. Potts, that she might be
apprised of their arrival; and they found her in a spacious house,
expensively and ostentatiously furnished.

After they had waited till even _their_ patience was nearly exhausted,
Mrs. Potts came down stairs to them, but there was evidently a great
abatement in her affability. She seemed uneasy, looked frequently
towards the door, got up several times and went to the window, and
appeared fidgety when the bell rung. At last there came in two very
flaunting ladies, whom Mrs. Potts received as if she considered them
people of consequence. They were not introduced to the Marsdens, who,
after the entrance of these new visitors, sat awhile in the pitiable
situation of ciphers, and then took their leave. "Strange," said Mrs.
Marsden, "that she did not say a word of her party."

Three days after their visit, Mrs. Washington Potts left cards for Mrs.
and Miss Marsden, without inquiring if they were at home. And they heard
from report that her party was fixed for the week after next, and that
it was expected to be very splendid, as it was to introduce her
daughter, who had just quitted boarding-school. The Marsdens had seen
this young lady, who had spent the August holidays with her parents. She
was as silly as her mother, and as dull as her father, in the eyes of
all who were not blindly determined to think her otherwise, or who did
not consider it particularly expedient to uphold every one of the name
of Potts.

At length they heard that the invitations were going out for Mrs.
Potts's party, and that though very large, it was not to be general;
which meant that only one or two of the members were to be selected from
each family with whom Mrs. Potts thought proper to acknowledge an
acquaintance. From this moment Mrs. Marsden, who at the best of times
had never really been treated with much respect by Mrs. Potts, gave up
all hope of an invitation for herself; but she counted certainly on one
for Albina, and every ring at the door was expected to bring it. There
were many rings, but no invitation; and poor Albina and her mother took
turns in watching at the window.

At last Bogle[3] was seen to come up the steps with a handful of notes;
and Albina, regardless of all rule, ran to the front-door herself. They
were cards for a party, but not Mrs. Potts's, and were intended for two
other ladies that lodged in the house.

[Footnote 3: A celebrated coloured waiter in Philadelphia.]

Every time that Albina went out and came home, she inquired anxiously
of all the servants if no note had been left for her. Still there was
none. And her mother still insisted that the note _must_ have come, but
had been mislaid afterwards, or that Bogle had lost it in the street.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday passed over, and still no
invitation. Mrs. Marsden talked much of the carelessness of servants,
and had no doubt of the habitual negligence of Messrs. Bogle, Shepherd,
and other "fashionable party-men." Albina was almost sick with "hope
deferred." At last, when she came home on Monday morning from Second
street, her mother met her at the door with a delighted face, and showed
her the long-desired note, which had just been brought by Mrs. Potts's
own man. The party was to take place in two days: and so great was now
Albina's happiness, that she scarcely felt the fatigue of searching the
shops for articles of attire that were very elegant, and yet not _too_
expensive; and shopping with a limited purse is certainly no trifling
exercise both of mind and body; so also is the task of going round among
fashionable mantua-makers, in the hope of coaxing one of them to
undertake a dress at a short notice.

Next morning, Mrs. Potts sent for Albina immediately after breakfast,
and told her that as she knew her to be very clever at all sorts of
things, she wanted her to stay that day and assist in the preparations
for the next. Mrs. Potts, like many other people who live in showy
houses and dress extravagantly, was very economical in servants. She
gave such low wages, that none would come to her who could get places
anywhere else, and she kept them on such limited allowance that none
would stay with her who were worth having.

Fools are seldom consistent in their expenditure. They generally (to use
a homely expression) strain at gnats and swallow camels.

About noon, Albina having occasion to consult Mrs. Potts concerning
something that was to be done, found her in the front parlour with Mrs.
and Miss Montague. After Albina had left the room, Mrs. Montague said to
Mrs. Potts--"Is not that the girl who lives with her mother at the place
on the river, I forget what you call it--I mean the niece of the aunt?"

"That is Albina Marsden," replied Mrs. Potts.

"Yes," pursued Mrs. Montague, "the people that made so great an exertion
to give you a sort of party, and honoured Mr. and Miss Montague and
myself with invitations."

"She's not to be here to-morrow night, I hope!" exclaimed Miss Montague.

"Really," replied Mrs. Potts, "I could do no less than ask her. The poor
thing did her very best to be civil to us all last summer."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Montague, "in the country one is willing sometimes to
take up with such company as we should be very sorry to acknowledge in
town. You assured me that your party to-morrow night would be extremely
_recherché_. And as it is so early in the season you know that it is
necessary to be more particular now than at the close of the campaign,
when every one is tired of parties, and unwilling to get new evening
dresses lest they should be out of fashion before they are wanted again.
Excuse me, I speak only from what I have heard of American customs."

"I am always particular about my parties," said Mrs. Potts.

"A word in your ear," continued Mrs. Montague. "Is it not impolitic, or
rather are you not afraid to bring forward so beautiful a girl as this
Miss Martin on the very night of your own daughter's _debut_?"

Mrs. Potts looked alarmed for a moment, and then recovering herself
said--"I have no fear of Miss Harriet Angelina Potts being thrown in the
shade by a little country girl like this. Albina Marsden is pretty
enough, to be sure--at least, rather pretty--but then there is a certain
style--a certain air which she of course--in short, a certain style--"

"As to what you call a certain style," said Mrs. Montague, "I do not
know exactly what you mean. If it signifies the air and manner of a
lady, this Miss Martin has as much of it as any other American girl. To
me they are all nearly alike. I cannot distinguish those minute shades
of difference that you all make such a point of. In my unpractised eyes
the daughters of your mechanics and shopkeepers look as well and behave
as well as the daughters of your lawyers and doctors, for I find your
nobility is chiefly made up of these two professions, with the addition
of a few merchants; and you call every one a merchant that does not sell
his commodities by the single yard or the single quart."

"Mamma," whispered Miss Montague, "if that girl is to be here, I don't
wish to come. I can't endure her."

"Take my advice," continued Mrs. Montague to Mrs. Potts, "and put off
this Miss Martin. If she was not so strikingly handsome, she might pass
unnoticed in the crowd. But her beauty will attract general
observation, and you will be obliged to tell exactly who she is, where
you picked her up, and to give or to hear an account of her family and
all her connexions; and from the specimen we have had in the old aunt, I
doubt if they will bear a very minute scrutiny. So if she _is_ invited,
endeavour to uninvite her."

"I am sure I would willingly do that," replied Mrs. Potts, "but I can
really think of no excuse."

"Oh! send her a note to-morrow," answered Mrs. Montague, carelessly, and
rising to depart, "anything or nothing, so that you only signify to her
that she is not to come."

All day Mrs. Potts was revolving in her mind the most feasible means of
preventing Albina from appearing at her party; and her conscience smote
her when she saw the unsuspecting girl so indefatigable in assisting
with the preparations. Before Albina went home, Mrs. Potts had come to
the conclusion to follow Mrs. Montague's advice, but she shrunk from the
task of telling her so in person. She determined to send her next
morning a concise note, politely requesting her not to come; and she
intended afterwards to call on her and apologize, on the plea of her
party being by no means general, but still so large that every inch of
room was an object of importance; also that the selection consisted
entirely of persons well known to each other and accustomed to meet in
company, and that there was every reason to fear that her gentle and
modest friend Albina would have been unable to enjoy herself among so
many strangers, &c., &c. Those excuses, she knew, were very flimsy, but
she trusted to Albina's good nature, and she thought she could smooth
off all by inviting both her and her mother to a sociable tea.

Next morning, Mrs. Potts, who was on no occasion very ready with her
pen, considering that she professed to be _au fait_ to everything,
employed near an hour in manufacturing the following note to Albina.

"Mrs. Washington Potts' compliments to Miss Marsden, and she regrets
being under the necessity of dispensing with Miss M.'s company, to join
the social circle at her mansion-house this evening. Mrs. W. P. will
explain hereafter, hoping Mrs. and Miss M. are both well. Mr. W. P.
requests his respects to both ladies, as well as Miss Potts, and their
favourite little La Fayette desires his best love."

This billet arrived while Albina had gone to her mantua-maker, to have
her new dress fitted on for the last time. Her mother opened the note
and read it; a liberty which no parent should take with the
correspondence of a grown-up daughter. Mrs. Marsden was shocked at its
contents, and at a loss to guess the motive of so strange an
interdiction. At first her only emotion was resentment against Mrs.
Potts. Then she thought of the disappointment and mortification of poor
Albina, whom she pictured to herself passing a forlorn evening at home,
perhaps crying in her own room. Next, she recollected the elegant new
dress in which Albina would have looked so beautifully, and which would
now be useless.

"Oh!" soliloquized Mrs. Marsden, "what a pity this unaccountable note
was not dropped and lost in the street. But then, of course some one
would have found and read it, and that would have been worse than all.
How could Mrs. Potts be guilty of such abominable rudeness, as to desire
poor Albina not to come, after she had been invited? But great people
think they may do anything. I wish the note had fallen into the fire
before it came to my hands; then Albina would have known nothing of it;
she would have gone to the party, looking more charmingly than ever she
did in her life; and she would be seen there, and admired, and make new
acquaintances, and Mrs. Potts could do no otherwise than behave to her
politely in her own house. Nobody would know of this vile billet (which
perhaps after all is only a joke), and Mrs. Potts would suppose, that of
course Albina had not received it; besides, I have no doubt that Mrs.
Potts will send for her to-morrow, and make a satisfactory explanation.
But then, to-night; if Albina could but get there to-night. What harm
can possible arrive from my not showing her the note till to-morrow? Why
should the dear girl be deprived of all the pleasure she anticipated
this evening? And even if she expected no enjoyment whatever, still how
great will be the advantage of having her seen at Mrs. Washington
Potts's select party; it will at once get her on in the world. Of course
Mrs. Potts will conclude that the note had miscarried, and will treat
her as if it had never been sent. I am really most strongly tempted to
suppress it, and let Albina go."

The more Mrs. Marsden thought of this project, the less objectionable it
appeared to her. When she saw Albina come home, delighted with her new
dress, which fitted her exactly, and when she heard her impatiently
wishing that evening was come, this weak and ill-judging mother could
not resolve (as she afterwards said) to dash all her pleasant
anticipations to the ground, and demolish her castles in the air. "My
daughter shall be happy to-night," thought she, "whatever may be the
event of to-morrow." She hastily concealed the note, and kept her
resolution of not mentioning it to Albina.

Evening came, and Albina's beautiful hair was arranged and decorated by
a fashionable French barber. She was dressed, and she looked charmingly.

Albina knew that Mrs. Potts had sent an invitation to the United States
Hotel for Lieutenant Cheston, who was daily expected, but had not yet
returned from New York, and she regretted much that she could not go to
the party under his escort. She knew no one else of the company, and she
had no alternative but to send for a carriage, and proceeded thither by
herself, after her mother had despatched repeated messages to the hotel
to know if Mr. Cheston had yet arrived, for he was certainly expected
back that evening.

As Albina drove to the house, she felt all the terrors of diffidence
coming upon her, and already repented that she had ventured on this
enterprise alone. On arriving, she did not go into the ladies' room, but
gave her hood and cloak at once to a servant, and tremulously requested
another attendant to inform Mr. Potts that a lady wished to see him. Mr.
Potts accordingly came out into the hall, and looked surprised at
finding Albina there, for he had heard his wife and daughter talking of
the note of interdiction. But concluding, as he often did, that it was
in vain for him to try to comprehend the proceedings of women, he
thought it best to say nothing.

On Albina requesting him to accompany her on her entrance, he gave her
his arm in silence, and with a very perplexed face escorted her into the
principal room. As he led her up to his wife, his countenance gradually
changed from perplexity to something like fright. Albina paid her
compliments to Mrs. Potts, who received her with evident amazement, and
without replying. Mrs. Montague, who sat next to the lady of the
mansion, opened still wider her immense eyes, and then, "to make
assurance doubly sure," applied her opera-glass. Miss Montague first
stared and then laughed.

Albina, much disconcerted, turned to look for a seat, Mr. Potts having
withdrawn his arm. As she retired to the only vacant chair, she heard a
half whisper running along the line of ladies, and though she could not
distinguish the words so as to make any connected sense of them, she
felt that they alluded to her.

"Can I believe my eyes?" said Mrs. Potts.

"The assurance of American girls is astonishing," said Mrs. Montague.

"She was forbidden to come," said Miss Montague to a young lady beside
her. "Mrs. Potts herself forbade her to come."

"She was actually prohibited," resumed Mrs. Montague, leaning over to
Mrs. Jones.

"I sent her myself a note of prohibition," said Mrs. Potts, leaning over
to Mrs. Smith. "I had serious objections to having her here."

"I never saw such downright impudence," pursued Mrs. Montague. "This I
suppose is one of the consequences of the liberty, and freedom and
independence that you Americans are always talking about. I must tell
Mr. Montague, for really this is too good to lose."

And beckoning her husband to come to her--"My dear," said she, "put down
in your memorandum-book, that when American married ladies invite young
ladies to parties, they on second thoughts forbid them to come, and that
the said American young ladies boldly persist in coming in spite of the
forbiddance."

And she then related to him the whole affair, at full length, and with
numerous embellishments, looking all the time at poor Albina.

The story was soon circulated round the room in whispers and murmurs,
and no one had candour or kindness to suggest the possibility of Miss
Marsden's having never received the note.

Albina soon perceived herself to be an object of remark and
animadversion, and she was sadly at a loss to divine the cause. The two
ladies that were nearest to her, rose up and left their seats, while two
others edged their chairs farther off. She knew no one, she was
introduced to no one, but she saw that every one was looking at her as
she sat by herself, alone, conspicuous, and abashed. Tea was waiting for
a lady that came always last, and the whole company seemed to have
leisure to gaze on poor Albina, and to whisper about her.

Her situation now became intolerable. She felt that there was nothing
left for her but to go home. Unluckily she had ordered the carriage at
eleven o'clock. At last she resolved on making a great effort, and on
plea of a violent headache (a plea which by this time was literally
true) to ask Mrs. Potts if she would allow a servant to bring a coach
for her.

After several attempts, she rose for this purpose; but she saw at the
same moment that all eyes were turned upon her. She tremblingly, and
with downcast looks, advanced till she got into the middle of the room,
and then all her courage deserted her at once, when she heard some one
say, "I wonder what she is going to do next."

She stopped suddenly, and stood motionless, and she saw Miss Potts
giggle, and heard her say to a school-girl near her, "I suppose she is
going to speak a speech." She turned very pale, and felt as if she could
gladly sink into the floor, when suddenly some one took her hand, and
the voice of Bromley Cheston said to her, "Albina--Miss Marsden--I will
conduct you wherever you wish to go"--and then, lowering his tone, he
asked her, "Why this agitation--what has happened to distress you?"

