The summer-land
page: 0 (TitlePage) [View Page 0 (TitlePage) ]THE SUMMER-LAND: BY A CHLD OF THE SUN. "Know ye the Land where the cypress and ' i ,'!- .. Are emblems of deeds that are done in thebr '- Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melts into sorrow, now, maddens to crime " BRIDE OF ABYDOs. : , NEW YORK: D.. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 846 & 848 BROADWAY. M DCCO. LV. page: 0[View Page 0] ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by D. APPLETON & COMPANY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. IT was said by Gray, and has been said by a good many others, that any man, with talent or without, could write a useful and entertaining book, if he would only faithfully, and without affectation, detail what he has seen and heard in a sphere which the rest of the world had never seen, and was curious about." The author thinks that his little volume of Journeings m ay claim to fulfil to some extent those conditions ofa good book. With the exception of a change of names, and the coloring of a story, a faithful endeavor has been made to depic t a true and honest picture of life and scener y in the South; with skethes of character, customs, etc., among the planters. *e t page: 4-5 (Table of Contents) [View Page 4-5 (Table of Contents) ] PREFACE The author is a Southerner. He has travelled exten- ely over his native land, and these sketches are drawn nost entirely from his note-book, with the exceptionsl ove mentioned. While-there are no personal portrait- es, each character is intended as a type of such people are found in the South. CONT ENTS PAGX MY IFIRST JOURNEY ........................... 7 THE OVERSEER AND gIS WIFE ............................ 15 PUOa SHm EN BBME ......................................... 28 OLOTILDE -........ 38 CROWOOD. ............. . -41 THi BBoOKWOODS ........ ............. .. o 1.. 46 "WHEN THE CLOOK STEIEZS TWO" ............. ............ 652 THEI SHADOWS OF LIFE' .................................... 68 "THERE BE I [UMMERS WITHOUT" .......... ............ ..- 74 REPRESENTATIE ITIES. ....'.... .*****..... 81 OHEZ MADAmE BoNAVOINp ................. ,.. .- 92 BATOOSALOA. ............. ...... .... e . ..... .... ..4... H 106 "K COTTON"....... i '123 COcAIGNo.. ......A. ... ..........:.... ............... 188 BONNIao00SA ............. . .. .. 149-- REPs A.......T.....I.... . . M.............. 8.........................8 THE KNGDOM o LIGT ............... ' * . * 176 AN EVENING PARTY AT Di. TUTGGLE'S .. ................. ... - 184 VIIANx ... a...'.. o ....a ...a , . O a a .a .. ........ ...* 189 page: 6 (Table of Contents) -7[View Page 6 (Table of Contents) -7] CONTENTS. PAGB A EVOME PABTY AT SIR. SRRBY cOOKTAL ............... a 193 A HABaPB O FRlNoH RNOB m ............*........... a03 A SABBATH-DAY'S JOURINEY ..........214......... 24 OHUOKATUBBIB .e........... .ee....e e 228 A RAILROAD EEVIE. ... ........................ . 234 SrnOGHT .OF LIFE. ............ . 246 IDYAX D ...... ............. 26 Awye O o v 4, O 0 O e O 0 O 0 O 0 O 0 O 0 O a O 9 O 9 0s MY FIRST JOURNEY. "THS is the lad you are seeking, Monsieur le Cure'," said the preftt of the Ecole des Cinglivres, rue Carrge-bonne, No. 176, Paris" laying his hand on the head of a little white-haired urchin of nine or ten years old, who was playing at ball with half a score of comrades in the little court-yard in the rear of the school, which formed the gymnasium and playground for the pensio- naires of that famous institution. Is this Master Jered?" asked in French a squat-built per- sonage, in a priest's habit, who accompanied the prefit.' "Yes, Monsieur le Our," said I, bowing, and looking up sur- prised and a little startled by the suddenness of the apparition, "I am Jan Jered-at your reverence's service." "Master Jered," said the prefft, " you will go to your room and make ready your malles." "Yes, sir," said I in suspense, page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] 8 SCENES IN THE SUMMBR-LAND. "You will pack up everything. You are to leave school to return home; you will accompany this gentleman-Father Claude-who is sent by, your father; he will be your compagnon de voyage. Take Fally with you, and make haste and get ready." I went up to my little attic chamber, and in a few minutes had packed my small personal estate in a wee leathern valise, which constituted what Monsieur le Prefet was pleased to call my malles. "Fally goes with me, I suppose, Monsieur le Prefet?"I asked, as I reported myself at the foot of the stairs, with my little over-sack of blue cloth buttoned up, and my tassellated casquette, of the same, covering my blonde head of thick silken curls. Fally was a little mulatto attendant of mine, about my own age, who came behind me bearing my " malles" and his own luggage, in the shape of a bundle tied up in a blue cotton hand- kerchief. "Certainly-Fally goes with you," said the prefit. "Step into the court-yard and bid your playmates adieu-you will find Father Claude at the porte-cocere waiting for you." It was a delicious autumn evening, and my head was full of Gil Blas, which I had just been reading. I was in a mood for adventure. Nothing could have suited me better than this summons of Pere Claude to go with him-I knew not where. Home, had said the prefet, but that word, so dear to many, conveyed no definite idea to me. I had no other home than my little attic in the Pension des Cinqlivres, that I knew of. It is true, I sometimes went to spend the Sunday at a hand- 7I.; MY FIRST JOURNEYS g some house in the Rue du Grand Trianon, with my father and mother-sometimes at fine houses elsewhere, and occasionally at a beautiful chateau in the country, in the direction of Fon- tainebleau: I never was taught, however, to consider any of them as my home--though I believe the house in the street du Grand Trianon was the actual residence of my parents. So I supposed that M. le Cure was to take me to his own home. My parents resided in Paris, but I saw them so seldom, and then always surrounded with company, that few boys ever ar- rived at the age of ten knowing less of his birth, circumstances, and family. I know my mother loved me-love, deepest and most fer- vent, was always in her eyes whenever she caressed or noticed me. I know my father did, because he always greeted me with a kindly-cadenced "How do our studies progress, my boy?" and there was from him always a louis d'or, or something, at parting. The Sundays I was with them, the rooms were always full of company, and they had no time to attend to me, and supposing I was happier romping and sporting with the children of their ac- quaintances, endimanches like myself, they suffered me to play upon the terraces and rove about the halls and gardens, while they attended to their own company. My adieus were soon made, and I found the pref6t and the priest at the porte-cochere, talking together, and Fally holding open the door of the fiacre, ready for us to get in. "Adieu, mon petit Jano," said the prefet, taking me affec- tionately by the hand; "I shall perhaps never see you again; 1' page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] 10 SCENES IN THE SUMMWIR-LAND. be a good boy (some sage). I commit you to M. le Cure, who will be henceforth your preceptor." "Am I not to return to the Pension?"I asked, blubbering, I fear; half hypocritically, for I did not care much about it, only I thought I ought to seem a little distressed at parting with the worthy prefet, who had always been really kind to me. "I fear not," he replied; " so good-bye. I wish you le bon voyage, Monsieur le Cure," and he bowed courteously, to which Father Claude responded with equal empressementon his part, and the hackney-coach drove off. "Have you also a Pension, Monsieur le Cure? t"I asked. "No, won petit," he replied, "I am taking you to your home-your own home-where I will be your private tutor and guardian." A And where is that?" "Don't you know? To Louisiana. To your father's plan- tation on the Mississippi." "I did not, know that my father bhad a plantation on the Mississippi." "He has recently acquired it. It is in my parish in Louis- iana, and he has 'employed meto superintend the general con- dition of his negroes, the affairs of his estate, and your educa- tion." "And father and mother, do they go?" "Your father remains in Paris for a year or two yet. Your mother--your mother is-dead!" "My mother is not dead," said I, emphatically, looking full in the eyes of Monsieur le Cure, as though my will could make the .statement false. MY FIRST JOURNEY. 1 "She died yesterday," said Father Claude, calmly. Monsieur Antoine Claude was a little, sallow Franais, with a turn-up nose and little round eyes, like those of a mouse, with no whites in them. I looked hard at him, to see what he meant by telling me such a story; but he took snuff with such a solemn air, and looked so intently out of 'the coach window at the chim- ney-pots, that I was compelled to believe him. As soon. as I saw the sad news must be so, I lay back in my seat, and wept very bitterly all the way to the diligence office. I was aroused from the sort of stupor into which my grief and weeping had thrown me, by the halting of the hackney-coach in the court-yard of the diligence-office, when the bustle and up- roar, the Babel of tongues, the crowd of strange faces, the novelty of the scene, and the excitement of the occasion, soon dissipated my sorrow, which gave place to a subdued heart-melancholy, that did not preclude my enjoyment of the aniniated spectacle around me, and I fell back into my Gil Blas reveries. The diligence for Calais would start in an hour, and Father Claude, having taken our seats at the bureau, returned to the spot where he had left me and Fally with our luggage. Father Claude gave me a piece of -money, and pointing out a rusty old boutique, whose bow-windows displayed a tempting array of confectionery, told me I could go there and invest my funds in some bonbonnerie to eat on the way. I set out in a glee, with Fally at my heels, and we soon re- turned with a couple of brown paper packages of sugar-plums. 'On our return, I found my father, with the priest. He was dressed in deep mourning,- and seemed quite sad. He took me by the hand, and said calmly, but kindly, page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] 12 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. "Janny, Father Claude has informed you that it becomes necessary for you to return to America. He will take good care of you. Be a good boy, and some day, before long, I will join you there." He spoke to me in English, which I understood pretty well- my father and mother always making use of that language en famille--though I was with them en famille very seldom, it must be confessed. My father was habitually an austere man in his intercourse with me. That he loved me, I never for a moment doubted; but he was not very demonstrative in his affection. There is this difference often to be observed in fathers. I had always been accustomed to the most implicit' obedience to his slightest 'commands--I never dared whimper or remonstrate, nor in any way manifest the least repugnance to his behests k There was a deal of awe blended with my filial regard. This time-the news of my mother's death had made me for- get to ask Father Claude about it-this time I only asked him, "' Is it far--to America?" "Very far," replied my father: " across the ocean, you know." Yes, I had -seen America on my atlas, and knew something about it, but I had a very indefinite idea of its distance. I knew the number of miles nearabouts, but that did not help me out very much. "How long will it take to go there?" "You will go in a packet to, New Orleans, from Liverpool. It will take you perhaps a month in all." "Do we start from Liverpool-do we go by London? i MY FIRST JOURNEY. ] "Yes." "Please, sir "-I stopped, and commenced kicking a pebble on the pave with my boots. !"Please what?" asked my father. -"I was going to ask-if it would not incommode Father Claude-would you please let me stop a day or two in Lon- don "?" "What for?" "H want to see Gog and Magog, sir." "Qu'est-ce que c'est qu'il veut dire?" demanded Father Claude, intrigued. "My father laughed (a subdued laugh, of course)- "What do you know about Gog and Magog?" he asked. "I have read about them in a story-book, if you please, sir." My father smiled to himself, and seemed to think it quite an odd conceit. "Well, you may stop a day or two in London. iFather Claude, go with him through the city, and show him St. Paul's, and the Zoological Gardens, and Gog and Magog-" "And-please, sir-Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London-mayn't I see the Tower of London?" "Yes, any thing you wish--Father Claude, any thing he wishes." "Oui, monsieur,-tout-ce qu'il veut voir." A mulatto valet came up with a' small, handsome travelling trunk, quite new, and placed it among our luggage. "Jan, that is yours; it contains some clothing and other things necessary for your journey. The conducteur says that your diligence is ready." page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] " SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. It would be out of the limits -of these sketches to describe my impressions of foreign travel, even if the inexperienced observations and vague reveries of a lad of ten years old were worth recording. It may be sure that my diligence-staging to Calais, my sail across the Channel, my rambles in London, were full of the grandest delight to a boy of my age. What wild freaks my fancy -played! What inconceivable air-castleing' resulted from my journeying in England! Some of these days, mayn't I tell the reader of my discovery of Gog and Magog--of my adventures with an actual countess, as beautiful as Cinderella? Mayn't I say how London seemed andfelt to a little stranger-boy of ten, there with nobody but his tutor, and feeling very much as if he was Marco Paulo, or Lemuel Gulliver, or Gil Blas, or some other great traveller-adventurer? !,1 THE OVERSEER AND HS WIFE. MARTIN the overseer was a Tartar among the negroes, but a mere cipher in his own household. Mrs. Martin was the Tartar there. He was a tall, lantern-jawed man, with a brickdust-colored complexion and scanty red hair. His hands were coarse, hairy, red things, disproportionably large. His shaggy, white eyebrows were shadowed by a weather-beaten panama, which he never took off except to eat and sleep. He did not encumber himself with the superfluity of waistcoat or cravat, and the collar of his cotton shirt, being never buttoned, revealed a broad, bronzed, and hairy breast. Mr. Martin was decidedly a hard-featured man: his face reminded me of one of those masks of the South Sea Islanders, made of stone, with a tanned and rugous hide fitted over it. Add to this that he had- the moast nauseous Yankee drawl- he was a native of the ancient State of Connecticut-that he rarely spoke without a horrid oath, that he chewed tobacco and spit incessantly and promiscuously, that his ablutions were as niggardly as his nature, that his tow-linen sack and trowsers were invariably dirty, and you may form some conception of the only page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] 16 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. white gentleman of my acquaintance in those days, except Father Claude. Mrs. Martin was a fat lady, with a red face, very irregular teeth, by no means the whitest, coarse black hair, and terrible greenish-gray eyes. Her peculiar style of ugliness was emi- nently heightened by a flat, brownish mole in the centre of her forehead. Mrs. Martin's profile was somewhat peculiar. Imagining that her head might have been about the consistency of dough, it was as if some one had placed one hand on the top of it, and the. other on her chin, and just staved it in a little, bulging out her forehead and mashing up her chin. It is five years since my mother died-five years that I have lived here in the swamps with Martin the overseer and his wife. - During all this time, I have not had a single letter from my father, and I have only heard from him occasionally-three or four times a-year--through Father Claude. During all this time Mrs. Martin never gave me a kind look, never gave me a kind word, never showed me the slightest act of kindness: never seemed to feel any more interest in me than she did in the fattening-pig in the stye behind the kitchen. She attended to my animal wants in the same way that she threw slops to the pig. She never had a child' of her own, and her coarse, mascu- line breast was incapable of any of the emotions that thrill the bosom of a mother, and make even the sternest of her sex kind to children. Her unkindness was no more than the negative unkindness of indifference and neglect. She dared not use me cruelly; she THE OVERSEER AND HS WIFE. 17 never struck me-she rarely even scolded me. If she rebuked me, it was with an air- of cold indifference, as though the neces- sity of her own comfort made it incumbent upon her to point out to me such faults as would bring with them any inconvenience to herself; but-that done, she cared little whether I obeyed her counsel, and profited by her advice, or not. Yet she hated me with an intense hatred. There were two very good reasons why she did not beat me, or maltreat me as her inclination willingly would have prompted. The most potential reason, it may be the only real one, was that if I should complain of her to Father Claude, he would write to a certain M. Bonavoine, in New Orleans, who had the authority to discharge Martin from his overseership at Puck- shenubbie; M. Bonavoine being my father's general agent, and having instructions to that effect.* I did not know this. Though I certainly should have told Father Claude had I been misused; and if I had not, my old negro nurse, "Mammy Aggy," would have done so. Not know- ing that there existed this check upon Mrs. Martin, I attributed her forbearance to the other reason-that I was too quiet and inoffensive a creature to call forth a harsh word from anybody. In those guileless days, I did not know that the wicked and the selfish take a sort of fiendish delight in tormenting the innocent and the unoffending. An old black, gray-haired slave, old "Mammy Aggy," was the only being in -the world that really cared for me. Old Aggy loved her ( young master " with the loyalest devotion. When I think znot upon my childhood at Puckshenubbie, I cannot but believe that Father Claude was rdmiss in his duty page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] 18 ' SCENES IN THE SUMFBR-LAND. as my guardian and tutor. It is true his parish covered a large extent of country, and his duties as a priest were very onerous, but since he could be with me but seldom himself, I think he should have taken me from the Martins, either with or without the consent of Mr. Jered, and put me to school, or, at least, placed me under better and more congenial influences. -Father Claude was a good -man-a man of learning, and endowed with kind and generous feelings; but he was a prosy, pedantic priest. H. e never understood me-he never saw that I lacked any thing when I had yams and fowl in abundance at Puckshenubbie. Yams and fowl were sufficient for him: he did not see why I should not vegetate at Puckshenubbie amongst the canebrakes, alligators, magnolias, and negro children of the Quarter, until I had received sufficient drilling in Latin and Greek to enter the school of medicine at Paris, which, he told me, was my des- tiny. It must be confessed I was not calculated to impress any- body, even of greater penetration than Father Claude, with the idea of a future Napoleon or a B6ranger. I was a little, sallow, sickly lad, with slight, almost attenu- ated form. My lips were bloodless, my face pale and thin, and dreadfully tanned and freckled by exposure to the sun. Mrs. Martin gave me the comfortable information that I would not live very long. My large, dark blue eyes had a pre- ternatural lustre, which, she said, was a sure harbinger of early death. In Louisiana, on a plantation, the sugar-house is frequently the most costly edifice by far on the estate, and more money is lavished on it than on the plantation-house, although the latter THE OVERSEER AND HS WIFlm. 1l are sometimes quite elegant, as was the one at Puckshenub bie; but our sugar-house was also on a grand scale. Mr. Martin had his apartments in it, as is not unfrequently the case, and I also had a little room there, but I spent most of my time in Mammy Aggy's cabin, which was a tidy cottage orne, near the plantation-house; for Mammy Aggy, having nursed my father before me, was a pet, and a privileged character on the estate. I had been infected for long months with the ague. I was taciturn, moody, and not at all demonstrative, except towards my little mulatto comrade-Fally. I spent much of my time in the woods, rambling about with Fally at my heels: finding alligator and turtle eggs in the sand: shooting paroquets with a blow gun or a bow: paroquets, lizzards, rice buntings, and any small deer that came in my way. Father Claude spent every Saturday on our plantation: the forenoon he devoted to my instruction-he taught me to ,read in this way and at other odd times. I learned with great facility, and Progressed more rapidly than might have been ex- pected under such slender advantages. I seemed to have some kind of intuition that learning was to be the Open Sesame that would let me into a treasure-house of inexhaustible riches. My faculties, by disease, and a consequent morbid exaltation of my nervous system, were stimulated to a degree that rendered me precocious. It was the effect of the ague, and the quinine that Mrs. Martin made me take. The lessons that Father Claude gave me were few-they were far between-sometimes not more than one forenoon in a week, but I never forgot any thing. I learned to read almost without the preliminary process of a long siege at the spelling- page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] 20 SCENES IN THE SUMERR-LAND. book.." After I had learned the power of letters, I began to read as if by instinct. I studied by myself during the week, and, with Father Claude's Saturday lesson for a starting point, al- ways made rapid advances by the time next Saturday came around. I took to books intuitively, perhaps, because I had so few sources of amusement. MrS. Martin hated me. I never knew why. It is true I did not take very affectionately to her,-and if she was not down- right repulsive to me, it was only because habit and association had overcome my repugnance. There was not a point in com- mon between us. I was passionately fond of flowers, I never returned from a ramble without a handful of wild flowers. "What are you gwine to do with them weeds?" she would ask with a sneer. Did she find me hid in the dingy garret, poring over an old copy of French tales and poetry, she would take it away from me, saying that I had no business reading such books. Did I utter an involuntary exclamation of admiration and delight at a beautiful sunset scene, at' a morning mist on the river silvered in the rising sun, at a white cloud in a moonlight sky, or the gemmed galaxy of tropical stars, she would curl her coarse lip, and utter somelrude expression of contempt. A little green snake one day crawled into the weighing-room of the sugar-house. There are a great many varieties of small snakes in the South; beautiful creatures, red, green, and striped, and perfectly harmless. Knowing from Father Claude that it was such, I took it on-a stick to carry it out. Mrs. Martin was in there, - Give ethe stick," she cried. She took it from me, and THE OVERSEER AND HS WIes. 2: shaking the poor little creature down upon the floor, despatchei it at a blow. "I Master Jan ought to have been a girl,-he's too squeanish for a boy," said she. "I suppose girls cease to be squeamish when they get to -be old women," retorted I. -"Only he is too ugly," she continued. "It was kind in Providence, after all, to make you a boy; it makes no difference about boys being ugly, but it would be a pity for a girl to be as ugly as you are; when she grew up to be a young lady it would be very mortifying." "Did it mortify you much when you were a girl?"I asked, calmly. Mrs. Martin's snaky eyes darted out a greenish fire. "Ef I had been a sailer, freckled thing like you, it would a mortified me, I expect." Her complexion was that of a mangy pumpkin. "Your features were much more regular than mine, I dare say." Mine were regular; my face was oval, and my head well formed, and covered with a luxuriant suit of golden-silken hair. "My features were as God made 'em, Mister Imperance, so get out of the way there for the becasse-bearers." Such a degree of insult as this, however, she rarely offered, nor did I as often retaliate; nothing but some bitter sting, some cruel taunt, would draw from me retort. Her multiplied inu- endo and sneering insinuations I suffered in silence. Mrs. Martin spoke but little French, and I pretended to know even less English than I did, and often feigned not to page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] 22 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND, understand her, and would make no other reply than "Je ne comprends pas," which invariably put her in a rage. '"You're a precious chap not to understand your own native language, and know nothing but the outlandish gibberish of these Creole niggers. Your mammy was a -Virginny lady; wonder what she'd think ef she knew her darlin' Jan couldn't talk nothin' but gumbo." "Je ne parle pas ce patois-l&; point du tout, mamman Aggy parle frangais, du bon frangais, entends-tu? Mamma- Aggy n'est pas Creole. C'est toi qui es creole, vieille coquine-!" I took a particular delight in talking to her in French when she was angry, especially in tutoieing* her, it made her so wrathy." * Using the second person singular. t, PUCKSHENUBBIE. THE Plantation House, or "Great House," as Aunt Aggy, who was an "old Virginia negro," called it, was a low-roofed, two- story edifice of a style of architecture between Spanish and Italian, having the campanile, hip-roof and round-arched windows of th e latter, and the balconies, verandahs, green jalousies, and court of the former. - Outside the mauresque columns of the verandah, which was broad, and almost entirely surrounding the house, was a light lattice-frame, from the eaves to the ground loaded with jessa- mine, clematis, bignonia, and other vines. The house, some hundred and fifty yards back from the Mis- sissippi, was situated on what might be called elevated ground in this low country. Around it was a grove of the dense, dumpy live-oak, which is so much admired, with long gray Southern moss hanging in fes- toons from their branches. The lawn in front of the house down to the river was laid off and setout in the most beautiful style. There w as a lavish luxury of foliage, which constitutes such a charm in Southern scenery, -a charm peculiar to the Land of the Sun. page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] 24 8soES IN TEE SUmM-IR-LAND. There was a profusion of richest tropical shrubbery; pome- granates, magnolias, yuccas, figs, olives, oleanders, pawpaws, oranges, catalpas and dozens more in groups, parterres, rows and singly, all in tasteful array. Behind the house there were larger trees, forming a sort of scenic background for the picture; there was the shaft-like Lom- bard, the stately Spanish oak, the lofty tulip-tree, and the ajes- tia elm; and, above all, in the midst arose a trio of long-leaf pines, magnificent aborigines, towering far above the rests-the lowest boughs of their palm-like tops being above the topmost twigs of all. Old Aggy kep t the keys of the Great touse,-a source of secret discontent and animosity On the part of Mrs. Martin, who would have held them herself, but it was in accordance with the express orders of my father that Mammy Aggy was chatelaine; and she kept the doors locked against every body but Father Claude, who slept there when he was on the plantation. Every Sunday she kindled' fires in all the rooms to drive out the damp, swept the house from top to bottom, dusted all the furniture that was not sewed up in painted canvas covers, and turned a host of coverlets, linen, bedding, and all the drygoods in a housekeeper's thesaurus out in the sun. And I and Fally used to have grand sport tumbling over them. This was early in the morning. When all this airing and overhauling was finished, Mammy Aggy washed and scoured oe, put me into clean duck trowsers, a rudled collar, and cloth roundabout; encased my slim, shallow shanks in silk stockings and lacquered slippers; oiled and brushed my hair into a very girlish arrangement of curls, and crowned me withthe tassel- PUCKSHENUBBIE. 25 lated cap I brought from France, and never since worn upon any other occasion. Then if the weather was good, she had the carriage brought out of the carriage-house, the -keys of which, also, much to Mrs. Martin's discomfort, she had in charge. Having seen that the harness was oiled, polished, and in repair; minutely inspected through her old horn-rim spectacles the carriage inside and out, she dusted the same very carefully, and questioned Pierrot, the coachman, quite rigidly as to the condition of the horses. All things being satisfactory, she joined me in- the verandah of the Great House, to which I was, on these occasions alone, ad- mitted; she would wait there dressed in her yellowest and largest bandanna, and white apron, in addition to her ordinary attire, until the carriage would drive up, when Fally would jump down from behind and open the door with a great air; and Aggy would say ceremoniously, "Voila, mon maitre, que la voiture est pr6te pour votre prom- enade." I would get in, and she after me. And we would go prome- nading a few miles down the levee to church. And on meeting any of the Creole planters, there were salutations and, inquiries about my father, and blushes and sheepishness on my part; and much pride and loquacious service on the part of Mammy Aggy. As soon as we returned home, Mammy Aggy would take off my finery, clothe me in my every-day attire; which consisted generally in dirty duck trowsers, ditto cotton shirt, palmetto hat, and brogan shoes--often none; and glad to get rid of the gene of my regal attire,-the cleanliness of which incommoded 2 page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] 26 .SCES -IN THE SUMMBES-LAND. my notions of liberty, I would caper off to the bayou with Fally, to paddle in the-water along with the ducks and geese. Those hebdomadal drives in state had a greater effect aid significance than one might suppose. They served to keep ue in mind that I was a gentleman's son, and counteracted the malign influence of Mrs. Martin, who nearly died- of anger and envy about them. One da a splendid steamboat landed at the bottom of the garden in front of the Plantation House. I thought it a singular circumstance, as I sat watching the boat approach, from the top., of the wood-pile, where I was perched abask in the sun. The-boats that stopped at Puckshenubbie landed at the wood yard and cotton-wharf, but never before at the garden-foot. I saw a plank put out, and a stout negro came ashore, bearing a big canvas-covered trunk; another followed him with a leather hat-box, a valise and an overcoat, another trunk, and another, more carpet-bags, valises, wicker-baskets, bandboxes, cases, etc., until there was a huge pile of them on the shore. I then saw a gentleman, in a gray cloth cap and brown linen sack over his black frock, come upon the guards, with a veiled lady in gray upon his arm, and after shaking hands and bowing to a great many people on board, he descended the plank, escorting the lady quite gal- lantly. He'was followed by another gentleman elegantly dressed, who wore tremendous whiskers and mustaches, a white hat with black crape on it, and shiny boots. He had a gold-hcaded ebony cane and a big fob-chain; and a very imposing air alout him made me think him a man of the first importance. Other ladie5 and -gentlemen followed-some four or five; but whilst I wat PUCKSH ENUBBIE. 2 scrutinizing them, I heard Aggy calling me, in a consequential and flurried tone of voice. "Mais od est done ce petit Jan-ne sait-il pas que son pire est arrive?" I heard the words, and they frightened me half to death. My father-my father come! I had never dreamed of the pos- sibility of such a thing. I ran off, and hid in the carriage-house. Fally found me there, and told me that my father was inquiring every where for me; that they had brought pineapples, and bananas, and oranges, and sugar-plums, and guava, " and oh I so many goodies," with them! I concluded that the ordeal must be gone through some time. Fally excited my curiosity to see the "goodies " and pretty pres- ents he had brought me, so I sneaked around the back of the house, and ventured falteringly into the verandah. The gentle: man with the blonde mustache came out of the hall door upon the back verandah with his hands full of little packages-accidental- ly, just as I was at the steps of the verandah. As soon as I saw him, I started to run: I sought to get behind the kitchen before he saw me; but I did not make good my retreat ere he espied me. "Here, Janny-why, is that Janny? Here, you little imp, come here and embrace your father." But, bless you! I was already crouched under the wood-shed, behind the kitchen. "Alfred," I could hear him say to a likely mulatto who had accompanied the party from the boat, "Go and fetch that boy here. Why, they have let him run perfectly wild. I must give page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] '28 - SCENES IN THE SUMMFIR-LAND. Father Claude a lecture for neglecting him so during my absence. But I might have known it," he added. "Come with me, my little master," said, coaxingly, the mu- latto, catching me by the arm. "Come, pappa wants to see you. Won't you go see papa, who's been away so long to Europe-five years, nearly? Don't you- remember him-hey?" "(Va-ten!" said I, sulkily, trying to disengage my arm. "Finis j'ne veux pas y aller." "Oh-ah! Vous parlez frangais done! A la bonne heure I Venez done, c'est vot' pere qui vous demande-par la' .. dans la-piazza. Allons done." "Finis .... laisse-moi tranquille." My father came up. He caught me in his arms, and smother- ed me with kisses. "I kicked and struggled. He put me down, and exclaimed with a mortified air, a My poor boy! Is this the welcome you give your father after so long an-absence? 'Tis my fault-'tis my fault!' He spoke in English. The bitterness of his accent touched me. "Are you my father?"I asked naively, looking up at him out of the corners of my eyes, as I dribbled a hole in the ground with my great toe. My father's return wrought a great change in affairs at Puck- shenubbie. Mrs. Martin sank into the shade of her proper insignificance. I rarely saw her- now, for I had a nice little room at the Great House; but when I did chance to encounter her, she was as gra- cious as her ugly nature would permit. All was gay life and bustle at Puckshenubbie. Mrs. Martin X , PUCKSHENUBBIE. durst not call me ugly now, for I was dressed fine every day, and Alfred dressed my hair in splendid ringlets. It was'quite a contrast to my old lonely, quiet life, and enough to dazzle my young imagination; but I rather regretted my old freedom, and dirt, and swamp-rambles. The negroes at the Quarter used to call me Indian, because I was always teasing old Aggy and Father Claude to tell me In- dian stories, and because I sometimes took a child's whim of playing "Indian," and bound my head with a red bandanna hand- kerchief, stuck turkey feathers in it, and girding. my cottonade blouse into an imitation hunting-shirt, went with my hatchet and bows and arrows trapseing about the cane-fields, in the sort of Quixotic derangement that boys sometimes indulge in, having Fally similarly metamorphosed for my Sancho Panza. Mrs. Mar- tin had called me Injun, because she said "I was as swarthy and ugly as an Injun, and nothin' but a little dirty savage, no how." Now she called me Master Jered, as politely as anybody. The green jalousies were thrown open at the Great House. The canvas coverings were taken off. Carpets and mattings were spread on the floors, and the parlor presented to my young eyes a scene of Arabian Nights magnificence. There were four ladies. Two of them were young, and two were of middle age. And there was, besides a little pale, red- headed girl, who was always in the sulks; at least, she would have nothing to do with me, though her mnamma, the youngest of the two older ladies, made repeated endeavors to bring us ac. quainted with each other. She would go off to one end of the verandah with a white rabbit she had, and stay there for hours, playing with it, twining wreaths of flowers around its neck, pet- page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] 30 - SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. ting it and talking to it, and whenever I would attempt to join her, she would take it up in her arms, and with a sullen look, go with it into the garden. I remember the first day they came, as I entered the hall with my father, after he had made his acquaintance acceptable with kind words and sugar-plums, we met one of the two young la- dies-a tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed lady, beautiful and gen- tle, and dressed very elegantly. As soon as she saw me, she ran up and stooped to kiss me; but I shrank away from her' em- brace, behind my father. "Edouard, est-ce ]A votre fils?" "Oui, Leonore, je le trouve un tout petit sauvage--" but pardon me, I'll give the English. "I find him quite a little sWv- age. Father Claude is to blame for this. I put him under his charge, and he has left him here on the plantation with the ne- groes and overseer, and he has grown into such a pale, ugly crea- ture, all freckled, tanned, and dirty, that I am quite ashamed of him. Besides, his manners-are shockingly neglected."-- '"He isn't pretty as I expected your child would be," replied the young lady, looking tenderly at him. "Does he resemble his mother, do you think?" "I think-a little, perhaps. But his mother was certainly the most beautiful woman in the-South." The young lady pouted, and tapped him playfully on the arm with her fan. "My mother was more beautiful than you," said I, speaking French for the first time, and making use of the spiteful accent, veiled beneath a seeming indifference, with which I sometimes re- torted upon Mrs. Martin. ;I I? PUCKSHENUBBIE. "Oh!" cried the young lady, feigning a sort of frightened look, "I did not know that the child spoke French." "Yes, madame, I speak French." ( Tant mieux!" she muttered drily, and then slipped off into the parlor, where I soon heard her playing a French air on the piano. The other yo ung lady was an American, but I have forgotten her name-the daughter of some New Orleans grandee, who had a little creole dandy dancing attendance upon her. There was a great deal of gayety at Puckshenubbie: every evening there were ladies came in their carriages, and gentlemen on horseback and in buggies; and there was music in the draw- ing-room, wine in the dining-room, and dancing in the halls, and a-grand gala time of it. The gentlemen played cards and billiards, and drank and smoked, in the apartments for that purpose, from morning till night; especially my father, and the man with the big whiskers and white hat. He was a Frenchman. They called him Monsieur Lestocq. He dressed very splendidly, playedI well on the violin, and waltzed sometimes with Madame Ldonore, my stepdame; but he was not as often in the drawing-room as the other gentlemen, and when not playing cards, which he seemed to like best, he was either lounging over a newspaper and cigar on the veran- dah, or practising at pistol-shooting under an old live-oak at the' foot of the lawn. He taught me to shoot a pistol, as I would be down there looking on at him sometimes, and he promised me a gold piece whenever I could hit the spot on an ace-card at page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] 32 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. twenty paces. It was not long before I did learn to do that- and, sure enough, he gave me a gold piece. Monsieur declared that I would make an excellent pistol- shot-that I had a better eye for it than my father. But I did not much like Monsieur Lestocq, for all his gold piece--I hardly knew why, unless that he sometimes had a way of showing his white teeth beneath his heavy mustaches in laughing, when he and -father were playing picquet or ecarte. There was some- thing sinister about that grin. As for gold, I had plenty of it. Madame Leonore gave me a handful of little gold pieces, and my father gave me gold, and the other gentlemen gave me gold, all but the father of the red- haired girl,---a tall, dark man, with a black dress and white cra- vat, who gave me a couple of very stupid religious story-books- and his wife, who gave me cakes and candies. They gave me gold and caresses, but none gave me love. Madame Leonore made much of me in her-way, being my stepmother, as they told me. But her "way" was toflatter me, -and beg me to love her; to indulge me in every possible man- ner, and make Very exaggerated demonstrations of her affection for me. Child as I was, I could easily see through that; I could readily see it was all put on, and that really, at heart, she cared nothing for me. She saw that I felt this, and by degrees dimin- ished the excess of her adulations, but continued to overload me with marks of her sort of kindness. There was something in the flimsy but polished hypocrisy of those fashionables, hardly veiling the coldest selfishness, that was perhaps more galling than the coarse tyranny of Mrs. Martin. PUCKSHENUBBIE. The red-haired girl's father, whose name was Mr. Brookwood, really meant well by me: but his was one of those stiff, self- absorbed natures that cannot commune withchildren. He could not come down into my sphere at all, and his attempts at it were only clumsy failures. Mrs. Brookwood thought she loved me very much, and thought I ought to love her, because she combed my golden locks, and said I was a " dear, interesting child," and stuffed me with fruits and confectionery, just as she did her daughter's pink- eyed rabbit with artichokes and spinage. I grew to like Mr. Brookwood better by degrees; he would not come down to me, but I struggled to clamber up- to him. He taught me topographic astronomy, and incidentally I wrested some boy-poetry, in the way of classic mythology, out of his theologico-metaphysical excursions. I had wealth of fine clothes, and dressed in velvet, and broad- cloth, and laces, every day. I had a room of my own, and Fally instituted as my regular valet-de-chambre, and put under the tutorage of Alfred, whose Parisian training had rendered him acheve in his art. I Siad free access to the dinner-table, where Fally waited behind my chair, and to the drawing-room, where the company petted and complimented me-me who had not been much used to compliments. But I could see that they complimented me- just as they would have done a monkey or a poodle, with not nigh so much real affection as little Sarah Brookwood bestowed upon her white rabbit. I very soon tired of the drawing-room; and being no longer permitted to paddle about in the bayou, and ramble through the 2* page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] 34 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. swamp playing at "Indian," because it soiled my fine clothes and gave me chills, I spent most of my time in my room reading the French novels I found in the library, a great number of which Madame Lenore had brought with her from Paris. I had also a pony and equipment, and being permitted to ride upon the levee every morning and evening, which was a source of more enjoyment to me, perhaps, than anything else. ., I . CLOTILDE. ONE evening, a few days after my father's return, I was walk- ing in the garden, after dinner. I was dressed in a very rich blue velvet paletot, plaid trowsers, and a new and elegant cap, brought all the way from Paris for me.. I was thinking over my old schoolboy days at the Pension des Cinqlivres-thinking over my travels with Father Claude, of London, and my friend the' Countess of Shiftie, and Dintmere Castle, and Gog and Magog. What happy times those were-the days when I was Gil Blas! I had dreamed of them often before, but my reveries now wore a brighter and more vivid coloring than usual. I think it was owing to the finery I had on, and the many handsome ar- ticles of apparel Madame L6onore had brought me from Paris. I had not had any nice things of the sort since the treasure of them I found in the new trunk my father gave at the diligence office, upon starting for America. My plaid trowsers and braided paletot seemed somehow to heighten the associations of my day-dream. Strolling down a gravelled avenue of fig-trees and pomegran- ates, I suddenly heard a shrill, little-scream, in a cross-walk near page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] 36 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. by. I could not see who it was, for an intervening espalier; but upon repairing thither, there was Sally Brookwood, and another little girl about her own age, crouching in affright before a little green snake, that was crawling on the walk. Seeing what was the matter, I came up quite heroically, tell- ing them not to be alarmed, that I would protect them. "Oh, Master Jan, such a dreadful snake-and Clotilde came near treading on it!" cried Missie Brookwood, addressing -me for the first time since she had been at Puckshenubbie. "You little cowards!" said I. "It is quite harmless, this little creature; it is as much afraid of you as you are'of it. See, it is trying to make its- escape." I ran forward, stooped, and took the small reptile in my hand. Both the girls screamed simultaneously, and I ran, laughing, to- wards Sarah, holding the little snake aloft, as though I would put it on her. "Oh!