Cheston had just arrived from New York, having been detained on the way
by an accident that happened to one of the boats, and finding that Mrs.
Marsden was in town, and had that day sent several messages for him, he
repaired immediately to her lodgings. He had intended declining the
invitation of Mrs. Potts, but when he found that Albina had gone
thither, he hastily changed his dress and went to the party. When he
entered, what was his amazement to see her standing alone in the centre
of the room, and the company whispering and gazing at her.

Albina, on hearing the voice of a friend, the voice of Bromley Cheston,
was completely overcome, and she covered her face and burst into tears.
"Albina," said Cheston, "I will not now ask an explanation; I see that,
whatever may have happened, you had best go home."

"Oh! most gladly, most thankfully," she exclaimed, in a voice almost
inarticulate with sobs.

Cheston drew her arm within his, and bowing to Mrs. Potts, he led Albina
out of the apartment, and conducted her to the staircase, whence she
went to the ladies' room to compose herself a little, and prepare for
her departure.

Cheston then sent one servant for a carriage, and another to tell Mr.
Potts that he desired to speak with him in the hall. Potts came out with
a pale, frightened face, and said--"Indeed, sir--indeed, I had nothing
to do with it; ask the women. It was all them entirely. It was the
women that laughed at Miss Albina, and whispered about her."

"For what?" demanded the lieutenant. "I insist on knowing for what
cause."

"Why, sir," replied Potts, "she came here to my wife's party, after Mrs.
Potts had sent a note desiring her to stay away; which was certainly an
odd thing for a young lady to do."

"There is some mistake," exclaimed Cheston; "I'll stake my life that she
never saw the note. And now, for what reason did Mrs. Potts write such a
note? How did she dare--"

"Oh!" replied Potts, stammering and hesitating, "women will have their
notions; men are not half so particular about their company. Somehow,
after Mrs. Potts had invited Miss Albina, she thought, on farther
consideration, that poor Miss Albina was not quite genteel enough for
her party. You know all the women now make a great point of being
genteel. But, indeed, sir (observing the storm that was gathering on
Cheston's brow), indeed, sir--_I_ was not in the least to blame. It was
altogether the fault of my wife."

The indignation of the lieutenant was so highly excited, that nothing
could have checked it but the recollection that Potts was in his own
house. At this moment, Albina came down stairs, and Cheston took her
hand and said to her: "Albina, did you receive a note from Mrs. Potts
interdicting your presence at the party?"--"Oh! no, indeed!" exclaimed
Albina, amazed at the question. "Surely she did not send me such a
note."--"Yes she did, though," said Potts, quickly.--"Is it, then,
necessary for me to say," said Albina, indignantly, "that, under those
circumstances, nothing could have induced me to enter this house, now or
ever! I saw or heard nothing of this note. And is this the reason that I
have been treated so rudely--so cruelly--"

Upon this, Mr. Potts made his escape, and Cheston, having put Albina
into the carriage, desired the coachman to wait a few moments. He then
returned to the drawing-room and approached Mrs. Potts, who was standing
with half the company collected round her, and explaining with great
volubility the whole history of Albina Marsden. On the appearance of
Cheston, she stopped short, and all her auditors looked foolish.

The young officer advanced into the centre of the circle, and, first
addressing Mrs. Potts, he said to her--"In justice to Miss Marsden, I
have returned, madam, to inform you that your note of interdiction, with
which you have so kindly made all the company acquainted, was till this
moment unknown to that young lady. But, even had she come wilfully, and
in the full knowledge of your prohibition, no circumstances whatever
could justify the rudeness with which I find she has been treated. I
have now only to say that, if any gentleman presumes, either here or
hereafter, to cast a reflection on the conduct of Miss Albina Marsden,
in this or in any other instance, he must answer to me for the
consequences. And if I find that any lady has invidiously misrepresented
this occurrence, I shall insist on an atonement from her husband, her
brother, or her admirer."

He then bowed and departed, and the company looked still more foolish.

"This lesson," thought Cheston, "will have the salutary effect of curing
Albina of her predominant follies. She is a lovely girl, after all, and
when withdrawn from the influence of her mother, will make a charming
woman and an excellent wife."

Before the carriage stopped at the residence of Mrs. Marsden, Cheston
had made Albina an offer of his heart and hand, and the offer was not
refused.

Mrs. Marsden was scarcely surprised at the earliness of Albina's return
from the party, for she had a secret misgiving that all was not right,
that the suppression of the note would not eventuate well, and she
bitterly regretted having done it. When her daughter related to her the
story of the evening, Mrs. Marsden was overwhelmed with compunction;
and, though Cheston was present, she could not refrain from
acknowledging at once her culpability, for it certainly deserved no
softer name. Cheston and Albina were shocked at this disclosure; but, in
compassion to Mrs. Marsden, they forbore to add to her distress by a
single comment. Cheston shortly after took his leave, saying to Albina
as he departed, "I hope you are done for ever with Mrs. Washington
Potts."

Next morning, Cheston seriously but kindly expostulated with Albina and
her mother on the folly and absurdity of sacrificing their comfort,
their time, their money, and, indeed, their self-respect, to the paltry
distinction of being capriciously noticed by a few vain, silly,
heartless people, inferior to themselves in everything but in wealth and
in a slight tincture of soi-disant fashion; and who, after all, only
took them on or threw them off as it suited their own convenience.

"What you say is very true, Bromley," replied Mrs. Marsden. "I begin to
view these things in their proper light, and as Albina remarks, we ought
to profit by this last lesson. To tell the exact truth, I have heard
since I came to town that Mrs. Washington Potts is, after all, by no
means in the first circle, and it is whispered that she and her husband
are both of very low origin."

"No matter for her circle or her origin," said Cheston, "in our country
the only acknowledged distinction should be that which is denoted by
superiority of mind and manners."

Next day Lieutenant Cheston escorted Mrs. Marsden and Albina back to
their own home--and a week afterwards he was sent unexpectedly on a
cruise in the West Indies.

He returned in the spring, and found Mrs. Marsden more rational than he
had ever known her, and Albina highly improved by a judicious course of
reading which he had marked out for her, and still more by her intimacy
with a truly genteel, highly talented, and very amiable family from the
eastward, who had recently bought a house in the village, and in whose
society she often wondered at the infatuation which had led her to fancy
such a woman as Mrs. Washington Potts, with whom, of course, she never
had any farther communication.

A recent and very large bequest to Bromley Cheston from a distant
relation, made it no longer necessary that the young lieutenant should
wait for promotion before he married Albina; and accordingly their union
took place immediately on his return.

Before the Montagues left Philadelphia to prosecute their journey to the
south, there arrived an acquaintance of theirs from England, who
injudiciously "told the secrets of his prison-house," and made known in
whispers "not loud but deep," that Mr. Dudley Montague, of Normancourt
Park, Hants, (alias Mr. John Wilkins, of Lamb's Conduit Street,
Clerkenwell), had long been well-known in London as a reporter for a
newspaper; that he had recently married a widow, the ci-devant governess
of a Somers Town Boarding-school, who had drawn her ideas of fashionable
life from the columns of the Morning Post, and who famished her pupils
so much to her own profit that she had been able to retire on a sort of
fortune. With the assistance of this fund, she and her daughter (the
young lady was in reality the offspring of her mother's first marriage)
had accompanied Mr. Wilkins across the Atlantic: all three assuming the
lordly name of Montague, as one well calculated to strike the
republicans with proper awe. The truth was, that for a suitable
consideration proffered by a tory publisher, the _soi-disant_ Mr.
Montague had undertaken to add another octavo to the numerous volumes of
gross misrepresentation and real ignorance that profess to contain an
impartial account of the United States of America.




MR. SMITH.


Those of my readers who recollect the story of Mrs. Washington Potts,
may not be sorry to learn that in less than two years after the marriage
of Bromley Cheston and Albina, Mrs. Marsden was united to a southern
planter of great wealth and respectability, with whom she had become
acquainted during a summer excursion to Newport. Mrs. Selbourne (that
being her new name) was now, as her letters denoted, completely in her
element, presiding over a large establishment, mistress of twelve
house-servants, and almost continually engaged in doing the honours of a
spacious mansion to a round of company, or in complying with similar
invitations from the leading people of a populous neighbourhood, or in
reciprocating visits with the most fashionable inhabitants of the
nearest city. Her only regret was that Mrs. Washington Potts could not
"be there to see." But then as a set-off, Mrs. Selbourne rejoiced in the
happy reflection, that a distance of several hundred miles placed a
great gulf between herself and Aunt Quimby, from whose Vandal incursions
she now felt a delightful sense of security. She was not, however, like
most of her compatriots, a warm advocate for the universal diffusion of
railroads; neither did she assent very cordially to the common remarks
about this great invention, annihilating both time and space, and
bringing "the north and the south, and the east and the west" into the
same neighbourhood.

Bromley Cheston, having succeeded to a handsome inheritance by the
demise of an opulent relative, in addition to his house in Philadelphia,
purchased as a summer residence that of his mother-in-law on the banks
of the Delaware, greatly enlarging and improving it, and adding to its
little domain some meadow and woodland; also a beautiful piece of
ground which he converted into a green lawn sloping down towards the
river, and bounded on one side by a shady road that led to a convenient
landing-place.

The happiness of Albina and her husband (who in the regular course of
promotion became Captain Cheston) was much increased by the society of
Bromley's sister Myrtilla, a beautiful, sprightly, and intelligent girl,
whom they invited to live with them after the death of her maternal
grandmother, an eastern lady, with whom she had resided since the loss
of her parents, and who had left her a little fortune of thirty thousand
dollars.

Their winters were passed in Philadelphia, where Albina found herself
quite at home in a circle far superior to that of Mrs. Washington Potts,
who was one of the first to visit Mrs. Cheston on her marriage. This
visit was of course received with civility, but returned by merely
leaving a card at the door. No notice whatever was taken of Mrs. Potts's
second call; neither was she ever invited to the house.

When Cheston was not at sea, little was wanting to complete the perfect
felicity of the family. It is true they were not entirely exempt from
the occasional annoyances and petty vexations, inseparable from even the
happiest state of human life; but these were only transient shadows,
that, on passing away, generally served as topics of amusement, and
caused them to wonder how trifles, diverting in the recollection, could
have really so troubled them at the time of occurrence. Such, for
instance, were the frequent visitations of Mrs. Quimby, who told them
(after they had enlarged their villa, and bought a carriage and a
tilbury), "Really, good people, now that things are all so genteel, and
pleasant, and full-handed, I think I shall be apt to favour you with my
company the greatest part of every summer. There's no danger of Billy
Fairfowl and Mary being jealous. They always let me go and come just as
I please; and if I was to stay away ten years, I do not believe they'd
be the least affronted."

As the old lady had intimated, her visits, instead of being "few and far
between," were many and close together. It is said you may get used to
anything, and therefore the Chestons _did not_ sell off their property
and fly the country on account of Aunt Quimby. Luckily she never brought
with her any of the Fairfowl family, her son-in-law having sufficient
tact to avoid on principle all visiting intercourse with people who
were beyond his sphere: for, though certain of being kindly treated by
the Chestons themselves, he apprehended that he and his would probably
be looked down upon by persons whom they might chance to meet there.
Mrs. Quimby, for her part, was totally obtuse to all sense of these
distinctions.

One Monday evening, on his return from town, Captain Cheston brought his
wife and sister invitations to a projected picnic party, among the
managers of which were two of his intimate friends. The company was to
consist chiefly of ladies and gentlemen from the city. Their design was
to assemble on the following Thursday, at some pleasant retreat on the
banks of the Delaware, and to recreate themselves with an unceremonious
_fête champêtre_. "I invited them," continued the captain, "to make use
of my grounds for the purpose. We can find an excellent place for them
in the woods by the river side. Delham and Lonsgrave will be here
to-morrow, to reconnoitre the capabilities of the place."

The ladies were delighted with the prospect of the picnic party; more
especially on finding that most of the company were known to them.

"It will be charming," said Albina, "to have them near us, and to be
able to supply them with many conveniences from our own house. You may
be assured, dear Bromley, that I shall liberally do my part towards
contributing to the picnickery. You know that our culinary preparations
never go wrong now that I have more experience, good servants, and above
all plenty to do with."

"How fortunate," said Myrtilla Cheston, "that Mrs. Quimby left us this
morning. This last visit has been so long that I think she will scarcely
favour us with another in less than two or three weeks. I hope she will
not hear that the picnic is to be on our place."

"There is no danger," replied Cheston; "Aunt Quimby cannot possibly know
any of the persons concerned in it. And besides, I met her to-day in the
street, and she told me that she was going to set out on Wednesday for
Baltimore, to visit Billy Fairfowl's sister, Mrs. Bagnell: 'Also,' said
she, 'it will take me from this time to that to pack my things, as I
never before went so far from home, and I dare say, I shall stay in
Baltimore all the rest of the fall; I don't believe when the Bagnells
once have me with them, they'll let me come away much this side of
winter.'"

"I sincerely hope they will not!" exclaimed Albina; "I am so glad that
Nancy Fairfowl has married a Baltimorean. I trust they will make their
house so pleasant to Aunt Quimby, that she will transfer her favour from
us to them. You know she often tells us that Nancy and herself are as
like as two peas, both in looks and ways; and from her account, Johnny
Bagnell must be a third pea, exactly resembling both of them."

"And yet," observed Cheston, "people whose minds are of the same
calibre, do not always assimilate as well as might be supposed. When
_too_ nearly alike, and too close to each other, they frequently rub
together so as to grate exceedingly."

We will pass over the intervening days by saying, that the preparations
for the picnic party were duly and successfully made: the arrangement of
the ground being undertaken by Captain Cheston, and Lieutenants Delham
and Lonsgrave, and completed with the taste, neatness, and judicious
arrangement, which always distinguishes such things when done by
officers, whether of army or navy.

The appointed Thursday arrived. It was a lovely day, early in September:
the air being of that delightful and exhilarating temperature, that
converts the mere sense of existence into pleasure. The heats of summer
were over, and the sky had assumed its mildest tint of blue. All was
calm and cool, and lovely, and the country seemed sleeping in luxurious
repose. The grass, refreshed by the August rains, looked green as that
of the "emerald isle;" and the forest trees had not yet begun to wear
the brilliant colours of autumn, excepting here and there a maple whose
foliage was already crimsoned. The orchards were loaded with fruit,
glowing in ripeness; and the buckwheat fields, white with blossoms,
perfumed the air with their honeyed fragrance. The rich flowers of the
season were in full bloom. Birds of beautiful plumage still lingered in
the woods, and were warbling their farewell notes previous to their
return to a more southern latitude. The morning sunbeams danced and
glittered on the blue waters of the broad and brimming Delaware, as the
mirrored surface reflected its green and fertile banks with their
flowery meadows, embowering groves, and modestly elegant villas.