-mais, Monsieur Jan, jettez-le, jettez-le;' cela vous mordera--bien sfir!" cried Miss Clotilde, clasping her hands, and throwing herself into a little tragic attitude, which was not affected, but so graceful that it attracted my attention; and I threw the snake from me, and approached her. She was a little pale, frail creature, with large, dark-brown eyes, very thick, silken, dark hair, oval face, and a wistful ex- pression of countenance, half-melancholy, half-playful, the- effect of which was heightened by the pallid hue of ill-health. She had a sad, deep-searching glance, and a drooping of her long, heavy, black lashes, that gave quite a touching allure to the grace of her manner. She wore a short, white muslin frock, a little black silk apron, I I. .CLOTILDE. and deep-laced panties; but with this childish attire, she wore her luxuriant hair tressed up in bandeaux in the Italian style, instead of being clipped around her ears, which gave her a more maidenly air than Sally Brookwood. "Qui etes-vous, donc?"I asked, with the aplomb of boy hood. She looked at me with the most arch and yet artless smile, as much as to say, mister big boy, you can't intimidate Ine. "Moi? Don't you know? But I forget I have been sick ever since I've been here, and have not been out of my room. I am Clotilde Duvaloir, cousin of Madame Jered. I came with her from Paris." She spoke in French. I had never seen or heard any thing of her before, and the suddenness of her apparition excited my curiosity and interest. "Are you any kin to M. Lestocq?" was the first thing that occurred to me. "No-I have no kin except Madame Jered. I am orphe. ,I7ine." "Since you are no kin to Monsieur Lestocq, and do not like him (I inferred that from the emphasis with which she said nto), I think I shall like you. Mayn't I?" Somehow I could not have talked in this way in English-but it is so easy to be gallant, and so natural, in French I "You may if you like,", she answered, with a pale smile, and a deep-searching, lash-veiled glance, which subsided imme- diately. "Then let us walk together down the garden. You will tell' me about Paris, since you have been there since I have." page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] 38 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. "Do you not remember seeing me a long time ago, when you were in France?" "I?--you? No. , Did you see me there?"I cried, sur- prised, but quite delighted. "Do you not remember the Chateau Duvaloir?" l Near Paris?" "Yes." "On the road to Fontainebleau?" "Justement! ' "Ah, yes, I remember that. It was where my father and mother were frequently, when Alfred came for me to spend the Sunday with them. I remember the old pear-trees, and the Lomrn bardy poplars near the pond." I isupposed that to be the Chateau Duvaloir at once, because it was the only chateau I had ever been at. ' "Do you remember the big dog, who came with a gentleman on horseback, and who chased me, and frightened me so, when I went to pat his curly head, and you drove him off with a stick?" I did not remember it. 1 " have thought of it often, though. I had nearly forgotten who the little boy was who so. bravely defended me. I was une toute petite fille then-toute petite; but when I saw you so courageously attack the snake just now-" "I did not attack the snake," said I, smiling. "Well, you--it's all the same-" "But come--let us walk," said I, for we had been standing. ,' Non-pas-Mle. Sallie is waiting for me; it would not be polite for me to leave her." "Ask her to go with us."' CLOTILDE. 39 j " She will not. Besides, she does not understand our lau- guage; and I speak so little English. With you I would not speak it at all." "Why not?" "Because I pronounce so badly." "Why will not Miss Sarah come?" i "Because she don't like you, she says." "Why not? I have always treated her kindly, and have attempted to get acquainted with her, but she repulsed my advances. What has she against me?" "She says "-and Mademoiselle Clotilde laughed, and looked archly at me---c she says you are ugly!" "She's a little beauty herself," said I, spitefully--" such charming red hair! And you-do you think I am ugly, Made- moiselle Clotilde?" She smiled again. "You are sunburnt and sallow, and your face is a little thin. Your features are good-your eyes very good. But no matter for that. I like you. You are intelligent: that pleases me better than looks." "Thank you for the compliment. But here comes Miss Sally-" , "Won't you come with me, Clotilde? or are you going to ijj% leave me for that French boy?" "I'm no French boy, Miss." "' You were born in Paris." "And what of it? My father and mother are Virginians." "You are Virginian--or not, too-Mees Sally," asked Clo- tilde, in her broken English. page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] 40 SCENES IN THE SUMMF-R-LAND. "Yes, I am. And pa and ma are going to Kentucky before long, and I'm so glad i" "Are you glad to leave me so soon?" asked Clotilde. "Oh, you've got a French sweetheart, now-you all can talk Pronsay together, and you won't miss me." "( Mais qu'elle est, m6chante-cette petite la," said I. "But Mr. and Mrs. Jered, who spend their summers near us in Kentucky, will soon be starting up-I expect we will all go together." "Come, then, go with Sally," I added in English; "I will go and ride my pony. I hope, Miss Clotilde, you will soon be well enough to ride out with me." "Thank you for the wish, and for the promise of riding. I like to ride, but I am afraid of the horses." "Oh, you shall ride my pony, and I will ride a big horse." Clotilde, with girlish, grace, pulled a rose-bud and gave me,- the first flower I ever received from the hand of a maiden. I pinned it on my breast, and bade them good evening. CROWOOD. THE gray moonlight was casting grim, ragged shadows across the wood. The hoary, leafless old trees stood out in bold relief, the mysterious half-light reflected from their lichen-clad trunks. Like weird sprites invoking Heaven with some mute incantation, they stretched out their bare, scraggy arms into the dim, moonlit sky, where their tiny twigs were twinkling indistinctly, blending into the air, and seeming to waver in mysterious undulations. The whole forest melted away into an indefinable uncertainty of outline, in the distant gloom of night. With no knowledge of locality, and ignorant where we were, or by what surrounded-only knowing that we were going to a place, but with no definite idea what sort of place it was,--a 'vague, abstract notion only of somewhere,-there was a solemn and intangible mystery about these dim woods, so silent and grim. imagined-similitudes and realities were brought nearer each other, sometimes confounded together, in my fever-refined imagination-I imagined that these woods were of Spirit-land. I was travelling in Spirit-land. Out there-away in the recesses of that deep forest-beyond where the moonlight re- solved it into some distinctness of form and outline-far in the page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] 42 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. mist and, gloom, was. a spectre kingdom, and a huge towered- and-bastioned air-castle, inhabited by the spirits of Dream-land. In my young mind, there was not yet the stern, incorrigible logic of science, to drive me from my refuge in those realms of magic. I believed in fairies, elfs, and goblins, in that preternatural period of life, ere sin had altogether corrupted the innocence that gives communication with the higher life: I saw them with the second sight of. childhood. And I saw these trees,.these vista'd shades, these quaint forms and strange colorings--not as material,.carbon-assimilating vegetables-not as combinations of penumbras and reflected light, but as unconnected isolations, self-existent phainomai, looming out in a curious and infinite world; untrammelled by that all- embracing law of serial uniformity that says, must be so, and can't be otherwise. How gloomy and grand those dark forestal shades! How solemn the stillness of the winter night! It was yet winter here, although it was the balmiest spring weather when we left Louisiana. Stands out brightly yonder, a grassy slope, -fading down into the dark shadow of the tall wood at its base. That slope is a meadow, and a flock of sheep are sleeping on its soft carpet; their fleece shines bright and silver-tinged amid the surrounding shadows. Our road goes down that slope': I can see the dark outline of a bridge down there. Leaning out of the coach-window to gaze on the beauty of this night-scene, I could see airy-spirits flitting in the hazy back-ground; I could see a ring of fairies i, - cRowooD.. ancing on yonder moss bank, where the moon's raysruggling through the overbending boughs of a giant beech, formed a halo- circle of light. I saw a troop hieing, gossmer winged, alown the meadow slope, and every nook and arhed avenuewas ten- perinduced by a severe1 typhoid fever, from which I suffered on the boat all the way, being taken the very ay we left Puckshenubbie y day we left The still y night! ow calmly sooting-how almost holy its influence on an invalid! Noiseless all around, save the regu: lar tramp of our eh rsoes' feet, and the slight creak of our car- liage-whees-sounds 80 monotonous and familiar to the ear that they seemed not to break upon the silence of the night. Not a wind-sigh, not a hum, not bug-chirp . . . all soundless as the spirit-land where I dreamed I was. Occasionally the baying of some distant watch-dog fell lightly on the ear-lightly as an echo, or a mere imaginary soundin the tympanum. W Here wa s th e m oon-'lumin ed Isk y, above the dark forests, whose trunks stood out on the dim background--some ashen- s ilver , others bl ack---and abov e , t he e ndless-tangled tracery of bough s and twigs. Th ere w as th e meadow-slope , and at i ts b ase the silv er-glaning sream , w ith th ose same - et ernal moonbeams, which pervaded every thing, sheening its shadowy water, where th e t all, slender reeds w ere c asting I ong , d ark pencils of s hadl e on the crystal expanse. That is the sort of picture it was. mly com panions had for some tim e b een wrapt in a profound silencee; a I ow , ard breathing , indicated th at Madam e L"onore' page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] " SCENES IN THE SUMMTER-LAND. was asleep; while Clotilde, if I might judge by the moonlit dreaminess of her deep-brown eyes, was ruminating amid fancies allied to my own. My father, whose active habit of body could not brook the confinement of a carriage, had hired a horse when we left the boat, and he had ridden on an hour or more ago out of sight. The carriage crossed the bridge, and after traversing. a nearly level piece of road with a high picket fence on our right, inclosing what seemed to be a park, for a quarter of a mile, drew up at a great gateway, fanked by massy stone turrets; and on one side a porter's lodge, from which emerged an old. decrepit negro man, to open the gate for us. This gateway re- minded me something of Chateau Duvaloir, and, without reflec- tion, I asked: "Clotilde, we are not in France?" "Surely not.; we are in Kentucky." The gate opened; we entered a long, dark avenue of trees, and a few minutes' drive along a smooth pebbly road towards a distant glimmering candle-light, brought us out from the shade of the park trees into an open glade, where the moonlight fell full and bright, revealing beyond it a white railing, inclosing a profusion of shrubbery, with the high-peaked gables, corners, chimney-stacks, and the various pyramidal-roofed appendages and out-houses belonging to a manse, nestled amid. All was perfectly still; though by the light gleaming from' a casement, revealed in an accidental opening in the shrubbery, we could see that the inmates were astir. My father's horse was hitched near a little wicket.. i RCROWOOD. 45 "Is it not a beautiful picture?" said l1otilde to me, as we drove across the open glade. "Beautiful!" "Aunt-madame I wake uD- here! We are at home. This is OROWOOD." ,i 4 page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] THE BROOKWOODS. MR. BROOKWOOD and his wife and daughter had preceded us, and we found them in the draing-room at Crowood, with every thing " fixed up " for our coming. Mrs. Brookwood and Sarah received us with a perfect salu- tatory storm; and after entering, for ten minutes the confusion and noise was so great that my brains were all awhirl. Such kissing and hugging, and laughing, and shaking hands; such taking off cloaks and shawls and bonnets, and bringing in trunks, bundles, and bandboxes; and everybody bustling about, running hither and thither, and servants always getting in the way of one another, that there was no comprehending things clearly at all; so I skulked, unobserved, into a corner, to divest myself of my shawl and gloves, and reconnoitre the scene. The drawing-room was much more spaeious, and more elegant than that at Puckshenubbie. The walls I observed were a faint sea-green, with niches here and there, containing vases, or statu- ary; the ceiling was lofty, with white alabaster cornice, and a rosette in the middle, from which depended a magnificent silver-gilt chandelier. And there was a costly centre table, covered with richly i THE BBOOKWOODS. 47 bound books, and drawings, and nicknacks; and a grand piano, and ever so much splendid furniture, that impressed my young imagination as very palatial indeed. Mr. Brookwood was an Episcopal clergyman. He was the rector of the parish of Tussaleega, but preached also once a week at our chapel, at C(rowood, which was nearer the rectory than the parish church itself. Being such near neighbors, the fami- lies were intimate, and as there was no Catholic priest at Tussa- leega, Madame and Clotilde, who were good Catholics, attended the chapel services of Rev. Mr. Brookwood, though they both grumbled a great deal privately; and I heard Madame trying to persuade my father to employ a Romish priest, and discharge Mr. Brookwood from the chapel. j Now my father was not a member of any church, and my mother also had been a Catholic; but my grandfather Jered had been a zealous Episcopalian, had instituted Rev. Mr. Brookwood there, and my father finding him so when he came into the property, and that he was a pious and useful man, had not thought proper to discharge him; and he would not now do so. Nay more, the worthy gentleman was employed tutor in our family, and Clotilde-and I, and Miss Sarah, who had now be- come reconciled, were playmates together, and pupils of his. The Rev. Mr. Brookwood was a tall, slender, pale-faced gentleman, of rather a melancholy cast of sentiment, though of excellent heart, clear judgment, and' profound erudition. I owe a great deal to him. Oh, ye parents, who deal out a niggardly stipend to a second-rate teacher, for economy, if ye only knew the incalculable profit of a good teacher to a lad, you would not grudge him his poor thousand a-year. page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] 48 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. That Mr. Brookwood was a man of feeling I know, from the degree of devotion he wasted on his wife, who was a good, easy- going woman,-pious, fat, and matronlyi- and very good-looking, but did not comprehend either the mind or the heart of her husband, and consequently had nothing to give him in return for his romantic love but tidy housekeeping, comfortable dinners, and her yeawnay sort of affection. I've seen my poor foolish tutor, as he was walking in his garden' with Mrs. B., pluck a rose-bud, and offer it to her, with 7 the chivalrous gallantry of a Don Quixotte; and for appreciation of it, he had as well offered it to Hannibal, his fat negro coach- X man, - There was a good deal of her mother's practical, hard world- liness, and cold selfishness about Sarah; but she was young yet, and her father's influence and Clotilde's, and perhaps some traits in her of her father's character, served to save her from being a i mere animal, like her mother. ' Sarah was an heiress. Someold aunt, or other, had left her a plantation in Louisiana, not far from Puckshenubbie. In ordinary cases this would have militated against her, but Mr. Brookwood was so sensible of the baneful influence of riches on the affections, that he made the most constant, zealous, and saga- i cious efforts to counteract their influence upon his daughter. He succeeded in making an auxiliary of his wife in the cause; a miraculous achievement I think, for Mrs. Brookwood, left to herself, would, on that very score, have so spoiled, petted, and indulged the young heiress, as to ruin her for ever. Sunny years fled-by at Crowood. Not a briny wave from m the dark chaotic ocean of life lashed those peaceful shores. ' -!! THE BROOKWOODS. 49 I remember an evening once in New Orleans, standing upon the balcony at Madame Bonavoine's; it was one of those old- fashioned Spanish houses, shut out from the street by a high blank brick wall. I could see over it from the balcony; outside was the narrow, dirty, crowded street, with drays, porters, beg- gars, dandies, quarteroons, jostling each other in the narrow thoroughfare; two drunken Irishmen and a negro fishwoman were fighting; inside the wall was a plot of green turf, borders of beautiful tropic flowers, orange trees loaded with yellow fruit, figs, bananas, pomegranates, like a paradise, and two innocent, fair-haired children were at play in the sunshine near the wall, with a young fawn, not three feet from the drunken brawlers outside. So were we at Crowood,--as innocent and unconscious of the turmoil of the big, bad world. Ours were the simple joys of innocent childhood, which, how- ever beautiful, cannot be expanded on these pages. How could the worldling appreciate them? The objects that gave us pleasure, the sources from which we derived our happiness, were too simple to be understood by him. What charm could he see in an old, dead-topped tree, with a grape vine swing attached to one of its branches, and a grassy knollet at its base: a mossy bank by the stream-side, with a child's rude play-house of stones and sticks, and thatch of moss atop of it: a hazel dell, where the violets and harebells grew, haunted by the ground-squirrel and the rabbit: a glade covered with- the tall waving prairie-grass, in summer a green sea, in autumn golden yellow, whereout the whistling partridges whirred, 3 page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] 50 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. : and the merry field-larks, and tangled into many a sunny covert A for the brown-eyed hares: a copse where the red sumach, the fragrant sassafras, and scarlet-berried haws afforded small airy perches for peewees and churees, wrens, and wee birdlings of X that ilk,-what could he know of these things? What could he X : see in them to admire? ! X The house at Crowood was a spacious, irregular, and roomy establishment, built of brick, and painted ashen gray, with dark umber-red roof, and sienna-colored window-shutters. It was of no particular style of architecture, though approximating in general towards the high-peaked Flemish-Gothic, with all sorts X i of dormer windows, oriel windows, bay windows, sharp-up gables, i. over-jutting eaves, with bracketed cornices, and diamond-latticed :. casements, high chimney stacks, quaint porticoes, verandahs, and all that kind of thing. Here, at this rare old home, did the golden hours of boyhood fly away, in all innocence, contentment, and bliss. I never went to a school. I never associated with the bad, coarse boys of a village, whose morals and manners are formed in the streets, among rowdy loafers and blackguards. We did not go South with father and his lady in the winter. While they were enjoying the gayeties of New Orleans, Clotilde and I stayed at the Rectory, which was a tall, old-fashioned brick building, in a large yard, shrouded by gloomy-looking locust trees, cedars, and hemlocks, and surrounded by a high fort fence. We lived here under the influence of Mrs. Brookwood's potatoes- and-cabbage sort of affection, and Mr. Brookwood's big-hearted philosophy and romantic-practical tone of life. And the artist-genius of Clotilde, who saw every grace and THE BROOKWOODS. 51 charm that color, outline, and grouping could give in nature, and admired it with a wild, intense enthusiasm, and the way- ward, mysterious poetry in the strange contradictory character of Sarah Brookwood, who saw every thing as mere symbols of an inner world, and who deemed herself the centre around which both inner and outer life revolved, all these influences constituted the school in which I was educated. Clotilde and Sarah betrayed the respective traits of French and English character. They were both lovers of the beautiful, but one in an artist sense, the other in a spiritual and selfish sense. My physical being was as much improved and refined by the genial influences that surrounded me at Crowood and the Rectory. The typhoid fever I had upon the river seemed to have wrought a catalytic change in my system. My complexion grew fair and rosy, and lost all trace of the sallow swamp hue. My limbs be- came rounded and lithe, my spirits buoyant and joyous. Missie Brookwood condescended to say that I was getting to be quite a handsome fellow; and she took so much kindlier to me than she used to, that dotilde, laughing, declared that she suspected her of designing to inveigle from her her "French sweetheart," and that she was exceedingly jealous about it. page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] "WHEN THE CLOCK STRTKFS TWO." A IT was a bleak, wintry evening in November. Leaden-hued : clouds had overspread the sky all the afternoon, and about sup- : per-time it had begun to snow. v We were lingering longer in Kentucky than usual; but, until the day before yesterday, the weather had been delightful, : Indian-summer weather. Clotilde thought it was the death of Madame LUonore that I caused my father to procrastinate our departure. Yes; my stepdame died about a month ago of typhoid ! fever. 0 Snow was falling over the brown earth, and flecking the E sombre twilight with white: was falling in large feathery flakes through the leafless twigs of the trees in the lawn. It was bitter cold; but a roaring wood-fire blazed famously on the andirons, and shed a cheery light through the room, and the mournful whistling of the wind in the keyhole made the enjoyment of shelter and warmth more sensible, Clotilde and I were in the library, with Aunt Aggy. Clo- tilde was drawing illustrations for a story I had written about ' WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWO.' 53 a knight of Rhineland. I used to amuse herself and me by composing stories out of the "Niebelungenlied " and "Orlando Furioso," and she made the pictures. Aunt Aggy was in the corner knitting, and humming a dole- ful Methodist ditty about "When Dan'l was in de lion's den, Jesus was po' Dan'l's fren'." I was standing at the window, watching the snow-flakes clustering on the dark green boughs of the evergreens. The moon shone dimly through the gray clouds as through the ground glass shade of a lamp. I stood there drumming idly on the window pane. My father and Lestocq were playing cards in the smoking room. It has always been a matter of surprise to me, the in- fluence that bad man exerted over my father. He has been here a week now, and they have been constantly together. My father takes no more notice of me than if I were not in existence. Ah, it is a bitter thing to feel that yourfather does not love you. And yet I love him,-oh, I love him to a degree that has rendered my affection almost morbid in its intensity. It is morbid, because in it are not fulfilled the natural conditions of-such a love,-the reciprocation which is essential to it. Clotilde sees this, feels it; dear girl, she sympathizes with me in my suffering, but dares not approach my father on the subject no more than I do. He loves Clotilde; he never meets her but with a word of tenderness:-but for me, his child, he has none. That Lestocq pretends to pity me,-by his manner pity me; his words of compassion are as soothing as brine in a fresh cut wound. page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] 54 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. I always have the intuitive conviction somehow that but for him my father would love me. He would not venture overtly to manifest that he knew the J painful fact that my father does not love me, but he makes me feel it by implication and innuendo. I hate that Lestocq-I hate him with a holy hatred. He shares my father's time and attention, while I am neglected and forsaken. Since my step-mother died, Lestocq has almost domiciled himself among us. He has been spending some time in New York this fall, I understand, and has come by Crowood, on his : way South, to see my father. : We all leave next week for Puckshenubbie. I had been aa- : ticipating a happy time going down the river. My father never i plays for money on steamboats-he would play euchre with us in A the ladies' cabin. I would sometimes be of the party, and in , i! that way we would be thrown more together. But Lestocq is i going with us, and that mars all. Sometimes he and Clotilde, Lestocq and I, might form a partie carree at euchre ; but if Les- : tocq were in it. he would foil all. All my little manceuvres to X win my father's love he would counteract: he is perpetually corm- promising me with him, attributing wrong motives -to my conduct, and giving a certain coloring, which is false, to my whole charac- ter. By such finessing he has estranged my father's affection for X me; and then, when I am not present, I know not what influ- ! ences he brings to bear upon him. ! We Southerners, all, even the most educated and refined, have g a kind of superstition in our character, which takes the place of ! a WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWO." 55 the visionary fanaticism of the North. We believe in presenti- ments. I do. I stood there, beating a tattoo with my fingers on the pane of glass. On the pane the moisture had crystallized, and traced a magic mosaic of frost-work. There was something about it that called to mind the window of a recess in the Chateau Duvaloir-a window with rich ara- besques, where my mother once took me, and prayed with me by her side. And when she had finished her prayer, she told me the story of Christ-the first time I had ever heard it, and I re- member it made a vivid and ineffaceable impression on me. The impression of the story served to preserve in my memory the surrounding objects of trivial importance, which, but for that, * would have been forgotten. I remembered the window in con- nection with the story of Christ, because on it was traced, in the midst of the arabesques, a Virgin and Child. So that it was now, by an association of ideas, that the frost-work of the win- 'dow, in recalling the tracery in the chapel-the Virgin--my mother was remembered. I remember very distinctly how my mother looked that even- ing. It is the distinctest image my mind possesses of her. She wore a black dress, which was not usual with her, and she had a small gold cross attached to the brooch that pinned her collare't. Her hair was plaited down the sides of her ,head in thick braids, and brought around back, after the Italian fashion. I do not know why such an effusion of tenderness and melan- choly love in regard to my mother should have influenced me just at this particular time. But it was so. I was thinking of page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] 56 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. my mother with the deepest love, when a strange voice behind me startled my attention; and looking around, I saw- For an instant the blood rushed to my head so suddenly that I thought I would have the vertigo. Standing there, tall, pale, motionless, dressed in black, with a gold cross suspended from a velvet ribbon around her neck, I could have sworn it was my mother's ghost. But a moment to collect myself reassuredme. Her dress was not only plain, but coarse, and she, the object herself, was very palpably flesh and blood. "Some beggar-woman," muttered I, half audibly. ' Yes, a poor beggar-woman," she returned, in a cold, calm voice, soft and clear: low and strange, it thrilled me, but there I was nothing, supernatural about it. "Is this the house of Mr. Jered?" she asked of old Aunt Aggy. . "Yes, marm," replies old Aggy, running her knitting-needle :-, in hex hair, and rising to make a courtesy. C It surprised me that Aggy should make a courtesy to a beg- ! gar-woman, for the old African is the most aristocratic personage about the household. I was glad old Aggy did it, however, for, ! despite her humble serge dress, there was, a certain air in the ; voice and manner of the old woman that indicated she had seen X better days. , But I was so occupied with a sort of day-dream that I Ad had hatched out of the frost-work on the window-pane, that I turned my back to the-old lady, leaving Aggy to attend to her, I and renewed my contemplation of the snow-scene out of doors. X This was not through any disrespect to the old lady, but it was. WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWO." 57 because I had been in a fit of absent-minded meditation, which her coming had only momentarily and incidentally interrupted, and I now involuntarily fell back into it again. I heard Clotilde ask her if she could do any thing for her. "Nothing, I thank you," replied the woman, in her calm, dignified voice, which had a touching tone of subdued sorrow about it. The voice of resignation, of one who has had some ter- rible agony to contend with, and by long trial and Christian for- titude had overcome it-there are some voices that can tell even all that. "It is this young gentleman that can be of service to me," she continued, laying her hand on my shoulder. There was a great deal of magnetism in her hand, too. ;' Well, what is it?" said I, deferentially, and yet a little im- patiently. "Is this Master Janny Jered?" "Yes'm." T She gazed at me so, that I felt her gaze, though I was look. ing in the fire. I looked up at her face, as though drawn by her look. It was a pale, cold, intellectual face, with a line of silver-gray hair on each side, under her lace cap. Itwas just the face you would expect from such a voice. The lines of her brow and cheek in- dicated a long-endured sorrow from some great but subdued ago- ny. But there was no grief portrayed in the expression of her eyes-a -little doubt, I thought, but much more hope, and even a restrained joy. She had evidently once been very fair, was yet fair, and her face was still too young for gray hairs: it was sor- row, not years, that had blanched them. 3* page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] 58 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. This is some poor widowed mother, thought I, who comes to plead employment for her boy. "It seems that Master- Jered does not pay much attention to i poor folks," said she, still gazing on me with the gaze that I felt. -I "You must pardon my rudeness, old lady: it was not through intentional impoliteness that I turned my back to you; it was be- cause I had fallen into a brown study." "A brown study! and what were you thinking about so in- tently?" I thought this rather unduly curious in the old lady, and had half a mind to turn the subject by asking her what she wanted with me. But there was something so kind and gentle in hier manner, that my heart seemed to come under the influence of her eyes. ! "I was thinking of France.' j: "Of France? What brought France into your head " " "Because he's lived in France," spoke up Clotilde. "Who are you?" asked the old lady, turning her calm large eyes upon Clotilde with such an expression that she absolutely blanched under it. . "I am Clotilde Duvaloir." "Clotilde Duvaloir," echoed this strange old-beggar woman; from the name I should think you, too, had been in France." H "Yes, I have. I was born there-so was Janny. But Janny is nevertheless an American, and I am all French." S "All French, indeed!" she muttered bitterly. And why were you thinking of France?" said the old lady, turning again to me. - - * "WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWO." 59 "Do you see the tracery the frost has-made on that window.? -like the boughs of so many silver trees interlaced? Well, it reminds me of some tracery in a Gothic window in the chapel of Chateau Duvaloir, where once my mother took me ..... one sunny evening,' and prayed with me and for/me; and told me theo story of Christ.:' "You were thinking then of your mother?" ("Yes." "And where is she now?" ,( Dead." "Did you love your mother?" I looked at the strange woman in amazement. So did Clo- tilde. Old Aggy seemed to have gone stark deranged from the first moment the beggar made her sudden appearance in the room. She plied her knitting as though her life depended on it, and ever and anon she shook her head in a curious manner, and then would look up at the beggar woman in a strange way, and said never a syllable the whole time. "How can you ask me such a question .?" cried I; " it seems to me you are strangely inquisitive." "And do you love her yet?" she demanded, in a voice that was preternaturally calm, and, though very low, fell with start- ling distinctness on the ear. "Certainly I love her. I cherish her memory as the most sacred feeling of my heart." "And do' you think her memory worthy such devotion " And her calm eyes seemed-to shine through me. "Who would dare say to the contrary?" cried I, the hot blood flushing my cheeks. page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] so SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND ! I "Oh God, I thank thee!" cried the woman, clasping her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven with an expression of sub- lime gratitude. The expression of saint-like piety and beatitude so suddenly assumed by that calm, cold face, went through me like a revelation from heaven. I went to the old lady, I fell on my knees, and embracing her hands, I wept aloud. " My mother !" oh, my mother !" " My child ! I cried she, raising me up, and embracing me in transport. And does my darling boy recognize his mother ? I had not hoped for so much-the cup of my happiness is full to overflowing; but no, one drop more, oh God! and I will die the happiest of mortals: all the years of wretchedness I've spent, the darkness, the misery, the derangement-oh, all those tor- ments will be requited with one drop more of human kindness .... of human love, and forgiveness." The door. opened, and my father entered. "Aggy-Lestocq-has retired; send the children to bed. Whom have we here ? " My mother had turned her back to him. His clothes were somewhat dishevelled, his face was flushed, as though by vexa- tion, and his brow contracted with ill-humor. "Whom havf we here at this time of night ? " She turned around-she had pulled a hood half over her face. " ~"One that you have wronged, Edward, and who comes- comes to prove her innocence!" - - Ha! God! What do I hear? Eulalie-Eulalie! do you dare to come to my house with the load of infamy upon you, and present your degraded and infamous presence before my chil-. dren 2 .... Do you dare to invade the sanctity of my house- hold, from which I havejbanished you for ever ? ' " I come to sue for the remission of your sentence of ban- ishment, my husband." " Woman! call me not by that sacred name. The sentence can never be annulled." "Not if I prove ply innocence, Edward--my innocence beyond a doubt ?" " Madame, you surely would not come from France here, with the vain hope of- imposing on me. If you have proofs of your innocency-that are strong, clear, beyond doubt or cavil-oh, show them to me;-and if it is so, 0 Heaven! 0 Saviour ! for- give me the wrong I have done you-you and our poor boy...." and he staggered into a chair. My father seemed already half convinced. My mother had thrown back the hood from her brows, and there was a radiance and majesty of truth and innocence haloing her countenance, that was a conviction of itself. I would not have sought for farther proof. She took from her breast a wallet-from the wallet a letter. " On such a night," said she, naming dates, " that letter was found in the bottom of afiacre in which Count Casimir Oasmery was going from Paris to the Chateau Duvaloir. This wallet, which contained it, was found by the coachman after the affray, which you remember. It contains other letters from your friend to the Count Casmery--dated, postmarked, stamped--which you will read." My father sat reading the letter-his face as white as mar- ble, his lips compressed-and spoke not a word. My mother continued:- page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] 62 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. "The coachman had intended to deliver them to the chef-de- police-that was his first impulse: had he done so, my innocence would have been at once brought to light. But he then reflected, that it would have put the officers on the track of the affray at j the fiacre, and his part would appear in rather a questionable light, especially as the party concerned had made his escape. You see, he knew nothing about the true state of the case; so he -i determined to keep the wallet, and say nothing about it. He afterward changed his condition, and became concierge to the i convent. He found me out by a mere accident, years after the occurrence, and put the wallet and the papers it contains into my hands." My father had run his eyes over the other letters. He remained cold, pale, and silent. My mother seemed to under- stand him; she stood with her arms folded on her breast, and hope beamed in her angelic eyes. "Aggy," spoke my father with a calmness that had something ! terrible about it, "show Mademoiselle Duvaloir and Janny to their rooms." a "Let my child stay, Edward; let me embrace my long lost darling." "Aggy, show the children to their chambers." "Edward!" "Eulalie, you know I cannot stand it much longer-I will i give way to my feelings .... Janny, embrace your mother, my : dear boy; love her as she deserves to be loved-as^ the noblest, the purest, and best that ever lived --" M ro was * * n * in My room was an octagonal chamber in a turret, that flanked "WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWO." . 63 the porch opening on the library. This turret was capped by a campanile-roofed, secondary turret-a sort of minaret, wherein was the great plantation clock. Often had its slow, solemn tones awakened me at the hour of midnight. The window of my little chamber opened on a sort of court- yard formed by an angle of the house, the back wall of the con- servatory, which was used as an espalier wall, and the hedge which divided the little plat from the garden. The moon was shining in there to-night. The ashes of my fireplace were burning low. The plat outside my window was covered with snow, except an area of about ten feet by thirty, which was protected by the wall of the conservatory, being to the windward of it. This was a dry brick pavement. There was no snow upon it, and the- moonlight fell sheer against the espalier wall, which was some twenty feet high. The portico-of the library communicated with this dry space. Of course I had no inclination to sleep. I threw some more wood on the fire; my room, being heated, besides, by the house furnace which occupied the basement of my turret, was the warm- est in the house. I drew my arm-chair to the window, and sat there contem plating the mysterious snow scene without. There were evergreens out there; tall Norway firs; drooping Deodar cedars; a palm-like, long-leaf pine, with bouquets of drifted snow in their dark-green foliage) I always admired the effect of evergreens)P a snow scene. Long icicles hung from the eves of the library portico, which had no guttering. They glistened in the moonlight. I sat there long in-meditation. I was supremely happy. A page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] " SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. sense of calm, deep happiness, in store for me in the future, infused a delightful serenity in my bosom. My father would love me now: I felt that. When he said, "Janny, embrace your poor mother, my dear boy," there was a tone of tenderness and love in his voice that I had never known in it before. I understood somewhat of the mysterious meeting to-night, from what I had gathered of their talk, and a good deal by instinct. I understood how that somebody had wronged my mother, and he had disgraced her and obtained a divorce: that must have been, for he had since married Leonore Bonavoine. i That I had been taught to believe my mother dead, to cloak her disgrace from me. . A Oh, how happy I was! I do not think that in all my life ; there was an hour so happy as this. The glorious day-dreams that I had in that old arm-chair by ! the window, in that little turret-chamber at Crowood! ! I at last grew sleepy and blew out my light, undressed, and retired to my little couch in the corner in the sweetest mood. I But, though I had grown sleepy in my chair, the act of undressing aroused me, and I lay in my little bed wakeful, X thoughtful, and happy. I know not how long I lay there thinking. I had just T begun to feel a soft, languid drowse creeping through my veins, .i when I was startled by the slamming of a door; every thing was so still that the slightest sound would be heard with great dis- tinctness. Then I thought I heard voices in the direction of the parlor, and I sat up in the bed and rubbed my eyes, influenced by some vague terror. I heard the library door that was on the portico opened, and voices there. CWHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWO." 65 I arose, wrapped a coverlet around me, and went to the win- dow. I saw three men in cloaks, standing in the portico, talking in an undertone. I noiselessly raised the sash, that I might hear their conversation. I heard my father:-- "George, I have sent for you at this untimely hour, that you may witness an affair between Monsieur Lestocq and myself. It is an affair so pressing that it brooks no delay." I knew that was our neighbor, Dr. George Fritz, a retired army-surgeon, who was a frequent visitor at our house. I recog- nized his figure when my father called him George. "What instruments are you to use?" aked the doctor, in a business-like manner. "Pistols." "Small-swords would be the best on this occasion: pistols make so much noise-produce unnecessary alarm in the house." "I know. I would have preferred smali-swords, but Monsieur being the challenged party, has the preference, and he thinks him- self superior with pistols-at least, he knows Iam with the small- sword." There was a calmness, a confidence and determination about my father's voice, that reassured me--boyas I was. "He will kill Lestocq," said I, "to a certainty." The latter made some reply to this speech of my father, and I thought' there was a decided nervous agitation betrayed. In a subsequent conversation with Dr. Fritz, he expressed the same opinion. "Under this espalier wall is just the place for you, gentle- men: sorry we haven't another second, so that the preliminaries might be arranged regularly. What distance do you propose, Mr. Lestocq?" asked the doctor. page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] " SCENES IN THE' SUMMCR-LAND. - "The length of the space open from snot will do very well-- i or not? Mr. Jered--" - "It is rather a long shot-but suit yourself. Now, as for time: see the clock on that tower--the face is very distinct in i the moonlight-FIVE MNUTES TO TWO. When the bell strikes . one, Monsieur, that means ready; when it strikes two, fire!" I The gentlemen divested themselves of their cloaks. My fa- ther and Monsieur Lestocq each selected a pistol from a case of them; they tossed up a dollar for places, and assumed them. I thought that the moonlight fell fuller on the spot that lot decided ; for my father; Lestocq was rather in the penumbra from the shadow of the roof of the portico. This was a scene of thrilling excitement and interest to me. I sat crouched there in the window in the intensest suspense: those five minutes seemed an hour to me. I could not see the clock on the tower; it was above, me. I had full confidence in ; my father; there was not a shadow of fear; and it must be con- - fessed that, boy-like, my hatred for Lestocq was so great that I was glad to see my father kill him, as I knew he would do. Now that it was apparent that he was the treacherous friend who had ! betrayed my mother, I revelled in the idea of seeing him shot down. There was a tragic romance for a youth of my age and temrn- perament--a duel by moonlight, my father the hero, and with full confidence in his success. ONE! The bell rang, deep and sonorous, through the still, cold air. While its vibration was yet wavering in my ear, a flash in the Shadow of the portico, an explosion, and the bell struck two, whilst my father reeled, pitched forward, and fell upon the ! pavement. ' (C WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWO." 67 " Traitor!" shouted Dr. Fritz, rushing to the pistol-case; but while he was getting a weapon, Lestocq darted forward, over the body of my father, sprang over the garden hedge, and dis- appeared. I ran down, in such a mortal agony, with heart beating, not quick, but slow and hard, as though it would burst at every pul- sation: I ran down, and threw myself on the body of my dying parent. He recognized me: it was a joy in that moment of woe he recognized me, and putting his arms around me, drew me close to his heart. His breath expired on my lips. "Love you-bless you-love your mother-rem--" his voice sank into a panted whisper, but he whispered a word in my ear which became a sacred vow in my heart; and he -died with his dear arms around me, and-with my young heart throbbing against his, which was throbbing out. page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] THE SHADOWS OF LIFE. MY mother knew something about the crushing, stern, and a terrible things of life in the world-especially how hard it would S come upon a tender and untouched heart like mine. True, my lot in life had not always been cast in the sunniest places; but at least, I had never been put at the mercy of cold, j practical men of the world. Mrs. Martin had been unkind to me, but I was above Mrs. I Martin, and I could throw off the influence of her harshness. ig Le Pere Claude had neglected me, but he had left me free in the Jfi sunshine of our Summer-Land, and that was so genially fructify- ing, that my young soul bloomed out grandly without his fos- j tering. ! So that passing clouds had floated across my sky, but they i only made the sunshine brighter as they went. And it was now, i when my father's death had spread a gloomy pall over every thing, and left me in a darkness that was bewildering rather than terri- lying, I could not understand why my mother was in such an agony at the idea of my going away to the North to college, to prepare for the university. I had been very much disposed to rebel at the notion of going A. THE SHADOWS OF LIFE. 69 to college at all. I had other duties in life that seemed to me more than paramount, but Hir. Brookwood had insisted so stren- uously, that she herself came to view it as an unavoidable neces- sity for me; and I know that she especially thought it would be useful to wear out the edge of the impression of that awful night. In Kentucky, a few summer-like days sometimes stray into the deepest winter regions, and come with genial smiles, like a bevy of bonny maidens, who have stolen with surnoise waggery into a congregation of hoary presbyters. It was such a demure day of summer warmth and dreaminess that was determined on for my departure for college. I walked with her in the garden, and she talked to me of my future. She told me, with a foresight that was wonderful, the effect the new phase of life I was entering upon would have on my as yet guileless nature; she told me the changes it would bring about in me. "And those changes you cannot avoid, my poor boy; they will come upon you, so that, except in certain fitful, nervous crises, that will give you great agony for the time, but which will relapse out from their very excess, you will not be conscious of the 8hange that is wrought in you until it is done; and then some moment the spell will be broken, the scales will fall from your eyes, and you will find yourself bound into the servitude of the prince of the power of the air; the galling manacles of Mam- mon will be on your wrists." In the moment of her talking I was so free, so totally igno- rant of the world and its tyrannies, that I could not realize at all the force of the teachings which her own bitter experience had made her so sensible of. page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] 70 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. I thought it was a world full of wonderful and beautiful things, and if there were phases of life there that were bleak and aii bitter, they were not for me. I was not made for sorrows- j nothing could fail or wither with me. My heart was so full of warm, glowing strength-so full of Southern sunshine, that I could not conceive how any wintry blast could blight the bloom- X ing of it. i I even fancied my experience had proved the strength of : my nature. My" experience! When a young heart receives a blow that does not crush it outright, if it be strong, it rebounds ; and it is not until long after the niveau of quiescence has been 'I regained, that you can discover the damage it has radically sus- tained. It was so in regard to my father's death. It was won- :!? derful to me how my feelings had been able to react Against that :jI blow. Ah! it is not from the first stunning shock of sorrow that the t heart suffers most. ,J Soi when my mother wept and prayed with me in the garden, : I saw, as she wrung her hands in agony, that her heart was so wrung with anguish, but I could not comprehend it at all. She said this to me, nearly what I have repeated, but I could : only apprehend her meaning, not comprehend it; and, until the i reader's experience has coincided, he may not comprehend it either. ' She said that my nature had the strength and buoyancy of youth, and I, perhaps, could bear up under the blow, but she could not. Her heart had borne too much; the weight had been too long upon it; its elasticity and strength were gone; that this last ' blow was too hard for her, and that it had broken up the life- springs of her heart. THE' SHADOWS OF LIFE. 71 She told me, with the serenest resignation, that I would never see her again, but I would not entertain that foreboding; I was so strong in life, that I could not realize how she should not be so. I seated myself on the coach-box in my comfortable great- coat, with my travelling-cap set jauntily, to show off my wealth and pride of golden locks, and my exodus from Crowood seemed but a holiday excursion, as I waved them my last adieus. I loved the dreamy reveries of sunny-weather travel, and my head was so full of them, that I could not feel the depth of the distress of my poor mother, and of Clotilde and Sarah Brook- wood. For even Sarah Brookwood, with all her selfish pride and coldness, loved me, and actually wept when I was departing- wept more than Clotilde. . . . But she did notfeel half so deep- ly. Poor Clotilde! It was not, perhaps, that -she really cared any more for me, but hers was a generous and sensitive nature, and the same emotions were infinitely deeper and more intense than with Sarah, who had too much of the lymphatic tempera- ment of her mother. For all Sarah is crying so dreadfully now, in two days after I am gone her feeling will have given place to a mere abstract sentiment; whereas Clotilde will mope about for weeks, and although she may regain her joyous spirits, will never cease to feel until I come back. And yet Clotilde was all a French girl. Was not I myself just like Sarah about it? Why, the coach had not got outside of the big gate-nay, the very sight of my mother, and Clotilde, and Sarah on the portico, waving sorrow- fullest farewells, had scarcely disappeared, when I fell into a day-dream, and was soon oblivious of them all. page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] 72 SCENES IN THE SUMiFnR-LAND. ; And that was the last of Crowood, for many and many a year. It is needless to say that my disinclination to go to college was, that I might revenge the death of my father. Nor would I give up to the course that Mr. Brookwood thought best for ! me, and that my mother thought best, until the former, in con- junction with Dr. Fritz, assured me that nothing should be left 'undone for his recapture. And it was but a short time after I reached the North that I received a letter from Dr. Fritz, informing me that Les- toeq's trace had been discovered in New Orleans, and there was no doubt but that he had-died some months ago of small- pox. pOX.. -:i I was seated one evening in my room-alone; quiet twilight had dimmed the page of the book I was perusing into indistinct- ness, and I put it aside to muse away an hour in the gloaming. A stray gleam of silvery moonlight strove to blazon a hazy- , hued panel of the wainscoting; moonlight and twilight blend- ing there, formed a fairy-like sheen, whereon lay the flickering shadow dark of a vine that grew against my window. .. It suggested the arabesque tracery of the chapel window of the Chateau Duvaloir, and the frost-work on the window at Cro- i wood. It suggested the image of my mother. I thought of Crowood and of Clotilde, and the azure demons tormented my heart with a home-sickness that none but a ' col- lege-boy" can realize. ^ Bob St. Priest, my chum, a young gentleman from the vi- : my r aXon THE SHADOWS OF LIFE. 73 cinity of Tussaleega, studying law at the University, came in; and he sat down near the window, and opening a letter, peered close into its pages by the dim light of the young moon that was struggling with the deepening shadows of night. His face sud- denly grew ashen pale-even by that dim light I saw it pale; and the sheet fell from his hand. "Jan!" he said, with an accent that made me tremble, "how good and noble-to suffer and be strong!" My heart fluttered and faltered for a moment. Bob came to me, put his arms around my neck, and wept. The cholera had broken out in Tussaleega, and among the victims were Mr. Brookwood and Sarah, and-my mother I 4 page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] "(TtRE BE lVIUNMBRS WITHOUT: OLD PLAY. - and loaded stage-coach, crowded with passengers)i to the listless loungers on the promenade. On the stage-box you may perhaps notice a pale young man : with daintily modelled limbs and features, dressed in a sober gray kerseymere travelling suit-cap and gaiters to match; and with a stock of beard, hair, and mustaches, rich brown, and abundant. His trunk is a big russet-leathern affair, with a well-worn covering of tout sail-duck, on which are pasted sundry brown and green and white slips of paper, rubbed and torn, and pasted over and across each other; on which you can make out such significant words as Boulogne, Trieste, Leghorn, Folkestone. i A very Returned-European'Tourist affair, indeed. A stout, red-faced gentleman, with a brilliant waistcoat and neck-tie, who is seated on the piazza, smoking his cigar, with his chair balanced on its hinder legs, and his own resting upon the balustrade, d la Anto nra/he, bringing hils lacquered low-quater b C THERE BE UIUMMERS.. WITHOUT." 75 shoes and white silk hose into elegant prominence, seems to be idly reconnoitring the disemboguement of the new comers from the "leathern Inconveniency," when his eye lights upon the pale young gentleman with the travelled trunk, who had been the occupant of the driver's box, and was now entering the piazza with a travelling-bag in one hand, and a linen oversack on his arm. Down comes the forelegs of the chair, and up springs its occupant, who advances towards the tourist, with the exclama- tion: "Why-Jan Jered!" "Major Sheldon " I had met Sheldon three years ago, just after my graduation at the University, at the St. Charles, in New Orleans. Clotilde and I were spending the winter with her old kins- woman, Madame Bonavoine, the widow of my father's old com- mission-merchant, and the uncle of my step-dame. The occasion of our acquaintance was one that I could never forget. It was one night at a ball at the St. Charles. A misunderstanding had arisen between himself and Bob St. Priest, now living in New York, but who was in New Orleans this winter upon business; a difficulty something about a bou- quet belonging to Clotilde: and the issue was a challenge from him to Bob, in which I was to act as Bob's second. Arrived at the field of contest, I was thunderstruck to find Monsieur Georges Lestocq acting as Maj. Sheldon's second! The seconds became the principals, and I, refusing to act with Lestocq, our affair came off first; we fought with small swords, as he had the choice of weapons, and I received an ugly page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] SCENES IN THE SUMMMER-LAND. j ,ole in my waistcoat, that put me hors de combat. Lestocq nade off, and Sheldon and St. Priest being left without seconds, nade up-it being only a trivial misunderstanding; and they be- came good friends ever after. Sheldon paid me a deal of kind attention during my illness, which I have never forgotten. He was a courting bachelor- planter, living somewhere in the interior; a jolly, generous gen- tleman, whom I had promised to visit at his home, but circum- stances had called me elsewhere; and this was the first time I had seen him since. Of course the rumor of Lestocq's death from small-pox was a fabrication, but whether of his own, or of Dr. Fritz, at the insti- gation of Mr. Brookwood, to keep me at college, I do not know, I am sure. "So-where are you from now?" asked Major Sheldon. "I've been a year wandering over Europe." "Happy fellow. You have nothing to do but follow the bent of your fancy." "And you--what else have you " "Oh, my cotton, and my negroes, and all that-" "And haven't you jumped a wife yet?" "I've jumped a dozen, but somehow I have never bagged one as yet And you?" "Oh, you know that I am altogether beyond the pale of matrimony." "Bah4 A young gentleman at the Virginia Springs, of wealth and distinguished family, four and twenty years old, and just returned from a European tour-to talk about being out of the pale of matrimony." Sheldon did not know of the cankerworm at the root of my affections. "Go up to your room, and put on the handsomest suit you i Ehave brought with you from Paris, and come down into the parlor. There are several of our Southern ladies here I wish to introduce you to. "Mrs. Wardour, a wealthy, wild young widow from South Oarolina; Miss Talula Shortstaple, of Huntsville, Alabama, heiress of a hundred thousand, a superb blonde, who waltzes and pianos elegantly, and has been to Paris, and will consequently be ravie to see you. And there is Miss Olelie-Camellia-Her- bertine Macaw, of New Orleans, a heart-ravishing brunette, with a sugar-planter papa-an acquaintance, by the way, of our friend Miss Olotilde Duvaloir." "She knows Olotilde! Then I'll go to my ro6m, and put on the handsomest suit I have brought with me from Paris, and have Fally to do up my hair and mustaches in the latest mode des merveilleux, and come down to be fascinated to the utmost of her pleasure." Sheldon was a queer fellow. He was rich, and comfortably established on his estates at home, and, no doubt, there were a dozen ladies of his neighborhood who would consent to become Mrs. Sheldon for the asking; women, too, who were every way worthy of him, and would make as good a wife as he could want; yet he travelled all over creation every summer wife-hunting; but, as he said, though he had "jumped" a great deal of game, he never bagged any; because, as soon as a woman seeme dis- posed to turn a favorable ear to his attentions, he would begin to grow dissatisfied, and to find fault, and to raise all sorts of page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] 78 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. obstacles, and doubts, and objections, which would invariably terminate the affair in a rupture. Sheldon thought that I was travelling about on a similar errand with himself. He knew nothing of my internal life. He had no conception that a sorrow could outlast the season of a mourning habit. - Driven from home by a harpy, that, roving the land, evil- questing no doubt, alighted upon the roof-tree of my quiet cottage home, and blasted, with one rude breath, all the joys that I had fondly fancied mine for ever, I fled into the world to escape the I dark shadow its weird wing had cast upon my life. It was now that I understood my mother's last words to me j- in the garden. I had become, outwardly at least, a worldling ; I was fond enough to fancy that in the gay pageantry of Vanity Fair I could dispel the shadow on my-heart. , And now I find myself. in the livery of the Prince of the Power of the Air, and the manacles of Mammon are on my wrists. : D I became a Stranger-seen in the great hotels of the town and the rustic inns of the country; in the crowded marts of . commerce and on the solitary highway I am the same solitary i wanderer: at one time I am a dandy lounger at your fashionable watering-place; at another, a dreaming artist, haunting the wildest glens and groves of the great wilderness-world of the West. I dance a jig with a, country lassie on the puncheon-floor of A a log-cabin- in the wilds of Georgia, by a pine-knot fire, to the X fiddling of "Forkedea;" or I do the Schottische with a tulle- J ETHERE BE MUMMERS WITHOUT." 79 and-satin city dame, beneath the shiniest sinumbra chandelier, to Dodworth's band, in the palatial apartments of Mrs. Thomp- son, the dowager fishmongeress, of 47 Higgins Place, New York.- A Stranger. The victim of rapacious publicans, the quid- nunc of gaping villagers,-a being whom every body suspects, and yet who is cheated by every body,-a being to be jostled and snubbed, to be stared at and forgotten. I've wandered in the wilderness; I've sojourned in the city; I've climbed -the Midland mountains, and traversed the Midian plains. I've floated, in listless languor, on some northern lake in summer; in the bateau, with my dog and gun; and I've voy- aged upon our majestic rivers in the crowded and magnificent steamer. Many a dreamy autumn-day I've dozed, a la Dutchman, upon the lazy canal boat; many a flitting mile I've flown along the railway's iron arteries, with the reckless rush of the locomotive. Often with companions genial and gay; often- an funknown unit in the common crowd of travellers; often alone with my dreams and my destiny. Mine was no " sentimental journeying." I did not peregri- nate a misanthropic pilgrim, philosophizing on the emptiness of this world's fleeting show. I was no idle curiosity-hunter-no-- fashionable tourist-no blase conventional epicurean, seeking a new toy-pleasure. I was simply unhappy, and sought to alle- viate my troubles by a change of scene. I went, I knew not where-I halted, I knew not why. Flee- ing from the harpy that blighted my home and haunted my heart, I sought to forget the past in the excitement of the pres- page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] 8 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. e . By disconnecting my life from the people and places that were connected with the past, by a succession of new scenes and strange, by the hurry and bustle of travel, and the excitement of ever-changing incident, I would fain efface the dark impression I of woe that memory had seared upon my soul. I But the band is striking up the Lauterberg waltz, and I must put on a pair of white kids and go down to the parlor, to i!: become the victim of Mademoiselle Camellia's bright eyes, and i lace, and smiles, and satin slippers. ! * REPRESENTATIVE CI'TIES. UNEXPECTED circumstances have so changed the venue of my affairs, that this present spring morning, instead of (as per promise) chatting with Bob St. Priest in his back parlor, over a cosy coal-fire, about the opera, art, Europe, and the oriental war, I find myself away down upon the cypress-shadowed borders of the Etomba-ah-Eckobie.* Having subsided into my normal condition after the toss and tousle of stage-coach travel, and my ideas becoming somewhat This beautiful Indian name, which means " wooden-gun maker," and commemorates an old Chickasaw fabricant of bows and blow-guns who lived on its banks, has, by the peculiar Anglo-Saxon fashion of philological whittling, been reduced to Etoneckbie-Tombighee-Bighee; or, as it is sometimes burlesqued, "Thomas M. Bighee, Esq." Tom is a queer fellow, too, and a genuine Southerner: deep, sullen, sluggard, its dark, quiet current floats sleepily along its channel of rich alluvium, scarcely wider than a noisy New England brook, that any school- boy could wade across, and yet it is deep enough to float a seventy-four. Steamboats, so large that their paddle-boxes seem almost within jump- ing distance of either shore, come up this river for hundreds of miles: and, lazy and insignificant as it seems now, a few days' rain will swell it to a freshet that deluges a perfect sea of water over thousands and thousands of acres of lowland. A+I* page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] 82 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. reconciled to the novelty of Southern plains, after the higgledy- piggledy hills and dales of Western Virginia, I shall endeavor to give you a brief sketch of my journey from T--, Alabama, to A---, a charming little vilrage in the north-western part of Mississippi. You recollect the story of the Fisherman of Bagdad, in the Arabian Nights, and the city in the lake, which, when disen- chanted, was found a year-and-a-day's journey from the poor { fisherman's home. He could have scarcely felt more bewilderment when the i magic sword changed the dead and desert scene into one of thronged life, than did I, when, upon suddenly emerging from the wilderness of swamp, and forest, and cotton-fields, I came to an elegant village with steepled churches and handsome shops, stately mansions, ahd broad streets thronged with stylish equi- pages, and every thing betokening wealth, luxury, and refinement; Steam is the enchanter that has wrought this wonder. You will not find A--- put down on any maps but those of recent date; yet it is a county town of four or five thousand inhabitants. I dare say you never heard of it, nor did I until I 1 unexpectedly stumbled upon it in the heart of this vast region of pine hills, prairies, and canebrakes. ?: It is a mushroom, sprung up in a night, in the fertile mud of this valley of the Etoneckbie. Although not quite equal to its classic namesake,--being but a fledgeling city, whose oldest in- habitant, to the manor born, is a youth of one-and-twenty, who remembers when the Indian's bark canoe floated on the deep Etoneckbie,-yet it is worthy to be recorded in our category of a representative cities. REPRESENTATI'&E CITIES. 83 It was the dismallest of days, when I boarded a diminutive steamer at the muddy wharf of Noxatra, the hilliest, dreariest, and dirtiest of villages, for a voyage Southward, down that romantically beautiful river, the Tennessee. "How are you pleased with our city?" asked a queer little personage, clerk at the inn where I had stopped, who accompa- nied my cloak and myself to the steamer, and seemed evidently anxious to satisfy himself that I was duly impressed with the importance of Noxatra to the world. He said that when some three or four thousand additional miles of railway, now hatching in the brains of the Noxatran worthies, were completed, the city would be in the centre of the great route of travel from Hong Kong to Sing Sing, and of course every body would come to Noxatra. So when he asked me how I liked it, I duly consid- ered a moment, and not venturing a rash opinion, said-hum! Noxatra is a splendid specimen of the sham grandeur we Americans so extensively indulge in-the inflated fashion of call- ing little things by big names. It is styled a city--a rowdy- dowdy village of three or four thousand inhabitants, including free negroes, pigs, and puddles-and General Jenkins, the clerk above mentioned, who is at once the cicerone and cynosure of the city, and the embodiment of all the dirtiness of the whole concern. The General seemed to be a clever, kind-hearted sort of person, whose weakness consisted in an inordinate vanity, an inordinate love of the ladies, and a miraculous uncleanliness. He was so exceedingly civil and attentive, his manners so whimsical. and his appearance so unique, and withal so marvellously dirty, that page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 84 SCENES IN THE SUMMWER-LAND. I will gratify myself, himself, and the world, with a brief sketch that I commend to Mr. Darley. He wore a swallow-tailed coat, doubtless at some ancient epoch blue, but now quite a chromatic phenomenon, and so satu- rated with dirt and perspiration that its complexion, though i endued with a brilliant lustre about the collar and cuffs, is of a most indefinable hue. His hat might have been originally a j bell-crowned black beaver, but now a lintless nondescript, soaked through around the band with grease, and seamed, and sewed, and whitened about the edges-a weather-beaten veteran, bent and battered into the most reckless and dissipated of shocking bad hats ;--a shapeless and dilapidated waistcoat, and brogan shoes, completed his attire. This beauty was a great ladies' man, and had, I was told, quite a respectable fortune, which he dealt with as eccentrically as his habiliments. Noxatra was a city of!" two-penny splendor," to -use an ex- pression of Mr. Thackeray. It was an Esopian frog blowing itself up into a bull. All that I know about it personally was a transient observa- tion of its filth and dreariness; but I encountered on the little stern-wheeled steamboat a young Yankee schoolmaster with pop- eyes and spectacles-quite an intelligent young gentleman, who was flying the country. He had fallen among the Philistines there, having gone out as a teacher among those "Enchanted Apes of the Dead Sea," and, demi-demolished thereof, was making all speed for Down East. My interest in Noxatra having been excited by its relation to : Hong Kong and Sing Sing, I diligently inquired concerning it of the fugitive Yankee, and was enlightened on this wise: There REPRESENTATIVE CITIES. 85 was a sham society, with " broom-straw" aristocracy, whose wealth, refinement, and education the schoolmaster estimated as a mathematically minus quantity. A sham university, with a sham faculty and sham trustees- students there were none-though there was a show of giving a smattering of the Humanities to half a dozen country bumpkins or so. There was a spirit of Progress on the humbug principle-a progress that never progressed; a sort of Sunday-go-to-meeting religion, that was all gammon and flam. There was a railroad, that had neither cars nor capital; a glass factory, that made no glass; a market-house, with no prod- uce in it; a town-clock, that kept no time; street lamps, that gave no light-the gas evaporating in other illuminati; a-navigable river, that was only navigable three months in the year, for little stprn-wheeled nuisances, that were pufed as splendid light- draught steamers in the Noxatrian newspaper-the shamefullest sham of all. There were "Mansion Halls " and "City Hotels," that were in reality only the miserablest of fourth-rate country taverns aping city ways. The Great Swan and Lion Brass Miling Company, and the Great Pewter and Dross Foundery, had their famous establish- ments here. Such puffy gas-bags of lawyers, such sobby-souled merchants, such ignorant, inflated, would-if-you-could society generally, the schoolmaster thought, could never be found anywhere else. Poor youthful Yankee of genius, he seemed to have been an incomprehensible Columbus to the natives of Noxatra-but they page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] 86- SCENES IN THE SUIMMER-LAND. did not worship him as a god-and I should rather say that he was like Gulliver among the Liliputians, galled and gyved by a thousand petty stings and strings. So I have given my. young friend's account, as a memento of their kind appreciation of his genius and gentle nature, and because it is such a true type of its class-a Representative "City." The Tennessee River is the Rhine of the South: minus cas- tles in ruins, quaint- and antique villages, vineyards, chhlets, and bridges, but with hills as grand, and beetling headlands, cliffs, and coves wilder by far, vistas and islets as beautiful, and withal the sublime aboriginal forest every where. Nothing is more painful than to traverse scenes of beauty with a heart full of wretchedness and discontent. Since then, I have made a voyage upon that river on the dreamiest and balmiest of spring days, with gifted- and genial companions; and "Kelly's Ferry" and "Painted Rock," are associated in my mind with the most delicious day-dreams of all my journeyings in Dreamland. " But now I was glad that the weather was cloudy, and the blue firmament murked with a gloomy mist. Such a lowering dismal sky was less a contrast to the turbulent chaos of my rest- less and feverish brain. The boat rushed down the narrow, swollen current of the "Suck "-the gap in the westward sweeping range of Apalachian Mountains where the river pours out of the valleys of Tennessee into the broad plains of the Low Country-and the wild, rugged hills come beetling- up to the river-brim, and narrowing its margin, as though they would bar our passage altogether. And then the. REPRESENTATIVE CITIES. 87 rains came pelting and pattering over the boiling surface of the muddied water, and pricking it into a painful murmur; and I stood upon the forecastle, wrapped in my long cloak, and watched the spray fly from our prow as we shot through the Suck; and the rocks, trees, water, sky, were all gray, wet and dismal, and the misty rain veiled the prospect before, and shut out the hori- zon behind, like a ground glass shade; and I listened to the harsh, monotonous throbbing of the high-pressure engine, like a pair of great iron lungs panting fiercely, and every stroke relentlessly driving me farther and farther from the dream of peace which I had been indulging. The pent-up river rushed like a mountain torrent in its rocky bounds; but my life's stream was rushing as turbulently, and my soul was shrouded in mistas chill and dismal as the sky, and my heart throbbed with a purpose as iron-stern and relentless as the motion of the engine-beam. Landing at D--, we took the railroad to Tuscumbia. Here you begin to find the characteristic features of'the Kingdom of Cotton; here you come upon- the vast alluvial lowlands which extend from Tennessee River, at the base of the Apalachies, south- ward to the Gulf of Mexico. From D-- to Tuscumbia, we traverse, with the rapid flight of the railway train, a broad, level, planting country, and you pass a succession of immense estates; broad, almost boundless, cotton-fields, a dim skirt of forest in the distance; groups of white cabins constituting the negro quarters; here and there, in the recesses of some aboriginal park, a lofty collonaded man- sion, or a vine-verandahed cottage, gleaming amid evergreens; these become the characteristic features of the landscape. page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. This is the Valley of the Tennessee,-once the most flourish- ing and promising part of Alabama; but its palmy days are over: a sad illustration of the folly and sin of the reckless fever- thirst for making haste to get rich, which caused so many planters to overtask their lands, and, by an unintermitting draught upon its generous energies, to impoverish and exhaust it; and a severe monetary crisis coming upon the very apex of the tide of pros- perity, a revulsion ensued, from which it has never recovered; and Tuscumbia, once the flush and flourishing metropolis of the valley, is now a shabby-genteel village, quite decidedly out at elbows. Another representative city. But, thanks to the miraculous renovant power of our Southern soil and climate, the rest obtained from the ruin and decadence subsequent to overproduction, has had its effect; the land is giving signs of rejuvenescence, and there is hope that under a wiser and' more careful system of culture, the beautiful Tennessee Valley will regain and surpass its former prosperity. As we journeyed on the railway, my friend, the young Yankee of genius, whose name was probably Smith, was characteristi- cally struck with the peculiar fact that the greater part of our passengers were ladies, nine tenths of whom were dressed in black. "Is it merely a fashion," asked the victim of Noxatrian civilization, "or is it in reality mourning; and, if so, why such a preponderance among the fair sex?" "They say," I replied, smiling somewhat ironically, " that the climate of the South agrees better with females than males; and, I dare say, their less exposure to the influence of the sun and swamp, and their greater abstinence and uniformity of life, would make the ratio of mortality in their favor; but I suspect that the prevalence of the pistol-and-whiskey system among the men has a good deal to do with it." The Valley of the Tennessee was the first instalment of the Southern lowlands; but just below Tuscumbia there was an interloping chain of spurs from the general Apalachian range, called the Bear Creek Hills, and the post-road from T-- to A--, running through them, is just the most abominable that could possibly be. Hills dreary and desolate, with not even backgrounds to which any possible "distance" within the vanish- ing point could " lend enchantment." In East Tennessee I had complained that though there were in that mountain land glorious vistas and magnificent background views, the foregrounds were tame and meagre; but here, in these Alabama hills, there is nothing,-barren pine-hills, rough roads, a sparse and barbarous population, and a desolation of wild, scraggy woods. It was from these primeval hills that we emerged into, the swampy bottom-land, through which wended the sluggish Eto- neckbie, and across it we obtained a view of a glorious forest-a forest of trees of tremendous size,-Arcadian trees,-and a wild luxuriance of vines, and creepers, and parasites, and splendid interspersement of dark rich evergreens,-and the gravel road struck sheer into this wondrous tropic wood with a picturesque and pleasing sweep and vista, and then unexpectedly broke out upon a great green glade, which melted into the lofty woods again, or cut sharp against it, or ran into its bosom in the most enchanting nooks, and coves, and thickets. And then we came suddenly to a cotton-field, and a queer-looking screw and gin- page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] 90 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. house; and the soil is rich black loam, and every spot that is untouched by the hoe is flush with the rank exuberance of vege- tation. And the sky above you is so deep and purely blue, and the sunshine so gloriously bright,s so voluptuously warm, and the. mocking-birds sing so sweetly, and there is every where such a lavish wealth of life and beauty, that you begin to realize that you are in the Summer land-the clime of the sun. It is early in March; but the holly, the bay, and laurel, which grow to be large trees here, give a luxury of summer green to the landscape that you could not conceive in your stern and sterile climes. The dark pine towers its giant form aloft, and the wand-like, tall and taper canes wave their green graceful leaves over the murky margin of the lazy Etoneckbie. There is no such thing as stone or rock in this diluvial land; ! but the deep banks of dark brown earth are clad with richest E moss, -tall ferns, and over-drooping vines innumerable, whose i glossy, dark green leaves are beautiful indeed. I wish you could see yonder grand old cypress. Its lofty limbs spread their feathery foliage against the sky : a thousand vines and creepers sweep from every branch in a mass of wild- tangled drapery to its stalwart knees. The bittern and the klng-fisher waft their lank forms, with lazy-lapping wings, down the dark arches of some bough-embow- ered bayou, debouching from the canes, rushes, flags, and forests, into the Etoneckbie. And there!-we turn to the left, and behold a line of ugly brick warehouses, suffocated with cotton bales, which a herd of ugly Africans are rolling down a slope to the loud-snorting high- pressure steamboat, whose enormous paddle-boxes gleam white REPRESENTATIVE CITIES. 