The ground allotted to the party was an open space in the woodlands,
which ran along an elevated ridge, looking directly down on the noble
river that from its far-off source in the Catskill mountains, first
dividing Pennsylvania from New York and then from New Jersey, carries
its tributary stream the distance of three hundred miles, till it widens
into the dim and lonely bay whose last waves are blended with the
dark-rolling Atlantic. Old trees of irregular and fantastic forms,
leaning far over the water, grew on the extreme edge of this bank; and
from its steep and crumbling side protruded their wildly twisted roots,
fringed with long fibres that had been washed bare by the tide which
daily overflowed the broad strip of gray sand, that margined the river.
Part of an old fence, that had been broken down and carried away by the
incursions of a spring freshet, still remained, at intervals, along the
verge of the bank; and his ladies had prevailed on Captain Cheston not
to repair it, as in its ruinous state it looked far more picturesque
than if new and in good order. In clearing this part of the forest many
of the largest and finest trees had been left standing, and beneath
their shade seats were now dispersed for the company. In another part of
the opening, a long table had been set under a sort of marquée,
constructed of colours brought from the Navy Yard, and gracefully
suspended to the wide-spreading branches of some noble oaks: the stars
and stripes of the most brilliant flag in the world, blending in
picturesque elegance with the green and clustering foliage. At a little
distance, under a group of trees, whose original forms were hidden
beneath impervious masses of the forest grape-vine, was placed a
side-table for the reception of the provisions, as they were unpacked
from the baskets; and a clear shady brook which wandered near, rippling
over a bed of pebbles on its way down to the river, afforded an
unlimited supply of "water clear as diamond spark," and made an
excellent refrigerator for the wine bottles.

Most of the company were to go up in the early boat: purposing to return
in the evening by the railroad. Others, who preferred making their own
time, were to come in carriages. As soon as the bell of the steamboat
gave notice of her approach, Captain Cheston, with his wife and sister,
accompanied by Lieutenants Delham and Lonsgrave, went down to the
landing-place to receive the first division of the picnic party, which
was chiefly of young people, all with smiling countenances, and looking
as if they anticipated a very pleasant little fête. The Chestons were
prepared to say with Seged of Ethiopia, "This day shall be a day of
happiness"--but as the last of the gay procession stepped from the
landing-board, Aunt Quimby brought up the rear.

"Oh! Bromley," said Mrs. Cheston, in a low voice, to her husband, "there
is our most _mal-à-propos_ of aunts--I thought she was a hundred miles
off. This is really too bad--what shall we do with her? On this day,
too, of all days--"

"We can do nothing, but endeavour, as usual, to make the best of her,"
replied the captain; "but where did she pick up that common-looking man,
whom she seems to be hauling along with her?"

Mrs. Quimby now came up, and after the first greeting, Albina and
Myrtilla endeavoured to withdraw from her the attention of the rest of
the company, whom they conducted for the present to the house; but she
seized upon the captain, to whom she introduced her companion by the
appellation of Mr. Smith. The stranger looked embarrassed, and seemed as
if he could scarcely presume to take the offered hand of Captain
Cheston, and muttered something about trespassing on hospitality, but
Aunt Quimby interrupted him with--"Oh! nonsense, now, Mr. Smith--where's
the use of being so shame-faced, and making apologies for what can't be
helped? I dare say my nephew and niece wonder quite as much at seeing
_me_ here, supposing that I'm safe and sound at Nancy Bagnell's, in
Baltimore. But are you sure my baggage is all on the barrow? Just step
back, and see if the big blue bandbox is safe, and the little yellow
one; I should not wonder if the porter tosses them off, or crushes in
the lids. All men seem to have a spite at bandboxes."

Mr. Smith meekly obeyed: and Aunt Quimby, taking the arm of Cheston,
walked with him towards the house.

"Tell me who this gentleman is," said Captain Cheston. "He cannot belong
to any of the Smiths of 'Market, Arch, Race, and Vine, Chestnut, Walnut,
Spruce, and Pine.'"

"No," replied Mrs. Quimby, "nor to the Smiths of the cross-streets
neither--nor to those up in the Northern Liberties, nor them down in
Southwark. If you mean that he is not a Philadelphia man, you've hit the
nail on the head--but that's no reason there shouldn't be Smiths enough
all over the world. However, the short and the long of it is this--I was
to have started for Baltimore yesterday morning, bright and early, with
Mr. and Mrs. Neverwait--but the shoemaker had not sent home my
over-shoes, and the dyer had not finished my gray Canton crape shawl,
that he was doing a cinnamon brown, and the milliner disappointed me in
new-lining my bonnet; so I could not possibly go, you know, and the
Neverwaits went without me. Well, the things _were_ brought home last
night, which was like coming a day after the fair. But as I was all
packed up, I was bent upon going, somehow or other, this morning. So I
made Billy Fairfowl take me down to the wharf, bag and baggage, to see
if he could find anybody he knew to take charge of me to Baltimore. And
there, as good luck would have it, we met with Mr. Smith, who has been
several times in Billy's store, and bought domestics of him, and got
acquainted with him; so that Billy, finding this poor Mr. Smith was a
stranger, and a man that took no airs, and that did not set up for great
things, got very sociable with him, and even invited him to tea. Now,
when we met him on the wharf, Mr. Smith was quite a windfall for us, and
he agreed to escort me to Baltimore, as of course he must, when he was
asked. So, then, Billy being in a hurry to go to market for breakfast
(before all the pick of the butter was gone), just bade me good-bye, and
left me on the wharf, seeing what good hands I was in. Now, poor Mr.
Smith being a stranger, and, of course, not so well used to steamboats
as our own people, took me into the wrong one; for the New York and
Baltimore boats were laying side by side, and seemed both mixed
together, so that it was hard telling which was which, the crowd hiding
everything from us. And after we got on board, I was so busy talking,
and he a listening, and looking at the people, that we never found out
our mistake till we were half-way up the river, instead of being
half-way down it. And then I heard the ladies all round talking of a nic
or a pic (or both I believe they called it), that they said was to be
held on Captain Cheston's grounds. So, then, I pricked up my ears, and
found that it was even so; and I told them that Captain Cheston was a
near relation of mine, for his wife was own daughter to Mrs. Marsden
that was, whose first husband was my sister Nelly's own son; and all
about your marrying Albina, and what a handsome place you have, and how
Mr. Smith and I had got into the wrong boat, and were getting carried
off, being taken up the river instead of down."

"And what did the company say to all this?" inquired Cheston.

"Why, I don't exactly remember, but they must have said something; for I
know those that were nearest stopped their own talk when I began. And,
after awhile, I went across to the other side of the boat, where Mr.
Smith was leaning over the railing, and looking at the foam flying from
the wheels, (as if it was something new), and I pulled his sleeve, and
told him we were quite in luck to-day, for we should be at a party
without intending it. And he made a sort of humming and hawing about
intruding himself (as he called it) without an invitation. But I told
him to leave all that to me--I'd engage to pass him through. And he
talked something of betaking himself to the nearest hotel after we
landed, and waiting for the next boat down the river. However, I would
not listen to that; and I made him understand that any how there could
be no Baltimore to-day, as it was quite too late to get there now by any
contrivance at all; and that we could go down with the other company
this evening by the railroad, and take a fresh start to-morrow morning.
Still he seemed to hold back; and I told him that as to our going to the
party, all things had turned up as if it _was_ to be, and I should think
it a sin to fling such good luck aside, when it was just ready to drop
into our mouths, and that he might never have another chance of being in
such genteel company as long as he lived. This last hint seemed to do
the business, for he gave a sort of a pleased smile, and made no more
objection. And then I put him in mind that the people that owned the
ground were my own niece and nephew, who were always crazy to see me,
and have me with them; and I could answer for it they'd be just as glad
to see any of my acquaintance--and as to the eatables, I was sure _his_
being there would not make a cent's worth of difference, for I was
certain there'd be plenty, and oceans of plenty, and I told him only to
go and look at the baskets of victuals that were going up in the boat;
besides all that, I knew the Chestons would provide well, for they were
never backward with anything."

She now stopped to take breath, and Cheston inquired if her son-in-law
knew nothing more of Mr. Smith than from merely seeing him in his store.

"Oh! yes; did not I tell you we had him to tea? You need not mention it
to anybody--but (if the truth must be told) Mr. Smith is an Englishman.
The poor man can't help that, you know: and I'm sure I should never have
guessed it, for he neither looks English nor talks English. He is not a
bit like that impudent Mr. Montague, who took slices out of Albina's big
plum-cake hours before the company came, at that great party she gave
for Mrs. Washington Potts."

"Pshaw!" said Cheston.

"Yes, you may well pshaw at it. But after all, for my own part, I must
say I enjoyed myself very much that evening. I had a great deal of
pleasant talk. I was sorry, afterwards, that I did not stay down stairs
to the last, to see if all the company took French leave like me. If
they did, it must have been quite a pretty sight to see them go. By the
bye (now I talk of French leave) did you hear that the Washington
Pottses have broke all to pieces and gone off to France to live upon the
money that he made over to his wife to keep it from his creditors?"

"But, Mr. Smith--" resumed Cheston.

"Why, Bromley, what makes you so fidgety? Billy Fairfowl (though I say
it that shouldn't say it) is not the man to ask people to tea unless he
is sure they are pretty decent sort of folks. So he went first to the
British Consul, and inquired about Mr. Smith, and described his look and
dress just as he would a runaway 'prentice. And the Consul knew exactly
who he meant, and told him he would answer for Mr. Smith's being a man
of good character, and perfectly honest and respectable. And that, you
know, is quite as much as need be said of anybody. So, then, we had him
to tea, quite in a plain way; but he seemed very easily satisfied, and
though there were huckleberries, and cucumbers, and dough-nuts, he did
not eat a thing but bread and butter, and not much of that, and took no
sugar in his tea, and only drank two cups. And Billy talked to him the
whole evening about our factories, and our coal and iron: and he
listened quite attentively, and seemed to understand very well, though
he did not say much; and he kept awake all the time, which was very
clever of him, and more than Billy is used to. He seems like a
good-hearted man, for he saved little Jane from pulling the tea-waiter
down upon her head, as she was coming out from under the table; and he
ran and picked up Johnny, when he fell over the rockers of the big
chair, and wiped the blood off his nose with his own clean handkerchief.
I dare say he's a good soul; but he is very humble-minded, and seems so
afraid of saying wrong that he hardly says anything. Here he comes,
trudging along beside the porter; and I see he has got all the baggage
safe, even the brown paper parcel and the calico bag. That's his own
trunk, under all the rest."

Mr. Smith now came up, and inquired of Captain Cheston for the nearest
inn, that he might remain there till a boat passed down for
Philadelphia. "Why, Mr. Smith," interrupted Aunt Quimby, "where's the
sense of being so backward? We ought to be thankful for our good luck
in getting here on the very day of the picnic, even though we _did_ come
by mistake. And now you _are_ here, it's all nonsense for you to run
away, and go and mope by yourself at a country tavern. I suppose you are
afraid you're not welcome; but I'll answer for you as well as myself."

Civility to the stranger required that Captain Cheston should second
Mrs. Quimby; and he did so in terms so polite that Mr. Smith was
induced, with much diffidence, to remain.

"Poor man!" said Aunt Quimby, in a low voice, to the captain, "between
ourselves, it's plain enough that he is not much used to being among
great people, and he's afraid of feeling like a fish out of water. He
must have a very poor opinion of himself, for even at Billy Fairfowl's
he did not seem quite at home; though we all tried to encourage him, and
I told him myself, as soon as we sat down to the tea-table, to make just
as free as if he was in his own house."

Arrived at the mansion of the Chestons, Mrs. Quimby at first objected to
changing her dress, which was a very rusty black silk, with a bonnet to
match; declaring that she was sure nothing was expected of people who
were on their travels, and that she saw no use in taking the trouble to
unpack her baggage. She was, however, overruled by the representations
of Albina, who offered to both unpack and re-pack for her. Accordingly
she equipped herself in what she called her second-best suit. The gown
was a thick rustling silk, of a very reddish brown, with a new inside
kerchief of blue-tinted book muslin that had never been washed. Over her
shoulders she pinned her Canton-crape shawl, whose brown tinge was
entirely at variance with the shade of her gown. On her head was a stiff
hard cap, trimmed with satin ribbon, of a still different brown colour,
the ends of the bows sticking out horizontally, and scolloped into
numerous points. She would not wear her best bonnet, lest it should be
injured; and fortunately her worst was so small that she found, if she
put it on, it would crush her second-best cap. She carried in one hand a
stiff-starched handkerchief of imitation-cambric, which she considered
too good to unfold; and with the other she held over her head a faded
green parasol.

Thus equipped, the old lady set out with Captain and Mrs. Cheston for
the scene of the picnic; the rest of the party being a little in advance
of them. They saw Mr. Smith strolling about the lawn, and Mrs. Quimby
called to him to come and give his arm to her niece, saying, "There,
Albina, take him under your wing, and try to make him sociable, while I
walk on with your husband. Bromley, how well you look in your
navy-regimentals. I declare I'm more and more in luck. It is not
everybody that can have an officer always ready and willing to 'squire
them"--And the old lady (like many young ladies) unconsciously put on a
different face and a different walk, while escorted by a gentleman in
uniform.

"Bromley," continued Aunt Quimby, "I heard some of the picnic ladies in
the boat saying that those which are to ride up are to bring a lion with
them. This made me open my eyes, and put me all in quiver; so I could
not help speaking out, and saying--I should make a real right down
objection to his being let loose among the company, even if he was ever
so tame. Then they laughed, and one of them said that a lion meant a
great man; and asked me if I had never heard the term before. I answered
that may be I had, but it must have slipped my memory; and that I
thought it a great shame to speak of Christian people as if they were
wild beasts."

"And who is this great man?" inquired Cheston.

"Oh! he's a foreigner from beyond sea, and he is coming with some of the
ladies in their own carriage--Baron Somebody"--

"Baron Von Klingenberg," said Cheston, "I have heard of him."

"That's the very name. It seems he is just come from Germany, and has
taken rooms at one of the tip-top hotels, where he has a table all to
himself. I wonder how any man can bear to eat his victuals sitting up
all alone, with not a soul to speak a word with. I think I should die if
I had no body to talk to. Well--they said that this Baron is a person of
very high _tone_, which I suppose means that he has a very loud
voice--and from what I could gather, it's fashionable for the young
ladies to fall in love with him, and they think it an honour to get a
bow from him in Chesnut street, and they take him all about with them.
And they say he has in his own country a castle that stands on banks of
rind, which seems a strange foundation. Dear me--now we've got to the
picnic place--how gay and pretty everything looks, and what heaps of
victuals there must be in all those baskets, and oceans of drinkables in
all those bottles and demijohns. Mercy on me--I pity the
dish-washers--when will they get through all the dirty plates! And I
declare! how beautiful the flags look! fixed up over the table just
like bed-curtains--I am glad you have plenty of chairs here, besides the
benches.--And only see!--if here a'n't cakes and lemonade coming round."