91 through the trees, and whose smoke curls among the pine-tops; and the banks excluding the river from view, it seems quite a-land in the-woods. Another turn to the left, and you descry the gay village of A--, the "Queen of the Prairies," on a broad table-land, over which it spreads in clusters of foliage, and white cottages whose green jalousies and numberless verandahs produce quite an oriental effect. In the midst rises a square embattled tower, near a thick tufted pine, whose velvety green masses of pictu- resque foliage, beglint with a golden glow of sunset, gives a rich relief to the warm umber tint of the tower. 4 $" page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] COHEZ MADAME BONAVOINE. TOURO AVENUE is a sort of boulevard which divides the French and American quarters of New Orleans. Canal street, as it was called before the old Jew bequeathed it a legacy, is a broad and handsome promenade, the sides of which are- lined with elegant and lofty shops, whose plate-glass windows display a brilliant array of fancy wares. Turn from it down that narrow street which intersects it at right angles, and which has- "1.Rue So-and-so " on the corner- board, and you find yourself at once in a foreign city. The houses are many of them only one story high, with hipped roofs, covered with ancient tiles, and projecting eaves. The signs and afiches are all in French; the passers-by you hear chattering in that language; and the negroes are jabbering "Gumbo," as their odd patois is called. * he people have a foreign look, too: swarthy, bearded, and small. Here come two gentlemen. One is a stout, sallow-faced individual, with an immense grizzled mustache projecting far- ther on his profile than his little snub nose. He is wrapped in CHEZ MADAME BONAVOINE. 93 a rich and capacious cloak, and smokes his cigar with an air. He is one of the Vieille Roche. His style is grand and imposing; and his little gray eyes indicate an intelligent, aristocratic old French millionnaire. His companion is a tall, slender man, with elegant and graceful carriage. His oval face is a dark brunette, with eyes black and beautiful. His raven hair comes out in a mass of long glossy curls from beneath his glossier beaver. His nose is classic; his mustaches are curled en cavalier, and, with his romantic imperiale, black as jet. A dark olive frock is buttoned over his muscular breast; and his little lacquered boot peeps out beneath an exquisitely fitting pant. There is something unique and harmonious in the colors of his dandy attire,--his brass-buttoned olive coat, tan-colored velvet waistcoat, with gold buttons, rich gold-brown scarf, straw-colored gloves, and light drab pants. Thirty years hence, if my story should live so long, the el6gants of those days will laugh at my model Qrleannais dandy of to-day. Such is the fate of fashion. Next comes a Paddy with blue kilmarnock, red shirt, and plaid trowsers; pock-marked, turn-up-nosed, grisly whiskered- smoking his caubeen. The next are two Creole damsels, chattering musically and laughing along. Two priests in black cassocks; smooth-shaved, sleek, and shrewd-eyed; a dark, dirty Italian boy, with a tray of alabaster statuettes onehis bushy pate; a gray-headed old Afri- can slave, with a basket of bananas and oranges; a tall, portly quadroon dame, with a red-and-yellow bandanna turban, whose queenly mien, large dark eyes, and classical features present, of all, the most unique and striking figure in the motley group. page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] " SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. The next is a Texan, with hunting-shirt, sombrero, and ponea-a bandit-looking personage; the bold, big-bearded bear- hunter, suggestive of bowie and pistol fights, miraculous horse- manship, and deeds of blood and bravery on the frontier. A sharp-nosed, spectacled Yankee. Two resplendent quadroon girls. Two poor Choctaw squaws; dirty, degraded sediment of the red men of the woods, settled, how strangely, down at the bottom of the tumultuous turmoil of a great city, gaining a precarious livelihood by. selling willow baskets, which they make in the swamps I The next comer is a sunburnt traveller, with rusty gray gar- ments, and a profusion of gold-brown curls beneath his gray trav- elling-cap. He saunters quietly along, with his carpet-bag in his hand, stopping now a moment to admire the adaptability of cast- iron mouldings to the richarabesquery of a Mauresco-Gothic church which is building across the way; now casting an admir- ing glance at a dark-eyed Creole girl who gives him a passing look as she trips lightly along; anon her image is effaced by an old African fruit-woman, whose sooty face, snowy turban, and golden oranges he takes in with the eye of an artist. The old baboon is obliterated by a beggar-girl-ragged and pretty. Crime, want, and ignorance have not yet transformed the impress of beauty on her young face into a hideous mask. He gives her a piece of money-not through philanthropy, but because she is pretty. Suppose she is a vicious, lying, idle beggar-girl. Is it her fault? Could she be any thing else? It will at least do the poor thing X good. He would have perhaps spent it for a cigar or a " cock- tail "-she may spend it for bread. CHEZ MADAME BONAVOINE. 95 The traveller comes to a lofty brick wall. It is dirty, coal- stained, and covered with fragments of old play-bills. The only opening is a narrow oaken door, studded with hob-nails. He stops there, and rings a bell. While awaiting the porter, he reads a play-bill-a new one for to-night-that is pasted on the wall near the door. It announces, in flaring capitals, that "1 Robert le Diable " is to be performed to-night at the French Opera House. A very ugly black slave opens the door. Inside there is a scene of tropic beauty. Bananas spread their broad green bannerets in drooping elegance of foliage over the sanded court-yard. The nyami, the pomegranate, the shadoc, the palm, and a horde of tropic vegetation, display their luxuriant splendor beneath a southern sky. What a contrast to that dirty, crowded street, this Arabian Nights garden beyond the blank brick wall! "Madame, est elle a la maison?" "' Oui, monsieur. Vous voila, Monsieur Jered - dans la ville-encore! On sera bien aise de vous voir-par la-" and he pointed over his shoulder with his shrivelled, black thumb, to- wards a Spanish-looking verandah back of the court-yard, and, relieving me of my travelling-bag, preceded me, with a shuffling sort of gait, into the house. We traverse the hall, and, ascending a short flight of steps, the slave opens a door, and ushers me into a cosy little bed-room, with two windows opening on a balcony, that overlooks a spacious Place planted with live-oaks, through which gleam the ornate fa- cades of a row of aristocratic mansions. He deposits my lug- gage, saying, "Monsieur will not want a fire, I suppose-.the beautiful page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. evening that it is ? You will take your bath, make your toi- lette, and by that time madame and mademoiselle will be ready to receive you in the drawing-room; " and the ugly old Hottentot bows himself out with the grace of a dancing-master. It is a little chamber that I have occupied before to-day. Plain and simple, but comfortable. A luxurious French bed- stead, with its gauzy musquito bar. A gigantic cheval glass, which is an article of furniture indispensable to a French bed- chamber. There is a grand old armoir of dark, solid mahogany, that would hold the wardrobe of a king. There is a bookcase of the same material, made when mahogany was cheap in Lou- isiana, filled with a choice and extensive collection of French literature: monsieur was a refugee French litterateur. A spa- cious bathing closet, a black marble washing-stand, with capacious and elegant apparatus of ablution; an ebonyprie-Diezu, a luxuriant arm-chair, a writing-table, and a vase or two of japonicas, com- pleted the garniture of the room. I seat myself at the writing-table, and, taking my note-book and pencil from the breast pocket of my gray frock, make the following memorandum:-- "Dee. 12th.-Reached New Orleans from Havana, per steam- er Red Warrior. One of the firemen, a Spanish negro named Gasparez, has a wife, Rue Royale, N. 0., who belongs to the keeper of a gaming-house. His name, Melendez Gaminio. He was formerly a sous-cuisinzer in the Blanche Rose, Rue B., Paris. He must know--. Gasparez thinks he has seen a man answer- ing his description at the house in Royale street. Thinks he is there now. He came over on the last trip of the Red Warrior. Gasparez' wife-Marquitta." CHEZ MADAME BONAVOINE. Which done, I set about my bath and toilette. Oh, the lux- ury thereof, after a week's voyage! Madame is the widow of the old New Orleans Bonavoine, the uncle of my stepmother. Upon my father's death there was a will of his made in Lou- isiana before the death of my stepmother, by which the Puckshe- nubbie estate, a large part of which had been given my father by said Bonavoine, in consideration of his marriage with his adopted niece, went to Madame Leonore, and reverted to her family, in case of her death without issue; so that, in consequence, Clo- tilde was now proprietress of Puckshenubbie, besides being heir of all Madame Bonavoine's fortune at her death. Mademoiselle Clotilde Duvaloir has bchanged a good deal, -both in person and in manner-not in character, since her resi- dence among her French kin and acquaintance. She is tall and slender; a tiny waist-a thing, by the by, I don't admire so much; a transparent brunette complexion; dark, almondine eyes; deep-brown hair, almost black; a goodish nose; ditto mouth-expressive though, and fine teeth. A charm- ing bust, and the nicest ankles! She dresses in black now, mourning for her uncle, I suppose -dead ever so long; but black becomes her. And she wears such a pretty collaret! Clotilde has become a very devout Catholic; I always sus- pected she would, notwithstanding the sermons and prayers, and influence of poor good Mr. Brookwood. Clotilde goes to mass regularly, has a beautiful prie-Dieu, and doats on Le Pere Blackney-and the opera. I have not seen much of Clotilde of late years. People would 5 page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] 98 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. say I took advantage of my relation towards her to court her for her money. I am less frequently a visitor at Puckshenubbie, and at Madame Bonavoine's, than I would love to be. Clotilde complains of me bitterly, too; the dear girl loved me devotedly -as a brother, of course; but she appreciates my motive in keeping away. She gives me constantly to understand, by a thousand delicate little things that she, at least, has no such sus- picion, and that she does not wish- that "such a thing should be a cause of estrangement between us. On the other hand, Madame Bonavoine is blindly bent on believing that we are both in love with each other; that ours would be an excellent match; and she wonders why in the world we do not get married. Clotide never dreamed of such a thing, I suppose. She was standing by the window, looking out, and humming a German air, when I entered the parlo1r-I beg madame's pardon -the salon. "Ah! Vous voils, Monsieur le Juif Errant!" she exclaimed, turning around at the sound of my footsteps, and advancing to meet me with, a joyous, laughing welcome. "Where are you from now, -Kamskatseha or Constantinople?"' "Only from Havana, bonny coz," I replied, in English; sa- luting her, however, in French, by a kiss on the cheek, which brought a blush to it, for I had never done so before since we were- grown. "Talk to me in French. .... FromA Havana! Why did you not come by, and take madame and your 'bonny coz ' with you, naughty fellow I You know how anxious we were to spend a month or two there." CHEZ MADAME BONAVOINE. 99 "That is just why I did not; because I knew not at what moment I should have to leave Havana." "Should have to leave! As though you had any thing else to do but follow the bent of your eccentric whims." "Clotilde!" "Pardon, Jannie. But I think you ought to quit wandering about in this way. I know you have a bitter sorrow to bear; but- break that sorrow, Jannie, or it will break you. Settle down, and get married; and you'll be happy." She blushed to see me smile at this, and added, "There is Thamar Landrieux loves you desperately; she's young, pretty, good family, and rich." "Bah!" "And Paula Cavalani?" "By the by, that's why I ran away from Isla de Cuba; she was falling in love with me, or I with her-I do not know which; so to avoid an affair, I bundled up and bolted." "Just like you-always off at a tangent. The last time you were here-last spring you know, I was just planning a little visit up to the Chalabing Plantation. There was Thamar Lan- drieux, who had seen you at the ' Orleans' the night they played ' Lucia,' and fallen in love with you. And I was equally taken with Hypolite Landrieux. So Thamar having to return home next day, writes me a note, that I must come up and stay till carnival, and bring you with me. And I was planning such a nice little country party. I sent Juba up to your room to say to you, to come down in the salon, I wanted you; and, lo! Juba returns with, ' Monsieur Jered, the porter says, left last night for St. Louis! '" page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] 100 SCENES IN THE SUMMWR-LAND. "Ta, ta coz--you talk one to death. I'm tired; I want to doze here in the arm-chair till dinner. Sit down there, and play me the ' Alpen-Horn.'" "Ne voili-t-il pas qui est impudent! I shan't. Tell me about Havana. How did you leave our friends Don Gregorio and our charming little Paula Cavalani, and -" "I'll tell you nothing, teaseheart. Won't I have to tell it all over again to Madame Bonavoine, when she comes down?" Clotilde falls into a pretty little pouting spell, which would not have lasted more than a minute; but a rustle of silks is heard, and in comes madame. Madame Bonavoine is a little pop-eyed, pug-nosed dame; a pursy, fussy, funny little old Frenchwoman, whose silvern gray hair is coiffured in the mode of a century ago; whose gray satin gown is of the same era-whose manners are ditto; who doats on la belle France and la veille noblesse; who plays interminable games of tric-trac, and is the politest, volublest, kind-hearted old soul in the world. Madame has lived a widow, in this same house for thirty years. Her household consists of her niece and heir, Clotilde, who bears really the relation of a daughter; three old family servants, a Caraccas parrot, a poodle dog, and Monsieur Jacques Jacquerot. M. Jacquerot is a tall, swart individual, with immense iron- gray eyebrows, and snow-white hair, cut perfectly short. I can- not -think that M. Jacquerot is a Frenchman, though that cer- tainly is the only language he understands. And I am dubious on the subject because he goes clean-shaven, and never says any e'. ' CHEZ MADAME BONAVOINE. ' , 101 thing but " Voila" and ' Mais."- It is true those two words say a great deal in French. M. Jacquerot is a bookkeeper in a French importing-house, and has been a lodger at madame's for just thirty years. Madame, and Clotilde, and M. Jacquerot, made a visit to Paris this summer past. Only think of the things madame will have to tell me about it. She is a Parisian born and raised, and never out of sight of the towers of Notre Dame, until she married M. Bonavoine and came to New Orleans. Think of her impressions after thirty years' absence! That was all we talked about. M. Jacquerot comes in soon after her, and, upon seeing me, exclaims:- "Mais! M. Jered-voil!' " and shakes hands with me, and then subsides into his usual corner, and twiddles his thumbs, just as he has done every day for the last thirty years. And Juba opens the folding-doors-that separate the salon from the dining-room, and says, with a grand flourish:- 'a On est servi!" And M. Jacquerot offers his arm to madame-which he does because I offer mine to Clotilde, who has got over her pouts and is chattering away most gayly--and, we sit down to dinner. We return to the parlor with the ladies. Clotilde takes her seat at the piano; we have had our coffee at table; madame be- gins an account of le nouveaui tombeau du grand Napoleon aux Invalides; I seated in a deep, cushioned arm-chair, before the seacoal-fire, which in December is pleasant after dinner even in this latitude. I fall into a dozy reverie. M. Jacquerot falls asleep in his corner. Presentl, madame falls asleep too. Juba brings " ' , t\A page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] 102 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. in the candles, and I tell him to get a carriage, for Clotilde and I will go to the opera and hear "Robert." Clotilde goes to her room, to put a camelia or something of the sort in her hair, and I retire to mine, to get a pair of white kid gloves. If the. reader were seated in the parquette of the Orleans theatre, and should direct his'opera-glass to the stall next to the right-hand box of the first circle, he would have said to himself, "What likely young fellow is that with the charming brunette in white?" He would not recognize his friend Jan Jered in that elegant evening costume; elegant, at least, compared with his rusty gray garb, for it was nothing more than an ordinary black dress-suit and lilac silk waistcoat. I do not go to the opera for the- sake of showing off finery, and, Clotilde is astonishingly simple in her style of attire, though none the less elegant. The opera is, with me, merely a day-dream. Wanderer that I am, and seldom in the city, I do not get an opportunity of visiting the theatre often enough to become blase in the mat- ter. I listen to the overture with delight, and hear the singing enraptured. I find much suggestive entertainment in looking at the romantic scene on the drop-curtain, while the orchestra is delivering some grand movement. What do I care for the brilliant attendance? I am nothing to them. There is not a person in all this lorgnette-iferous assembly, who will carry away with them an impression of the pale, world-weary face of Jan Jered. The drop-curtain scene, is an old fadiliar acquaintance. I remember it there, the same when first I landed in New Orleans * S CHEZ MADAME BONAVOINE. 103 with Father Antoine Claude. There is the same old Grecian temple; the palm-trees; the hero with his short cloak, long sword, and plumed cap; the fountain; the moonlight; the lake, its barque and islet. It brings back the old day-dream that I brooded out of it, almost as vividly as if it had been haunting that ruined temple and fairy isle ever since then. How many idle eyes have gazed on that picture since! Won- der if that old day-dream of mine, haunting that moonlit scene, ever came to any of them as it has come back to me? Clotilde naudged me on the elbow: "Jannie, take my lorg- nette ;-over there--see that beautiful woman-she in white- she has had her opera-glass levelled upon you for the last ten minutes that you've had your gaze and your ideas wandering so a dreamily, in the moonlight of that drop-curtain. "Pshaw!' said I, "I dare say youthink I would be absurd enough to fancy I had made an impression upon her." I took her opera-glass. It was a pale, star-pale face-calm, marble-calm, emotionless. Her eyes were dark-wistful eyes, but self-absorbed. She had the simplest white dress; and her sdark, abundant hair, tied up in artistic (not fashionable) gear, gleamed with intertwining strands of pearls, like stars in a midnight sky. Oh, she was beautiful! And calm and motionless as she is, there is nothing of coldness--any thing but coldness. The least breath of animation would set those smouldering eye-fires aglow. Aye-now! There was a proud-contoured, dark-browed man behind her, of whom you saw not ing, except diamond-lit eyes glancing fit- fully, and a mass of black beard and hair above his white cravat. page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] 104 SCENES IN THE SUMMMFR-LAND. Now he leans forward with a whisper in the ear of that pale beauty, and her deep dreamy eyes are splendored with a dazzling smile, and her glorious lips beam with that smile-with an effect so magical, you almost call it a transfiguration. It was but momentary, and she subsided into her serene still. ness. Clotilde was mistaken about her looking at me. She saw nobody in-all that thronged circle-she thought of nobody--but the diamond eyed man behind her, whoever he was. You see how I enjoyed the opera, after months of journeying in the country. But I cannot enjoy it- as much-at least in the same way as much, as in the old Gog and Magog days. Clotilde is laughing at our neighbors. Our neighbors are a family party of Tennesseeans in the next box. A party of villageigrandees cityfying themselves, to go back home and put on an extra addition to their already superlative airs. It is a bald, red-faced nabob, middle aged, dressy, and con- ceited. He wonders at the magnificence around him. He sneers at the opera-music, and calls it scientific squalling, because he has not the education, nor the taste to comprehend it, but laughs immoderately at the indecorous capers of the danseuse in the entr'acte, which sets his mock-modest, over-dressed daughters a blushing and giggling, and he rubs his hands and'vows it is the best thing of all. The Magnus Apollo of this interesting group is the attendant beau, a young village attorney who has-, made a speech on Temperance, and another on the' Fourth of July, before all Noxatra,.which have been puffed in Ae village paper, and - perhaps published, in which latter case he imagines all the Union has read them with wonder, envy, and applause. He thinks CHEZ MADAME BONAVOINE. 105 everybody in New Orleans is aware of his presence in the city, and that half the ladies in the theatre are dead in love with him already. I know he thought he had destroyed Clotilde's peace of mind for ever. He was, of course, the connoisseur of the party, and amazed the young ladies of his .set with a potpourri of histrionic and fashionable chit-chat that I dare say was eminently entertaining. 5* page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] BATOOSALOA. IN the spring of a year not very remote from the present, I chanced to be journeying through one of the Southern States bordering on the Sea of Mexico. From the place I had left to the point I was aiming for, I had to traverse the State in a line, that, to use a nautical phrase, " close-hauled " the general routes of travel. It was a stage-journey, and a long and tiresome one-first through a wild, unsettled highland, called the Hucka Chubbee Hills, and afterwards, when we got down into the prairies and swamps, we found the deep black prairie mud and corduroy roads not much improvement on the rough and rugged route through the hill country. "What town is this .?"I asked, as we stopped at nightfall, after many miles of travel through a great forest, the height and massiveness of whose trees, draped with a tangled maze of vines, and curtained with the long, gray, Southern moss whose ashen pennons hung lifeless in the mellow moonlight,-presented a scene that was wildly sublime., It was a village that I judged, as well as I was able to dis- , BATOOSALOA. 107 cern by moonlight, to be a place of some size and importance. The Inn, or '"Hotel " as they term every wayside tavern in this country, was of a better order than 'you find in most country towns. I heard, as I thought, the puffing of a steamboat some- where, and conjectured it must be some cotton-shipping port on the -. "What town is this?"I asked of the clerk in the bar-room. "Batoosaloa, sir," he said, or some such melodious Indian name. "Batoosaloa?" repeated I to myself, that sounds something like the name of the place where my friend Sheldon lives. I rummaged through my note-book. Yes, here it is, George D. Sheldon, Batoosaloa --- . How I got acquainted with Sheldon the reader will perhaps remember ; the last time I parted with him at the White Sulphur Springs in Virginia, he was besieging Mrs. Markha m of Mobile, and had constituted me his aide-de-camp. We grew quite inti- mate on the strength of it, and when I parted with him, he made me promise if I ever chanced to find myself in his State and any where within reach of Batoosaloa, that I would make him a visit. I was worn out with some days' staging, and having ascertained from the clerk that Mr. Sheldon was at home, I had my luggage taken off the coach, and determined to stay a day or two and see something of Batoosaloa. The next morning I found Sheldon in my room when I awoke. After mutual greetings he said, "I was just starting out to my plantation for a fox-hunt, this morning. The bar-keeper hailed me as I rode by, and told me that a gentleman inquiring after me had stopped over night. I page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] 108 SCENES IN THE SUIMMFR-LAND. found your name on the register, and have dropped in on you at this untimely hour, to shake hands and take you to my house. I have a comfortable bachelor-home in the edge of town. It was no use remonstrating; Sheldon would rouse me out, and transport me forthwith to his own house, bag and baggage. And a comfortable bachelor-home it was too. An elegant but plain cottage, roomy, airy, and tidy. A capital cook, and a glorious old Virginian sideboard, stored with the choicest liquors and cigars. Sheldon was as kind as a brother, and as hospitable as a prince. I found my visit to Batoosaloa unexpectedly agreeable-and instead of- a day or two, it was protracted into as many weeks. Fox-hunting, birding, ducking, and other rural amusements, com- bined with village-visiting, dancing, and dinner parties-wine, music and cards, made the time pass gayly and pleasantly enough. I like the frank, hearty hospitality of your genuine Southern planter. It is a delightful admixture of refinement and frolick- ing, of aristrocratic- luxury, and democratic freedom. While your host spares no pains to load you with agreeable attentions, he makes you feel as much at home as in your own house. The true type of a Southern planter with all his sans fagon and simple manners is yet high-bred and cultivated. He would receive a grand duke with the same quiet, dignified, and unosten- tatious cordiality as he does Jan Jered-with scarcely a distinc- tion-for the title of gentleman is with him the highest in the world. The women at Batoosaloa were pretty; they dressed richly, danced gayly, rode gracefully and boldly, and exhibited an art- BATOOSALOA. 109 less elegance in their' manners, and a frank cordiality in their talk, that was quite enchanting. A cosmopolite like myself, whose tastes are not colored or shaped in the fashion of any particular school or clique, finds an exquisite charm in the originality of character, the genuineness of conduct, the absence of frigid formality and affected usage that characterized the society at Batoosaloa. These planter gentry have the manners of midmeval suzerains on their own dominions, who acknowledge no superiors, who are peers of each other, and who, possessed of the natural aristocracy of a noble nature-born to command,act out the native impulses of their respective individualities, unhampered by the gear and gene of any fixed code. One evening I was seated on the verandah whereon my room opened, smoking a cigar and listening to the warbled serenade of a mocking-bird, perched in the dark embowerage of a tall China tree that overshadowed my window. There was a landscape in view dimly haloed by the deepening dusk of a tropic sky, that copied by Ostaade would have made a dreamily beautiful picture. A low-lying cotton-field, with a gin-house, cotton-press, and their dependencies, grouped picturesquely under a lofty aboriginal pine. A cotton-press is as unique and peculiar a feature in Southern scenery as a wind-mill is of Holland. With its sloping roof, long, sweeping arms, and, Pagoda caps, its heavy beams, and great wooden screw, and its adjunct, the gin-house, mansard- roofed, and supported by square pillars, within which you see-an African urchin driving the mules that turn the machine, it would make a charming sketch for an artist. page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] "O SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. In the background, a long line of dark, dense forest-such a forest of rich outlines, such great grAy and brown trunks, such vast intermingling boughsi so deep-shadowed, so vine-tangled and complicate, as your dweller in colder climes could never ima- gine. Mr. Sheldon and a young Mr. Rosburn, a dandy Knicker- bocker from New York City, came in upon me, and interrupted my revery, by asking me to go with them to make a visit to some young ladies. "Young ladies!"I muttered to myself, almost pettishy, as I threw my cigar away. There was a time-when I was an innocent-souled lad, with silky curls and girlish, blushing face-there was a time, at a lit tie gray cottage home in the Midland of Kentucky, when I was a damsel-doting ignoramus of sixteen at Crowood, that I thought of woman as the purest Ideal of a young, fond imagination; as the genius of grace and goodness of the household; -as the Angel of Home; for all women were to me as the women of Crowood. But I have been rambling- about the world so long, meeting "ele- gant and accomplished young ladies" at watering-places and fashionable hotels-streetwhedazzling, carriage-displaying things of laces, silks, and ribbons--that the sex has become con- founded in my mind with the contemptible puppet-pageantry of Vanity Fair, and I have lost all particular penchant for them. I had got woman inextricably associated with the other glit. tering objects that form the prestige of society. I thought of the lustre of her lambent eyes along with the iridescence of her jewelry, the pendants of the. chandelier above her pomade-polish- , BATOOSALOA. 1" ed and camellia-bedecked hair. The peachy blush on her plump cheek, the pearled pellucence of her tiny neck, produced on me the same impression as the gloss of her rustling silk apd the tints of her rich ribbons. Her teeth were snowy white-so were her kid gloves. Her eyes were sloey black-so were her lacquered slippers. As my eyes would wander wonderingly around the splendid circle of the Opera House, I hardly knew whether I admired most the exquisitely moulded arm that reposed so ravishingly on the velvet-padded balustrade of her aristocratic Zoge, or the jewelled opera-glass that glittered in her wee gloved hand, or the gemmed bracelet that enclasped her little wrist; the picturesque pose of her half-averted head, the heave of her voluptuous bosom, or the graceful flow of her rare robe and the flutter of her fairy fan. "Young ladies!" I ejaculated aloud. "Oh yes-certain- ly--but I wish you wuould excuse me this evening, I am sleepy and stupid; I could not I entertain' a young lady, I am sure." "No excuse," said Sheldon: " they are most elegant young ladies; if you cannot entertain them, they will entertain you. Most intelligent, beautiful, and accomplished young ladies--" "That is, they waltz, flirt, smile, attitudinize, and victimize in the most superior manner-hey? Who are they?" "Well, first, there is Miss Prunella Poplin-black hair, blue eyes, fair complexion-only daughter of a cotton plantation and a hundred negroes. Educated at the North; has travelled; can talk to you about Niagara and Newport, the Louvre and the Loire. A splendid woman." ( Va pour la Prunelle! Who next?",. page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] "2 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. "Miss Manilla Baghale, fat-good-natured-laughs at every thing and nothing. You need be at no expense of wit or wisdom to her: all she wants you to do is to listen and laugh--with her- or at her, as you choose." "Does she play on the piano?" t( Certainly." "I'll put her at the piano: had rather hear her rattle the keys than rattle her-- Who next?" "Miss Aidyl St. Landry. The star of them all. The most elegant woman in America. The greatest woman in the- South. A literary woman. A woman of genius-a star-woman. It is she that I especially want you to see." "And an incorrigible and irresistible coquette," said Ros- brun. "A blue-stocking coquette I I'll keep clear of Miss St. Lan- dry, at all events," thought T. "Sheldon, you may entertain your Miss Irresistible St. Lan- dry; and, with Mr. Rosbrun's permission, I will be the victim of Miss Rattle-tattle Baghale, and give him the heiress." The young ladies- were at Mr. Poplin's. The other two, I understood resided in the neighboring village of Bonnicoosa, and were on a visit to Miss, Poplin. The parlor was unexceptionable. "There: was a rich tapestry carpet, a rosewood piano; there were divans, ottomans, pier-tables, oheval-glasses, girandoles, and multifarious mahogany, marble, rosewood, and satin-wood things, in buhl, and papier-mch6, and ormoulu, and I don't know what all, just exactly like all the best parlors. If an upholsterer had been ordered to make it a counterpart of Mrs. Jones's, or Mrs. , '* BATOOSALOA-. 113 Thompson's, or Mrs. Smith's, in New York or Philadelphia, it could not have been better. The room was lighted by the subdued flame of two lofty wax candles on the mantel, just sufficient to show off the complexion to the best advantage. It was vacant; and the ' African Cap- tive " who answered the bell, took our cards, and left us to be seated, and make ourselves comfortable as best we could, while he announced us to the ladies. "I shall make the most of it," thought I, as I settled myself down in the corner of a luxurious sofa, " by taking a comfortable intellectual snooze in this cosy corner. I'll invite Miss Manilla to a seat by me. I'll wind her up, and while she is running -down, wrapped in the comfortable mantle of my indifference, I can ruminate undisturbed. It's a better place for inltellectual somnambulism-a strolling off into dream-land-this springy velvet cushion-this arabesque carpet under your feet--this mild, mysterious light, than the hard leathern seat in the corner of a stage-coach, jolting over rough hills, or dragging through muddy swamps." It is true that the chatter of three most, elegant young ladies is not nigh so charming to my ear as the melancholy concert of swamp frogs, the wailing wind in the wild pines, the hum of insects, and the watch-dog's deep distant bay. The wax-light is not as dream-inspiring as the moonbeams on the dark water of a deep-banked Southern stream. But I am less annoyed here than by the dust, and sun-glare, and jolting, or the slop, and cold, and drizzle of journeying. One has better company than the heterogeneous occupants of the dirty coach- and I am equally a stranger here as there-equally alone -- " page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] "4 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. The ladies entered, and my maundering was interrupted by the formality of presentation. / Miss Poplin, to whom I made my first low salaam, was a tall, fair creature, with cold, calm face, just rippled by a smile. She struck me as rather a goodish specimen of " young-lady-hood," and I half regretted having been so free to bestow her upon Mr. Rosburn, as I marked the easy grace of her acknowledgment of my presentation. Miss Baghale was as formal and accentuated in her courtesy as though her eyes were not already twinkling with talk. I fan- cied she marked me for martyrdom in the moment, and that I saw the lurking intention in her look. Miss St. Landry had entered the last, and stood soiqewhat be- hind the others. I imagined, as I obtained a momentary glimpse of her, when in the act of being introduced to Miss Baghale, that I saw a scarcely perceptible shade of irony in the slight smile on 'her pale face. As Miss Manilla Baghale made way for her from behind the amplitude of her figure and the circumambient folds of her robe, she-presented herself to me an apparition of beauty that almost startled me out of my propriety, and I half forgot to make my- bow. Her manner was brief, and slightly indifferent in her saluta- tion-though not pointedly so. Ihdeed, there was a sort of "of course " grace in her air, which seemed to say " one must condescend to these conventional bores." And, as we were adjusting our respective positions? she glided gracefully to- wards where Mr. Sheldon was placing a chair, and said play. fully- - ,.^ ^ *v BATOOSALOA. 115 "I am going to take a seat by Maj. Sheldon-he is one of my pets." I was a little piqued at her thus forestalling the arrangement we had made together. I had intended that it should be Iwho paired off with Miss Baghale by preference. She spoke in a waly that recalled my own feelings and fancies about this sort of company-conversation. She could speak in that manner to Sheldon with impunity, for he was a middle-aged bachelor; a few strands of silver were mingling with his dark curls. He was an acknowledged "ladies' man," and licensed to be petted. This manbeuvre of Miss St. Landry plainly said, "Manilla and Prunella may take the beaux, and I will make myself comfortable with dear old Maj. Sheldon." I hope Sheldon won't call me out for that phrase. I had taken but a glance at Miss St. Landry before we seated ourselves. Hers was a light, airy- figure, of graceful and aristocratic tournure, just a bit frail, though not enough so to betoken deli- cagy of constitution: ethereal, perhaps, a more poetic person would say. Sketching at ideal perfection is not my forte; and I may not be able to do Miss Aidyl St. Landry justice in my portraiture. But her complexion was pearly transparent I am sure, with a brilliancy that I may term luminous,-in its effect at least,- but which I cannot at all properly describe: for it was, indeed, as if the soul of her shone in her eyes-a radiant language words cannot reproduce. Hair -auburn,-until now I had always suspected that auburn hair was a mere figment of poets and painters, and in real life page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] "6 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. was no other than red. Hers was a color the resultant of blended russet gold and amber,-if that be auburn. It was brushed back, a la Pompadour, in wavy outlines, that indicated its inclination, when unconfined, to curl, waved back from a forehead of most intellectual contour. Eyebrows!-The play and expression of those eyebrows told more than most women can express with eyes and lips. If shs could be called a woman of beauty, it was a beauty so different from that of parlor belles, that I hardly give it the name at first: my standard had been brought to the vitiated taste of the drawing-room, I suppose; at all events, her beauty was not of the stereotyped pattern fashioned by modistes, nov- elists, and boarding-schools. There was no danger of my confounding her with ribbons, laces, and opera-glasses. Miss Manilla Baghale soon found me a most distracted lis- tener; I answered her at random, and the stupid smile and mechanical nods of assent, by which I wished to make believe I was deeply interested in her account of a flirtation between Miss Cottonella Tuggle and Mr. Augustus Shortstaple, could not have imposed on anybody less preoccupied with the enjoy- ment of her own palaver. Where I sat I could not see Miss St. Landry, but I could hear nothing else but the music of her voice. She and Maj. Sheldon were talking about the characteristics of the French and English, or something of that sort.' Miss St. Landry spoke in glowing terms of the former; and, while she admired the good qualities of the English, she could feel no affiniityfor them; the impulsive enthusiasm and unselfish gen- BATOOSALOA. 117 erosity of the French was strikingly in unison with our Southern character; while the cold selfishness and brusque egotism of the Englishman corresponded with the traits of the Yankee. Maj. Sheldon took a practical view of the subject (which, at the same time, it must be confessed, was an utterly unpractical one). While he agreed with Miss St. Landry in her analyses of the character of the two people, he felt that we of the South ought to cultivate intimate relations with England. It was for our mutual interest: England was a manufacturing country; ours an agricultural; England a consuming, ours a producing country. We were natural allies: England wanted our cotton, sugars, tobacco, rice, etc., and we her manufactured articles; we afforded employment for her commerce. The North is a formid- able rival to England with her manufactures and commerce; we are her most valuable customers. Aidyl laughed at this notion; she said that England was so blinded by her bigoted hallucinations on the subject of slavery that she would never see her true interest. That, in case of a dissolution of the Union, we might better hope for 'an ally and purchaser of our raw materials in France or Holland, who had none of the squeamish eccentricities of that wrong-headed and obstinate animal John Bull. An opportunity being afforded by a temporary suspensioll of hostilities by Miss Baghale, I joined in the conversation, by telling Maj. Sheldon that Miss Baghale would prove a valuable ally to him in the question, as she had expressed herself a de. voted admirer of the English. "Then I must appeal to you, Mr. Jered, to come to my rescue," said Aidyl. "Maj. Sheldon teils me you have been a page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] "8 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. good deal in France; and I know you must admire the French more than the haughty and phlegmatic English." "I am afraid, Miss, you had- better not call me into this dispute," said I, "'for I must side against you " "Oh, three against one!" cried she, holding up her hands, s that is not fair." "The French are agreeable travelling companions; they show well in a drawing-room or a ball-room, better than the English; but--" "Oh, it's not that-but that's a good deal-it is the warm, impulsive hearts of the French that I admire." "If that impulsive expression of friendship had any thing sterling or substantial about it-but, unfortunately, it is too often merely superficial. The Frenchman courts your admira- tion; but he really cares no more about you than the English- man, who seeks to excite your envy or your reverence it may be. Vanity/is the motive of the one; Pride that'of the other. A Frenchman will form acquaintance with you in five minutes; he will not stand upon introduction; he- will be your boon com- panion in a day, and your best friend in a week; in another week he will betray you, desert you, forget you as readily; whereas you might travel a week with John Bull and he would not speak to you; you might be in the same house a month before he would get acquainted with you, and it might be a year ere he would become your friend. It is partly pride, conse- quence, custom; and, a good deal, an awkward diffidence that is the cause of this. But let him once know your real merit, and become your friend,and you have a true and loyal one for life." "& It is just that cold; suspicious hauteur that I dislike; I do BATOOSALOA. 119 not see why a man should be regularly ticketed and vouched for as being worthy, of good manners, good family, and all that, before you can be civil to him. Even if the stranger is not all that, in his quality of stranger he has a demand upon your kindness and politeness-you owe it to yourself. What harm would it do you? I like the Southern maxim: 'Consider every man a gentleman until he shows himself otherwise; ' is it not much nobler and more christianlike than the reverse Yankee rule of considering every stranger a rascal till you know he is not one?" Maj. Sheldon had become the victim of Miss Manilla Baghale, who was telling him about a very romantic Polander, who im- posed himself upon her as a refugee from Catholic persecution, as a man of high family, a great traveller; that she, like Desde- mona, had fallen half in love with him, from listening to his wonderful stories, and that she had afterwards found him out to be a circus agent, or some such story; and so Miss St. Landry and myself had the chance of a tete-a tete. Sheldon intentionally shifted his position, so as to throw us more together, while he took Miss Baghale off my hands. He saw that the pettish prejudice I had formed against her before seeing her was fast melting by the charm of her genius, and he wished me to discover that she was no ordinary woman. But Rosburn had said she was an accomplished coquette, to which Sheldon had given no open denial, and that put me on my guard,-so I was wary in my talk. I did not suffer myself to be carried away by her genial enthusiasm and hearty sincerity of manner, though it was enticing. Thert was a half-mocking sophistry in my strain that left her always uncertain of my real page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] 120 SCENES IN THE SUMMFI R-LAND. opinions. We soon got upon less trite and more interesting topics Occasionally there was a glow in her deep hazel eyes, a tone of her magical voice, that penetrated the conventional skepticism I assumed; but though I felt the electric influence of soul upon soul, I would not allow her to discover that she had produced it. I only went far enough to let her perceive that I knew and un- derstood the feelings, tastes, and impulses that prompted her; while, at the same time, I crushed them with the specious and incorrigible logic of a material philosophy. The flowers of her fancy I tore petal from petal, and showed her the fragments, a combination of material elements for the purposes of fructification and germination; its Idealism as a "Flower," was a mere hallucination. She seemed almost hurt at the material and worldly philoso- phy that H advanced; she was loth to believe it mine. She attacked my philosophy-she showed how cold, and harsh, and selfish it was. She deprecated my advocacy of it, and denied my sincerity. But worldliness is a weapon of steel, and selfishness an armor of brass. When, after we had bidden them good-night, I sat alone in my chamber, by the open window, where the glorious moon glimmered far above the dark, distant pines, lighting the rich foliage of the magnolias with a dreamy lustre, I thought of Aidyl. I -said to myself;- "There is such 'a thing as being overwise. My mask was useless with Miss St. Landry. I have been at a great expense of treachery to my true faith for nothing. She, too, is one of the BATOOSALOA. 121 children of Light, and my Jesuitism only arrayed her against me. She would have liked me better in my own colors." What, that accomplished coquette, a child of Truth? I think so. That is a soul that is the counterpart and complement of mine, and I loved her as soon as I saw her. The next morning I had been riding out; I only wish you as much happiness as I had in that ride. A forest on one side the road, where were nestled a succes. sion of lovely Southern homes; on the other side-a microphyla hedge, separating the highway from the prairie-the sublime prairie! That ride and its reveries,--their accompaniment of bird- songs; the fresh air,-my proud spirited horse,-my fragrant . ecigar;-there's no use trying to write about such things, for the halo, like the dew on the grass, and the foam on the river, exhales in its distillation into ink. Dear land of the South! With all thy faults and blemishes, I love thee, oh, I love thee! Here alone the spirit of chivalry, of poetry, and romance, remains; here the sun and the moon, and the stars, the earth, the sky, and the water, are as romanti. cally beautiful as they are in fairy-land. On my return I'met Maj. Sheldon at the door. He had just got back from the Spanish Garden-a public garden of all11 the tropical plants that would grow in this latitude, so called because bequeathed to the town by an old Spaniard, the founder and proprietor of it. There he had seen Aidyl, walking among the flowers, as was 6' page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] 122 SCENES IN THE SUMMFER-LAND. the custom with the young ladies of Batoosaloa. She had spoken ofme, so he said. He had a little sprig of heliotrope in his hand. I knew it was from her-I knew it was for me. He had said nothing- looked nothing; but I knew it. I took it from him, and asked him if it was not for me. Ah! there was magnetism in that - bonny envoy. I felt it as soon as my fingers touched it. "KING COTTON." THE Cotton-planter! With all due reverence-with deference the profoundest and most devoted-we approach this worshipful subject! Bulwark of the American democracy,-patrons of Northern commerce and manufactures,-supporters of British aristocracy, -aristocratic democrats,-lords without lineage, princes without title,-I salute you as the most disinterested and self-sacrificing patriots in the world. For the wealth and power it takes you a lifetime to establish, you generously suffer to pass into the hands of strangers at your death; not to pass away only, but to be broken up and destroyed; your name and your family to sink back to the level above which your life's labor has elevated them-entailing the same life of hard, restless, and arduous money-making upon your descendants, that you have had to en- dure, and all from a chivalrous devotion to the great principle of the great Jefferson, that all men are born free and equal. The aristocratico-democratical cotton-planter presents to the world the edifying spectacle of a man who spends his lifein building a splendid mansion on a foundation of sand-in con- i page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] 124 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. structing air-castles that evaporate in the torrid sun of democ- racy. It has often been said, that " we are a great people "- with eminent felicity may it be said of the cotton-planter. Such self-sacrificing devotion to the glorious principles of free democ- racy was never exhibited by the Spartans of old Greece. Such a merging of individual privilege and prosperity in the welfare of the Federal Government is unprecedented in the history of nations. - There is the noble old dominion of Virginia, at the word of her great Jeffersonbowed her proud neck-like Sam- son, yielded her regal locks to the Delilah of democracy, and now stands blind and helpless, bound and beaten, leaning against the pillars of the Federal Union, to be m6cked and flouted by the Philistines of Northern abolition. The history of a planter's life is the history of toil and struggle for the accumulation of wealth:--for what purpose? To build up a family and a family name that nray go on increas- ing and improving from generation to generation, sublimated into a pure and gentle blood by the refining influence of educa- tion, of travel, of taste, of ancestry, and, above all, of gold? No. The planter's toil is not for this. He careth naught for his descendants; he works only for the love of accumulating money, and for the patriotic dispersion of it at his death. His lifetime toil is, that at his death his wealth may be scattered among administrators, attorneys, overseers, commission-mer- chants, and general creditors; the remainder to be divided among his heirs in equal ratio. Let us present an illustration. Mr. Shortstaple commences life an enterprising Scotch-Irish adventurer, with a small capital. He goes into a new country, invests to the extent of -his means KING COTTON." 125 in cheap, good lands, and a few slaves, and begins planting in a modest way. The soil is savage, but it is fertile; in conquering it, he loads himself with spoil. He is a shrewd, intelligent man, strong-handed and stout-hearted, and devotes his life and soul to the accumulation of a fortune. With but the meagerest education to start upon, he has no time to spare from the cultivation of his fields for the cultivation of his mind. By the time his children are grown, he has become a wealthy man. He builds a fine house, buys a fine carriage, and sends his sons to college and his daughters to a fashionable boarding school. He has passed through his grub-worm period, and comes out a papilionaceous potentate in the land. But while he has been taming the savage soil, his children have grown up half-savage themselves. The character and ex- tent of teaching at the Northern schools which he patronizes is of the shallowest and most superficial at best, and of a tenor unsuited to them; so that the advantages obtained by the young folks, who go there unprepared by previous home-training, are utterly and worse than worthless. Home-training, Mr. Shortstaple, is the very root and basis of an accomplished education. -Without it, the best teacher and the best system would fail to accomplish much. Shortstaple and his wife have had neither time nor ability to bestow this incalculable blessing upon their children. They are suffered to run wild upon the plantation, associating with and acquiring the habits and dialect of their negro playmates; or are sent to the village school, where the association is really worse than on the plantation-where the white'children, alike untaught page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] 126. SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. and ungoverned at home, are even more vicious and more vulgar than the unsophisticated little negroes, and their bad example far more influential, since they are the peers, and not the vassals, of \ your children. When Shortstaple dies, after Lawyers & Company have sat- isfied their vampire appetites, the inheritance is divided among his eight or ten children-there are rarely less in the genial and prolific climate of the South. These children, brought up in the lap of luxury and affluence, with the tastes and inclinations ap- pertaining to a fortune co-extensive with that of their father, find that they do not possess the means to gratify those tastes, and to live in the style to which they have become accustomed. Never having been taught providence and business habits, they are unfit to follow in the industrious footsteps of their parents, even if they were so inclined. But they are not so inclined; they look upon the old grub-worm labor as beneath their character as gentle- folks; and so, indeed, it is., The boys do not possess the attainments and habits calculated to advance them in a professional or political career-the latter a poor advancement, by-the-way, in this country: the consequence is, that in trying to live in a hundred-thousand-dollar style on a fortune of ten thousand, they soon squander their patrimony, and become drunken, gambling vagabonds-a fruitful source of vie- tims to the pistol-and-whiskey system, too rife, alas! in our be- loved South. Or If, after their ten thousand is gone, they come to their senses, and their strength and bent of character is sufficient-as is the case in about one out of five--they must commence life de novo, just where their fathers began; and their history is a repe- ' ' . * " ^ " KING COTTON." 127 tition of that life of drudgery and avarice, ignorance, greed, and overreaching so faithfully sketched above. The daughters, fortunately, are better off: if they are hand- some-and nature bestows the boon of beauty with a lavish hand in our sunny clime-why, they can marry rich husbands. But this dividing and subdividing is democratic, and conse- quently, infallibly right. Itis the great boast of our democratic institutions. It cir- culates currency, it encourages industry, it elevates labor, and produces a vast deal of business in our criminal, chancery, and civil courts. It is a magnificent system for lawyers-no wonder they glorify it, in laudatory hyperbole, from the stump, the press, and the forum. If the accumulation of money be the chief end of man-if Mammon be the true God-if avarice be the chief virtue--then our American democratic dividing and subdividing system, our eternal accumulating and scattering of gold, is certainly the wisest and best social and political arrangement that human sagacity ever elucidated; and under its fostering influence, we are unques- tionably " a great people." Suppose that Shortstaple's estate could have been kept in the hands of one member of the family, and that his prodigal squan- dering of it were restricted by its entail-Shortstaple junior would be nothing, perhaps, but an upstart-a conceited, conse- quential parvenu: the result of his father's ignorance and neg- lect, and his wishywashy collegiate course. As it is, we have enough of this upstart aristocracy-and precious little else. But even Shortstaple junior's smattering of intelligence and refinement is better than the stupid ignorance, the ostentation page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] 128 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. and avarice of Shortstaple senior. He has made one step out of the slough. Shortstaple junior inheriting his father's whole estate entailed to his eldest son-or other worthiest son, as might be-would send said son to the University of Virginia-noble alma mater, let me say she does her best to make gentlemen, accomplished and scientific gentlemen, out of the Shortstaple stock, who con- gregate in her halls of learning-Junior would send Grandson Shortstaple to college better prepared to learn than he had been when he went to the North to make himself a college-bred gen- tleman. Better qualified, because Shortstaple junior, whop dan- dling him on his knee, can talk to him about something else than the Cotton-Plant; because Mrs. Shortstaple, at her fashionable boarding-school, has picked up a little inkling of enlightenment, that her mother never had, along with the frippery and folderol accomplishments that captivated her Augustus. Little Gus has had his private tutor, too-a man of enough sense and education, who has wrought wonders in ginning the cotton-seed out of little sonny's brains; and when Master Augustus comes back from college, with his mustaches and mathematics, his patent-leather boots, his Latin and French, and cigars and poetry, he takes a year's tour on the Continent of Europe with his tutor; if not, a course at Oxford or Heidelberg, which would perhaps be better. And from Europe he returns, an elegant and accomplished 'gen- tleman-high-bred, polished, and well informed; and if, with his refined sentiment and cultivated tastes, he does not possess good sense and a noble character, to wield a refining influence in his neighborhood, to shed a lustre on the name of Shortstaple, to elevate the tone of the society in which he moves a distinguished "KING COTTON." 129 ornament, it is his own fault. But he would so, and one would scarce believe him the grandson of yonder ignorant, selfish, whis- key-drinking, cotton-worshipping Shortstaple the First. The English aristocracy could not sneer at such an aristoc- racy; for their own originated, has been built up, and is yet recruited, in precisely the same way. But, with all this outcome in the elder-born Shortstaple, what is to become of the poor junior devils? you ask'-they may go starve, eh? Daughters shall have dowers: that's an established point in the Utopian system-because all of them cannot marry eldest sons and rich old bereaved widowers .... dowers sufficient to sup- port them in pro rata comfort and luxury;-we do not wish our Southern women -to be driven to practising medicine and divinity, and lecturing on Bloomerism for a livelihood;-dowers out of the personalty or otherwise-a cotton crop or two would do the business: but not enough to excite the cupidity of fortune hunt- ers, by whom, under the practical system, so many of our South- ern damsels are gobbled up. As for the younger sons, they receive excellent educations: they are fitted for the army, the navy, the law, the church, and medicine; besides making merchants, engineers, artists, mechan- ics, &c., &c., of them. What a glorious chance for our famous democratic doctrine of " self-made men!" I rather suspect, if we had such a corps of the educated younger brothers of our Southern aristocracy to .fill our bench, our bar, and our offices, to feel our pulses and say our prayers, weld not-be much worse off than we are: at least, we could not 6* page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] 1.30 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. have a much more worthless set of nincompoops for our legisla- f tors than under the " sovereign n' system. Besides, the younger branches being trained from infancy, according to the Utopian theory, to know that they have their own fortunes to make, would they not be more disposed to pre- pare themselves thoroughly for the duties of such a life, and to buckle courageously to the work, than now, imagining themselves heirs to fortunes that they never realize? The great beauty of our practical system is, however, that if men make it bring out bad and disastrous results, itought not to be so-it is only a misfortune that it is so. But, supposing that the younger branches ay be benefited in a small degree in this incidental way, to what use are you going to put your pampered elder-born aristocracy? It might be said that they were to preserve the great landed interest of the country, which the democratic system is ruining. Let Maryland, old/Virginia, and many parts of younger Southern States, bear testimony thereto.-- Do you suppose I would advocate a system of hereditary aris- tocracy for the benefit of a set of idle, fox-hunting, gambling, frolicking eldest sons, who would look down with haughty gran- deur upon such an humble individual as Jan Jered? Far be it from me. If I did affect such a scheme, it would be for the benefit of younger sons; to take from them the delusive pros- pects of a fortune they never would possess; to baptize them sons of toil from the beginning; to restrict the idle fox-hunters, gamblers, and dandies (if such needs must be), to one in the family--in lieu of all, as is now too often the case. The author is convinced, that dependence on one's self, and "KING COTTON." 131 thorough education of the younger sons by the family wealth, is what has made the glory and greatness of England. Do you suppose I would advocate the law of primogeniture merely for the benefit of eldest sons? merely that their wealth might create magnificent country seats, to be the conservatories of the elegance, taste, romance, sentiment, &c., of the country: to be the protectors of horticultural and architectural excellen- cies;-merely that L'we the people," we poor authors, artists, and poets, might have the benefit of splendid parks, collections of fine paintings and statuary, costly conservatories and gardens, studs of racers and hunters; that We might enjoy these things, the possession of which we cannot afford; that we might have wealthy patrons of literature and the fine arts-men of refine- ment, cultivation, and influence-to elevate the standard of so- ciety throughout the country? for, as much as it astonished me, I found, during my visit to England, that all the aristocracy were not the idle, dissolute dandies I had imagined. I do not care a pinch of snuff, however, for eldest sons-that is a mere arbitrary. rule,-but I would like to preserve our lands from ruin, our noble old forests, our game, our agricultural and planting interest generally, and especially to mollify and render effective our institution of slavery. But, you surely do not think I am really advocating all this nonsensical and treasonable stuff?+ No, indeed! I am only theorizing. Hurra for Honeydoodle! c * * . * .* g * * * "Cotton is king!" So says Charles Dickens; and to the assertion we subscribe our humble endorsement. If its "sway is over the lives and fortunes of millions of i . page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] 132 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. Englishmen," how much more absolute and extended its rule in its own kingdom of the South? It is a despotic king. Cotton in the South is more than king: it is the grand high priest of our god Money; it is the very incarnation of that divinity. I am disposed to do all justice to the Southern planters as a class. Their very employment has a refining influence-accord ing to my notion of what true refinement is': and I do not mean to say that they are all of them avaricious and tyrannical mon- sters; nor are they all patterns of natural nobility, as they should be; but I deem the worst of them less slavish in their devotion to King Cotton, less degraded worshippers of Mammon, than they of the ship, the shop, and the factory. The planting community is composed of such heterogeneous elements, that no one who had not a most intimate and exten- sive acquaintance with it would be likely to represent its true Southern tone. By me it is easily understandable how they are so much misapprehended and misrepresented by casual tourists, and persons whose mode of characterizing the class from some chance instance under his observation is as erroneous as could be, since there is no people whose peculiar traits are so intan. gible, and whose individualities are more varied and exceptional. The Shortstaples of the first generation should not be con- sidered as representatives of the slave aristocracy; the second and third (one rarely hears of a fourth under our present prac. tical system) are much better, and constitute perhaps the largest proportion of planterdom. .... Your Yankee adventurer, your nouveau riche from the lower classes, your promoted overseer, who has swindled the absentee proprietor, or married the widow and plantation of his a KING COTTON." 133 quondam employer, they are the reproach and disgrace of the Southern institution, and, I am sure, are held in utter contempt by every true Southerner. But the old cavalier gentry of Virginia and South Carolina, and their descendants wherever you find them, constituting a large and by far the most influential portion of the planters, approximate quite nearly to one's beau ideal of a refined, high- toned, free, and generous gentry. It is they that give the true tone of Southern society. You see, these constitute two distinct classes of planters. It is the promoted overseer and Yankee-adventurer class that have brought the reproach of cruelty and tyranny upon the slave- holder. Let me say, however, that among our planters, there -are Northern men occasionally to be found as high-minded and hon- orable as any, and as genuinely Southern in their character as if they had been born south of Mason and Dixon's line. I only regret that they are by far too rare to represent the class. I encountered an elegant specimen of a Yankee planter at a little twopenny watering place in the mountains, last summer-a fair sample of the tribe. Mr, Jonathan Drawler came South-a dealer in Connecticut clocks. He invented some patent machine for threshing cotton from the bolls. or something of that sort. He bought land, on credit, in a fertile part of Mississippi, when land was cheap. He hired negroes on credit, and was fortunate enough to pay off all his outlay by two years of remarkably good seasons and extraordinary prices. This gave him a start, and he soon began accumulating a -fortune. By dint of hard-driving his hands- working his slaves early, late, and hard-by close economy and page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] * 134 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. Yankee shrewdness in making trades, he eventually acquired the enviable title of a large planter. He cast about him for a wife, and succeeded in fascinating the virgin heart of a Southern damsel. A high-bred, aristocratic maiden, who being of the unfortunate fourth generation, and her patrimony long since- scat- tered by her immediate ancestors, accepted an alliance with the thrifty ,Yankee clock pedler, with the laudable desire to restore the fallen fortunes of her house; or coerced to bestow her hand where her heart was not inclined, by the tyranny of some high- backed, money-worshippiqg parent; or it may be, alas, to escape the galling bondage of dependency-a poor relation at the mercy of some-saintly niggard, who begrudged her a paltry pittance, or wished for her the brilliant destiny of a gold-bought bride, with the splendid penury of a broken heart. -Drawler loved to talk about "us Southerners" and "-we planters; " was constantly finding occasion to say something about hisnegroes, his cotton-crop, or his Mississippi plantation; and was far more bitter in his invective against Northern Yankee abolitionists than a native-born Southerner. Did you discourse upon the weather, Drawler would lament its influence upon his cotton crop; did you discuss the war in Europe, Drawler would fear its influence upon his cotton crop. You would perhaps express your admiration for the magnificent mountain scenery around the Springs; Drawler would say that it might do to look. at, but it would produce a very poor cotton crop. "To his notion, a good rich Mississippi swamp was worth more than all the mountain scenery in the world." "What's the news this morning, Mr. Drawler?" He would be looking over a New York paper. CKING COTTON." 135 "By zounds, Jered," (he never misters any body,) '4 there's some feeling in cotton." He would make the announcement with more feeling himself than he ever manifested on any other theme. Mr. Drawler. is, I think, the most devoted Mammonite I ever i saw; and that is a strong superlative, I assure you. He brought every thing to the standard' of money. Did he see a fine house, a fine horse, a fine picture, he would estimate it by the price. As for scenery, he never saw it but as land-good, bad, or indifferent land, worth so much. Forests to him were timber, and the beautiful mountain streams were "fine water privileges." In discussing the character of a man, the first, the chief, almost the only thing that he considered was his money, or his capacity for making money. "Drawler, do you know that tall, sallow man, whose travel- ling carriage has just driven up?" "To be sure: it's Greenseed-a fine fellow-a perfect gen- tleman: he is one of our wealthiest planters. He has a planta. tion adjoining mine. That man can't be worth less than three hundred thousand dollars "--and away he'd go to salute Green- seed, in abject adoration of his three hundred thousand. ' I say, Mr. Drawler, what sort of man is that Ledhead? ' "A very clever fellow, I'll assure you-worth at least fifty thousand; a very pretty property." "How do you like Walbrun?" asks another, sometime. "Well, I don't think much of Walbrun; he is not worth any thing, and isn't making any thing, that I can see." At different times you might hear him expressing his opinion after this fashion. ' page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] 136 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. One day I accidentally heard his opinion of me .... not in- tended, of course, for my ears---Drawler is the affablest man in the world when he is in your company. His maxim is, that a man loses by frankness. "Well, I don't think Jered is of much account. He seems to care too little for money. He never will make a fortune. He lacks energy. [No man has energy, according to Drawler, un- less he devotes life and soul,to making money.] He is a man that would be contented if he barely made a support ... if even that much. And then he has romantic notions--is fond of' flow- ers, and scenery, and all that! n" This last is said with ineffable contempt. Drawler had a little daughter some ten or eleven years old- a bright and beautiful thing, with arch eyes and naive, coquettish ways. She was the admiration of all the company at the. Springs .... not the pet, for there was an air of hauteur, even in her childish graces, that forbade the idle and familiar endear- ments that people address to children. She must have resembled her mother.- Drawler was a widower .... a little dried-up, hatchet-faced widower-beau, seek- ing a wife. There was, I thought, no point of resemblance between the child and her father, and my heart yearned towards the beau- tiful young thing. How I did long that Drawler, might "catch" some pure- minded woman, that would save this charming little creature from the heart-deadening influences of Mr. Drawler's teach- inugs I felt that I would be willing to sacrifice some good-natured old maid to him, to save his daughter. ---.. Cc KING COTTON." ' 137 I danced with her one evening; and after the cotillon, took a seat by her side.-- In a very playful, half-mocking way, I was pretending to make love to her, and expressed a huge jealousy of Willie Webb, a bright-eyed, graceful, and joyous little lad, about her own age, who had been dancing with her. "You have no cause to be jealous of him," said she, looking at me with a wise smile. "Why not?" asked I, smiling, not so wisely, in return. "Pshaw! He's not RICH!" I was thunderstruck. The child said it with such a singular contradiction of world- liness and childishness expressed in her countenance! "But he's handsome, and good, and smart," I stammered out. "So he is," returned the little worldling. 'L He does very well,toJfirt with; and Ilike him for a partner in the Polka and Schottische." -' Well, tell me who is your sweetheart? ' "Jason Greenseed!"--a little ape-headed idiot, pop-eyed, carroty-haired! I shuddered in amaze. "Papa says he'll be immensely wealthy." That evening she and I, from the verandah, chanced to see Willie give Master Jason a famous flogging. She cried over it, but I shouted for joy. page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] COCKAIGNE. WHEN I last called upon Aidyi St. Landry, she said to me, "Mr. Jered, if you come to Bonnicoosa before you leave this part of the South, you must come and see me at our little cottage on ' Bonny street,' as Maj. Sheldon calls it. Bonnihoma is a suburb of Bonnicoosa--a street or two of tree-shaded 'squares and vine-covered cottages, where a few of the (as we deem ourselves) elite have nestled, aloof from the cotton-bag aris- tocracy beyond the bayou." It is usual in the South, among well-bred women, to extend the courtesyof such an invitation to a newly-formed and properly- avouched-for acquaintance, so that there was nothing especial in the compliment; but I fancied there was something, some faint nuance, in the tone of her voice, that indicated that she would really be glad to see me again. I thought I had made some impression on the heart and fancy of this young and beautiful woman. An impression, to wit, that Mr. Jan Jered has a higher and purer standard of life; aims at a nobler goal; feels deeper and more acutely the divinity of our human nature; has a more deli- COCKAIGNE. -139 cate sense of, the beautiful; more refinement by nature and by training; more cultivation in art and literature than most of the young men around her. Something of that sort. As for her heart-I do believe her heart warmed towards me as one kindred spirit will to another, how superior soever the one may be. This is very far from any vain conceit that I had captivated the young lady. Jan Jered is weaned from his mustaches and neck tie,as well as his peg-top. He has seen too much of the world, has an ac. quaintance with the extent of his powers of fascination far too accurate, to permit him to indulge -in any such presumptuous delusions. Jan Jered knows full well the extent of his at- tractions. Being so sensible and modest in this regard, therefore, he may be permitted to express his conviction that Miss St. Landry gave him credit for a certain modicum of brains and heart. As for the impression she- made, that must be considered in another light altogether. Miss St. Landry was certainly very beautiful-she was ac- complished-an accomplished coquette, Rosburn said; but Ros- burn was a would-be coquette himself, and had been worsted in a slight skirmish he attempted with Miss St. Landry. She was endowed with rare gifts, and had a, most fascinating !power over the human heart. If she be a coquette, she certainly has a different system of tactics from her class. Maj. Sheldon himself confessed to me that a great many men had courted her-the first men in the Soutl, he said. That was a bad symptom. The very fact that a man courts page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] 1u -: SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. a woman is prina facie evidence that she has " drawn him on." That a great many have, is strong cumulative testimony to that effect. The other night I was mesmerized. A mesmeric fascination is not love. If Jan Jered have a heart-which is a problem not yet solved--it is shielded by a breastplate of indifference that is quite love-bolt proof. And then his experience-his knowledge of the world, permit me to add some mother-wit-enough, at least, to protect him from the siren-allures of any she-alive-is not that enough to guarantee him from all loss and damage from the fire of Miss Aidyl's bright eyes? There is only one dangerous symptom-at least, that I re- gard as dangerous. After my first interview, and after every subsequent one, except in moody hours, when the demon of sus. picion came whispering in my ears, I was convinced that Miss St. Landry had not a particle of coquetry in her nature. That many have loved and courted her, may be true-that is the ground )f evidence against her :-the say-so of Mr. Rosburn goes for iothing with me.-- Because she has discarded a host of lov- ers. But that, certainly, is not proof positive in my eyes that he is a flirt. She might discard all the men in the world with. tit having flirted one of them, within the bounds of possibility. t is like blaming the candle for the mites that are consumed in ;s flame. Instinct is a more infallible guide than human reason, and istinct taught me that she was no coquette. C OCKAIGNE. 141 I discarded Mr. Rosburn's theory of a Napoleonic system of tactics in toto. Bonnicoosa was just twenty miles from Batoosaloa, and Shel- don proposed to drive me down with his buggy and pair, but after- wards having been summoned to attends court in an adjoining county, he said I must take Fally to drive me, and go down by myself. This was about a fortnight after Miss St. Landry had returned home. So, after dinner my valise and hat-box were duly stowed away in the vehicle.' I charged my cigar-case; ensconced myself com- fortably beneath the shade of an umbrageous umbrella, the handle of which was screwed into the vehicle so as to form a sort of temporary covercle:-Fally shook his lines and away we glide along the smooth, sandy street of Batoosaloa, a hot but breezy day in May. A street scene in Batoosaloa is somewhat unique.-- In the middle of the square, formed by the intersection of two cross-streets, is an Artesian fountain, throwing a handsome jet-dleau some twenty feet high. It is covered by a kind of kiosque affair, with a roof like a'turnip, root up; which is, I sup- pose, the origin of that feature in Saracenic architecture. There was filligree netting of cast-iron, triple pillars, and such like, presenting a handsome appearance. Several negro and mulatto maidens, with a brilliant display of bandanna turbans and red and& yellow 'short frocks, were grouped about it, and chatting and laughing gayly. The street was thronged with cotton waggons, great, lumber- ing affairs, -with five or six bales piled up, and hauled by as many page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] "2 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. yoke of oxen, or so many pairs -of sleek Kentucky mules, and driven by the grotesquest plantation negroes, who flourished brobdignagian whips with which they kept up as much noise as fire-crackers at Christmas. Threading their way through these great wagons would come a tall, swart gentleman, with broad- brimmed panama and oriental beard mounted on a blooded ani- mal, and riding with that reckless ease and graceful unconcern that is peculiar to the Southern gentleman. Sometimes it would be an elegant carriage, with coachman and footman in livery coats and Berlin gloves; in the windows of which you would get a glimpse of a pair of bright eyes or so, rosy cheeks, and a flash of ribbons, flowers, satins, and laces. As you advanced towards the less crowded part of the street residences took the place of shops. Immediately on leaving town we struck the sand-hills and hammocks. Through them we had a long, hot, and very unin- teresting drive. Our way ran generally along a bleak, sandy ridge. The forest consisted of a growth of low black jaek-oaks, scraggy and stunted; arid black-gums and plebeian persimmons. The scenery was lonely and desolate. Here would be a miserable log shanty, denizened by some sallow " sovereign " in jean trowsers and Osnaburg shirt, ..... suggestive of an exist- ence, made up of fried bacon and eggs, whiskey, yams, ague, onions, pigtail tobacco, corn-dodgers and " draw-poker," at five cents ant&. "Sovereign " is a cant Yankee word for peasant. It is sur- prising," says some sagacious writer, "how many changes we make in names, while realities remain the same." Your Yankee COCKAIGNE. 143 is especially good at the snivelling nicety of the age that seeks to disguise ugly facts by a pretty name. They cant bear the word negro,--it must be " colored man," -the color being elegantly left indefinite; and I've seen a dainty damsel of Boston almost faint at the word slave. They call their white servants help. A great lazy lout of an Irish gos soon, a clumsy, splay-footed, Dutch gowk, they mincingly term "h help!" I understand that a "colored lady" who condescended for a stipendium to perform the culinary duties in a Northern household, refused to remain unless she could have a Brussels carpet on the kitchen floor. Wonder, madam, you do not wash the dishes and sqour the hearth yourself-it's too dirty work, I am sure, for such nice quality as your "Help " and your "Colored man." What strange and degrading hallucinations take possession of the human mind when they once get in the way of error. Let them make myths out of symbols and they will make idols out of myths, and soon they will be worshipping crocodiles and onions instead of the viewless God. And so with this maudlin Philanthropy: the Abolitionists of the North bow down and worship kinky-headed Quashee, just as Quashee worships his wooden Fetish. I am told that they carry their subversive philanthropy to such an extent that they allow their helps to elect their represen- tatives and municipal officers,--in short, that' they have topsy- turvy'd the old order of things, and, as in the modern German game of Euchre, the bauers (valets, peasants, or knaves) are the commanding cards, and trump the king. ,. / page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] "4 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. We Southerners are, I think, too practical a people to see the beauty of this sort of stuff; Want, Inequality, Subordination, Slavery, we know to be necessary complements of Wealth, Equality, Power and Freedom. We know that as long as human nature exists these things will exist, and all this holy horror about names, when the reali- ties remain the same-when the operative; for all his title, is but a slave with a harder lot than those that are transferred by buy- ing and selling-when the "Sovereign," for all his vote for Honeydoodle for the Presidency, is still the same coarse, selfish, vulgar boor :--we consider to be merely grasping at ideas in the air, as a crazy man clutches at imaginary straws. But where has the sight of the mud palace of this American sovereign led me to? The reader must not set me down as an aristocrat, or any such terrible monster, because I write heretical doctrite some- times. I only do it for the fun of the thing-just because it is a little dangerous. At bottom I am a good, honest democrat, and go entirely for Mr. Honeydoodle. Between you and me privately, he has promised to make me his minister to Timbuctoo. I had fallen into that sort of reverie just to pass away time as I drove along the road, having become tired of the barren sands, the dismal clearings covered with wretched-looking dead trees ...... I am a great admirer of old dead trees. I like one or two grouped amid dense and gracefully flowing foliage--it brings out the effect. I like an old dead tree with a rugged branch or two -a heron perched on it, near a lake or a stream in the foreground of a picture that has soft and flowing outlines, lilac lines of dis- e/ COCKAIGNE. 