The old lady took her seat under one of the large trees, and entered
unhesitatingly into whatever conversation was within her hearing;
frequently calling away the Chestons to ask them questions or address to
them remarks. The company generally divided into groups; some sat, some
walked, some talked; and some, retreating farther into the woods, amused
themselves and each other with singing, or playing forfeits. There was,
as is usual in Philadelphia assemblages, a very large proportion of
handsome young ladies; and all were dressed in that consistent,
tasteful, and decorous manner which distinguishes the fair damsels of
the city of Penn.

In a short time Mrs. Quimby missed her protegée, and looking round for
him she exclaimed--"Oh! if there is not Mr. Smith a sitting on a rail,
just back of me, all the time. Do come down off the fence, Mr. Smith.
You'll find a much pleasanter seat on this low stump behind me, than to
stay perched up there. Myrtilla Cheston, my dear, come here--I want to
speak to you."

Miss Cheston had the amiability to approach promptly and cheerfully:
though called away from an animated conversation with two officers of
the navy, two of the army, and three young lawyers, who had all formed a
semicircle round four of the most attractive belles: herself being the
cynosure.

"Myrtilla," said Aunt Quimby, in rather a low voice, "do take some
account of this poor forlorn man that's sitting behind me. He's so very
backward, and thinks himself such a mere nobody, that I dare say he
feels bad enough at being here without an invitation, and all among
strangers too--though I've told him over and over that he need not have
the least fear of being welcome. There now--there's a good girl--go and
spirit him up a little. You know you are at home here on your brother's
own ground."

"I scarcely know how to talk to an Englishman," replied Myrtilla, in a
very low voice.

"Why, can't you ask him, if he ever in his life saw so wide a river, and
if he ever in his life saw such big trees, and if he don't think our sun
a great deal brighter than his, and if he ever smelt buckwheat before?"

Myrtilla turned towards Mr. Smith (and perceiving from his
ill-suppressed smile that he had heard Mrs. Quimby's instructions) like
Olivia in the play, she humoured the jest by literally following them,
making a curtsy to the gentleman, and saying, "Mr. Smith, did you ever
in your life see so wide a river? did you ever in your life see such big
trees? don't you think our sun a great deal brighter than yours? and did
you ever smell buckwheat before?"

"I have not had that happiness," replied Mr. Smith with a simpering
laugh, as he rose from the old stump, and, forgetting that it was not a
chair, tried to hand it to Myrtilla. She bowed in acknowledgment, placed
herself on the seat--and for awhile endeavoured to entertain Mr. Smith,
as he stood leaning (not picturesquely) against a portion of the broken
fence.

In the mean time Mrs. Quimby continued to call on the attention of those
around her. To some the old lady was a source of amusement, to others of
disgust and annoyance. By this time they all understood who she was, and
how she happened to be there. Fixing her eyes on a very dignified and
fashionable looking young lady, whom she had heard addressed as Miss
Lybrand, and (who with several others) was sitting nearly opposite,
"Pray, Miss," said Aunt Quimby, "was your grandfather's name Moses?"

"It was," replied the young lady.

"Oh! then you must be a granddaughter of old Moses Lybrand, who kept a
livery stable up in Race street; and his son Aaron always used to drive
the best carriage, after the old man was past doing it himself. Is your
father's name Aaron?"

"No, madam," said Miss Lybrand--looking very red--"My father's name is
Richard."

"Richard--he must have been one of the second wife's children. Oh! I
remember seeing him about when he was a little boy. He had a curly head,
and on week days generally wore a gray jacket and corduroy trowsers; but
he had a nice bottle-green suit for Sunday. Yes, yes--they went to our
church, and sat up in the gallery. And he was your father, was he? Then
Aaron must have been your own uncle. He was a very careful driver for a
young man. He learnt of his father. I remember just after we were first
married, Mr. Quimby hiring Moses Lybrand's best carriage to take me and
my bridesmaids and groomsmen on a trip to Germantown. It was a yellow
coachee with red curtains, and held us all very well with close packing.
In those days people like us took their wedding rides to Germantown and
Frankford and Darby, and ordered a dinner at a tavern with custards and
whips, and came home in the evening. And the high-flyers, when _they_
got married, went as far as Chester or Dunks's Ferry. They did not then
start off from the church door and scour the roads all the way to
Niagara just because they were brides and grooms; as if that was any
reason for flying their homes directly. But pray what has become of your
uncle Aaron?"

"I do not know," said the young lady, looking much displeased; "I never
heard of him."

"But did not you tell me your grandfather's name was Moses?"

"There may have been other Moses Lybrands."

"Was not he a short pockmarked man, that walked a little lame, with
something of a cast in his right eye: or, I won't be positive, may be it
was in the left?"

"I am very sure papa's father was no such looking person," replied Miss
Lybrand, "but I never saw him--he died before I was born--"

"Poor old man," resumed Mrs. Quimby, "if I remember right, Moses became
childish many years before his death."

Miss Lybrand then rose hastily, and proposed to her immediate companions
a walk farther into the woods; and Myrtilla, leaving the vicinity of Mr.
Smith, came forward and joined them: her friends making a private signal
to her not to invite the aforesaid gentleman to accompany them.

Aunt Quimby saw them depart, and looking round said--"Why, Mr.
Smith--have the girls given you the slip? But to be sure, they meant you
to follow them!"

Mr. Smith signified that he had not courage to do so without an
invitation, and that he feared he had already been tiring Miss Cheston.

"Pho, pho," said Mrs. Quimby, "you are quite too humble. Pluck up a
little spirit, and run after the girls."

"I believe," replied he, "I cannot take such a liberty."

"Then I'll call Captain Cheston to introduce you to some more gentlemen.
Here--Bromley--"

"No--no," said Mr. Smith, stopping her apprehensively; "I would rather
not intrude any farther upon his kindness."

"I declare you are the shame-facedest man I ever saw in my life. Well,
then, you can walk about, and look at the trees and bushes. There's a
fine large buttonwood, and there's a sassafras; or you can go to the
edge of the bank and look at the river and watch how the tide goes down
and leaves the splatter-docks standing in the mud. See how thick they
are at low water--I wonder if you couldn't count them. And may be
you'll see a wood-shallop pass along, or may be a coal-barge. And who
knows but a sturgeon may jump out of the water, and turn head over heels
and back again--it's quite a handsome sight!"

Good Mr. Smith did as he was bidden, and walked about and looked at
things, and probably counted the splatter-docks, and perhaps saw a fish
jump.

"It's all bashfulness--nothing in the world but bashfulness," pursued
Mrs. Quimby; "that's the only reason Mr. Smith don't talk."

"For my part," said a very elegant looking girl, "I am perfectly willing
to impute the taciturnity of Mr. Smith (and that of all other silent
people) to modesty. But yet I must say, that as far as I have had
opportunities of observing, most men above the age of twenty have
sufficient courage to talk, if they know what to say. When the head is
well furnished with ideas, the tongue cannot habitually refrain from
giving them utterance."

"That's a very good observation," said Mrs. Quimby, "and suits _me_
exactly. But as to Mr. Smith, I do believe it's all bashfulness with
him. Between ourselves (though the British consul warrants him
respectable) I doubt whether he was ever in such genteel society before;
and may be he thinks it his duty to listen and not to talk, poor man.
But then he ought to know, that in our country he need not be afraid of
nobody: and that here all people are equal, and one is as good as
another."

"Not exactly," said the young lady, "we have in America, as in Europe,
numerous gradations of mind, manners, and character. Politically we are
equal, as far as regards the rights of citizens and the protection of
the laws; and also we have no privileged orders. But individually it is
difficult for the refined and the vulgar, the learned and the ignorant,
the virtuous and the vicious to associate familiarly and
indiscriminately, even in a republic."

The old lady looked mystified for a few moments, and then proceeded--"As
you say, people's different. We can't be hail fellow well met, with Tom,
Dick, and Harry--but for my part I think myself as good as anybody!"

No one contradicted this opinion, and just then a gentleman came up and
said to the young lady--"Miss Atwood, allow me to present you with a
sprig of the last wild roses of the season. I found a few still
lingering on a bush in a shady lane just above."

    "'I bid their blossoms in my bonnet wave,'"

said Miss Atwood--inserting them amid one of the riband bows.

"Atwood--Atwood," said Aunt Quimby, "I know the name very well. Is not
your father Charles Atwood, who used to keep a large wholesale store in
Front street?"

"I have the happiness of being that gentleman's daughter," replied the
young lady.

"And you live up Chestnut now, don't you--among the fashionables?"

"My father's house _is_ up Chestnut street."

"Your mother was a Ross, wasn't she?"

"Her maiden name _was_ Ross."

"I thought so," proceeded Mrs. Quimby; "I remember your father very
well. He was the son of Tommy Atwood, who kept an ironmonger's shop down
Second street by the New Market. Your grandfather was a very obliging
man, rather fat. I have often been in his store, when we lived down that
way. I remember once of buying a waffle-iron of him, and when I tried it
and found it did not make a pretty pattern on the waffles, I took it
back to him to change it: but having no other pattern, he returned me
the money as soon as I asked him. And another time, he had the kitchen
tongs mended for me without charging a cent, when I put him in mind that
I had bought them there; which was certainly very genteel of him. And no
wonder he made a fortune; as all people do that are obliging to their
customers, and properly thankful to them. Your grandfather had a
brother, Jemmy Atwood, who kept a china shop up Third street. He was
your great-uncle, and he married Sally Dickison, whose father, old Adam
Dickison, was in the shoemaking line, and died rich. I have heard Mr.
Quimby tell all about them. He knew all the family quite well, and he
once had a sort of notion of Sally Dickison himself, before he got
acquainted with me. Old Adam Dickison was a very good man, but he and
his wife were rather too fond of family names. He called one of his
daughters Sarah, after his mother, and another Sarah, after his wife;
for he said 'there couldn't be too many Sally Dickisons.' But they found
afterwards they could not get along without tacking Ann to one of the
Sarahs, and Jane to the other. Then they had a little girl whom they
called Debby, after some aunt Deborah. But little Debby died, and next
they had a boy; yet rather than the name should be lost, they christened
him Debbius. I wish I could remember whether Debbius was called after
the little Debby or the big one. Sometimes I think it was one and
sometimes t'other--I dare say Miss Atwood, you can tell, as you belong
to the family?"

"I am glad that I can set this question at rest," replied Miss Atwood,
smiling heroically; "I have heard the circumstance mentioned when my
father has spoken of his great-uncle Jemmy, the chinaman, and of the
shoemaker's family into which uncle Jemmy married, and in which were the
two Sallys. Debbius was called equally after his sister and his aunt."

Then turning to the very handsome and _distingué_-looking young
gentleman who had brought her the flowers, and who had seemed much
amused at the foregoing dialogue, Miss Atwood took his hand, and said to
Aunt Quimby: "Let me present to you a grandson of that very Debbius, Mr.
Edward Symmington, my sort of cousin; and son of Mr. Symmington, the
lawyer, who chanced to marry Debbius's daughter."

Young Symmington laughed, and, after telling Miss Atwood that she did
everything with a good grace, he proposed that they should join some of
their friends who were amusing themselves further up in the woods. Miss
Atwood took his arm, and, bowing to Mrs. Quimby, they departed.

"That's a very pleasant young lady," said she; "I am glad I've got
acquainted with her. She's very much like her grandfather, the
ironmonger; her nose is the very image of old Benny's."

Fearing that _their_ turn might come next, all the young people now
dispersed from the vicinity of Aunt Quimby, who, accosting a housewifely
lady that had volunteered to superintend the arrangements of the table,
proposed going with her to see the baskets unpacked.

The remainder of the morning passed pleasantly away; and about noon,
Myrtilla Cheston and her companions, returning from their ramble, gave
notice that the carriages from town were approaching. Shortly after,
there appeared at the entrance of the wood, several vehicles filled with
ladies and gentlemen, who had preferred this mode of conveyance to
coming up in the early boat. Most of the company went to meet them,
being curious to see exactly who alighted.

When the last carriage drew up, there was a buzz all round: "There is
the Baron! there is the Baron Von Klingenberg; as usual, with Mrs. Blake
Bentley and her daughters!"

After the new arrivals had been conducted by the Chestons to the house,
and adjusted their dresses, they were shown into what was considered the
drawing-room part of the woods, and accommodated with seats. But it was
very evident that Mrs. Blake Bentley's party were desirous of keeping
chiefly to themselves, talking very loudly to each other, and seemingly
resolved to attract the attention of every one round.

"Bromley," said Mrs. Quimby, having called Captain Cheston to her, "is
that a baron?"

"That is the Baron Von Klingenberg."

"Well, between ourselves, he's about as ugly a man as ever I laid my
eyes on. At least, he looks so at that distance; a clumsy fellow, with
high shoulders and a round back, and his face all over hair, and as
bandy as he can be, besides; and he's not a bit young, neither."

"Barons never seem to me young," said Miss Turretville, a young lady of
the romantic school, "but Counts always do."

"I declare even Mr. Smith is better looking," pursued Aunt Quimby,
fixing her eyes on the baron; "don't you think so, Miss?"

"I think nothing about him," replied the fair Turretville.

"Mr. Smith," said Myrtilla, "perhaps is not actually ugly, and, if
properly dressed, might look tolerably; but he is too meek and too weak.
I wasted much time in trying to entertain him, as I sat under the tree;
but he only looked down and simpered, and scarcely ventured a word in
reply. One thing is certain, I shall take no further account of him."

"Now, Myrtilla, it's a shame, to set your face against the poor man in
this way. I dare say he is very good."

"That is always said of stupid people."

"No doubt it would brighten him wonderfully, if you were to dance with
him when the ball begins."

"Dance!" said Myrtilla, "dance with _him_. Do you suppose he knows
either a step or a figure? No, no! I shall take care never to exhibit
myself as Mr. Smith's partner, and I beg of you, Aunt Quimby, on no
account to hint such a thing to him. Besides, I am already engaged three
sets deep," and she ran away, on seeing that Mr. Smith was approaching.

"Well, Mr. Smith," said the old lady, "have you been looking at the
shows of the place? And now the greatest show of all has arrived--the
Baron of Clinkanbeg. Have you seen him?"

"I believe I have," replied Mr. Smith.