145 tant mountains in the background, a sweeping headland, a green, broad- meadow,-something of that sort. I love it on your old rocky haw-and-heather moor, very scraggy and rugged, with a shaggy coat of gray lichens. That is my taste in dead trees that Clotilde used to laugh at. But your acres of " deadenings," where there is a tatterdemalion muster of girdled giants of the forest, standing ghostly, weird and desolate-an army of shriv- elled, weather-blasted skeletons, with crows swooping through them, or dozing in dozens on their scraggy limbs, like ghosts in mourning. No, no, they give me the horrors-especially in a wild, poverty-stricken region of pine hills. The long moss which once festooned their graceful boughs, now hangs dead and ragged in tufts and towheads, and the melancholy buzzards soar far above, philosophizing on the dismal scene. At last we get glimpses of the glossy, green foliage of the swamp-oak, the bay, and the lofty pine, warm, rich, and softly blended, as if by a painter's pencil. The feathery-tufted cypress towers above the magnolias and gordonias that cluster in a dense, irregular line at the foot of the ridge, where a turn in the road reveals a hump-backed bridge, a rustic, wooden affair, half hidden by the surrounding shrubbery, and spanning a deep, narrow stream, that separates the hills from the broad plain beyond. - We rattle across the bridge, through a hundred yards or so of -deep forest-grand, dusky, and cool; and then emerge upon a great prairie that has never been touched by the plough. I strained my eyes over that plain; I looked back at the sharp outline of the lofty forest behind 'me, and then pressed my 7 page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] "6 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. head into my open palms, to compose myself, to see if I were awake or dreaming.--- Often at Crowood; often when a collegian at the University even, I recollect, in England once, in an elegant bedroom ii Dintmere Castle; once in Italy, after a ride through the Cam pagna, I've dreamed of travelling through the South;-I alway dreamed of going across a broad savannah, covered with blu andyellow flowers. And again and again I've had the sam dream, and, though always varied in the incident, that savanna invariably the same. The plains of my dreams had a certai peculiar physiognomy-a certain marked individuality; an, here were the identical plains of my dreams-here was the indi viduality, that I had never recognized in other plains; here wer the very blue and yellow flowers-I knew them immediately; i was they that recalled my dream ..... The sun was about an hour high. The courtier clouds in gaudy livery, laced with gold, wer marshalled in the west, to usher his drowsy majesty to his twi light tapestried chamber of repose. The lines of sunlight fell soft and dreamy along the level e3 panse of flower-enamelled prairie. The shadow of the forest-skirt lay in long mantles upon th mead. The mocking-birds were singing in the magnolias- singing songs they had learned from the birds of Kentucky, wh wittered with them in their sunnier clime--songs that called u the dreams of my boy-life at Crowood. I took off my travelling-cap, that the incensed air of eveninl might bathe my locks--might baptize me into a holy com COCKAIGNE. 19 lmunion with nature, with memory, and with dreams-the sacre trinity of my heart. The hot dusty day was over. The arid sand-hills were pas Before me stretched the dream-flowered prairie; the opalescer sky on the horizon tinged with the paly gold of sundown, abov the dimmest outline of far distant forest. And the holy bus of that hour, the holy joy of that hour, as my fleet steeds spe over the mosaic carpeting of blue and yellow- a blending o reverie and reality, a confounding of memory and anticipatiol a confusion of past and present into one delicious waking r( mance-that was real,-was a page from the Book of Paradise. I threw the magic mantle of imagination ovei the col marble image of Life, and the dead stone became a living Idea] I shut up my Guide-book, and opened my Wonder-book. was no longer travelling in Yankeedom-a land of stage-coacheh railways, and dirty taverns, inhabited by the vampyres that sue] travellers' blood. I was travelling in Cockaigne. That boundless prairie!-It flowers and singing-birds, its fairy light and dreamy shadows had no association with a cotton-growing country, in one of th Southern States; its locale was in some tropic Dreamland. For two hours I sped over that flowery prairie. Two hour of elysium, in which I thought-of Aidyl! Two hours of bliss that pay me for a thousand hours of miserable commonplace Aidyl is before me-FPlZ see her to-night! Aidyl my destiny ..... Such sweet fancies haunted my imagination. Wonde: what Aidyl is doing now I Is she looking at that timid star that has just come peeping out? Is she thinking of me? Hag she a presentiment of my coming? page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] "8 SCENES IN THE SUMMBR-LAND. The image of Aidyl was associated with the sunset light,- with the magic-tinted western clouds,-with the sleeping shadow of the forest, I was again approaching. The world was dead to me; my sorrow seemed but as some dim nightmare; my blighted hopes were weeded from my heart, and new ones bloomed there ; and my only thought was of Aidyl. I wondered what sort of home she had,-what sort of home- folks. I could not think they were sordid, selfish worldlings; how could she be so different, if they were? All this was food for fancy. Twilight was softening down its luxuriant outline into a pic- ture of mellowest coloring. The moon-the great, round, full moon, looms up from the prairie-bounded horizon. There is a strange blending of light and shadow in the old forest that we enter-Aidyl loves these dim, mysterious half- lights- the motley of moonlight and shadow. The forest grows darker and deeper; the moon gleams in here and there,-the calmest, purest light I Then you are in suspense; you are rapidly nearing your des- tination: a place you have never seen, of which you have no idea, and yet full of interest to you. The'sense of this is so strong that it almost oppresses you. At length the lights of Bonnicoosa break upon our view as we descend a slope. Which of all these star-like beacons betokens the spot that is Aidyl's home?--I wondered, as we drove down a broad, level avenue shaded by rows of China trees. ! - BONNICOOSA. BONNICOOSA is a village of three or four thousand inhabitants, upon the Luxapelila, at its juncture with the Bessa (allo. The village is built upon a broad level plateau, bounded on the west by a heavy-timbered upland, on the east by a skirt of prairies, on the north by a dense forest, and on the south by a magnifi- cent jungle. The Bessa Callo, which is a bayou from the Luxapelila to the jungle south of the town, divides the uplands from the prairies. Its deep narrow banks are fringed with canes, azalias, kalmias, hollies, and magnolias, in the richest and rankest con- fusion; whilst, on the borders of the Luxapelila, which is a navi- gable though a very narrow stream, tall cottonwood trees, gigantic cypresses, wide-spreading beeches, and elms festooned with in- numerable vines-the wild grape, bignonia, jacksonia, jessamine, and other luxuriant creepers and pendants,--overarch the deep, sluggard stream, and shut it out from the rays of the sun. The uplands, which are nothing more than a gently rolling country, are studded with elegant cottages and stately mansions. Back of these hills are the prairies-vast, irregular gladea. 's page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] 150 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. nearly fiat; varying greatly in area, and generally of surpassing fertility. They are interspersed with "hammocks," also won- derfully productive, and "sandy-lands," which are covered with magnificent forests, but not quite so fertile. The forest in the lowlands, among the marshes and jungles, is still more superb. This country seems made expressly for the planter. The glades having no timber are consequently ready for cultivation, without the labor of "clearing;" whilst always in reach are groves that supply lumber, fencing, and fuel, besides affording elegant sites for country houses, and splendid ready-made parks. But, though you may ride for miles through the prairies, and behold broad plantations, separated by interminable hedges of the cherokee and microphilla rose; the most beautiful in tho world; you will be surprised to find no country seats-at least such is the case about Batoosaloa and Bonnicoosa. You will see gangs of negrbes working in the cotton-fields, with the negro driver lounging sideways on his mule, super. intending them; you may see the overseer, with his broad- brimmed panama and his long whip, galloping about from gang to gang, but nobody else, unless ypo chance to meet the planter on his stout cob riding over his estate, or the planter's son, with his buggy and pair, driving along the road; or, if you are very near the town, you may haply meet the planter's daughter, on her blooded Arabian, with her sooty equery, generally some gray- headed family servant, in attendance, or else a younger brother, and sometimes a dashing cavalier, who is so happy by her princely side that you envy him his lot, and cast back a linger- ing glance of admiration at her jaunty figure, lithe waist, and sweeping habit,-her bonny Highland cap and plume, and her BONNICOOSA. - 151 bonnier flowing ringlets, waving to the motion of her graceful steed. You may see a negro quarter large enough for a small vil. lage, a hamlet of white cabins, with the overseer's comfortable cottage in the midst. You may see a gin-house and press, with its long wooden arms and conical roof, but in this region you rarely encounter a gentleman's country residence.. The -country, in this respect, resembles some parts of Ger- many, where the peasants live in hamlets, like the negro quar- ters, near the castle of their lord, and go out to the fields to labor. The wealthy planters have their residences in the beautiful homesteads clustered around the environs of Bonnicoosa and Batoosaloa. This absenteeism is perhaps objectionable on some accounts; all absenteeism is; but. where the proprietor lives so near his estate, and visits it daily, it is not as much so as where he resides in another part of the country, and pays only annual visits to his plantation, which is too often the case with the sugar planters on the "Coast in Louisiana. It is customary, however, and there are good reasons to be urged in its behalf. In the first place, the soil of the prairies is a deep, soft, black loam, which cuts up to the axles of a vehicle in winter, rendering the roads (which, by the way, are mathe- matically straight, and intersect each other at right angles, forming section boundaries generally) impassible, even for horse- men, except by means of a rough causeway for the cotton-wag- gons, which would jolt a carriage in pieces. And then the plantations are so largesthat each family would page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] 152 SCENES IN THE SUMMRER-LAND. be widely separated from its neighbors-and Southerners are a sociable people--so that grouping their residences around the villages affords many advantages: it gives them more convenient access to church, to the schools, the shops, the post-office, and each other. The family pay frequent visits to the plantation, however, especially in summer, when the road is dry, hard, and smooth, affording a delightful drive. Nothing could be more tasteful and elegant than some of these suburban villas. The aristocratic quarter is laid off into squares, an acre, sometimes two or three, in extent, in the middle of which the house is generally built. The gentry have had the good taste to preserve the superb old forest trees to ornament their grounds. Here, for instance, you see a low-roofed, one-story cottage, with wide halls and airy verandahs, extending over a quarter- acre of ground, its facade gleaming white amid the jessamines and jacksonias that embower the latticed front of the verandah. A lofty long-leaf pine towers its majestic form and pictu- resque head above it; the tree yucca, with its rugged stem and tufted top of bayonet-shaped leaves, the broad-leaved magnolia, the graceful China tree, the wild peach, and the pomegranate, with its wealth of crimson flowers, give a tropical air to the picture. That is the residence of Mr. Barnaby Baghale, whose cotton estates yield him an income of a hundred thousand dollars per annum. Across the street, crowning a gentle lawn, which slopes gra- dually to the road, where you see that massive gateway, and BONNIOOOSA. 153 porter's lodge in the cottage-orn6 style, and the dipartite gravelled carriage-way, you discover a lofty mansion, with an imposing portico, fluted columns, capped Corinthian, half revealed amongst the intervening shrubbery. This princely establishment is the residence of Dr. Joseph Tuggle, whose income is half a million. It was not until after supper that I reached my point of destination. I found the inn at Bonnicoosa a quiet, neat little establishment,-an inn that would do for Cockaigne. I saw no vulgar rowdies lounging about. The landlord was a dapper, rosy-nosed homo, who welcomed me after the old style, with deference and decorum. The dining-room was neat, tidy, and spacious. The walls and ceiling were sea-green, with white mouldings and cornice, which produced a tasteful effect; and then the ceiling was lofty, and the windows large and airy; and there were handsome litho- graphs, by Julien and Lafosse, on the walls. The sketches, too, were Southern in their character, and consequently impressive and suggestive. While the neatly-dressed negro boy was gone for my chop, I amused myself by looking at these prints. One was a merry-faced mulatto-boy playing on the- banjo; another, head of a white-bearded and patriarchal old African bridling a mule; a third, heads of a Southern maiden and a Choctaw squaw basket-vender; they were life-size, and well conceived. After tea I retired to my room; and, after my cogitation and cigar, I donned a simple suit of unimpeachable black, and made. Fally find me the way -to "Bonny Street," and the particular locale of General St. Landry. It was such a beautiful moon- light night that I could not forego the pleasure of a call. I could not have slept that night witchout seeing Aidyl. If 7*, page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] 154 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. I had sought my bed, I would have tossed and tumbled with feverish dreams. Bonny Street is a broad avenue, deeply shadowed by an unin- terrupted row of China trees on each side of it, perfectly straight and level, and paved with pebbles. Nothing could be more charming than this esplanade by moonlight. It was a lovely night. The silver moon cast the richest and mellowest light down the long vista. Deep shadows of thick- boughed China trees fell in checkered motley of light and shade upon the sidewalk. The sweet, clear tones of a cornet-a-piston from a neighboring house drew me out upon my balcony. The moonlight was flood- ing the groups of trees and houses,- and the broad, pebble-strown streets. If there be such a thing as a romantic village-I detest villages and towns in this country-Bonnicoosa certainly deserves the name. I got a distaste to villages in New England. Nothing dis- gusted me more than their model cottages: glaring white boxes, with pea-green window-blinds, angular, prim, and precise to a mathematical rule. Proportions not that of the artist but of the mechanic; and then every thing so painfully tidy and systes matic. You feel uncomfortable in these white-washed- and speckless bandbox-houses. They partake of the cold, methodical Puritanism of the people. How different from the blended outlines, msthetic tone, and simple neatness of a Southern homestead. Instead of a row of formal pots, with half-starved, shivering exotics, and border-box pinched and pruned into the skimp pattern of puritanical for- BONNICOOSA. 155 mality, you have a wild luxuriance of vines and foliage, blended, harmonious and beautiful; a warmth, a richness, and abandon, that makes our simplest cottages so genial and home-like. Here, on "Bonny Street," the vine-embowered cottages, re- vealing broad gleams of moonlight, and deep shadows nestled in a mass of foliage, presented every one a picture. The air was still and balm, transfused with the thinnest, pearliest haze. Katydids were humming in every tone of distance. Near me is one on a wide-limbed catalpa, chirping a mysterious response to her mate's plaintive wooing from yonder fringe- flowered crape-myrtle. A low, soft murmur is the Katydid's note-with a charm to me from its association with the twilight hours of my boyhood with Clotilde at Crowood. And the Katydid only sings at the sweetest and most ro-' mantic hour and season. It haunteth your garden and lawn in the twilight, the moonlight, and starlight. It singeth when the fragrance of the primrose and the jessamine perfumes the air, when the dewdrops begem the flowers. I strolled along the sidewalk of "Bonny Street," beneath the China trees, in the blissfullest of reveries. The street was so quiet-almost deserted. Occasionally I would meet, perhaps, a dusky Ethiopian bearing a burden, or a lithe mulatress, with white turban and short frock, tripping lightly along, humming a negro song. Presently, as I approach a house, I hear the notes of a guitar -a voice-a woman's sweet tones of melody blending with the deep chords of the guitar. It is from a balcony that the music page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] 156 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. comes floating, clear, clear, wild and sweet, and I stop under a China tree near-by to listen. , It was a simple little Southern song she was singing--one of those artless love-songs, full of heart-music, and a tinge of tender melancholy, of which our people are so fond. While standing here, a stout, red-faced gentleman, with a tremendous shirt-frill, and a white waistcoat and gloves, and hair redolent with cologne, made his appearance.- A cigar was in his lips, and a gold-headed cane tucked rakishy under his arm. He looked at me. I looked back at him, and he entered the gate of the cottage-yard, whence came the music. At the click of the gate-latch the music ceased, and I passed on. At length I came to a little cottage more densely embowered, more luxuriantly surrounded with foliage, more silent, more dreamily picturesque than the others. The verandah was latticed all around,-and profusely covered with vines, through which the moonlight flickered, casting a tremulous arabesquerie of fantastic pattern upon the floor, on which the spacious windows opened, and, through the slats of the closed jalousies gleamed a faint light from within. It was here that Aidyl lived. I pull the door-bell; a ban- danna-turbaned negro receives my bard, and says that Miss Aidyl is at home, and ushers me into the parlor. It was the most charming little room conceivable: more of a boudoir than a parlor; it would not hold more than a dozen people; the prettiest little snuggery for a tete-a-tete that could be. Mrs. Brown or Mrs. Smithp of Fifth Avenue, would have BONNICOOSA. 157 voted it " a horrid little thing, every thing so odd and plain, not a piece of fashionable furniture in it,-not evena piano." But it was a little jewe--a master-piece in petto, according to my fancy. The fact that the furniture was not of the same pattern with, that of Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Smith, was an especial recommenda- tion to me. I know that Aidyl was the author of it. It bore the imprint of her taste. There was a delicacy of taste-a sort of genius and originali- ty about it, that pleased my fancy, and I scrutinized it minutely while Miss Aidyl was making her toilette, or whatever it is that detains a lady ten or fifteen minutes after you are announced: a scrutiny I never trouble myself about in a parlor a la mode. The prevailing colors were lilac and white. The window-curtains were rich white lace, looped by brack- ets, representing the stem, leaf, and flower of a white lily. The valance was lilacs and lilies on a sienna-colored ground; the cornice-wreath was of the same pattern. The French wall-pa- pering a very pale lilac, with an irregular netting of thread-like white vines and tiny spray-flowerets; a carpet of tan-colored tapestry, with lotuses and lilies intertwined. The mantel consisted of a very rich piece of translucent blu- ish-lilac porphyry. Instead of pillarets, there were caryatides of white marble; the slab not supported by them, but by a scroll of flowers and a depending vine in alto-relievo, in which the fe- male figures had each an arm resting. The furniture was of old, dark rosewood, rich, but simple; an effective contrast to the lilac and white. There was a large page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] 158 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. old-fashioned settle, lined with dark tan velvet; a pier-table and centre-table, slabbed with white marble; a small divan or two, with heavily fringed and tasselled Cushions; and half a dozen chairs of the pattern of the settle, an oval gueridon, a cheval- glass, -and I believe that is all. The furniture, all of that rich old rosewood, was of the purest, though not of the most elaborate, renaissance style-not modern imitation, -but the old original article, as General St. Landry afterwards informed me, brought by his grandfather from France. There was an Italian painting on each side of the room: one representing a quiet, hazy, Italian landscape-a ruined temple, a piece of water, a glen, a few old trees-a chateau on a hill in the distance, and a glimmer of sunset, with flecks of clouding over faint blue hills. The other was a Rhine scene: peasants, in picturesque cos- tume: dancing on the green; an old castle close in the fore- ground; a high-born lady on a white Arabian; and her mus- tachioed knight, with plumed cap and cross-hilted sword, on a black charger, under a spreading oak, watching the rustic festi- val. In both pictures there was a far-away-fading perspective. Pictures not very original in design-perhaps the production of some unfarned Tinto; but they were suggestive, they were associative-pictures that you could dream over, some lonely, listless afternoon, smoking' your cigar after dinner in your arm- chair. And, as a matter of course, over the mantel-piece there hung a portrait of a middle-aged gentleman, with a very high fore- head and very red cheeks, in the old Continental dress-bag- BONNICOOSA. 159 wig, steenkirk, ruffles, and pink satin waistcoat-doubtless the ancestor who brought the furniture from France. It -bore a slight resemblance to Aidyl the first impression of which was rather disagreeably amusing. There were a few books and folios of engravings on the centre-table, which was placed at the side of the room. I must not omit to mention the flowers: two vases of white roses, with jessamine and cedar, on the mantel, and a superb 'bouquet, on the centre-table; besides, a Chinese jar was filled. Is it not a sweet little room? Here is where Miss Aidyl receives her beaux. This white and lilac has a very coquettish allure, thought I, looking around the room. There is no musical instrument, I observe; for, as 'Mr. Sheldon says, when Mr. Rosburn asked her to play at Biatoosaloa, Miss Aidyl plays on that most difficult instrument- the human heart. Wonder if there is not a sinister design in all this recherche entourage? "Will you walk into my parlor I Says the Spider to the Fly: 'Tis the prettiest little parlor That ever you did spy." Suppose, after all, that this bonny boudoir is only a fancy- enticing man-trap? Such things are so common! I've seen so much of this nice bait displayed to tempt goldfish! I've seen so many gossamer- beglint spider-holes; seen so much man-bait in the shape of portfolios of drawings, morocco-bound poetry-books and other page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] 160 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. tinsel table-trinketry; such a quantity of lace-nestled bosoms, snowy arms and ruffles, pink ribbons and cheeks, pearly teeth and pearly pendants; such posturing and pianoing, such fly-hook piety and blue-eyed sentiment--that I have become a horrid skeptic in these matters. Shame on me! This comes of worldly wisdom. If Jan Jered should ever chance to travel as far as heaven--in " that bourna whence no traveller returns "-he'd be suspecting the in- tegrity of the angels. It is treason, sheer treason, to allow that hideous old Harpy to whisper such wickedness. Whilst I was maundering on this wise, a side-door opens, and in came Aidyl, unconscious of the uncomplimentary notions her charming little reception r6om had suggested in my blaze imagi- nation. She was dressed in a simple dark robe of some sort of silk stuff, cut, as I like women's dresses, close up around the throat, with a little plain white collar around her neck, and no jewelry, no ornaments, except a small lapis-lazuli cross, in lieu of a brooch. X My conscience smote me, as I marked the chaste propriety of her attire, the unostentatious elegance of her manners, and the perfect simplicity with which she welcomed me, with a gra- cious:smile and high-bred courtesy, to Bonnicoosa. That I should have supposed for a moment that yon dandy, little Rosburn, could comprehend such a being as Aidyl St. Landry! Though I had met with Rosburn in New York, I had forgot- ten him-an instance of unpardonable stupidity in me; but when BONNICOOSA. 161 he recalled himself to my memory, the impression vividly repro- duced itself. I think it was at the house of my friend Bob St. Priest, in the sandstone quarries of Fifth Avenue, that I first exhumed him; for he belongs to a rare species, who do not bear wind and sunshine well. Occasionally I had seen him, on a sunny after- noon, venture down Broadway as far as Waverley Place; but then he was in such a state of exhausted exclusiveness, that he hung on behind his cigar with desperate nerve. Mr. Rosburn belongs to a class of dandies peculiar to New York society. They are generally distinguished by an air of utter helplessness, and a clinging dependence for support to their cigars, canes, or shirt-collars. They are the most afflicted mor- tals in the world, being subject to many dangerous diseases, such as varioloid waistcoats, stub-toed boots, and elongated coat skirts. The first time I saw Helpless, as I called him then, he was afflicted with a most alarming shirt frill, and mentally extin- guished by the magnitude of his collar. It was at the Metropoli- tan opera-house; and, but that he clung with languid desperation to his huge ivory opera-glass, and sustained his sinking spirits by faintly adoring glimpses of the divine calves of the star of the ballet, I fear he would have fainted from the pungent impression of her pirouettes. There was a soiree a danser at Bob St. Priest's, when I was first presented to Mr. Cornelius Julius Rosburn. The young Avenoodle was suffering from an attack of flirtation; and bending under a weight of aristocracy and mustaches, of refinement and page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] 162 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. sleeve buttons, he held on to the back of his chair in a state of intense elegance and' fashionable inanity. Poor fellow! how he ever survived his tour from New York to Batoosaloa, I cannot conceive,-though why he came, was to recover in our genial clime from a serious case of tic-douloureux, caught in the mephitic atmosphere of tailor shops. REPRESENTATIVE MEN. MY room at the inn had a balcony, overlooking a little garden- a garden of pomegranates and figs, of bignonias and cape-jessa- mines, magnolias, tamarisks, crape-myrtles: and sophoras, and such tropic shrubbery, flourishing here with a luxuriance and beauty that cannot be obtained in the conservatories of more northern latitudes. Mocking-birds filled the garden with their varied melody, and the garrulous jays and paroquettes made a gaudy display. I walked there before breakfast. The early morning sun shone fresh and silvery, the air was cool and delicious. I cannot describe the char'm of that hour. At such a mo- ment I could forget that I am a friendless traveller, joy-bereft, desolate, and alone in the world; exiled by destiny from a quiet and happy homre, where friends were around me, where true and tender hearts loved and cared for me; wrecked and ruined in the Eden of my innocence by some demon that sought the blast- ing of my life, because it was too happy at that moment. For- get it, did I say? No, I am thinking sadly on it now. Here is a white jessamine: can I see itk' slender flowers, so page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] 164 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. delicately white and fragrant, without thinking of those on Clotilde's bower at dear old Crowood? Can I see this border of verbenas, without the bonny bloom- lets reminding me that they bloomed as deftly there? Ah me! -in the stir and bustle of the highway, the crowd and confusion of the city, the parade and pageantry of the drawing room, in the hilarious revelry of the convivial banquet, I can forget that I ever had a home-forget that I/ ever had a heart-that I ever was aught else than a stern-nerved, world-hardened wanderer, with nooe to care where my weary way wended; caring for no one; heeding little whether any human heart e'er felt for me an impulse of sympathy or affection; seeking to put out no tendrils of attachment, but keeping aloof aud alone. But these little wayside home scenes-gardens, children, birds, and flowers-I must shun them, or shed a tear, or sup- press a sigh. Walking in this garden, sad, sweet memories of the past bloom up amid the fissures of my blighted heart, like the flowers that blossom upon the lava-scorched verge of a smouldering volcano. -But, I'll in to breakfast. Entering the -public room, who should I encounter, to my great astonishment, but my old friend Sherry Cocktail. "Why, Sherry!-by all that's wonderful! "Hello! Jered, old boy-is that you? How in the world? gad, it's a miracle!"' "And what wind blows you here?"I asked, as Sherry was shaking my hand with an obstreperous demonstration of his joy. i"Blamenation! don't you know?" I live about eight miles from Bonnicoosa. You've heard me talk of my plantation on the Bessa Callo." REPRESENTATIVE MEN. 165 "Why, yes-but I had quite forgotten." "Come, let's take a drink for old times' sake." "Excuse me, old fellow. Don't you remember I never drink before breakfast? After dinner, a horn with you, to the memory of college days, with pleasure." By-the-by, I had a very slight acquaintance with Sherry at the university. But in after days, any one who has been a col- lege mate has a claim upon your regard. You are glad to see a fellow you scarcely knew there by sight. You are good friends at once-especially if you are of the same "society." You have a thousand reminiscences to talk about, and many a college prank and spree to laugh over. Sherry Cocktail informs me that his father and mother are dead; he has no brothers and sisters; and is keeping bachelor's hall on his plantation. Sherry is wealthy--a college-bred, Southern gentleman; and as per consequence, one of our aristocracy, I will take the liberty of describing him, representing as he does a large, respectable, and promising class of young men, on whom the future destinies of our country so much depend. Sherry must have been a man of great stamina, and one who inspired, the profoundest confidence in his assiduity, integrity, and talent,--must have had greatly the advantage over the most of us at college in this respect. The faculty had unlimited confidence in Sherry, and the most exalted opinion of his scientific and literary attainments. For instance, I have known Sherry when we were at college, before we went to the university, to pass a whole session with but- two recitations in Greek, and they performed in his usual careless page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] 166 SCENES IN THE SUMMRR-LAND. off-hand manner, and very nearly ditto in Latin, altogether ditto in chemistry, and yet, such confidence in Sherry's honesty and Sherry's scholarship had the faculty, that they did not hesitate to make Sherry an A. B. As for mathematics, Sherry talked a great deal at the black- board about sines and cosines, triangles, asymptotes, coordinates, etc. But- as I never knew any thing about mathematics myself, I could only surmise that he was wonderfully wise in that science, and should have remained under that impression as long as I lived, had I not gone to him one day, thinking him the greatest mathematician in the class, to untangle a very enigmatical some- thing with two nappes, over which I had been puzzling my brains all the morning. Sherry shook his head-scratched it-whistled, and lit a pipe. "To tell you the truth, Jered, I know no more about analytical geometry, than a duck does of music. ' If there is any letter in the alphabet that I heartily despise it is a. That letter will be the death of me. Old Tangent is perpetually saying, Let x represent your unknown quantity, Mr. Cocktail. Find the value of x, Mr. Cocktail. Sine square, plus y prime, minus a lot more of cubes, radicales, and sines, will give you x. Blast the letter! I never could get it. It always -did, and always will represent an unknown quantity to me. Never in my life could I find the value of, , and I never expect to." Here was a wondrous revelation to me. Can it be that old Tangent himself is a humbug, and talks through that tangled maze of x-y-z's and their squares, radicals, arid primes at random, or is the science of mathematics itself all gammon? REPRESENTATIVE MEN. 167 Sherry was a " fast man," always on a spree or a lark-drunk half his time--flat the other half; never at prayers or ciapel-- rarely at recitation; the prince of good fellows, he treated every- body, drove a spanking span, of dapple grays, flirted with the belle of the village, knocked down the " snobs," cut a figure in the police reports of the city of Philadelphia, and, if his literary attainments were " on tic," he certainly was acquiring an accom- plished education in the sciences of fencing, fiddling, waltzing, euchre, and pistol practice, not to mention such minor accom- plishments as beer-swilling, brandy-bibbing, boxing, boating, and driving. Mr. Cocktail was of altogether prepossessing appearance. A round-shouldered, heavy built personage, with a florid com- plexion, chuffy cheeks, plump, rosy lips, sleepy blue eyes, thick, curly brown hair, and a foxy tuft and mustache. His voice and manner was characterized by that prompt and emphatic expression which the French demoninate aplomb. He was nice in his dress, which was of a style that might be designated as brilliant and effective, rather than elegant and tasteful. For example, this morning he wore a blue cutaway with brass buttons, a violet velvet waistcoat with life-sized flowers on it; his cravat red and blue plaid silk; sky blue kerseymere tights, lacquered boots, and a white hat. Besides. he had a marvellous shirt-frill, and an extra-magnificent jewelry establishment. "By the way, Jered," said- he, as we were chatting together at breakfast: "Do you know-there is a Kentucky acquaintance of yours in Bonnicoosa?" "NO! Who?" 5 qi page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] 168 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. "Mrs. Brookwood." "Mrs. Brookwood! You are jesting!" "No. She is here-on a visit to her sister, Mrs. Goldred.- They say she has caught a beau, too.." "Mrs. Brookwood! Is it possible? A marrying widow!" and I laughed at the idea. "Oh yes-this long time. But did you ever know a widow, as long as there was a tooth in her head, who was not a marrying widow?" "Confounded be widows then. The Hindoo rite is the purest and best,-would it were introduced into this country-." "Why bless your heart, lad, I am courting a nice young widow myself-worth a hundred and thirty thousand." "And Mrs. Brookwood in Bonnicoosa! Who is the beau she has caught, pray-?" "An old widower--General St. Landry-reputed to be wealthy, but not so in reality, I think." "General St. Landry!' "A great old aristocrat; claims descent from the old French nobility. He is not worth-more than thirty thousand, in my opinion. I know his sugar-plantation in Louisiana is an old dilapidated concern, no mill on it, and overrun with coco grass; not worth a cent. By the way, have you met with his daughter, Miss Aidyl St. Landry? If you haven't I must take you around to see her. She's the belle here ..... Great woman, they say. Don't know her much, myself, .... Too literary for me-don't suit my turn of mind. Gad, I believe she's read as many books as our old professor at the university. SheJs mightily courted though-hereabouts. Fred. Vivian has been nearly crazy about REPRESENTATIVE MEN. 169 her, they say. She's a devilish coquette. Blamenation! I don't see why she didn't marry Fred. Wonder if she expects to marry the President of the United States?" "And who is Fred. Vivian, pray 1" "Why, don't you know Willifred Vivian? How long have you been in Bonnicoosa?" "Since last night." "Where did you meet with Miss St. Landry, then?" "I did not say that I had ever met with her." "I inferred it from the expression of your countenance when I mentioned her-name." "I met with her once or twice at Batoosaloa." "Yes, yes--I remember now; she has been spending a fort- night there with her friend Miss Prunella Poplin." "But you have not told me about Mr. Vivian?" "Fred Vivian! Why, he's just the cleverest fellow in the, whole country. Rich, handsome, talented, and twenty-eight. Any woman in Bonnicoosa would give her ears for him--except Miss St. Landry." "And would not she?" "No. They were engaged (what's the matter?) it is said; but something or other turned up to break it off-some whim of the young lady." "What was it, do you know?" A gentleman who sat near us seeming to have become inter- ested in our conversation, Cocktail leaned over and whispered a few words in my ear. "I don't wonder that she discarded him then," said I drily. I do. It's -a blamenation prudery and nonsense, in my 8 page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] 170 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. opinion. That's what they say. I durstn't ask Fred anything about it. He 'd as lief stuck his bowie into me as not, if I had. Some say it was because he was dissipated. Well you know that's nothing. I'm a little dissipated myself--if taking a small spree occasionally deserves so harsh a name, ..... but what woman would discard Sherry Cocktail on that account, I'd like to know? "Some say the affair was gotten up by General St. Landry, who is Vivian's guardian; that the engagement was a forced one, and -that Miss St. Landry finally prevailed on her father to allow her to break it off, because-she couldn't love the gentleman!" --and Sherry made a grimace, as much as to..say, did you ever hear of anything so preposterous? I must acknowledge it did not seem altogether preposterous to me-I accepted this last " on-dit " as the most plausible and probable, and I own I breathed much freer after hearing it. Although, of course, it made no difference to me whether Miss St. Landry had loved Mr. Vivian, or any body else she chose. What did Icare? "And now tell me who is that red-faced gentleman with the impertinent eyes, who seemed so interested in our conversation just now? He has finished his breakfast and gone out." ( That is the Honorable Jeremy Ginswig-our Representative in Congress. "In the first place, he is a gentleman, and a clever fellow--." In the South the latter title designates a man who has a chivalrous sense of honor, a generous, courageous temper, and a good capacity for liquor. O' Colonel Ginswig," continued Cocktail, " is a great ladies REPRESENTATIVE MEN. 171 man. Sotto voc, a great fortune-hunter. He has been travel- ling from New Orleans to the White Sulphur Springs, Harrods- burg, Huntsville, Nashville, Natchez, Cooper's Well, Bladen- all over the South, courting rich women. He has never been successful heretofore because he had no recommendation but his inordinate amount of 'brass.' By no means handsome, with but moderate talent,-especially of that sort that wins a woman-- without fortune-he has based his hopes of success upon his knowledge of human nature, and his ineffable effrontery. "Though a fortune-hunter, and in some sense an adventurer, he is by no means a spendthrift; on the contrary, I think! he is rather stingier than is compatible with the character of a Southern gentleman. "He is now about forty-eight; and age, so far from diminish- ing the ardor of his pursuit after a rich wife, has rather increased it. He has by dint of industry and economy accumulated some ten or fifteen thousand, and that, with his being a Congressman, he thinks sufficient inducement for any woman to marry him. "By the way, he is a rival of my friend Vivian." "Ah I Miss St. Landry? But she is not rich, you say?" "True; and Colonel Ginswig knows it. But repeated dis. appointments have somewhat modified his notions; Miss St. Landry is a very distinguished woman, and he thinks that equal to money." As we were smoking our cigars on the piazza after breakfast, we found him out there, pacing to and fro. He came up, and accosted Cocktail in a familiar way, and was by him introduced to me. He was a pursy, red-faced gentleman, with heavy, voluptuous page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] 172 SCENES IN THE SU UMMER-LAND. features, and a tremendous frown; his under lip had acquired a prominence from its constant protrusion in the assertion, by the compression of his mandibles, of his immense individuality and firmness of character, that gave the Honorable a very "Who-the- d-l-are-you?" sort of look. By the magnitude of his shirt-frill, and an intolerable odor of cologne, I thought I recognized him as the individual I had encountered on Bonny Street last night. "You are from Batoosaloa, Mr. Jered, are you not?" in- quired the Honorable, lighting his cigar by mine. I suppose he had seen my name on the register. I had been spending a fortnight, or such a matter there, I informed him. "Pleasant place, Batoosaloa!" "Very." "Blamenation fast place!" was Sherry's opinion. "Great women at Batoosaloa," asserted Col. Ginswig. "Very," I assented. "Blamenationfast women!"Sherry emphatically declared. "You met with one of our Bonnicoosa women there?" quoth the Honorable, with a frown. "Miss St. Landry?" "Yes. I've heard her speak of you since she returned. She seems to have formed a very high opinion of Mr. Jered," continued the colonel, frowning enormously, though speaking in the most affable tone. ' Very much gratified to learn the same," responded I, fond- ling my mustache. (i Jan is an old college-mate of mine, Ginswig," put in Sherry. REPRESENTATIVE MEN. 173 Y"You must know him. He is a bang-up boy-one of the right sort. Jan, you'll like Ginswig when you get acquainted." Ensuant upon this mutual recommendation, Col. Ginswig's frown became much more benignant, and he very courteously intimated to me that I must become acquainted with the ladies of Bonnicoosa, whom I would find " the most charming in the world." He would be happy to introduce me. He had been last night to see a splendid girl-(the young lady I had heard sing- ing, I suppose)-Miss Calla Blackfield; one of the greatest fam- ilies in the South-the Blackfields. Miss Calla, was prospective heiress to seventy-five thousand. Though there was no woman in Bonnicoosa that could com- pete with Miss Aidyl St. Landry, he informed me. He indorsed the opinion of Messrs. Rosburn and Cocktail, that, though so in- tellectual, so gifted, such a great belle, and all that, she was no more than a heartless coquette, and he would bid me beware of her; and Sherry joined in this advice. I called that forenoon at Mr. Goldred's, and found Mrs. Brookwood there, sure enough. We had much chat about Crowood; and she told me of all the marriages and deaths in Tussaleega since I had left. I found Mrs. Brookwood quite a spruce widow; and it seemed so funny to me to see, her in such a character, that I could not keep from laughing in my- sleeve. She had taken off all; her weeds, and was in full bloom-a ' last-rose of-summer' sort of blooming; though she looked ten years younger than when I last saw her. Clotilde, so she told me, was living now at Puckshenubbie page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] 174 SCENES IN THE SUMMFIR-LAND. which belonged to her, as the next of kin to my stepmother, Madame Lbonore. She had ah old Englishwoman as com- panion, but spent her winters with her aunt, Madame Bonavoine, in New Orleans. Clotilde is going to be immensely wealthy when she adds the Bonavoine property to Puckshenubbie. I suppose she will be a great belle this winter in New Orleans. Mrs. Brookwood thought so too. Do you think-Sarah Brookwood is dead I and Mrs. Brook- wood was telling me about it as unconcernedly as though it was the death, of the Cham of Tartary. Her elegiac discourse was cut short by the announcement of a visitor-General St. Landry! I saw from a little flush and flurry manifested by the widow that there might be some truth in the piece of gossip furnished -me by Cocktail. Mrs. Brookwood was one of those plump, bouncing ladies, who look so matronly as wives, and can rejuvenate with so much facility as widows. She had been quite a handsome girl, doubt- less, in her young days. Poor Brookwood! he idolized that cosy, rosy-faced, fat wife of his. She had been the beau-ideal of his boy-love. Of more ardor of affection than delicacy of imagination, he had remained his life-long under the illusion that she was perfection, and that she loved him according to his notion of what loving was. Contrary to every thing I had expected, Gen. St. Landry was a thin, dark-visaged man, with keen garnet-colored eyes; and a hard, cold, selfish expression. Notwithstanding I saw him under the most favorable circumstances, all smiles and affability for the rich, plump widow; notwithstanding there was some- REPRESENTATIVE MEN. 175 thing commanding, high-bred, and aristocratic in his appear- ance, I formed an instantaneous and invincible repugnance for him. Supposing I should have sought the hand of his daughter, he never would consent in the world when he learned I had only a slender competence; that the bulk of my father's estate had gone to my stepmother and her heirs-since my father's being prevented, by the suddenness of his death, from renewing his will. Ah I that Lestoeq!-there was a heavy score between him and me. The general exchanged a few words of courtesy with me, and I made my bow, leaving him to court his widow, while I wan- dered down the vine-curtained margin of the Bessa Callo, to dream of Crowood-of Clotilde-of Aidyl, of --. ;. page: 176-177[View Page 176-177] THE KINGDOM OF LIGHT. CLOTILDE DUVALOIR had the highest sense of material beauty. Nor was she devoid of a true appreciation of the Ideal. 'But thatr Ideal must be no more than an apotheosis of sensual ele- ments. She could dream, but her dreams were only etherealized reproductions of material beauty--just as the ancient Hebrews imagined the immortal soul an etherealized -reproduction of the physical image of man. There is a side of our inner life, and a very holy one, which was never revealed to Clotilde; she seemed to me wholly uncon- scious of its existence and when I spoke to her of it, she could not comprehend me. It was the side of the sacred affections. Clotilde's affections, though very beautiful, and exceedingly re- fined, were mere animal instincts. And that is why I never loved her. Aidyl St. Landry was not an accomplished woman, in the- common acceptation. She understood and felt the beauty of Art perhaps in a higher sense than Clotilde, yet she was not an artist like Clotilde. But the divine side {of nature and of life was not only revealed to her, and in her, it was a part of her; THE KINGDOM OF LIGHT. 1" in it she lived and moved, and had her being. Clotilde was the highest and purest of earth, but Aidyl's was a spirit from on high. In the world she passed for an accomplished and elegant- woman; that was the title by which Major Sheldon designated her. By it they meant that her genius, her reading, and her conversational powers had won for her a commanding position and reputation in society. With me, at least, Aidyl never talked for effect. She was animated, because she was earnest; she was enthu- siastic, because she was a Southerner; and, although she per- fectly understood the nil admirari, which I had seen her mani- fest to admiration among the Baghales, Poplins, and Tuggleses- of Bonnicoosa and Batoosaloa, yet to me she made no conceal- ment of her enthusiasm. Throwing aside the mask of conventionality, she showed that her heart glowed with a love of the beautiful in nature, in art, and in morals, as genuine as it was pure. By the tone and tenor of her talk, she paid me the compliment of considering that a frank expression of true feeling would be understood and appreciated. In the world I had professed the doctrine of worldliness. I now came out of my, old sneering skepticism; I laid aside the actor-mask, behind which I had played on the stage of society a part that was not my own; I threw off the feigned indifference which had concealed the true impulses of my nature. At Batoosaloa I had seen that Miss St. Landry suspected my assumed character to be a disguise; that my " stoic eye and 8* page: 178-179[View Page 178-179] 178 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. aspect stern" was to conceal weaknesses from the world's/scru- tiny; that my cynicism was a mockery. - She more than once attempted to surprise me into a betrayal 'of my true faith. With a woman's tact she would tacitly assume that I pos- sessed the character she wished me to disclose, and touch some chord that would thrill my heart's tenderest tones to the deep- est; would utter sentiments so genuine, so generous and pure, with an eloquence of eye and accent-sentiments that I cherished, feelings that were dearest, darling dreams of mine- she would conjure up so winningly to allure me from my stubborn redoubts, that I could scarce restrain my emotion. How could I subdue the kindling of my efe when her words were a-glow with poetic fire? How could I sneer away the glorious religion of her genius-heart with the cold and selfish aphorisms of worldliness-aphorisms as false as they were mean. And when I pooh-poohed such words as poetry-romance- nature-it gave my heart a pang to mark the expression of sor- row half-veiled beneath some brilliant repartee, or a slight lip- quiver of disappointment, as she deprecated with playful irony my relentless refusal to reflect a single ray of the Kingdom of Light from my world-darkened intellect. When she sometimes pushed me to the verge of despair, I would make a feigned-capitulation, and, for a moment, falling into the current of her fancy's wild flow, would suffer myself, when the mesmeric influence of her soul upon mine would be too great for me to resist, to be carried away by the inspirations of her genius. THE KINGDOM OF LIGHT. c 179 But when, as some radiant smile of happiness would beam upon her brow, she would exclaim- "There is a romance in all our souls. This life is poetry: God is the poet, who sings some idyl or epic of his goodness-his grace-his power, in every heart!" I would reply,-- ' Life is the saddest prose; and God is the master, who says: ' Earn by the sweat of thy brow. Behold, thine Eden is no more! Thou art in the stubborn, sterile fields; thou shouldst be holding the ploughshare, not culling flowers, idler.' "And so [ would fall back upon the degrading doctrine of dollars and cents--upon the avaricious philosophy of Mammon. I now avowed a truer and healthier faith. I now had satis- fied myself that longer to consider Aidyl St. Landry one of those strong, bad spirits, whose power was a siren's, to wile the inno- cent and unwary to their destruction, was sinning against my own instincts, not only, but against my understanding and judg- ment. From the first, Aidyl had shown herself nobler and greater than I; more generous than I. She-had never doubted me, suspicious as I made myself. Her keener and truer instincts had revealed her my real character at once. She had penetrated my disguise immediately. Whilst I had, as I thought, with consummate skill imposed myself upon her as a practical and accomplished man-of-the- world, above the weakness of feeling, she denounced me as an apostate from the true faith. "My heart is a Sahara," said I; " and the simooms of sin and sorrow have blown over it so long thatvevery flower of inno- page: 180-181[View Page 180-181] 180 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. cence and beauty has been scorched and blighted, and there remains nothing now but the bleak and barren sands." "Far in the desert there may be an oasis, where are yet flowers and a fountain to be found," rejoined she. But my will was strong enough to cope at odds with the adversary; my iron armor of indifference would ward the rudest shafts that fate could wing. What had such as that to do with flowers and romance? She said: "The sternest Knights of Chivalry wore the love- ?knot of their mistress on their lance; and swam, sometimes armor-clad, to lay a forget-me-not at her feet." I laughed. Poor me! My pride and sensitiveness was as threadbare as the black coat of a decayed gentleman. Aidyl knew that my heart had bled; she knew not what had caused the bitter pang that rankled there; but she knew that I had suffered. She saw, at Bonnicoosa, that I was, as it were, a prisoner upon parole. That, instead of a proof-mailed combatant in the battle of life, I was but a poor, siege-worn soldier. I now acknowledged frankly that I had been fighting under false colors. A treacherous Christian, when taken by the Al- gerines, I had kissed the Koran, to mitigate the horrors of my slavery. Philosopher! That I should prate of philosophy, who had sold myself to a lie, to avoid the penalty of the world's priz- munire. - Yes; Aidyl was nobler and braver than I,-wiser far than I. For, whilst- I, afraid of the scoff of the worldling. the jeer of the THE KINGDOM OF LIGHT. 181 Mammonite, had belied the religion of my heart, had bowed the knee to Baal, had put on the livery of the Prince of the Power of Darkness,-she had defended the faith in other and better armor than the chafing gyves of cynicism and the vulnerable vestments of indifference. She had moved in the world, " among them but not of them ;" there was a halo of purity, a sublime radiance surrounding her, that kept the imps of darkness, the harpies, the jeering mummers in Life's Vanity Fair, in awe and subjugation. I've seen her quell the flouting farrago of the Honorable Jeremy Ginswig with a look. I've seen his impudent, bullying swagger quail and falter at a word from her. I've seen his bloated, brandy-blooming face pale and fear-struck at a glance of her gentle eyes. Sherry Cocktail had but two tastes in the world-lust and liquor. Lust of the eye and appetite. Sherry's idea of glory was a brawling " bender; " his conception of style, to trot his i two-forty " in a tearing " tarantula; " his ambition, to demon- strate that his stupid noddle could bear a quart of bad brandy, with no worse effect than showing him tenfold the ass he was when sober. Sherry's notion of elegance was wearing tights of a steeple- chase pattern, a " brass-barrelled " cutaway, a rowdy waistcoat, miraculous neckcloth, and " wide-awake " hat. I've seen Sherry at an evening party at Bonnicoosa, with his stubby, plebeian paws stuck into white kid gloves, with his rum- rouged phiz looming above an oleander-tinted tie, attempting to play the agreeable to Miss St. Landry! Not that he enjoyed himself in her company; not that he could' appreciate the deli- page: 182-183[View Page 182-183] 182 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND, cacy of her wit, the elegance of her satire, the play of her bril- liant imagination; she was to him a sealed book, though it is possible he may have comprehended her so far as sometimes to have a confused notion of how very stupid he must seem. I say possible, for Sherry had such a high opinion, not of his talent but of his personal merit, and the overwhelming prestige of his wealth, that it is improbable that he could have been entirely sensible of the magnitude of his deficit in the article of brains. But Sherry understood that Miss St. Landry was the most gifted and charming woman in the South; that she was the friend and proteg6e of the distinguished Mrs. Markham of Mo- bile; that she was the f6ted guest of the celebrated millionnaire Mr. Becasse, of New Orleans, at his princely palace of Jessa- mine Hall, on the "( Coast; i' where she had been invited to meet Lord Shatterdown, when his lordship condescended to visit the Southern plantations; that said Shatterdown had said, in the drawing-room of the St. Charles, that she was the best bred woman in America; that Mr. Becasse had said Miss St. Landry was superb: Mr. Becasse, whose sugar and cotton estates yielded him three hundred thousand a-year; Mr. Becasse, whose slaPes were counted almost by thousands; whose horses were the winners at the Metairie; whose equipage was incredibly splendid. This was more than sufficient to have rendered Miss St. Landry a paragon in the eyes of Mr. Cocktail. Still he could not understand it. ,She was not rich-every- body knew that; "and, as for beauty," he would say, "she can't hold a candle to Miss Cottonella Tuggle, Miss Manilla Baghale, or Miss Calla Blackfield. They say she's intellectual. THE KINGDOM OF LIGHT. 183 Blamenation! What business has a woman to be intellectual? no sense in it; only makes a man uncomfortable in their society. Hers is, an intellectual style of beauty, too, I suppose,-a pale, frail thing, and dresses as plain as a Yankee governess; with red hair, and eyes the color of half-ripe blackberries." And, having delivered himself of this soliloquy, off he'd go to flirt with Miss Manilla Baghale. The richest idea! I wish the reader could only have seen them flirting. But Sherry felt that Miss St. Landry was somehow "the go." That it was the thing to admire-- her, and be in love with her. So he would pay his devoirs. It was the funniest thing in the world to see him pretending to be in love with her. I've seen him leaning over her chair, trying to coax something like sentiment out of his Boeotian brains. I've seen him essaying to discuss "Shakespeare, and Byron, and them sort of fellows," and simulating to be passionately fond of " poetry, and novels, and all that; " and simpering and trying to look wise and inter- esting-the great clumsy booby; and Miss St. Landry, whilst laughing good-humoredly at his presumption in imagining that his cotton-bags entitled him to bore her with his vapid nonsense, would simplify the -tenor of her talk to the trite capacity of his dull comprehension, and suffer herself to be martyrized out of sheer good nature; because, libertine and idiot as he was, he felt, to the extent that he was capable, the influence of her magic power, and labored to seem in her presence as much like a gen- tleman as he could. R At i page: 184-185[View Page 184-185] AN EVENING PARTY AT DR. TUGGLE'S. IT was at an evening party at Dr. Joseph Tuggle's that I first met with Willifred Vivian. As my eye ran around the room, shortly after entering the parlor, I saw a gentleman, elegantly but very simply dressed, standing near the abutment of the wide-arched folding-door be- tween the parlors. There was a set of brilliant ladies dancing: a pageantry of tulle and white satin, tiny slippers, and white kid gloves. adorn- ing naked-armed, bare-shouldered, glorious-haired women, whose camellias, and smiles, and eaux de millefleurs, and bright eyes, and twinkling feet, fascinated their whiskered, white-waistcoated, dress-coated partners, and all presenting a very gayjy brilliant picture to a looker-on. The gentleman near the folding-door had a superb bouquet in his hand, which he handled as indifferently as though it were a riding-switch. He seemed utterly unconscious of himself-so much so, that if any one could have suddenly brought his image in yonder huge cheval-glass before' him, standing there with folded arms, AN EVENING PARTY AT DR. TUGGLE'S. 185 compressed lips, and earnest eyes, gazing on one of the dancers, it would have'startled him. He was a dark-hued man, of lofty stature, muscular develop- ment, and princely bearing. His hair was jetty black, which he wore in long, thick curls, after the' Southernlfashion; the cast of his features accentuated, yet handsome, an aquiline nose, and a jetty mustache of unusual size. - A man of powerful passions, strong will, capacious intellect. -There was a peculiar light in his eye. He seemed not to feel the presence of the company, not to be aware of his connection with the scene his whole thoughts were wrapped up in a lady in the-quadrille before him. It was Aidyl-Aidyl in white, dancing with the Honorable Jeremy Ginswig, who stepped about a-tip-toe through the figures, bowing, and looking grand and consequential, and frowning and pouting in a highly entertaining manner. If you could imagine, a turkey-cock strutting about before a nymph! Aidyl was all elegance and grace. She moved through the quadrille with a queenly and riant air, reminding one of some high-born court damsel in the Queen Anne times. She saw me when I entered. I observed her eyes upon me for a moment, and imagined there was an expression of tri. umph, as of one who condescended to triumph, pour passer He temps. I turned my glance quickly from her, determined that no manifestation of being her captive should be exhibited by me, at least. Sherry Cocktail, whose spirituous barometer was already rising, came joyously up to me as soon as the music-master rap- page: 186-187[View Page 186-187] 186 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. ped his violin for the set to end, and, seizing me by the hands, wanted to escort me across the room to bespeak the next set with Miss St. Landry. I declined his offer, and engaged Miss Cottonella Tuggle in a different set. Before we stood up to dance, Sherry said to me, "Here is Fred. Vivian just behind you; he is to be your vis-a-vts, and I am going to introduce him to you." "By all means," said I, rejoiced at the opportunity; and he did so. "Mr. Jan Jered! ' exclaimed Vivian, with a glow of pleas- urable surprise in his dark eyes, "' I hope we may consider our selves acquaintances at once. Your old college chum, Bob St. Priest, now of New York, was my chum in the university be- fore you. He has often mentioned your name in his letters to me." Whereupon,- delighted at the advantage that this circum- stance unexpectedly afforded me, I commenced a familiar chat with Vivian, and suggested some old college reminiscences that set us both a-laughing. Aidyl noticed this, and surprise at seeing the haughty and dignified Mr. Vivian and the quiet and seclusive Mr. Jered laughing together like boon companions, immediately ensuant upon our introduction, too, changed her air of mocking triumph to one of uneasy surprise. This was what I wished. After dancing this set, I chanced to see Aidyl standing near the place where I had first seen Vivian. The angle of the pro- jecting doorway formed a cosy corner for a tete-d-e-te, which was vacant. Again I caught her eye upon me, and fancied there was AN EVENING PARTY AT DR. TUGGLE'S.- 187 something in her expression that indicated an invitation to me to occupy it. o I advanced in that direction, and she changed her position to make room for me. But Miss Calla Blackfield was nearer to me than she, standing by a large vase of flowers on a centre-table. She held out a flower to me as I approached. I bowed over it; she smiled, gave utterance to some gay bagatelle, to which I re- plied iu the same strain, and we commenced an animated ex- change of small-talk, such as people generally entertain them- selves with at evening parties. I saw a slight look of pique and disappointment for a mo- ment on Aidyl's face, as she observed this manoeuvre, and she bit her lip-behind her fan-but I saw it. Mr. Vivian approached her with his bouquet. Now she will revenge herself, thought I, by carrying on a flirtation with Mr. Vivian, to make me jealous. And it would, too-such things men have no sense about, and experience does them no good. But, to my surprise, she did not avail herself of the opportu- nity thus offered. Either she had too much regard for Vivian, or she did not think it necessary. or she did not care. She was rather disposed to snub Mr. Vivian; she ridiculed his bouquet, and wondered that so practical a character as Mr. Vivian would condescend to such a sentimental triviality as a bouquet, or something to that effect, and more of the same sort. Nobody could banter like Aidyl. There was a certain inimita- ble gentillesse that neutralized the pungency of her satire. So she teased poor Vivian, and laughed at him, and yet he could not. get the vantage, nor get angry, nor feel hurt, nor yet retreat. page: 188-189[View Page 188-189] 188 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. After a while I came to his rescue. Not that I was any better able to cope with our charming adversary than he; but Vivian labored under this disadvantage-his love for Aidyl had been avowed. That he loved her, it was easy for me to see; Vivian's feelings had the mastery of him. I was uncommitted; mine had not. My indifference was a proof-armor; and after a short skirmish, I was able to bring Vivian off with flying colors, and leave Aidyl worsted. At this juncture, Colonel Ginswig came up. The Colonel is a sort of conversational blunderbuss, making altremendous noise, and throwing his- shot in every direction. My organization is too nervous to endure such great guns; so I was upon the point of beating a -hasty retreat, when Miss Calla Blackfield came to my ,rescue, by attacking the honorable-broadside: she fired a destruc- tive bouquet upon him, accompanied by a round of small com- pliments, and drew his fire. At the same time, Sherry Cocktail charged Vivian in the rear, supported by Miss Manilla Baghale on his right wing. And then the music struck up for action. Mr. Vivian dashed across the room upon Miss Cottonella Tug- gle, whom he had engaged for this set; Colonel Ginswig de- ployed with Miss Blackfield to the left; Sherry and his fair ally had already taken up their position; leaving myself, with Miss St. Landry, nearly in position for the fourth in-set. I had no other alternative (and she saw it was so) than to say, "May I have the pleasure---x-" When, "Forward four! n" cried the band-leader, and we danced up to Vivian and lady, and off we go, to the tune of an aria in La Dame Blanche. VIVIAN. IT was a sombre, sunless morning. The sky was overcast with a field of gray, misty clouds. It was not depressing weather-such as makes one gloomy and weary of all things; there was no indication of rain; the clouds were high, and the air cool and bracing; yet there was a degree of moisture in the atmosphere, for my hair curled closer, and felt soft and silky. Vivian called by for me to accompany him, in his buggy, on a visit which we had promised to the plantation of our friend, Sherry Cocktail, Esq. "It is rather a gloomy dayJ for a visit," he said, as we started; " but I do not think it will rain." "I do not find it gloomy," said I. "Autumn is coming on. I like this dim, misty weather. Such a day as this is a page out of Ossian." Vivian looked at me. ' He took his cigar out of his mouth to do it. "Do you like Ossian?" "Not much. It is vague, moonshiny sort of stuff." Vivian replaced this cigar. "I thought you had too much sense to like such crazy trash. [ page: 190-191[View Page 190-191] 190 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. Do you remember, in Lamartine's 'Confidences,' that maudlin, moon-struck ode to ' Lucy,'-after Ossian?" - -"What a lucky escape," I -thought. That was characteristic of the man. Vivian had conceived quite a liking to me. Strange enough, it was, as he said, because our natures were congenial; because I had strong, common-sense notions about things, that I was untainted with this namby-pamby sentimentality and romantic nonsense that he despised so cordially. Vivian was right, and yet he was wrong; had he known what my notions really were, he would have placed the brand of nonsense upon them-false as it would have been. It was about six miles to the plantation, and our route lay through the forest and prairie. Vivian made himself very-agree- able. I found him a man of thought and of feeling. He had seen much of the world; had travelled on both continents. We compared notes of our journeying; but I left him to give the direction and tone of our conversation. He had been an obser- vant traveller: had studied the institutions and people of the old country, and manifested much sagacity and penetration in his analyses of men and things. His views of our own country, especially the South and its peculiarities, were thorough and sound. Though his is a character of mind very common in America,-didactic, dogmatic, and utilitarian,-yet there was not the extent of self-opinionated intolerance usually belonging to such. He possessed a lively, indeed a brilliant fancy; but there was little imagination in him. He studied men, and abstractions, motives, actions, and issues. The heroismtof a daring and gen- erous mind called forth his warmest enthusiasm. His own was a VIYIAN. 191 bold and generous nature'-after the order of our ideal type of an Indian hero. The eloquence of his language was the brilliant artificial simile,-rhetorical but cold; never the genial, burning inspirations of a soul that is in love with nature. He especially appreciated intellectual force, moral grandeur, physical heroism. He admired great statesmen, great orators, warriors, preachers, and political reformers; the great names in science and philosophy he esteemed to a degree; but the masters in art, in poetry, and literature he cared little for, and seemed to have cultivated but slight acquaintance with them. Though he styled so flippantly as " crazy trash " the sublime poetry of Ossian, he confessed he had never read a dozen lines of it. He admired Shakespeare, not for the genius with which he mirrored nature in his grand scene-painting, but for his profound knowledge of human nature, and his skill in delineating character. Nature was a sealed book to him. In speaking of a statue, he would not find his admiration in its life-impersonification, but in the skill and ingenuity it displayed in the sculptor. As illustrative of the man, I recollect his criticism on Cole's paintings. He preferred the "Progress of Empire" to the '"Voyage of Life; " and passed severe strictures on his ' Archi- tect's Dream." Vivian found, delight in a great deed; none in a simple daisy. He saw grandeur in a dying gladiator; none in a dying sunset. He was moved by the eloquence of a great speech, but none by the wind, when that -- " grand old Harper smote His thunder harp of pines." page: 192-193[View Page 192-193] 192 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. He would have drawn me out, with the courteous intent of turn- ing the conversation in such channels as might interest me most. Although I refused to reveal the proclivities of my own imagina. tion, I soon found that I must credit him with more liberality than I had at first supposed. He did not ignore idealisms and deride daisies and day-dreams. "There might be an inner sense, that gave its own peculiar hue of poetry and romance to life, but it was his lot to be denied that sense, and so he could not comprehend the word aesthetics." EUCHRE PARTY AT MR. SHERRY COCOOKTATT'S. MR. COCKTAIL'S plantation-house was a low-roofed, one story dwelling, with the usual verandah around it. It was plain, weather-beaten, and unadorned. The verandah was vineless, and glaring. There were a few noble forest trees in the yard, that strove in shame, but in vain, to shroud the neglect and nakedness of the place. Such a garden! The bleakest, baldest patch of weeds, cabbage, and holly- hocks, surrounded by a paintless, dilapidated railing. Had Sherry more brains in his skull, there would have Ibeen more beauty in his garden. The place possessed all the capabilities of being rendered a lovely one; and I was vexed to see such material for a charming home just idly thrown away. There was a ragged skirt of forest adjacent, overrun with weeds, and trodden down by pigs, that might be moulded into a lovely lawn. A creek, with deep banks of white chalk, bronzed in places by moss, and fringed with a mantle of glorious vines, 9 page: 194-195[View Page 194-195] 194 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. ran through magnificent cedars, vine-clad bays, and other shrub- bery, along the margin: whilst tall cypresses towered above, their feathery foliage tinted with richest russet, their boughs bannered with the long gray moss, and crowned with mystic mistletoe. The beauty of that brook, spanned by a rustic bridge, no neglect could mar. But how much its charms might have been heightened by the magic touch of a landscape artist. But of landscape-gardening, or sketching in nature,- as I may term it, for want of a better name, Sherry had no conception. "A primrose by the river brim, A yellow primrose was to him, And nothing more." The business part of the plantation was in excellent order: the cotton-press and gin-house, with the tidy, whitewashed negro-cabins, formed a pleasing and effective group. The plantation fences and hedges, the barns, stables, and out- houses, were all unexceptionable, were models of economy and system-that paid. The stout negro in cotton shirt and duck trowsers, who took our horses, said that his master was at home; and, before we had entered the yard, Sherry made his appearance on the veran- dah, dandily dressed as usual, but in his shirt-sleeves, with a pipe in one hand, and a " hand-at-cards" in the other, and shouted out joyously,-- "Come in boys! Blamenation! Come in. Glad to see you. "You're just in time. Here's Ginswig and a lot more with me, and we are just getting in a good way. Simon! curry; and water, and feed those horses to death,-do you hear 9" A EUCHRE PARTY AT AMR. SHERRY COCKTAIL'S. 19t "Sherry is a good boy, a whole-souled, free-hearted fellow,' said Vivian to me, as we approached the house; "but he ii as nearly worthless to himself and his country as well could be And he represents too numerous a class of our young Southerr gentlemen." Sherry met us at the door, shook us cordially by both hands, and cut a caper in glee on the floor. "Come in the dressing-room first, and have Tony brush your coats, and take a whet of brandy,-,I've some eight year old stuff, that Ginswig pronounces perfectly ambrosial." "Who else is here besides Ginswig? ' asks Vivian. "Rosburn of New York. Do you know Ros., either of you?" "No." "I do; I met him at Batoosaloa," said I. "A -- "I was about to add something, when, "One of the real old Knickerbocker families,-vouched to me by our friend St. Priest," interrupted Sherry. "Who else?" "Kenny "Now, Sherry!" cried Vivian, in a tone of indignant re- proach, how often have I told you to let that boy alone. Con- found you!" "Ta-ta!" rejoined Sherry, laughing heartily at this out- burst, and patting him on the shoulder. "No harm done." "Is Ginswig drunk?" asked Vivian. "Not yet," laughed Sherry. ("Then I may escape," mut. tered the other.) "But of course he will be before night," and Sherry rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation, '"I'll be drunk w page: 196-197[View Page 196-197] 196 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. too;- we'll all be drunk,-except that chap from New Orleans Maj. Vincent, he has such a hard head that we can't make hin drunk. Gin. and I both tried last night. A deuced cleve: hand at 'poker,' too, is Vincent.-" We were welcomed con brio by the convivial Colonel, wh( seemed to be in a fair way to attain the beatific condition prophesied by Sherry, long before night. Mr. Rosburn was a dandy-acal little Knickerbocker. A verj strawherry-lipped, russet-haired, and plump little beauty, wh( was offering his charms in the Southern market in exchange for a rich wife. There was also a mild-eyed, girlish-faced slip of a lad, about seventeen, who was introduced to us as Mr. Kenneth Buford. I was struck with the gentle and amiable appearance of the lad, and felt shocked to see him at the card table when money and brandy were on the board. I never play for money myself. Thank God, I have alwayq had the firmness to refuse every temptation and inducement to do so. Master Kenneth was at an age when lads think it very manly to swagger and swear, and talk freely and familiarly about vices, the meanness and awful consequences of which the poor fellows never dream of. How often my heart has bled for these poor deluded youths! Their older associates-whose natures, perhaps coarse and vulgar in the beginning, -have by association and habit become hardened and blunted, until not a principle of honor, scarcely of honesty, not a sense of shame or virtue, not a noble or generous impulse is left-entice and encourage these- simple-hearted boys to pros. A EUCHRE PARTY AT MR. 'SHERRY COCKTAIL'S. 19' titute and pollute every principle of probity that their poo mothers have taught them-have prayed and wept in the earnes endeavor to instil such seeds of virtue as might germinate into something noble and worthy for these wretched vampyres to blast and ruin. These lads think they excite the admiration of their seducer when they drink, and swear, and gamble, and suffer themselves to be swindled out of their money by them, and they only laugh ing at them, and considering them, very justly perhaps, as silly spooneys and greenhorns. ALh, lads I the only way never to be a spooney or greenhorn ia to hold aloof from all such characters. Depend upon it, if they see you leading a moral and innocent life, acting upon the prin ciples your mother taught you,-and nothing is easier if you wil only try it,-these sin-bloated " swells " may pretend to sneer at you, but, really, they envy you, admire you, and respect you and if one should hate you, it is because the sense of his owI degradation shames him at heart in view of your virtuous con duct. - I do not mean to say that Master Buford was in any suce company here. By no means. The moral example of such E man as Sherry Cocktail would not be exactly the pattern I'd point out to a son: but Sherry was not altogether depraved, and I think would not premeditatedly seduce such a lad as Kennetl into habits of dissipation. But Sherry was no very profound casuist; and when poor Kenny, with the desire of seeming manly assumed what blackguards consider a knowing air, and talked flippantly of vices that should have made his ears tingle with blushes of shame, why Sherry laughed at him, and encouraged him in, his vanity by seeming to think the silly boy an- accom- # . , page: 198-199[View Page 198-199] 198 - SCENES IN THE SUmMER-LAND. plished man of the world; and when Kenny was for gamblifil and drinking with him, he had no right to reprove him, and coul not refuse him what he shared with others. Kenneth and Mr. Rosburn had been playing together, and as I soon discovered, the New Yorker had been poisoning hi; mind with exaggerated stories, and doubtless often unmitigated lies, about the gay Lotharios of the metropolis, and their wonder- ful and interesting gas-light adventures. Ginswig, with his usual sneering skepticism and cynical sen- suality, was bearing his part by inducting the lad into the phi- losophical tenets of the children of Mammon: by teaching that all men who pretended to virtue were hypocrites; and that to be a drinking, gambling rake, was the fair and open way of honest fellows-like Cocktail and himself. Buford, perhaps, had a feeling of devotion and reverence for the fair sex; held them sacred for the sake of his mother and sis. ters; and some fair maiden was perhaps enshrined as an angel in his heart. But Ginswig, who was an uttter infidel, and abjured all creeds but that of selfishness, when in the company of men, always lowered the character of womankind to-the paltriest pat- tern, arid according to him their virtue was but prudery. When with the ladies, he was their most abject slave. When he dared, he pushed his attentions with consummate effrontery; and where he dared not, he "bent the suppliant hinges of the knee." The ladies instinctively hated and feared him; .for even where he fawned, beneath his snaky cajoling, he often vented the acrid venom of his viperous heart. Embittered against the sex, because again and again he had A EUCHRE PARTY .AT MR. SHERRY COCKTAIL'S. 1! failed in his aspirations to obtain the handpof some gifted, beau ful, or wealthy maiden, he-sought this petty revenge, in essayil to depreciate them to those who were more likely to win the affection than he had been. Ginswig, Buford, Rosburn, and Cocktail, formed the par; carree when we entered the smoking-room where the card-tal was set out. "You here, Buford?" asked Vivian, in a manner, under t seeming levity of which was couched a reproof that the lad fe "You are a ' spunky' young man to try your luck against su old blacklegs as Ginswig and Cocktail." "I've been defending him from the Philistines," spoke 1 laughingly Rosburn, who seemed to be his partner. "Ah! that's clever of you," returned Vivian, looking him as though he, thought he might very well be one of t] Philistines himself. "Kenny has only been playing a few minutes,t interpos, Cocktail, rather apologetically, " to keep up the hand of M Vincent, who has gone up stairs to write a letter that must t off by this evening's mail." "If that's the case," said Vivian, "I'll hold Mr. Vincent hand myself until he returns; for I know Kenneth never likes play for money." "Vivian, did I introduce Mr. Rosburn? Mr. Corneli Julius Rosburn; of New York, or Camellia Japonica Rosebu as our Bonnicoosa ladies call him-a scion of the firm of Rosbuz & Smith, the great silk importers." Mr. Vivian bowed with lofty dignity, and, taking the car! from the hand of Kenneth, took -his seat-at the table with an a page: 200-201[View Page 200-201] 200 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. of easy nonchalance. He seemed to wield a great influence over Kenneth-as noble minds always do over a young and generous nature; and the latter, submitting very quietly to this arrange- ment, came to me and proposed we should amuse ourselves with a game of backgammon, "Are you an old acquaintance of Fred Vivian?" he asked of me, as we sat by the window arranging our men. "My acquaintance with him is very slight indeed," I replied; "I only met with him the other day at Bonnicoosa, for the first time. He has impressed me very favorably, however." "By Jove, he's the noblest fellow that ever lived. He keeps me out of more badness: he never sees me doing any thing he thinks wrong without putting a stop to it. And I can't help minding him, to save me. He's just like a brother to me." "His influence is such as any young man would do well to be governed by," I replied. "Yes, but I do think he's most too plaguy strict with me; he plays cards himself, and drinks: I don't see why I shouldn't be as able to shun excess as he--though he, poor fellow, now-a- days, doesn't always avoid excess himself. He gets roaring drunk sometimes with Cocktail and Ginswig; and when he does so, he is a perfect demon ..... Look yonder," said he in a lower tone, nudging me on the elbow, and glancing toward the card-table. I looked up, and saw Vivian with a tumbler, half full of brandy, raised to his lips. The rest were in the act of drinking, but Vivian's glass contained as much as all the rest put together. "Does he often get on a spree?"I asked. "Here lately, I think, it is growing on him-ever sinice six, trey--you have the throw, sir." A EUCHRE PARTY AT MBR. SHERRY COCKTAIL'S. 21 "Ever since what?"I asked again. "Nothing-'twas only a conjecture of mine. Besides, I' no right to speak of his private affairs to a stranger." "If I might guess, the since you allude to is no private a fair. Since his rupture with Miss St. Landry, is it not? heard as much intimated in Bonnicoosa." I spoke in as col dence-inviting tone as possible. "Well, yes-that's it, Ithink. I know when she discard him, and he has never been the same man since---doublets that's good for me: -I spot you out here." T1hey were talking rather boisterously around the card-tab and Kenneth stopped talking to me to listen to Mr. Rosburi account of how Tom Hyer " mauled" half a dozen watehm on a " bender " one night at the theatre in Philadelphia. I could see that Vivian was supremely disgusted with 1 partner, who, presuming upon his quiet affability of manner, h assumed a familiar, bantering tone towards him. :' Do you think they were ever engaged?i"I asked Ke netl, as soon as I could get his attention away from the car players. "Itthink, perhaps, no positive engagement; but-- Wha the matter, sir? You have knocked our game all into pie." Mr. Vincent, of New Orleans, at that moment made his e trance into the room. "Sherry, shut- the door!" cried I, in a quick, imperati tone, at the same time rising to my feet. "Lock the door, She ry, and let no one leave the room." The whole company rose to their feet. "Ah! I've caught you at last!" said I, in a deep voice, a 9* page: 202-203[View Page 202-203] 202 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. vancing towards Vincent, who, as soon as he saw me, started back, and turned deadly pale. "I've caught you at last, MONSIEUR LESTOCQ!" "Pas encore, Monsieur Jered--pas encore," hissed he through his teeth, and, drawing a pistol, he fired full upon me. The ball grazed my hair, and went shivering through the window. pane. He had, upon first recognizing me, attempted to make his es- cape; but quick as thought, Sherry, divining some scene of the sort, had, in obedience to my exclamation, stepped behind him and bolted the door-when he fired upon me. In the same instant I had drawn my own pistol, and taking deliberate but instantaneous Sim--for I never felt cooler and more self-possessed-I shot him through the forehead; my fire being almost simultaneous with his own. "I have not forgotten your lessons, M. Lestocq--in pistol- shooting." .