"You wander about like a lost sheep, Mr. Smith," said Aunt Quimby,
protectingly, "and look as if you had not a word to throw at a dog; so
sit down and talk to _me_. There's a dead log for you. And now you
shan't stir another step till dinner-time." Mr. Smith seated himself on
the dead log, and Mrs. Quimby proceeded: "I wish, though, we could find
places a little nearer to the baron and his ladies, and hear them talk.
Till to-day, I never heard a nobleman speak in my life, having had no
chance. But, after all, I dare say they have voices much like other
people. Did you ever happen to hear any of them talk, when you lived in
England?"

"Once or twice, I believe," said Mr. Smith.

"Of course--excuse me, Mr. Smith--but, of course, they didn't speak to
_you_?"

"If I recollect rightly, they chanced to have occasion to do so."

"On business, I suppose. Do noblemen go to shops themselves and buy
their own things? Mr. Smith, just please to tell me what line you are
in."

Mr. Smith looked very red, and cast down his eyes. "I am in the tin
line," said he, after a pause.

"The tin line! Well, never mind; though, to be sure, I did not expect
you were a tinner. Perhaps you do a little also in the japan way?"

"No," replied Mr. Smith, magnanimously, "I deal in nothing but tin,
plain tin!"

"Well, if you think of opening a shop in Philadelphia, I am pretty sure
Billy Fairfowl will give you his custom; and I'll try to get Mrs.
Pattypan and Mrs. Kettleworth to buy all their tins of you."

Mr. Smith bowed his head in thankfulness.

"One thing I'm sure of," continued Aunt Quimby, "you'll never be the
least above your business. And, I dare say, after you get used to our
American ways, and a little more acquainted with our people, you'll be
able to take courage and hold up your head, and look about quite pert."

Poor Mr. Smith covered his face with his hands and shook his head, as if
repelling the possibility of his ever looking pert.

The Baron Von Klingenberg and his party were all on chairs, and formed
an impervious group. Mrs. Blake Bentley sat on one side of him, her
eldest daughter on the other, the second and third Miss Bentleys
directly in front, and the fourth, a young lady of eighteen, who
affected infantine simplicity and passed for a child, seated herself
innocently on the grass at the baron's feet. Mrs. Bentley was what some
call a fine-looking woman, being rather on a large scale, with fierce
black eyes, a somewhat acquiline nose, a set of very white teeth (from
the last new dentist), very red cheeks, and a profusion of dark
ringlets. Her dress, and that of her daughters, was always of the most
costly description, their whole costume being made and arranged in an
ultra fashionable manner. Around the Bentley party was a circle of
listeners, and admirers, and enviers; and behind that circle was another
and another. Into the outworks of the last, Aunt Quimby pushed her way,
leading, or rather pulling, the helpless Mr. Smith along with her.

The Baron Von Klingenberg (to do him justice) spoke our language with
great facility, his foreign accent being so slight that many thought
they could not perceive it at all. Looking over the heads of the ladies
immediately around him, he levelled his opera-glass at all who were
within his view, occasionally inquiring about them of Mrs. Blake
Bentley, who also could not see without her glass. She told him the
names of those whom she considered the most fashionable, adding,
confidentially, a disparaging remark upon each. Of a large proportion of
the company, she affected, however, to know nothing, replying to the
baron's questions with: "Oh! I really cannot tell you. They are people
whom one does not know--very respectable, no doubt; but not the sort of
persons one meets in society. You must be aware that on these occasions
the company is always more or less mixed, for which reason I generally
bring my own party along with me."

"This assemblage," said the baron, "somewhat reminds me of the annual
_fêtes_ I give to my serfs in the park that surrounds my castle, at the
cataract of the Rhine."

Miss Turretville had just come up, leaning on the arm of Myrtilla
Cheston. "Let us try to get nearer to the baron," said she; "he is
talking about castles. Oh! I am so glad that I have been introduced to
him. I met him the other evening at Mrs. De Mingle's select party, and
he took my fan out of my hand and fanned himself with it. There is
certainly an elegant ease about European gentlemen that our Americans
can never acquire."

"Where is the ease and elegance of Mr. Smith?" thought Myrtilla, as she
looked over at that forlorn individual shrinking behind Aunt Quimby.

"As I was saying," pursued the baron, lolling back in his chair and
applying to his nose Mrs. Bentley's magnificent essence-bottle, "when I
give these _fêtes_ to my serfs, I regale them with Westphalia hams from
my own hunting-grounds, and with hock from my own vineyards."

"Dear me! ham and hock!" ejaculated Mrs. Quimby.

"Baron," said Miss Turretville, "I suppose you have visited the Hartz
mountains?"

"My castle stands on one of them."

"Charming! Then you have seen the Brocken?"

"It is directly in front of my ramparts."

"How delightful! Do you never imagine that on a stormy night you hear
the witches riding through the air, to hold their revels on the Brocken?
Are there still brigands in the Black Forest?"

"Troops of them. The Black Forest is just back of my own woods. The
robbers were once so audacious as to attack my castle, and we had a
bloody fight. But we at length succeeded in taking all that were left
alive."

"What a pity! Was their captain anything like Charles de Moor?"

"Just such a man."

"Baron," observed Myrtilla, a little mischievously, "the situation of
your castle must be _unique_; in the midst of the Hartz mountains, at
the falls of the Rhine, with the Brocken in front, and the Black Forest
behind."

"You doat on the place, don't you?" asked Miss Turretville. "Do you live
there always?"

"No; only in the hunting season. I am equally at home in all the
capitals of the continent. I might, perhaps, be chiefly at my native
place, Vienna, only my friend, the emperor, is never happy but when I am
with him; and his devotion to me is rather overwhelming. The truth is,
one gets surfeited with courts, and kings, and princes; so I thought it
would be quite refreshing to take a trip to America, having great
curiosity to see what sort of a place it is. I recollect, at the last
court ball, the emperor was teazing me to waltz with his cousin, the
Archduchess of Hesse Hoblingen, who, he feared, would be offended if I
neglected her. But her serene highness dances as if she had a
cannon-ball chained to each foot, and so I got off by flatly telling my
friend the emperor that if women chose to go to balls in velvet and
ermine, and with coronets on their heads, they might get princes or some
such people to dance with them; as for my part, it was rather
excruciating to whirl about with persons in heavy royal robes!"

"Is it possible!" exclaimed Miss Turretville, "did you venture to talk
so to an emperor? Of course before next day you were loaded with chains
and immured in a dungeon; from which I suppose you escaped by a
subterranean passage."

"Not at all; my old crony the emperor knows his man; so he only laughed
and slapped me on the shoulder, and I took his arm, and we sauntered off
together to the other end of the grand saloon. I think I was in my
hussar uniform; I recollect that evening I broke my quizzing glass, and
had to borrow the Princess of Saxe Blinkenberg's."

"Was it very elegant--set round with diamonds?" asked Miss Matilda
Bentley, putting up to her face a hand on which glittered a valuable
brilliant.

"Quite likely it was, but I never look at diamonds; one gets so tired of
them. I have not worn any of mine these seven years; I often joke with
my friend Prince Esterhazy about his diamond coat, that he _will_
persist in wearing on great occasions. Its glitter really incommodes my
eyes when he happens to be near me, as he generally is. Whenever he
moves you may track him by the gems that drop from it, and you may hear
him far off by their continual tinkling as they fall."

"Only listen to that, Mr. Smith," said Aunt Quimby aside to her
protegée, "I do not believe there is such a man in the world as that
Hester Hazy with his diamond coat, that he's telling all this rigmarole
about. It sounds like one of Mother Bunch's tales."

"I rather think there is such a man," said Mr. Smith.

"Nonsense, Mr. Smith, why you're a greater goose than I supposed!"

Mr. Smith assented by a meek bow.

Dinner was now announced. The gentlemen conducted the ladies, and Aunt
Quimby led Mr. Smith; but she could not prevail on him to take a seat
beside her, near the head of the table, and directly opposite to the
Baron and his party. He humbly insisted on finding a place for himself
very low down, and seemed glad to get into the neighbourhood of Captain
Cheston, who presided at the foot.

The Blake Bentley party all levelled their glasses at Aunt Quimby; but
the old lady stood fire amazingly well, being busily engaged in
preparing her silk gown against the chance of injury from any possible
accident, tucking a napkin into her belt, pinning a pocket handkerchief
across the body of her dress, turning up her cuffs, and tying back the
strings of her cap to save the ribbon from grease-spots.

The dinner was profuse, excellent, and handsomely arranged: and for a
while most of the company were too earnestly occupied in satisfying
their appetites to engage much in conversation. Aunt Quimby sent a
waiter to Captain Cheston to desire him to take care of poor Mr. Smith:
which message the waiter thought it unnecessary to deliver.

Mrs. Blake Bentley and her daughter Matilda sat one on each side of the
Baron, and showed rather more assiduity in helping him than is customary
from ladies to gentlemen. Also their solicitude in anticipating his
wants was a work of super-erogation, for the Baron could evidently take
excellent care of himself, and was unremitting in his applications to
every one round him for everything within their reach, and loud and
incessant in his calls to the waiters for clean plates and clean
glasses.

When the dessert was set on, and the flow of soul was succeeding to the
feast which, whether of reason or not, had been duly honoured, Mrs.
Quimby found leisure to look round, and resume her colloquy.

"I believe, madam, your name is Bentley," said she to the lofty looking
personage directly opposite.

"I am Mrs. Blake Bentley," was the reply, with an imperious stare that
was intended to frown down all further attempts at conversation. But
Aunt Quimby did not comprehend repulsion, and had never been silenced in
her life--so she proceeded--

"I remember your husband very well. He was a son of old Benny Bentley up
Second street, that used to keep the sign of the Adam and Eve, but
afterwards changed it to the Liberty Tree. His wife was a Blake--that
was the way your husband came by his name. Her father was an
upholsterer, and she worked at the trade before she was married. She
made two bolsters and three pillows for me at different times; though
I'm not quite sure it was not two pillows and three bolsters. He had a
brother, Billy Blake, that was a painter: so he must have been your
husband's uncle."

"Excuse me," said Mrs. Blake Bentley, "I don't understand what you are
talking about. But I'm very sure there were never any artist people in
the family."

"Oh! Billy Blake was a painter and glazier both," resumed Mrs. Quimby;
"I remember him as well as if he was my own brother. We always sent for
him to mend our broken windows. I can see him now--coming with his glass
box and his putty. Poor fellow, he was employed to put a new coat of
paint on Christ Church steeple, which we thought would be a good job for
him: but the scaffold gave way and he fell down and broke his leg. We
lived right opposite, and saw him tumble. It's a mercy he wasn't killed
right out. He was carried home on a hand-barrow. I remember the
afternoon as well as if it were yesterday. We had a pot-pie for dinner
that day; and I happened to have on a new calico gown, a green ground
with a yellow sprig in it. I have some of the pieces now in patch-work."

Mrs. Blake Bentley gave Mrs. Quimby a look of unqualified disdain, and
then turning to the baron, whispered him to say something that might
stop the mouth of that abominable old woman. And by way of beginning she
observed aloud, "Baron, what very fine plums these are!"

"Yes," said the baron, helping himself to them profusely, "and apropos
to plums--one day when I happened to be dining with the king of Prussia,
there were some very fine peaches at table (we were sitting, you know,
trifling, over the dessert), and the king said to me, 'Klingenberg, my
dear fellow, let's try which of us can first break that large
looking-glass by shooting a peach-stone at it.'"

"Dear me! what a king!" interrupted Mrs. Quimby, "and now I look at you
again, sir (there, just now, with your head turned to the light),
there's something in your face that puts me in mind of Jacob Stimbel,
our Dutch young man that used to live with us and help to do the work.
Mr. Quimby bought him at the wharf out of a redemptioner ship. He was to
serve us three years: but before his time was up be ran away (as they
often do) and went to Lancaster, and set up his old trade of a
carpenter, and married a bricklayer's daughter, and got rich and built
houses, and had three or four sons--I think I heard that one of them
turned out a pretty bad fellow. I can see Jake Stimbel now, carrying the
market-basket after me, or scrubbing the pavement. Whenever I look at
you I think of him; may be he was some relation of yours, as you both
came from Germany?"

"A relation of mine, madam!" said the Baron.

"There now--there's Jake Stimbel to the life. He had just that way of
stretching up his eyes and drawing down his mouth when he did not know
what to say, which was usually the case after he stayed on errands."

The baron contracted his brows, and bit in his lips.

"Fix your face as you will," continued Mrs. Quimby, "you are as like him
as you can look. I am sure I ought to remember Jacob Stimbel, for I had
all the trouble of teaching him to do his work, besides learning him to
talk American; and as soon as he had learnt, he cleared himself off, as
I told you, and ran away from us."

The baron now turned to Matilda Bentley, and endeavoured to engage her
attention by an earnest conversation in an under tone; and Mrs. Bentley
looked daggers at Aunt Quimby, who said in a low voice to a lady that
sat next to her, "What a pity Mrs. Bentley has such a violent way with
her eyes. She'd be a handsome woman if it was not for that."

Then resuming her former tone, the impenetrable old lady continued,
"Some of these Dutch people that came over German redemptioners, and
were sold out of ships, have made great fortunes." And then turning to a
lady who sat on the other side, she proceeded to enumerate various
wealthy and respectable German families whose grandfathers and
grandmothers had been sold out of ships. Bromley Cheston, perceiving
that several of the company were wincing under this infliction, proposed
a song from one of the young officers whom he knew to be an accomplished
vocalist. This song was succeeded by several others, and during the
singing the Blake Bentley party gradually slipped away from the table.

After dinner the company withdrew and dispersed themselves among the
trees, while the servants, &c., were dining. Mrs. Cheston vainly did her
utmost to prevail on Aunt Quimby to go to the house and take a _siesta_.
"What for?" said Mrs. Quimby, "why should I go to sleep when I ain't a
bit sleepy. I never was wider awake in my life. No, no--these parties
don't come every day; and I'll make the most of this now I have had the
good luck to be at it. But, bless me! now I think of it, I have not laid
eyes on Mr. Smith these two hours--I hope he is not lost. When did he
leave the table? Who saw him go? He's not used to being in the woods,
poor man!"

The sound of the tambourine now denoted the approach of the musicians,
and the company adjourned to the dancing ground, which was a wide
opening in the woods shaded all round with fine trees, under which
benches had been placed. For the orchestra a little wooden gallery had
been erected about eight feet from the ground, running round the trunk
and amid the spreading boughs of an immense hickory.

The dancers had just taken their places for the first set, when they
were startled by the shrieks of a woman, which seemed to ascend from the
river-beach below. The gentlemen and many of the ladies ran to the edge
of the bank to ascertain the cause, and Aunt Quimby, looking down among
the first, exclaimed, "Oh! mercy! if there isn't Mr. Smith a collaring
the baron, and Miss Matilda a screaming for dear life!"

"The baron collaring Mr. Smith, you mean," said Myrtilla, approaching
the bank.

"No, no--I mean as I say. Why who'd think it was in Mr. Smith to do such
a thing! Oh! see, only look how he shakes him. And now he gives him a
kick, only think of doing all that to a baron! but I dare say he
deserves it. He looks more like Jake Stimbel than ever."

Captain Cheston sprung down the bank (most of the other gentlemen
running after him), and immediately reaching the scene of action rescued
the foreigner, who seemed too frightened to oppose any effectual
resistance to his assailant.

"Mr. Smith," said Captain Cheston, "what is the meaning of this
outrage,--and in the presence of a lady, too!"

"The lady must excuse me," replied Mr. Smith, "for it is in her behalf I
have thus forgotten myself so far as to chastise on the spot a
contemptible villain. Let us convey Miss Bentley up the bank, for she
seems greatly agitated, and I will then explain to the gentlemen the
extraordinary scene they have just witnessed."

"Only hear Mr. Smith, how he's talking out!" exclaimed Aunt Quimby. "And
there's the baron-fellow putting up his coat collar and sneaking off
round the corner of the bank. I'm so glad he's turned out a scamp!"

Having reached the top of the bank, Matilda Bentley, who had nearly
fainted, was laid on a bench and consigned to the care of her mother and
sisters. A flood of tears came to her relief, and while she was
indulging in them, Mrs. Bentley joined the group who were assembled
round Mr. Smith and listening to his narrative.

Mr. Smith explained that he knew this _soi-disant_ Baron Von Klingenberg
to be an impostor and a swindler. That he had, some years since, under
another name, made his appearance in Paris, as an American gentleman of
German origin, and large fortune; but soon gambled away all his money.
That he afterwards, under different appellations, visited the principal
cities of the continent, but always left behind the reputation of a
swindler. That he had seen him last in London, in the capacity of valet
to the real Baron Von Klingenberg, who, intending a visit to the United
States, had hired him as being a native of America, and familiar with
the country and its customs. But an unforeseen circumstance having
induced that gentleman to relinquish this transatlantic voyage, his
American valet robbed him of a large sum of money and some valuable
jewels, stole also the letters of introduction which had been obtained
by the real Baron, and with them had evidently been enabled to pass
himself for his master. To this explanation, Mr. Smith added that while
wandering among the trees on the edge of the bank, he had seen the
impostor on the beach below, endeavouring to persuade Miss Bentley to an
elopement with him; proposing that they should repair immediately to a
place in the neighbourhood, where the railroad cars stopped on their way
to New York, and from thence proceed to that city, adding,--"You know
there is no overtaking a railroad car, so all pursuit of us will be in
vain; besides, when once married all will be safe, as you are of age and
mistress of your own fortune." "Finding," continued Mr. Smith, "that he
was likely to succeed in persuading Miss Bentley to accompany him, I
could no longer restrain my indignation, which prompted me to rush down
the bank and adopt summary measures in rescuing the young lady from the
hands of so infamous a scoundrel, whom nothing but my unwillingness to
disturb the company prevented me from exposing as soon as I saw him."

"Don't believe him," screamed Mrs. Blake Bentley; "Mr. Smith indeed! Who
is to take _his_ word? Who knows what Mr. Smith is?"

"I do," said a voice from the crowd; and there stepped forward a
gentlemen, who had arrived in a chaise with a friend about half an hour
before. "I had the pleasure of knowing him intimately in England, when I
was minister to the court of St. James's."

"May be you bought your tins at his shop," said Aunt Quimby.

The ex-ambassador in a low voice exchanged a few words with Mr. Smith;
and then taking his hand, presented him as the Earl of Huntingford,
adding, "The only tin he deals in is that produced by his extensive
mines in Cornwall."

The whole company were amazed into a silence of some moments: after
which there was a general buzz of favourable remark; Captain Cheston
shook hands with him, and all the gentlemen pressed forward to be more
particularly introduced to Lord Huntingford.

"Dear me!" said Aunt Quimby; "to think that I should have been so
sociable with a lord--and a real one too--and to think how he drank tea
at Billy Fairfowl's in the back parlour, and ate bread and butter just
like any other man--and how he saved Jane, and picked up Johnny--I
suppose I must not speak to you now, Mr. Smith, for I don't know how to
begin calling you my lord. And you don't seem like the same man, now
that you can look and talk like other people: and (excuse my saying so)
even your dress looks genteeler."

"Call me still Mr. Smith, if you choose," replied Lord Huntingford; and,
turning to Captain Cheston, he continued--"Under that name I have had
opportunities of obtaining much knowledge of your _unique_ and
interesting country:--knowledge that will be useful to me all the
remainder of my life, and that I could not so well have acquired in my
real character."

He then explained, that being tired of travelling in Europe, and having
an earnest desire to see America thoroughly, and more particularly to
become acquainted with the state of society among the middle classes
(always the truest samples of national character), he had, on taking his
passage in one of the Liverpool packets, given his name as Smith, and
put on the appearance of a man in very common life, resolving to
preserve his incognito as long as he could. His object being to observe
and to listen, and fearing that if he talked much he might inadvertently
betray himself, he endeavoured to acquire a habit of taciturnity. As is
frequently the case, he rather overdid his assumed character: and was
much amused at perceiving himself rated somewhat below mediocrity, and
regarded as poor Mr. Smith.

"But where is that Baron fellow?" said Mrs. Quimby; "I dare say he has
sneaked off and taken the railroad himself, while we were all busy about
Lord Smith."

"He has--he has!" sobbed Miss Bentley; who in spite of her grief and
mortification, had joined the group that surrounded the English
nobleman; "and he has run away with my beautiful diamond ring."

"Did he steal it from your finger?" asked Aunt Quimby, eagerly; "because
if he did, you can send a constable after him."

"I shall do no such thing," replied Matilda, tartly; then turning to her
mother she added, "It was when we first went to walk by the river side.
He took my hand and kissed it, and proposed exchanging rings--and so I
let him have it--and he said he did not happen to have any ring of his
own about him, but he would give me a magnificent one that had been
presented to him by some emperor or king."

"Now I think of it," exclaimed Mrs. Bentley, "he never gave me back my
gold essence-bottle with the emerald stopper."

"Now I remember," said Miss Turretville, "he did not return me the
beautiful fan he took out of my hand the other evening at Mrs. De
Mingle's. And I doubt also if he restored her diamond opera glass to the
Princess of Saxe Blinkinberg."

"The Princess of Saxe Fiddlestick!" exclaimed Aunt Quimby; "do you
suppose he ever really had anything to do with such people? Between
ourselves, I thought it was all fudge the whole time he was trying to
make us believe he was hand and glove with women that had crowns on
their heads, and men with diamond coats, and kings that shot peach
stones. The more he talked, the more he looked like Jacob Stimbel--I'm
not apt to forget people, so it would be strange if I did not remember
our Jake; and I never saw a greater likeness."

"Well, for my part," said Miss Turretville, candidly, "I really _did_
think he had serfs, and a castle with ramparts, and I did believe in the
banditti, and the captain just like Charles De Moor. And I grieved, as I
often do, that here, in America, we had no such things."

"Pity we should!" remarked Aunt Quimby.

To be brief: the Bentleys, after what had passed, thought it best to
order their carriage and return to the city: and on their ride home
there was much recrimination between the lady and her eldest daughter;
Matilda declaring, that she would never have thought of encouraging the
addresses of such an ugly fellow as the baron, had not her mother first
put it into her head. And as to the projected elopement, she felt very
certain of being forgiven for that as soon as she came out a baroness.

After the departure of the Bentleys, and when the excitement, caused by
the events immediately preceding it, had somewhat subsided, it was
proposed that the dancing should be resumed, and Lord Huntingford opened
the ball with Mrs. Cheston, and proved that he could dance, and talk,
and look extremely well. As soon as she was disengaged, he solicited
Myrtilla's hand for the nest set, and she smilingly assented to his
request. Before they began, Aunt Quimby took an opportunity of saying to
her: "Well, Myrtilla; after all you are going to exhibit yourself, as
you call it, with Mr. Smith."

"Oh! Aunt Quimby, you must not remember anything that was said about him
while he was incog--"

"Yes, and now he's out of cog it's thought quite an honour to get a word
or a look from him. Well--well--whether as poor simple Mr. Smith, or a
great lord that owns whole tin mines, he'll always find _me_ exactly the
same; now I've got over the first flurry of his being found out."

"I have no doubt of that, Aunt Quimby," replied Myrtilla, giving her
hand to Lord Huntingford, who just then came up to lead her to the
dance.

The afternoon passed rapidly away, with infinite enjoyment to the whole
company; all of whom seemed to feel relieved by the absence of the Blake
Bentley party. Aunt Quimby was very assiduous in volunteering to
introduce ladies to Lord Smith, as she called him, and chaperoned him
more than ever.

The Chestons, perfectly aware that if Mrs. Quimby returned to
Philadelphia, and proceeded to Baltimore under the escort of Mr. Smith,
she would publish all along the road that he was a lord, and perhaps
convert into annoyance the amusement he seemed to find in her entire
want of tact, persuaded her to defer the Baltimore journey and pass a
few days with them; promising to provide her with an escort there, in
the person of an old gentleman of their neighbourhood, who was going to
the south early next week; and whom they knew to be one of the mildest
men in the world, and never incommoded by anything.

When the fête was over, Lord Huntingford returned to the city with his
friend, the ex-minister. At parting, he warmly expressed his delight at
having had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with Captain Cheston
and his ladies; and Aunt Quimby exclaimed, "It's all owing to me--if it
had not been for me you might never have known them; I always had the
character of bringing good luck to people: so it's no wonder I'm so
welcome everywhere."

On Captain Cheston's next visit to Philadelphia, he gathered that the
fictitious Baron Von Klingenberg was really the reprobate son of Jacob
Stimbel of Lancaster, and had been recognised as such by a gentleman
from that place. That he had many years before gone to seek his fortune
in Europe, with the wreck of some property left him by his father; where
(as Lord Huntingford had stated) he had last been seen in London in the
capacity of a valet to a German nobleman; and that now he had departed
for the west, with the design, as was supposed, of gambling his way to
New Orleans. Nothing could exceed the delight of Aunt Quimby on finding
her impression of him so well corroborated.

The old lady went to Baltimore, and found herself so happy with her dear
crony Mrs. Bagnell, that she concluded to take up her permanent
residence with her on the same terms on which she lived at her
son-in-law Billy Fairfowl's, whose large family of children had, to say
the truth, latterly caused her some inconvenience by their number and
their noise; particularly as one of the girls was growing up so like her
grandmother, as to out-talk her. Aunt Quimby's removal from Philadelphia
to Baltimore was, of course, a sensible relief to the Chestons.

Lord Huntingford (relinquishing the name and character of Mr. Smith)
devoted two years to making the tour of the United States, including a
visit to Canada; justly believing that he could not in less time
accomplish his object of becoming _well_ acquainted with the country and
the people. On his return through the Atlantic cities, he met with
Captain Cheston at Norfolk, where he had just brought in his ship from a
cruise in the Pacific. Both gentlemen were glad to renew their
acquaintance; and they travelled together to Philadelphia, where they
found Mrs. Cheston and Myrtilla waiting to meet the captain.

Lord Huntingford became a constant visitor at the house of the Chestons.
He found Myrtilla improved in beauty, and as he thought in everything
else, and he felt that in all his travels through Europe and America,
he had met with no woman so well calculated to insure his happiness in
married life. The sister of Captain Cheston was too good a republican to
marry a foreigner and a nobleman, merely on account of his rank and
title: but Lord Huntingford, as a man of sense, feeling, and unblemished
morality, was one of the best specimens of his class, and after an
intimate acquaintance of two months, she consented to become his
countess. They were married a few days before their departure for
England, where Captain and Mrs. Cheston promised to make them a visit
the ensuing spring.

Emily Atwood and Mr. Symmington were bridesmaid and groomsman, and were
themselves united the following month. Miss Turretville made a very
advantageous match, and has settled down into a rational woman and a
first-rate housewife. The Miss Bentleys are all single yet; but their
mother is married to an Italian singer, who is dissipating her property
as fast as he can, and treating her ill all the time.

While in Philadelphia, Lord Huntingford did not forget to visit
occasionally his early acquaintance, Mr. William Fairfowl (who always
received him as if he was still Mr. Smith), and on leaving the city he
presented an elegant little souvenir to Mrs. Fairfowl, and one to each
of her daughters.

At Lord Huntingford's desire, Mrs. Quimby was invited from Baltimore to
be present at his wedding (though the company was small and select), and
she did honour to the occasion by wearing an entirely new gown and cap,
telling the cost of them to every person in the room, but declaring she
did not grudge it in the least; and assuming to herself the entire
credit of the match, which she averred never would have taken place if
she had not happened to come up the river, instead of going down.

The events connected with the picnic day, had certainly one singular
effect on Aunt Quimby, who from that time protested that she always
thought of a nobleman whenever she heard the name of Smith.

Could all our readers give in their experience of the numerous Smiths
they must have known and heard of, would not many be found who, though
bearing that trite appellation, were noblemen of nature's own making?




UNCLE PHILIP.

     "Out spake that ancient mariner."--COLERIDGE.


We will not be particular in designating the exact site of the
flourishing village of Corinth; neither would we advise any of our
readers to take the trouble of seeking it on the map. It is sufficient
to tell them that they may consider it located on one of the banks of
the Hudson, somewhere above the city of New York, and somewhere below
that of Albany; and that, more than twenty years ago, the Clavering
family occupied one of the best houses at its southern extremity.

Mrs. Clavering was the widow of a storekeeper, who had always, by
courtesy, been called a merchant, according to a prevailing custom in
the provincial towns of America. Her husband had left her in affluent
circumstances, and to each of her five children he had bequeathed a
sufficient portion to furnish, when they came of age, an outfit for the
girls and a beginning for the boys. Added to this, they had considerable
expectations from an uncle of their mother's, a retired sea-captain, and
a confirmed old bachelor, who had long been in the practice of paying
the family an annual visit on returning from his India voyages. He had
become so much attached to the children, that when he quitted the sea
(which was soon after the death of Mr. Clavering) he had, at the request
of his niece, removed to Corinth, and taken up his residence in her
family.

Though so far from his beloved element, the ocean, Captain Kentledge
managed to pass his time very contentedly, taking occasional trips down
the river to New York (particularly when a new ship was to be launched),
and performing, every summer, an excursion to the eastward: keeping
closely along the coast, and visiting in turn every maritime town and
village from Newport to Portland; never omitting to diverge off to
Nantucket, which was his native place, and from whence, when a boy, he
had taken his first voyage in a whale ship.

Uncle Philip (for so Captain Kentledge was familiarly called by Mrs.
Clavering and her children) was a square-built man, with a broad
weather-beaten face, and features the reverse of classical. His head was
entirely bald, with the exception of two rough side-locks, and a long
thin gray tress of hair, gathered into a queue, and secured with black
ribbon. Uncle Philip was very tenacious of his queue.

Like most seamen when on shore, he was singularly neat in his dress. He
wore, all the year round, a huge blue coat, immense blue trowsers, and a
white waistcoat of ample dimensions, the whole suit being decorated with
gold buttons; for, as he observed, he had, in the course of his life,
worn enough of brass buttons to be heartily tired of them: gilt ones he
hated, because they were shams; and gold he could very well afford, and
therefore it was his pleasure to have them. His cravat was a large black
silk handkerchief, tied in front, with a spreading bow and long ends.
His shirt frill was particularly conspicuous and amazingly broad, and it
was fastened with a large oval-shaped brooch, containing under its glass
a handsome hair-coloured device of Hope leaning on an anchor. He never
wore boots, but always white stockings and well-blacked long-quartered
shoes. His hat had both a wide crown and a wide brim. Every part of his
dress was good in quality and large in quantity, denoting that he was
above economizing in the material.

Though "every inch a sailor," it must not be supposed that Captain
Kentledge was in the constant habit of interlarding his conversation
with sea-terms; a practice which, if it ever actually prevailed to the
extent that has been represented in fictitious delineations of "the sons
of the wild and warring wave," has long since been discontinued in real
life, by all nautical men who have any pretensions to the title of
gentlemen. A sea-captain, whose only phraseology was that of the
forecastle, and who could talk of nothing without reference to the
technical terms of his profession, would now be considered as obsolete a
character "as the Lieutenant Bowlings and Commodore Trunnions of the
last century."

Next to the children of his niece, the object most beloved by Uncle
Philip was an enormous Newfoundland dog, the companion of his last
voyages, and his constant attendant on land and on water, in doors and
out of doors. In the faces of Neptune and his master there was an
obvious resemblance, which a physiognomist would have deduced from the
similarity of their characters; and it was remarked by one of the wags
of the village that the two animals walked exactly alike, and held out
their paws to strangers precisely in the same manner.

Mrs. Clavering, as is generally the case with mothers of the present
day, when they consider themselves very genteel, intended one of her
sons for the profession of physic, and the other for that of law. But in
the mean time, Uncle Philip had so deeply imbued Sam, the eldest, with a
predilection for the sea, that the boy's sole ambition was to unite
himself to that hardy race, "whose march is o'er the mountain-waves,
whose home is on the deep." And Dick, whom his mother designed for a
lawyer, intended himself for a carpenter: his genius pointing decidedly
to hand-work rather than to head-work. It was Uncle Philip's opinion
that boys should never be controlled in the choice of a profession. Yet
he found it difficult to convince Mrs. Clavering that there was little
chance of one of her sons filling a professor's chair at a medical
college, or of the other arriving at the rank of chief justice; but that
as the laws of nature and the decrees of fate were not to be reversed,
Dick would very probably build the ships that Sam would navigate.

About three months before the period at which our story commences, Uncle
Philip had set out on his usual summer excursion, and had taken with him
not only Neptune, but Sam also, leaving Dick very much engaged in making
a new kitchen-table with a drawer at each end. After the travellers had
gone as far as the State of Maine, and were supposed to be on their
return, Mrs. Clavering was surprised to receive a letter from Uncle
Philip, dated "Off Cape Cod, lat. 42, lon. 60, wind N.N.E." The
following were the words of this epistle:--

     "DEAR NIECE KITTY CLAVERING: I take this opportunity of informing
     you, by a fishing-boat that is just going into the harbour, that
     being on Long Wharf, Boston, yesterday at 7 A. M., and finding
     there the schooner Winthrop about to sail for Cuba, and the
     schooner being commanded by a son of my old ship-mate, Ben
     Binnacle, and thinking it quite time that Sam should begin to see
     the world (as he was fifteen the first of last April), and that so
     good an opportunity should not be lost, I concluded to let him have
     a taste of the sea by giving him a run down to the West Indies. Sam
     was naturally very glad, and so was Neptune; and Sam being under my
     care, I, of course, felt in duty bound to go along with him. The
     schooner Winthrop is as fine a sea-boat as ever swam, and young Ben
     Binnacle is as clever a fellow as his father. We are very well off
     for hands, the crew being young Ben's brother and three of his
     cousins (all from Marblehead, and all part owners), besides Sam and
     myself, and Neptune, and black Bob, the cabin-boy. So you have
     nothing to fear. And even if we should have a long passage, there
     is no danger of our starving, for most of the cargo is pork and
     onions, and the rest is turkeys, potatoes, flour, butter, and
     cheese.

     "You may calculate on finding Sam greatly improved by the voyage.
     Going to sea will cure him of all his awkward tricks, as you call
     them, and give him an opportunity of showing what he really is. He
     went out of Boston harbour perched on the end of the foresail boom,
     and was at the mainmast head before we had cleared the light-house.
     To-morrow I shall teach him to take an observation. Young Ben
     Binnacle has an excellent quadrant that was his father's. We shall
     be back in a few weeks, and bring you pine-apples and parrots.
     Shall write from Havana, if I have time.

     "Till then, yours,

     "PHILIP KENTLEDGE.

     "P. S. Neptune is very happy at finding himself at sea again. Give
     our love to Dick and the girls.

     "N. B. We took care to have our trunk brought on board before we
     got under way. Though we have a stiff breeze, Sam is not yet
     sea-sick, having set his face against it.

     "2d P. S. Don't take advantage of my absence to put the girls in
     corsets, as you did when I was away last summer.

     "2d N. B. Remember to send old Tom Tarpaulin his weekly allowance
     of tobacco all the time I am gone. You know I promised, when I
     first found him at Corinth, to keep him in tobacco as long as he
     lived; and if you forget to furnish it punctually, the poor fellow
     will be obliged to take his own money to buy it with."

This elopement, as Mrs. Clavering called it, caused at first great
consternation in the family, but she soon consoled herself with the idea
that 'twas well it was no worse, for if Uncle Philip had found a vessel
going to China, commanded by an old ship-mate, or a ship-mate's son, he
would scarcely have hesitated to have acted as he had done in this
instance. The two younger girls grieved that in all probability Sam had
gone without gingerbread, which, they had heard, was a preventive to
sea-sickness; but Fanny, the elder, remarked that it was more probable
he had his pockets full, as, from Uncle Philip's account, he continued
perfectly well. "Whatever Uncle Philip may say," observed Fanny, very
judiciously, "Sam must, of course, have known that gingerbread is a more
certain remedy for sea-sickness than merely setting one's face against
it." Dick's chief regret was, that not knowing beforehand of their trip
to the West Indies, he had lost the opportunity of sending by them for
some mahogany.

In about four weeks, the Clavering family was set at ease by a letter
from Sam himself, dated Havana. It detailed at full length the delights
of the voyage, and the various qualifications of black Bob, the
cabin-boy, and it was finished by two postscripts from Uncle Philip; one
celebrating the rapid progress of Sam in nautical knowledge, and another
stating that they should return in the schooner Winthrop.

They did return--Uncle Philip bringing with him, among other West India
productions, a barrel of pine-apples for Mrs. Clavering, and three
parrots, one for each of his young nieces; to all of whom he observed
the strictest impartiality in distributing his favours. Also, a large
box for Dick, filled with numerous specimens of tropical woods.

It was evening when they arrived at Corinth, and they walked up directly
from the steamboat wharf to Mrs. Clavering's house; leaving their
baggage to follow in a cart. Intending to give the family a pleasant
surprise, they stole cautiously in at the gate, and walked on the grass
to avoid making a noise with their shoes on the gravel. As usual at this
hour, a light shone through the Venetian shutters of the
parlour-windows. But our voyagers listened in vain for the well-known
sounds of noisy mirth excited by the enjoyment of various little games
and plays in which it was usual for the children to pass the interval
between tea and bed-time; a laudable custom, instituted by Uncle Philip
soon after he became one of the family.

"I hope all may be right," whispered the old captain, as he ascended
the steps of the front porch, "I don't hear the least sound."

They sat down the three parrot-cages, which they had carried themselves
from the wharf, and then went up to the windows and reconnoitered
through the shutters. They saw the whole family seated round the table,
busily employed with books and writing materials, and all perfectly
silent. Uncle Philip now hastily threw open the front door, and,
followed by Sam, made his appearance in the parlour, exclaiming--

"Why, what is all this? Not hearing any noise as we came along, we
concluded there must be sickness, or death in the house."

"We are not dead yet," said Dick, starting up, "though we are learning
French."

In an instant the books were abandoned, the table nearly overset in
getting from behind it, and the whole group hung round the voyagers,
delighted at their return, and overwhelming them with questions and
caresses. In a moment there came prancing into the room the dog Neptune,
who had remained behind to guard the baggage-cart, which had now arrived
at the front gate. The faithful animal was literally received with open
arms by all the children, and when he had nearly demolished little Anne
by the roughness of his gambols, she only exclaimed--"Oh! never
mind--never mind. I am so glad to have Neptune back again, that I don't
care, if he _does_ tear my new pink frock all to tatters."

Mrs. Clavering made a faint attempt at reproaching Uncle Philip for thus
stealing a march and carrying off her son, but the old captain turned it
all into a subject of merriment, and pointed out to her Sam's ruddy
looks and improved height; and his good fortune in having a brown skin,
which, on being exposed to the air and sun of the ocean, only deepened
its manly tint, instead of being disfigured by freckles. On Mrs.
Clavering remarking that her poor boy had learnt the true balancing gait
of a sailor, the uncle and nephew exchanged glances of congratulation;
and Sam, in the course of the evening, took frequent occasions to get up
and walk across the room, by way of displaying this new accomplishment.

As Mrs. Clavering understood that her uncle and son had not yet had
their supper, she quitted the room "on hospitable thoughts intent,"
while the children were listening with breathless interest to a minute
detail of the voyage; Sam leaning over the back of his uncle's great
chair, into which Fanny had squeezed herself beside the old gentleman,
who held Jane on one knee and Anne on the other; and Dick making a seat
of the dog Neptune, who lay at his master's feet.

"Who are those people talking in the porch?" asked little Anne,
interrupting her uncle to listen to the strange sounds that issued from
without.

"Oh! they are the parrots," said Sam, laughing, "I wonder they should
have been forgotten so long."

"Parrots!" exclaimed all the children at once, and in a moment every one
of the young people were out in the porch, and the cages were carried
into the parlour. The parrots were duly admired, and made to go through
all their phrases, of which (being very smart parrots) they had learnt
an infinite variety, and Uncle Philip told the girls to draw lots for
the first choice of these new pets. Dick supplying for that purpose
little sticks of unequal lengths. After this the box of tropical woods
was opened, and Dick's happiness became too great for utterance.

Supper was now brought in, and placed by Mrs. Clavering's order on a
little table in the corner, it not being worth while, as she said, to
remove the books and writing apparatus from the centre-table, as the
lessons must be shortly resumed.

"What lessons are these," said Uncle Philip, "on which you seem so
intent? Before I went away there was no lesson-learning of evenings.
Have Mr. Fulmer and Miss Hickman adopted a new plan? I think, children,
I have heard you say that your lessons were very short, and that you
always learned them in school, which was one reason, why I approved of
Mr. Fulmer for the boys, and Miss Hickman for the girls. I never could
bear the idea of poor children being forced to spend their play-time in
learning lessons. The school hours are long enough in all conscience."

"Oh--we don't go to Miss Hickman now," exclaimed the girls:--"And I
don't go any longer to Mr. Fulmer," cried Dick, with something like a
sigh.

"And where do you go, then?" inquired Uncle Philip.

"We go to Monsieur and Madame Franchimeau's French Study," replied Dick.
"He teaches the boys, and she the girls--and our lessons are so long
that it takes us the whole evening to learn them, and write our
exercises. We are kept in school from eight in the morning till three in
the afternoon. And then at four we go back again, and stay till dusk,
trying to read and talk French with Monsieur and Madame Ravigote, the
father and mother of Madame Franchimeau."

"What's all this?" said Uncle Philip, laying down his knife and fork.

Mrs. Clavering, after silencing Dick with a significant look, proceeded
to explain--

"Why, uncle," said she, "you must know that immediately after you left
us, there came to Corinth a very elegant French family, and their
purpose was to establish an Institute, or Study, as they now call it, in
which, according to the last new system of education, everything is to
be learnt in French. Mrs. Apesley, Mrs. Nedging, Mrs. Pinxton, Mrs.
Slimbridge and myself, with others of the leading ladies of Corinth, had
long wished for such an opportunity of having our children properly
instructed, and we all determined to avail ourselves of it. We called
immediately on the French ladies, who are very superior women, and we
resolved at once to bring them into fashion by showing them every
possible attention. We understood, also, that before Monsieur
Franchimeau and his family came to Corinth, they had been on the other
side of the river, and had visited Tusculum with a view of locating
themselves in that village. But these polished and talented strangers
were not in the least appreciated by the Tusculans, who are certainly a
coarse and vulgar people; and therefore it became the duty of us
Corinthians to prove to them our superiority in gentility and
refinement."

"I thought as much," said Uncle Philip; "I knew it would come out this
way. So the Corinthians are learning French out of spite to the
Tusculans. And I suppose, when these Monsieurs and Madames have done
making fools of the people of this village, they will move higher up the
river, and monkeyfy all before them between this and Albany. For, of
course, the Hyde Parkers will learn French to spite the New Paltzers,
and the Hudsonians to spite the Athenians, and the Kinderhookers to
spite the--"

"Now, uncle, do hush," said Mrs. Clavering, interrupting him; "how can
you make a jest of a thing from which we expect to derive so much
benefit?"

"I am not jesting at all," replied Uncle Philip; "I fear it is a thing
too serious to laugh at. But why do you say _we_? I hope, Kitty
Clavering, _you_ are not making a fool of yourself, and turning
school-girl again?"

"I certainly do take lessons in French," replied Mrs. Clavering. "Mrs.
Apesley, Mrs. Nedging, Mrs. Pinxton, Mrs. Slimbridge and myself, have
formed a class for that purpose."

"Mrs. Apesley has eleven children," said Uncle Philip.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Clavering, "but the youngest is more than two years
old. And Mrs. Nedging has only three."

"True," observed the uncle; "one of them is an idiot boy that can
neither hear, speak, nor use any of his limbs; the others are a couple
of twin babies, that were only two months old when I went away."

"But they are remarkably good babies," answered Mrs. Clavering, "and can
bear very well to have their mother out of their sight."

"And Mrs. Pinxton," said Uncle Philip, "has, ever since the death of her
husband, presided over a large hotel, which, if properly attended to,
ought to furnish her with employment for eighteen hours out of the
twenty-four."

"Oh! but she has an excellent barkeeper," replied Mrs. Clavering, "and
she has lately got a cook from New York, to whom she gives thirty
dollars a month, and she has promoted her head-chambermaid to the rank
of housekeeper. Mrs. Pinxton herself is no longer to be seen going
through the house as she formerly did. You would not suppose that there
was any mistress belonging to the establishment."

"So much the worse," said Uncle Philip, "both for the mistress and the
establishment. Well, and let me ask, if Mrs. Slimbridge's husband has
recovered his health during my absence?"

"Oh! no, he is worse than ever," replied Mrs. Clavering.

"And still," resumed Uncle Philip, "with an invalid husband, who
requires her constant care and attention, Mrs. Slimbridge can find it in
her heart to neglect him, and waste her time in taking lessons that she
may learn to read French (though I am told their books are all about
nothing), and to talk French, though I cannot for my life see who she is
to talk to."

"There is no telling what advantage she may not derive from it in future
life," remarked Mrs. Clavering.

"I can tell her one thing," said Uncle Philip, "when poor Slimbridge
dies, her French will never help her to a second husband. No man ever
married a woman because she had learnt French."

"Indeed, uncle," replied Mrs. Clavering, "your prejudices against
everything foreign are so strong, that it is in vain for me to oppose
them. To-night, at least, I shall not say another word on the subject."

"Well, well, Kitty," said Uncle Philip, shaking her kindly by the hand,
"we'll talk no more about it to-night, and perhaps, as you say, I ought
to have more patience with foreigners, seeing that, as no man can choose
his own birth-place, it is not to be expected that everybody can be born
in America. And those that are not, are certainly objects of pity rather
than of blame."

"Very right, uncle," exclaimed Sam; "I am sure I pity all that are not
Americans of the United States, particularly since I have been among the
West Indian Spaniards."

"Now, Kitty Clavering," said Uncle Philip, triumphantly, "you perceive
the advantages of seeing the world: who says that Sam has not profited
by his voyage?"

The family separated for the night; and next morning Sam laughed at Dick
for repeating his French verbs in his sleep. "No wonder," replied Dick,
"if you knew how many verbs I have to learn every day, and how much
difficulty I have in getting them by heart, when I am all the time
thinking of other things, you would not be surprised at my dreaming of
them; as people are apt to do of whatever is their greatest affliction."

At breakfast, the conversation of the preceding evening was renewed, by
Mrs. Clavering observing with much complacency,

"Monsieur Franchimeau will be very happy to find that I have a new
scholar for him."

"Indeed!" said Uncle Philip; "and who else have you been pressing into
the service?"

"My son Sam, certainly," replied Mrs. Clavering. "I promised him to Mr.
Franchimeau, and he of course has been expecting to have him immediately
on his return from the West Indies. Undoubtedly, Sam must be allowed the
same advantages as his brother and sisters. Not to give him an equal
opportunity of learning French would be unjust in the extreme."

"Dear mother," replied Sam, "I am quite willing to put up with that much
injustice."

"Right, my boy," exclaimed Uncle Philip; "and when you have learnt
everything else, it will then be quite time enough to begin French."

"You misunderstand entirely," said Mrs. Clavering. "The children _are_
learning everything else. But Mr. Franchimeau goes upon the new system,
and teaches the whole in French and out of French books. His pupils, and
those of Madame Franchimeau, learn history, geography, astronomy,
botany, chemistry, mathematics, logic, criticism, composition, geology,
mineralogy, conchology, and phrenology."

"Mercy on their poor heads," exclaimed Uncle Philip, interrupting her:
"They'll every one grow up idiots. All the sense they have will be
crushed out of them, by this unnatural business of overloading their
minds with five times as much as they can bear. And the whole of this is
to be learned in a foreign tongue too. Well, what next? Are they also
taught Latin and Greek in French? And now I speak of those two
languages--that have caused so many aching heads and aching hearts to
poor boys that never had the least occasion to turn them to any
account--suppose that all the lectures at the Medical Colleges were
delivered in Latin or Greek. How much, do you think, would the students
profit by them? Pretty doctors we should have, if they learnt their
business in that way. No, no; the branches you have mentioned are all
hard enough in themselves, particularly that last ology about the bumps
on people's heads. To get a thorough knowledge of any one of these arts
or sciences, or whatever you call them, is work enough for a man's
lifetime; and now the whole of them together are to be forced upon the
weak understandings of poor innocent children, and in a foreign
language, to boot. Shame on you--shame on you, Kitty Clavering!"

"Uncle Philip," said Mrs. Clavering, smiling at his vehemence, for on
such occasions she had always found it more prudent to smile than to
frown, "you may say what you will now, but I foresee that you will
finally become a convert to my views of this subject. I intend to make
French the general language of the family, and in a short time you will
soon catch it yourself. Why, though I cannot say much for his
proficiency in his lessons, even Ric_har_[4] has picked up without
intending it, a number of French phrases, that he pronounces quite well
when I make him go over them with me."

[Footnote 4: The French pronunciation of Richard.]

"Ric_har_!" cried Uncle Philip, "and pray who is he? Who is Richar?"

"That's me, uncle," said Dick.

"So you have Frenchified Dick's name, have you!" said the old
gentleman, "but I'm determined you shall not Frenchify Sam's."

"No," observed Sam, "I'll not be Frenchified."

"And pray, young ladies," resumed the uncle, "Fanny, Jenny, and Anny,
have you too been put into French?"

"Yes, uncle," replied Jane, "we are now Fanchette, Jeanette, and
Annette."

"So much the worse," said Uncle Philip. "Listen to me, when I tell you,
that all this Frenchifying will come to no good; and I foresee that you
may be sorry for it when it is too late. Of what use will it be to any
of you? I have often heard that all French books worth reading are
immediately done into English. And I never met with a French person
worth knowing that had not learned to talk English."

"Now, uncle," said Mrs. Clavering, "you are going quite too far. If our
knowledge of French should not come into use while in our own country,
who knows but some time or other we may all go to France."

"I for one," replied Uncle Philip, "_I_ know that you will not; at
least, you shall never go to France with my consent. No American woman
goes to France, without coming home the worse for it in some way or
other. There were the two Miss Facebys, who came up here last spring,
fresh from a six months' foolery in Paris. I can see them now, ambling
along in their short petticoats, with their hands clasped on their belt
buckles, their mouths half open like idiots, and their eyes turned
upwards like dying calves."

Here Uncle Philip set the whole family to laughing, by starting from his
chair and imitating the walk and manner of the Miss Facebys.

"There," said he, resuming his seat, "I know that's exactly like them.
Then did not they pretend to have nearly forgotten their own language,
affecting to speak English imperfectly. And what was the end of them?
One ran away with a dancing-master's mate, and the other got privately
married to a fiddler."

"But you must allow," said Mrs. Clavering, "that the Miss Facebys
improved greatly in manner by their visit to France."

"I know not what you call _manner_" replied Uncle Philip, "but I'm sure
in _manners_ they did not. Manner and manners, I find, are very
different things. And I was told by a gentleman, who had lived many
years in France, that the Miss Facebys looked and behaved like French
chambermaids, but not like French ladies. For my part, I am no judge of
French women; but this I know, that American girls had better be like
themselves, and not copy any foreign women whatever. And let them take
care not to unfit themselves for American husbands. If they do, they'll
lose more than they'll gain."

"Well, Uncle Philip," said Mrs. Clavering, "I see it will take time to
make a convert of you."

"Don't depend on that," replied the old gentleman. "I, that for sixty
years have stood out against all foreigners, particularly the French, am
not likely to be taken in by them now."

"We shall see," resumed Mrs. Clavering. "But are you really serious in
prohibiting Sam from becoming a pupil of Mr. Franchimeau?"

"Serious, to be sure I am," replied Uncle Philip. "Of what use can it be
to him, if he follows the sea, as of course he will?"

"Of great use," answered Mrs. Clavering, "if he should be in the French
trade."

"I look forward to his being in the India trade," said Uncle Philip,
proudly.

"But suppose, uncle," said Fanny, "he should happen to have French
sailors on board his ship?"

"French sailors! French!" exclaimed Uncle Philip; "for what purpose
should he ship a Frenchman as a sailor? Why, I was once all over a
French frigate that came into New York, and she was a pretty thing
enough to look at outside. But when you got on board and went between
decks, I never saw so dirty a ship. However, I won't go too far--I won't
say that all French frigates are like this one, or all French sailors
like those. Besides, this was many years ago, and, perhaps, they've
improved since."

"No doubt of it," said Mrs. Clavering.

"Well," pursued Uncle Philip, "I only tell you what I saw."

"But, not knowing their language, you must have misunderstood a great
deal that you saw," observed Mrs. Clavering.

"The first-lieutenant spoke English," said Uncle Philip, "and he showed
me the ship; and, to do him justice, he was a very clever fellow, for
all he was a Frenchman. There must certainly be _some_ good ones among
them. Yes, yes--I have not a word to say against that first-lieutenant.
But I wish you had seen the men that we found between decks. Some were
tinkling on a sort of guitars, and some were tooting on a kind of
flutes, and some were scraping on wretched fiddles. Some had little
paint-boxes, and were drawing watch-papers, with loves and doves on
them; some were sipping lemonade, and some were eating sugar-candy; and
one (whom I suspected to have been originally a barber), was combing and
curling a lapdog. It was really sickening to see sailors making such
fools of themselves. By the bye, I did not see a tolerable dog about the
ship. There was no fine Newfoundlander like my gallant Neptune (come
here, old fellow), but there were half a dozen short-legged,
long-bodied, red-eyed, tangle-haired wretches, meant for poodles, but
not even half so good. And some of the men were petting huge cats, and
some were feeding little birds in cages."

"Well," said Mrs. Clavering, "I see no harm in all this--only an
evidence that the general refinement of the French nation pervades all
ranks of society. Is it not better to eat sugar-candy than to chew
tobacco, and to sip lemonade than to drink grog?"

"And then," continued Uncle Philip, "to hear the names by which the
fellows were calling each other, for their tongues were all going the
whole time as fast as they could chatter. There were Lindor and Isidore,
and Adolphe and Emile. I don't believe there was a Jack or a Tom in the
whole ship. I was so diverted with their names, that I made the
first-lieutenant repeat them to me, and I wrote them down in my
pocket-book. A very gentlemanly man was that first-lieutenant. But as to
the sailors--why, there was one fellow sprawling on a gun (I suppose I
should say reclining), and talking to himself about his amiable Pauline,
which, I suppose, is the French for Poll. When we went into the
gun-room, there was the gunner sitting on a chest, and reading some
love-verses of his own writing, addressed to his belle Celestine, which,
doubtless, is the French for Sall. Think of a sailor pretending to have
a belle for his sweetheart! The first-lieutenant told me that the gunner
was the best poet in the ship. I must say, I think very well of that
first-lieutenant. There were half a dozen boys crowding round the gunner
(or forming a group, as, I suppose, you would call it), and looking up
to his face with admiration; and one great fool was kneeling behind him,
and holding over his head a wreath of some sort of green leaves,
waiting to crown him when he had done reading his verses."

"Well," observed Mrs. Clavering, "I have no doubt the whole scene had a
very pretty effect."

"Pshaw," said Uncle Philip. "When I came on deck again, there was the
boatswain's mate, who was also the ship's dancing-master (for a
Frenchman can turn his hand to anything, provided it's foolery), and he
was giving a lesson to two dozen dirty fellows with bare feet and red
woollen caps, and taking them by their huge tarry hands, and bidding
them _chassez_ here, and _balancez_ there, and _promenade_ here, and
_pirouette_ there. I was too angry to laugh, when I saw sailors making
such baboons of themselves."

"Now," remarked Mrs. Clavering, "it is an established fact, that without
some knowledge of dancing, no one can move well, or have a graceful air
and carriage. Why, then, should not sailors be allowed an opportunity of
cultivating the graces as well as other people? Why should they be
debarred from everything that savours of refinement?"

"I am glad," said Uncle Philip, laughing, "that it never fell to my lot
to go to sea with a crew of refined sailors. I think, I should have
tried hard to whack their refinement out of them. Why the French
first-lieutenant (who was certainly a very clever fellow), told me that,
during the cruise, five or six seamen had nearly died of their
sensibility, as he called it; having jumped overboard, because they
could not bear the separation from their sweethearts."

"Poor fellows," said Fanny, "and were they drowned?"

"I asked that," replied Uncle Philip, "hoping that they were; but,
unluckily for the service, they were all provided with sworn friends,
who jumped heroically into the sea, and fished the lubbers out. And, no
doubt, the whole scene had a very pretty effect."

"How can you make a jest of such things?" said Mrs. Clavering,
reproachfully.

"Why, I am only repeating your own words," answered the old gentleman.
"But, to speak seriously, this shows that French ships ought always to
be furnished with Newfoundland dogs to send in after the lovers, and
spare their friends the trouble of getting a wet jacket for them:--Come
here, old Nep. Up, my fine fellow, up," patting the dog's head, while
the enormous animal rested his fore-paws on his master's shoulders.

Mrs. Clavering now reminded the children that it was considerably past
their hour for going to school, but with one accord they petitioned for
a holiday, as it was the first day of Uncle Philip's and Sam's return.

"You know the penalty," said Mrs. Clavering; "you know that if you stay
away from school, you will be put down to the bottom of the class."

The children all declared their willingness to submit to this punishment
rather than go to school that day.

"Now, Kitty Clavering," said Uncle Philip, "you see plainly that their
hearts are not in the French: and that it is all forced work with them.
So I shall be regularly displeased, if you send the children to school
to-day. They shall go with me to the cabin, and we will all spend the
morning there."

The cabin was a small wooden edifice planned by Uncle Philip, and
erected by his own hands with the assistance of Sam and Dick. It stood
on the verge of the river, where the bank took the form of a little cape
or headland, which Uncle Philip called Point Lookout. On an eminence
immediately above, was the house of Mrs. Clavering, from the front
garden of which a green slope, planted with fruit-trees, descended
gradually to the water's edge.

The building (into which you went down by a flight of wooden steps
inserted in the face of the hill), was as much as possible like the
cabin of a ship. The ceiling was low, with a skylight near the centre,
and the floor was not exactly level, there being a very visible slant to
one side. At the back of this cabin was an imitation of transoms, above
which was a row of small windows of four panes each, and when these
windows were open, they were fastened up by brass hooks to the beams
that supported the roof. In the middle of the room was a flag-staff,
which went up through the centre of a table, and perforated the ceiling
like the mizen-mast of a ship, and rose to a great height above the
roof. From the top of this staff an American ensign, on Sundays and
holidays, displayed its stars and stripes to the breeze. There was a
range of lockers all round the room, containing in their recesses an
infinite variety of marine curiosities that Uncle Philip had collected
during his voyages, and also some very amusing specimens of Chinese
patience and ingenuity.

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