- He was a corpse almost as soon as his body touched the floor. There was a dead calm. Every man in the room stood si- lent, sobered, awaiting words from me--all except Mr. Rosburn, who, as soon as he got sight of the pistols, " made his absence " out of the window, on the verandah. ' What does this mean, Jeaed?" asked Vivian, in a subdued, but not emotionless tone. "Gentlemen," said I, " the man lying there, whom you have called Vincent, is Georges Darlay Lestocq-the murderer of my father." A CHAPTER OF FRENCH ROMANCE. FOR three years I have tracked this man :-from New York Paris, to London, back to Paris, to Rome, to Egypt (where had gone with an English tourist-party), and where I only mise him by being captured myself by a band of Bedouins, from who I made an almost miraculous escape to Jerusalem, after t, months' detention. At Rome, again, on my return, I accide ally met with an old Southern friend who knew Lestocq, and formed me that he had just sailed two days before for Ameri, having returned from Alexandria without his English friends. set sail the first vessel for New York, tracked him to Washit ton, to Charleston, Havana, New Orleans, St. Louis, Louisvil and so on, back and forth, sometimes losing all trace of hi then suddenly and unexpectedly hearing of him again, or getti -some clue to his course. But my sagacity and perception this pursuit' had been sharpened to a degree that amounted instinct. During all this time I had never actually seen him but tw since our first rencontre in New Orleans. The first time, I met him in a theatre, in Paris.. I was in 1 *!! page: 204-205[View Page 204-205] 204 SCENES IN THE SUMMVR-LAND. private box of the American Minister, with my friend Lord Shatterdown. I saw him enter the next box in company with at elegant and distinguished-looking -young Italian, whom I knew he was " pigeoning;" for Lestocq was all this while following his profession of gambler and swindler, which is partly why he led me such a wild-goose chase. I plucked Lord Shatterdown by the arm. "Do you see the flashy gentleman who has just entered the next o1ge with the young Italian there . " "Yes." "That man is my deadliest enemy. I am going to insult him, that he may challenge me. Will your lordship do me the favor to act as my second?" "With the greatest pleasure." During the entr' acte, we met them in the lobby. I jammed against Lestocq in such a way as to knock off his hat. He did not know me. But men of his kidney are quarrelsome about trifles. He picked up his hat, and made some coarse re- mark to me. It is the way bullies think they show themselves men of spirit. I replied to his insolence by pulling his nose. Whereupon a challenge ensued, and a meeting was appointed in the Bois de Boulogne. We fought with small-swords-upon some technical point in the French code of honor--and the issue was, that I received a thrust in the lungs, that caused me to faint upon the ground, and my adversary made his escape. The next time I met him was at a gambling hole in Havana, whither I had tracked him. He was playing at monte with some Spaniards. This time, as soon as he saw me he knew me. I was alone, A CHAPTER OF FRENCH ROMANCE. 'and he cried out that there was an accursed Yankee who had rob- bed him of a thousand dollars on board ship, and commenced an attack upon me. I had two policemen stationed outside, whom I called in, and a desperate fight ensued; some of -the Spaniards taking his part, and two Yankee sailors mine. In the melee, I wounded Lestocq; but at nearly the same instant one of the Spaniards was shot, causing a confusion, during which I was knocked on the head, and Lestocq again made his escape. My father was a Virginian by birth, and had met with my mother at Paris, who, though also a Virginian, was only daughter of a wealthy gentleman who had a plantation. in Louisiana. My mother was then in Paris, at school, and Mr. Jered was an attache delegation of the American Minister. My maternal grandmother was a French lady, whose kins- folk, of the name of Duvaloir, lived in a chateau of that name not far from Paris, mentioned in this book before. Mr. and Mrs. Jered. resided for many years after their mar- riage in Paris, where I was born. My father, being a man of fortune, and a bon-vivant, in the theatres, saloons, and cafes of that dissolute metropolis, formed the acquaintance of many of the gay and extravagant young men about town, among whom this Lestocq, who, notwithstanding he was a swindler and rogues was also a man of education, of plausible and engaging address, and had contrived to insinuate himself deepest of any in my father's good graces. There was another friend and associate of Mr. Jered, -and a frequent visitor at his house--le Comte Casimir Casmery-who there formed the acquaintance of Demoiselle Leonore Bonavoine, page: 206-207[View Page 206-207] 206 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. the daughter of an old broken-down Baron Bonavoine, one of the ruined remnants of the nobility de la vieille -roche, and upon her father's death, had been adopted by a rich old Bonavoine uncle, my father's commission merchant and agent in New Orleans, the husband of our "Madame." She was then about sixteen, and living in pour family, partly as a companion for my mother, and also with a view of learning English, preparatory to going with them to New Orleans, according to her uncle's wish that she should reside with him. Mle. Leonore was handsome and fascinating, and M. de Casmery fell violently in love with her. Unfortunately-most unfortunately--Mile. L6onore did not return his passion, but treated all his wooing with coldest unconcern. These were the facts upon which Lestocq based his infernal machinations. Madame Jered was an obstacle in the way of his designs upon my father. She was virtuous and pious to a degree that operated as a check upon her husband's excesses; she was a counter-influence to Lestocq's nefarious seductions. She had, upon occasion, treated the latter with a contemptuous coldness and scorn that had excited his deepest hatred, and he resolved at once to get rid of her, and wreak his vengeance on his inno- cent- victim. He suggested to M. de Casmery that the seeming indifference of Mle. Leonore was simulated-the tyranny of a coquette-and that she really loved him as much as he could desire. He influ- enced him to believe, if he would abate the ardor of his atten. tions, and by degrees turn them towards Madame Jered, so as to arouse her fear of losing him, that the young lady would A -CHAPTER OF FRENCH ROMANCE., 2 strike her colors and come to terms with him. Though M. Casimir had too profound a respect for M. and Madame Jered to press his attentions any farther than was strictly convenable, even according to our American notions of propriety, yet the change itself, from his devotion to Mle. Leonore, was- sufficient, in the hands of such a wily scoundrel as Lestocq, to enable him to work upon my father's mind, and arouse the green-eyed monster there. I do not think that L6onore Bonavoine had any love at all for Count Casimir Casmery; from what I knew of her, she was incapable of loving any body but herself: but her womanly pride was piqued by this beau's stratagem, and she made some demon- strations towards bringing her truant admirer back to his legiti- mate allegiance, which overjoyed Casmery and strengthened him in the views Lestocq had advanced. By a .process of consummate double-dealing, and a demoniac sagacity in moulding and coloring circumstances, Lestocq brought about a complete misunderstanding and erroneous conception of things among all the parties. Madame Jered and Mile. Bonavoine were staying for the time at the ChAteau Duvaloir, and my father in Paris. Lestocq contrived to send the Count de Casmery out one night, in a fiacre, to the Chateau Duvaloir, to elope with Mle. Leonore to England; there being obstacles in the way of his wedding her in France. Lestocq had been pretending to be a go-between in the affair, and had forged sundry notes purporting to -come from Mle. Leonore. Upon this occasion, the count was to send in a note from Lestocq assuring her that all was right, and she would come out and take her place in the fiacre; but her conditions page: 208-209[View Page 208-209] 208' SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. were, that the count was to act as courier and .ride outside with the driver all night, and not speak a word or have any communi- cation with her whatever. Casmery was an artless and romantic lad of nineteen, and saw nothing in this suspicious plan but the modesty and timidity of his intended. The thing smacked too much of a plot in a modern French romance, to have imposed so easily upon one more experienced than Count Casimir; but the very romance of it had an effect of infatuating the young imagination of Casmery. Lestocq knew his man. Having drawn up his carriage, according to the indication of Lestocq, near a wing of the chateau where was Madame Jered's sleeping apartment, and not that of Mle. Bonavoine; at about nine o'clock -the count rang the bell, which was answered by Madame Jered's chambermaid, a bribed minion of Lestocq. The note purporting to, be one from Lestocq to Mle. Leonore was really one under a cover, which the maid took off, directed to Madame Jered, forged by Lestocq, and of the following tenor:- PARIS, (such a date.) MADAME: Monsieur your husband has commissioned me to beg your immediate return to Paris by the carriage, the coachman of which will hand you this. Madame need be in no alarm at the suddenness of this sum- mons. It is M. Jered's request that she come without disturbing the family or Mle. Bonavoine. ; Monsieur is ill-disabled from writing--but not dangerous. Respectfully, in haste, CASMERY. A CHAPTER OF FRENCH ROMANCE. 2 As was intended, the impression of my mother, on reading this artful communication, was that M. Jered had been badly wounded in a duel which he wished kept secret, and having the most implicit confidence in Casmery, she at once put on her bon- net and shawl, and with her maid set out in the hackney coach, as she supposed, for Paris. Meantime, Monsieur Lestocq had gone to my father and assured him that his wife was upon the point of eloping with Casmery to England. He tells him that the count has gone out to the chateau in a fiacre for that purpose, naming an hour later than the actual time of starting. He repairs with my father to a spot on the road chosen for the purpose, where they waylay the carriage which presently comes along, M. le Comte seated with the driver outside. M. Jered stops the fiacre. A hot and hasty altercation en- sues; my mother fainted; and my father ran the Comte de Cas- mery through with a small sword, so that he died upon the spot. As soon as my father saw the count on the driver's seat, he had become so infuriated that he did not stop to have explana- tions. The count, on the other hand, still supposing it was Mille. Bonavoine in the coach, and that M. Jered was attempting a rescue, gets down from his seat and commences fighting, with- out demanding explanations on his part. For Lestocq, with his usual sagacity, had insinuated that one of the greatest obstacles in his way was the fact that my father was really in love with Mile. Bonavoine himself, and so opposed to her marrying Count Casmery. The result of all this villany was just that which Lestoeq page: 210-211[View Page 210-211] 210 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LANJ. had designed. My mother, unable to prove her innocence, fed broken-hearted to a convent. She appealed to Mile. Leonore Bonavoine, who might have done something perhaps to remove the weight of suspicion from her, and thus pave the way for her ultimate vindication. I do not know that mademoiselle was either a tacit or actual accom- plice of Lestocq, but there is no doubt that she was in love with my father-my mother had suspected that, before this disastrous occurrence-and she not only refused to vindicate my mother's innocence, but on the contrary seemed, by indirect means, by a sort of chary-hinted malversation of circumstances, to cast an odor of suspicion upon her, which she did not openly declare. A divorce both in France and the United States was obtained by my father, to which latter country he returned some five or six years after these events. Mile. Leonore Bonavoine returned with him, and they were married in New Orleans shortly before they came up to his Puckshenubbie plantation, as recorded in the beginning of this book. So Lestocq succeeded in blasting the reputation of my poor mother, in breaking her heart, and making her life a miserable; desolation. My mother had sought for the note she had received on that fatal night, purporting to be from Casimir Casmery, but it was not to be found. It had fallen in the bottom of the hackney- coach, and, together with a pocket-book, belongig to the Count de Casmery, containing various letters between him and Lestocq, and others,'forged by the latter as coming from L6onore, came into the possession of the coachman, who afterwards became con, A CHAPTER OF FRENCH ROMANCE. cierge of the convent which my mother had entered; and it was not'until years afterwards that the whole villany of this demon was brought to light, who, in the mean time, had so ingratiated himself with my father, that he had become his bosom-friend; and, like the viper, which the peasant warmed in his breast, he stung him to death. All these things were utterly unknown to me until my mother's return, and my father's death. In that moment, I swore to my dying father that I would pursue his murderer to the death of one of us. The spirit of revenge is by no means a noble one; -by no means one that I would advocate or uphold. Wandering the world over in quest of that man, to kill him, or be killed by him, I was the most miserably unhappy man imaginable. Do not think that I cherished and fostered the rancor of my hatred for him, deeply as he had wronged me; on the contrary, the remorse and pain that racked my soul, in the very anticipa- tion, so embittered my life, that I more than once endeavored to absolve myself from my oath. And since -my acquaintance with Aidyl St. Landry, I had almost thrown off the incubus of that death-oath. But the accumulated wrongs, deep, heart-corroding wrongs, that stood charged against him in my account, were more than I could bear-formed a destiny for me that I could not shun. Most devout were my thanks to heaven that the dreadful issue, when it did come, was in such wise, as absolved- me from the direct responsibility of his blood. ;- page: 212-213[View Page 212-213] 212 SCENES IN THE SUMMFR-LAND. I talked these' things over with Vivian. In some measure I made him my confidant, and lightened my heart of its burden by the communion and sympathy of his noble soul. He himself, in return, talked to me of Aidyl; told me of his love for her-told me that she had never returned it. Her heart could not accord in unison with his, he said, be- cause he was not pure enough to rise to the elevated sphere of her spirit, whose affections could never come within the com- pass of a nature as limited, as gross, and common as his. Poor fellow! He could sympathize with me, he said-he understood and appreciated my feelings; he himself felt the gall and bitterness of an impulse that cuts into the heart, and that is too mighty to be expelled from its dominion over you. "There are natures; such as yours and mine, Jered, that are never strangers to each other . ...; we can always judge, and even prejudge each other's conduct, because we know the mo- tives by which we are governed ." Poor Vivian was not a Christian-he approved of my con. duct. He thought it noble and, heroic; he considered such a revenge not only legitimate, but glorious, and I rose to the high- est in his estimation on account of it. It was deemed expedient, after the form of an investigation before a magistrate was gone through, that I should postpone my intended departure for Kentucky; and that I should remain a week or so with Sherry Cocktail, until the excitement, if any should arise out of the affair, had subsided. A CHAPTER OF FRENCH ROMANCE. 21 My objects in life were now all changed. My wanderings were over, and I was impatient to get back to Tussaleega, and arrange and wind up my affairs in such a manner as would enable me to accomplish the new plans and purposes that now dawned upon me, and opened new ways and ends in the future. page: 214-215[View Page 214-215] A SABBATH-DAY'S JOURNEY. I AM by no means disposed to approve of the custom of travelling on Sunday. Though abhorring every thing like Puritanism, I heartily coincide with the evangelical folks in their indignation at the violation of the Lord's day by the travelling publio and by the public conveyances. Yet, I have frequently been so circumstanced as to be almost compelled to break my rule in this regard. One Saturday evening I find myself in a dirty and disagree- able little inn in a wretched hamlet in the hills of Alabama. I am told that there is no church within ten miles except a Methodist meeting-house, the circuit-rider of which is absent. The landlord " is very sorry that there ain't preachin' somewhar about, to 'muse me; but ef I'm gwine to lay over till the next stage, there is to be a chickeenfight at his house to-morrow, and lots o' the boys 'll be here; and we'll have a good time," he "reckons." Sunday was nominally rest-day with the stage-line I was tra- velling on, but they took advantage of it to " lie by"Saturday and Monday nights, and travel Sunday-thereby avoiding the night-staging. A SABBATH-DAY'S JOURNEY. 215 "Thar'll be preachin' at P-- , about eighteen miles from here, on the route," said the driver; "we'll git thar jus 'bout church-time; you kin lay over thar, or, if you choose to go on to H---- (a large town), we'll git thar time for supper, an' you kin go to night meetin'. Rev. Mr. -- preaches thart; great' preacher, they say. Thar's lots o' churches at H--, an' you kin suit yourself Besides, by goin' on, you don't lose your connection with the boat." All this was sufficient inducement for me to go on to H----. I had often heard of the Rev. Mr. ---, a clergynman of eminent piety and reputation; and I gladly availed myself of an opportu- nity to hear him.. It was a bright and beautiful Sunday morning; the glorious sun shone over the broad prairies with a dreamy radiance. There was a balmy freshness in the still, sweet air, peculiarly delightful in our hot climate. A thousand thousand flowers of blue and rose and white enamelled the vast meadow-like prairies, whose boundaries were groves of lofty trees; the sweet-gum, the cotton-wood, the dark pine, and the magnificent swamp-oak, and others, too many to tell, gave a varied outline of every hue of green, with blendings,--with depths of shadow,--with flecks of silvern mornlight,-with gray tree-trunks, striping the dark shadows; and the long, drooping moss, giving to the scene a weird-cast, as though it were a dim, distant forest, hung with Brobdignagian cobwebs. This was the lisiere-the list or skirt of forest that bounded the background beyond the broad cottonfields: dead trees in one place and another, with spire-like limbs, would peer out amid, giving relief and contrast to the flowing and blended outlines of page: 216-217[View Page 216-217] *216 SCENES IN THE SUMMRR-LAND. foliage,--or here and there, standing solitary in the fields, limb- less, weather-blasted, and scorched, one with a comical old crow dozing a-perch its apex, or another draped with a regal mantle of autumn-crimsoned vines. Autumn is not so brilliant-tinted and gorgeous, in this Summer-Land, as it is in regions farther North. The frost comes so slowly, and so slightly, the verdure lingers so long, and fades so gradually, and the evergreens are so many, that you do not get a scene of foliage all crimson, and yellow, and brown. There are shades of these hues, but they are softer and more subdued, and merge every where into green-except here and there a crimson Virginia-creeper,* or a scarlet sumach. But there is a luxury of autumn-berries of every hue of red, that form with the dark evergreens an effect'that is finer by far. Fresh, snow-white cloudlets were drifting lightly across the- sky, giving it by contrast a deeper tint of blue. Mocking-birds were warbling their wildly sweet improvisa- tions in every thicket; larks and buntings were singing in choral thousands in the prairies. I was the only passenger, and as usual had my seat on the box, that I might smoke my cigar in peace and comfort, with philosophy and content. Enthusiastic emotion may be pardoned in us wild children of the sun; we cannot confine our feelings in the staid and sober vesture of a cramped and clipped propriety. - We must break away into-indecorous delight, and indulge in extravagant hyper- bole and superlative. * Ampelopsis quinquefolia. A SABBATH-DAY'S JOURNEY. 217 Beautiful land of the South I I never behold thy forests dark, thy flowery plains and sunny homes, without emotions of proud and joyful love. A land whose children are beautiful and brave,--whose sons are noble and generous,-whose daughters are gifted and fair,- how deep, how great, should be the loyalty of that land, the devotion of the children of the Sun, to the beautiful in art, the divine in nature, and the sublime in love. Would to God that I could enlist every generous child of the South to put down the apathy, sensuality, infatuation, and dissi- pation, that are the spots on our sun; would that I could influ- ence them in behalf of the great crusade that is to make the coming ages ring with the glory of the later chivalry, who are to battle down Ignorance, Fanaticism, Mobbery, and Tyranny, who are to battle for royal Truth and Beauty. Oh, I love the sunny South! I love the warm and generous impulses that are generated 'neath our genial sun. I love our clime of light, "Where the, hues of the earth, and the tints of the sky, In color though varied, in beauty may vie.' P -- was a mere hamlet; a cluster of canty cottages and aristocratic mansions. Like most Southern villages it was em- bowered in China trees, and water-oaks. Every -cottage yard was adorned with pomegranates, laurels, and bays ; the long blades of the tree Yucca, tufting the top of its palm-like stem, peered up amid, giving an oriental air to the group-its lofty raceme of white flowers gleaming in the green leaves like a chime of fairy bells. page: 218-219[View Page 218-219] 218 SCENES IN THE SUM!MER-LAND. The stage-coach lumbered through the pebbly streets of this garden-like village, and the boughs of the China trees brushed my cap. We passed close by the village church. Carriages, elegant and glistening, were drawn up around,-the fat and lazy negro coachmen were lolling on their hammercloths, and cracking merry, stupid jokes. Footgoers in Sunday attire were assembling. The notes of the organ, and the voices of the singers, fell for a moment upon my ear as the coach rattled by, calling up memo- ries of the old times at Crowood, when I used to go to church at our chapel with Clotilde and the Brookwood family. -Such a contrast to my Ishmaelitish life now t It is in moments like these that I feel, in all its crushing sadness, the loneliness of being a homeless wanderer. But the coach rolls away,-the hamlet, the church, and the home-people are left behind, and the sandy lane leads us through boundless blooming Cotton fields. A few miles, and we come to a neat little white farm-house near the road. The broad and lofty verandah is covered with gentle jessamines; ever-blooming roses fill the little lawn with fragrance and beauty. A new and handsome chaise is drawn up at the little white gate-the family are going to church. I see two pretty girls, of eighteen and twenty, on the gravelled walk near the gate, gathering flowers. They are dressed for church: their hair is all agloss, and their cheeks all aglow, and their dainty bonnets, of blonde, and lace, and artificials, contrast with their dark shining braids. Such ripe ruby lips, such deep beaming eyes, whose large orbs, when turned upon me, send a A SABBATH-DAY'S JOURNEY. 219 thrill through my bachelor heart! Such fresh, glowing complex- ions, such sweet figures-the full and rounded busts sloping away to their slight, round waists-and then the swell, and flow, and fold of their silken gowns. A pretty woman has a peculiar charm to a stranger: she seems prettier, and her beauty has a more enticing and piquant allure, than when you know her. Perhaps it is because, in the latter case, you can feast your eyes au loisir; but in travelling, it is only a hasty, half-stolen glance you can enjoy, and you make the most of it; and then distance lends enchantment, you know. They turn their large dark eyes upon me with curiosity, and with half-coquettish smiles. It is easy to see that they are coun- try maidens; and the sight of a man of the world, an old traveller like me, is a novelty. "That is a pretty fellow," says the younger of the two, un- consciously loud enough for me to hear it. The other takes in my outre travelling dress at a glance :- my short velveteen frock, gray kerseymere pants and cap, and drab gaiters. My sunburnt complexion, my great brown mus- taches, my tuft and imperial, are odd to her, and she says, "He is a foreigner." My eyes paid them a gallant compliment in return. Crack goes the whip, and away goes the coach, and'we part, as Alexander Smith says, like two ships that meet at sea, and hail, and sail away. I'm not sure that Smith ever said that; if not, it wag something like it, or else it was my Smith who fell among the Noxatrian Apes, for he too was a bit of a poet. The next picture is a negro quarter by. the bonny banks of page: 220-221[View Page 220-221] 220 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. Chuckalala. There is a nice little log hut thatched with mossy boards, and clad with vines: in the foreground a gray-headed patriarch with skin as black as a sloe,--his white hair and black "physiog." being a singular inversion of colors-clad in clean white raiment, he sits at the door reading his Bible; a natty mu- latto maiden sits demurely by his side, apparently much intent upon his lesson, but in my opinion slyly coquetting with a smart youth of her own color, who is leaning upon the side of the door, a little behind the old, white-capped, ebony grandam, and ogling his dusky Phyllis with love-lit eyes. A tall yucca grew beside the door, neath which half a dozen dumpling-cheeked ne- gro children were playing. One little inky impling, I noticed, had a yucca leaf, with the sharp point of which he was tickling another, who bawled lustily as we passed. The next scene is the wild-woods again: giant pines and cy- press-giants too. I think I feel less of that heart-sinking yearning for Home when I am travelling in the woods, than elsewhere. There are no associations to call up with painful acuteness the home-sur- roundings which, how trivial soever they may seem, entwine themselves with such tender rootlets into your heart's very quick. What business has the heart of a great time-roughed, world-hardened wanderer like me, to be pulsing with such pain- ful tenderness at the sight of little dirty-faced children playing by the brook-side; at sight of a mother patting her curly-haired darling just returned from school; at sight of a bonny maiden of sixteen galloping down the gravelly road, with an old gray- headed African servitor trotting behind her prancing pony? The coachman finding me a very uncommunicative compan- A SABBATH-DAY'S JOURNEY. 221 ion, comforts himself by sounding his bugle. It rings clear, in tones wild and wailing across the broad fields to our left, and echoes against the distant forest-side that skirts it. It recalls a dreamy Sabbath aftelnoon -that I was listlessly strolling with my mother in the drear regions, reveche and mel- ancholy, of Montmartre. The distant din of great Paris fell in a mysterious murmur on my infant ears. The smoke therefrom hazed the dim horizon, and there seemed to be the same dreamy haze upon my imagination, softening its impressions and mellow- ing its emotions, as it did the outlines of the landscape. I re- member hearing the post-horn of a diligence on some distant hill at that quiet, murmur-haunted hour. Towards nightfall it began clouding up in the south. A broad, black mass of clouds arose above the distant pines. Now and anon a red gleam of lightning would change its blackness into a lurid, purple glare. A sickle-moon hung pale and sharp, upon its very verge. The wind freshened, damp and cool, from that quarter. I saw its avant-guard as it came bounding through the bending boughs. The moon was gone. The cloud had swallowed her up, and was advancing and spreading towards the zenith. What a contrast to the west! The sun was setting in ma- jestic splendor. The sky was there a dream-land sea, besprent with golden isles. We were descending a long hill when the sudden storm came on us. I saw the thick clouds sweeping like a serried phalanx of misty phantoms along a barren ridge. The lightning drove in frantic streams down through the weltering rain. The thunder crashed in tearing peals through the air. page: 222-223[View Page 222-223] 222 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. Dark, and stormy, and terrible as it was, the golden rays from the clear and tranquil west gleamed through and struggled amid the tempest--a strange, mysterious light. A scene more beautiful than my-pen can picture. It was blowing a perfect tornado, and our horses becoming frightened at the din and up- roar, the stunning thunder and the crashing trees-dashed madly down the hill. As we neared the foot of the hill, which stretched away into a level swamp, the road made a sudden curve. "In the name of God! "I exclaimed in horror, " there is a carriage in the road, just ahead of us-there may be women in it." We came rushing like an avalanche down upon them. "There are women," groaned the driver. "Turn your horses!" cried I. At that moment a gigantic oak by the roadside came toppling down upon us-from overhead. I could hear its branches whistle through the air as it fell. "God have mercy!" The trunk of the tree struck the coach amidships, and liter- ally smashed it to the ground. Something struck me. I don't know what, but I felt a stunning blow upon my shoulders; I pitched forward; a thousand stars spangled my darkened vision: I thought I saw the carriage and several trees fly up into the air. A warm rush of blood, and I was insensible. \ CHUCKATUBBIE. RETURNING consciousness found me somewhere in'bed, after a very refreshing and comfortable slumber. Where I was, is more than I could possibly divine. I thought I was in New York; then it occurred to me that Hmust be at Crowood. Crowood I Oh, I remember now-I am in New Orleans; no, it's six months since I was in New Orleans; wonder if it is not Dintmere Cas- tle, by the braes of Avon? Oh-aye! I have it now-Batoosa- loa; or, stay, Bonnicoosa: I thought of Aidyl--of Vivian--Cock- tail-of --. I turned over, and a tense of soreness about the ribs and shoulders, brought to my recollection the events of last night's stage-coach catastrophe, and I came to the conclusion that I didn't know where I was. A very wise conclusion: at all events, this is a most luxurious bed. So I turned over again, and subsided into a glorious snooze. A pleasant jingling, as of glasses and cups on a waiter, was what re-awoke me; and opening my eyes, I found myself in a luxurious bedchamber, with the golden mornlight shining in. A servant was entering the room with a smoking tea-urn, and its accompaniments, on a waiter. I page: 224-225[View Page 224-225] 224 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. "Pray where am I, my man?"I asked, rubbing my eyes. "At Chuckatubbie, may't please you, sir," the servant re- plied, setting the waiter down on a tea-poise. "And where is -Chuckatubbie?" "Mississippi, master." "Indeed! And what is Chuckatubbie . " "Hi?" said the negro, evidently surprised at my ignor- ance; "Chuckatubbie is the plantation of Massa George Vivian." "Vivian? Any kin to Mr. Fred. Vivian, who lives near Bonnicoosa." "Marse Fred. Vivian? His uncle, sir." "Is your master the person who was in the carriage yes- terday eve'ning, when the stage-coach was upset, during the storm?" "Yes, sir, massa's carriage. He and Miss Maggy in it when it happened; they were comin' home from H--. They pick you up for dead, master and Sam coachman, and bring you and your baggage home with them." "What became of the driver?" "Driver killed, sir-!" "Poor fellow I " "Yes, sir." "Well, my man, look- in my coat pocket there, and hand me my note-book-so--that is it. Take this card down'to your master, and say that I am an acquaintance and friend of his nephew, Mr. Wilifred Vivian, of Bonnicoosa.-Stay; how many white persons compose the family at Chuckatubbie?" "How many? There's master and Marse George, and Marse Louis and Marse Thie, and Miss Jane-that's old mistiss; and t CHUCKATUBBIE. 225 Marse Henry-him and Marse Louis are at the University of Virginia. And there's Miss Mag and Miss Alice, and Miss Loolie, an' the Colonel. "Bless me! And who is the Colonel?" "Colonel Allanford? Doi't you know him? he is master's friend. He's a old bachelor; his sugar plantation way down in the swamp of Louisiana; he don't like to live way down there by hi' self, so he live here wi' master. Old mistiss's brother, too, you see. The Colonel mighty fine old man; he take Miss Neppy and Marse George, and all of 'um, down to New Or- leans, and they spend all his sugar-crop down there fo' they get back. Have heap o' fun-the Colonel and the young folks; I go wi' them sometimes-heap of fun. Stop at the St. Charles; go to theatre and balls, and Carrolton races--oh, mighty fine! Miss Neppy was as wild as a deer in them times, and as beauti- ful; as beautiful as Miss Maggy is now .... not quite, I think, though, neither." "And who is Miss Neppy?-you did not mention her before." "Miss Neppy?--She' nuff. Miss Neppy don't live at home. Last year she married Dr. Winston. Miss Harriet-she married, too, many years now.:' "Gad! A troop cometh," thought I. "Is that all? ." "That's all, sir. Massa only got nine children. But thar's only three at home-Marse George, Miss Maggy, and Miss Loolie; tothers are all at school, or married. Marse George, he sorter bachelor-like, like the Colonel. Miss Maggy, she quit gwine to school, and Miss Loolie not old enough yet." 1* i* page: 226-227[View Page 226-227] 226 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. The boy carried down my card. I arose, made my toilette, and throwing a comfortable chamber-gown around me, sat down to my breakfast. In a few minutes I received a visitor, whom the servant an. nounced as Col. Allanford. He was a jolly, red-faced, old Virginia sort of gentleman, with a bald forehead, and bushy beard and mustaches of a violent red. The portly old gentleman shook me warmly by the hand, congratulated me on my escape, and said that he would thank me as the preserver of his brother and niece, only they would begrudge him the privilege.. I said I should only be too happy to have been instrumental, but that I thought they had Providence to thank more than me. t"You as the instrument of Providence, my dear sir; Maggy says she saw you seize the lines, and draw up the coach to one side, just in time to prevent the horses from dashing upon them." I knew this was sheer imagination on Miss Maggy's part, but, as she gave me the role of a hero, it certainly would be un- gallant for me to disclaim it. I was received in the parlor more like an old acquaintance than a stranger, and in an hour was upon as intimate a footing as though I had known them all my life. I found Mr. Vivian's house and family so agreeable, that more than a fortnight glided away before I could tear myself loose from that happy and hospitable home. Mr. Vivian was quite my beau ideal of a Southern planter. In personal appearance he was a tall, slender, but muscular man: his countenance, though swarthy and weather-beaten, CHUOKATUBBIE. 227 was noble and manly; his deep blue eye indicated both firmness and gentleness. , In his bearing he was dignified and command- ing; yet there was something so gentle and amiable about him, that you rather loved and reverenced than feared one so princely, -born to command, and the arbiter of disobedience. He had travelled much; he had read much; he was learned and experienced; he had held high offices in the gift of the President of the Republic; had moved in the highest circles of Europe and America, and yet he was as simple and unaffected as a child. The foulness of this world had not tarnished that innocent heart. His soul was too lofty and too pure to come within the influence of the bad world. His administration was that of a patriarch over-the numerous vassals of his broad estates. His negro quarters were hamlets of neat frame cottages, with every comfort; each one with its garden and kitchen attached. Near the principal one, where was the head overseer's house, there was a handsome chapel, where service was performed by an Episcopal clergyman twice every Sabbath, besides prayers once a week, at which all the slaves on the plantation attended. There was one peculiarity about his management, which, though it seemed visionary at first to me, he assured me had been attended with eminent advantages. All his slaves wore a peculiar costume, which they were never permitted to change or discard. For the field hands this consisted of a red flannel shirt, blue jean peajacket, white cot- tonade trowsers, and a blue worsted cap. On Sundays they were required to be clean, but no white man's attire was allowed them. page: 228-229[View Page 228-229] 228 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. In Eastern Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Maryland, this, he thought, would subserve an admirable purpose ; for the insubordination, and consequent inutility of slaves, comparatively speaking, in those States, arises out of the folly and vanity of the slaves from the license allowed them in dress, besides other nefarious liberties, wholly incompatible with the estate of slavery. The plantation-house at Chuckatubbie was a stately and elegant mansion, with airy halls, spacious verandahs, terraces, conservatories, and gardens, in the midst of a magnificent park. There was no undue ostentation and display in furniture, gildings and such costly affairs, both useless and in bad taste, such as you find in the establishments of parvenues and money-doodles; every thing was plain, simple, and in admirable taste; and yet there was no stint or parsimony; there were no superfluities, -and there was nothing wanting, One of his gins was driven by an artesian well, supplying enough water to turn the gin and a corn-mill, besides furnishing the house establishment, the stables, and one of the negro quarters. For drinking purposes and the laundry he had ex- cellent and capacious cisterns (which, by the way, every Southern plantation should use for drinking, as nothing is so conducive to health in our climate as good cistern water). Mr. Vivian, like most of our intelligent Southern men,- was eminently practical and sagacious in his views, as well as wise and benevolent. He was more so, however, than a great many. Though of an old and aristocratic stock, he did not consider it beneath. his name and dignity to pay the strictest attention to the preservation and protection of his lands, his negroes, cattle, CHUCKATUBBIE. 229 horses, out-houses, fences, forests, etc. In these things the English aristocracy are far in advance of our Southern gentry. An English nobleman is a more thoroughly practical farmer than many of our best Jerseymen or Pennsylvania Dutchmen. And yet, some of our Virginian aristocracy especially, are too proud to attend to such affairs, leave their estates wholly to the management of their overseers, and the consequence is that they often become the merest rack-and-ruin affairs. ' Mr. Vivian understood agricultural chemistry, and practical and scientific farming thoroughly well. .His vast estates were cultivated after the manner of a model Isle of Wight farm. He kept a regular farm-book, and was familiar with the minutest details of his affairs. His negro quarters, barns, stables, gin-houses, presses, ware- houses, fences, sleugh-drains, and all things appertaining to a great plantation, were models of convenience, economy, neatness, and system. It did me good to ride over his plantation, and see how he managed things. There was a steam saw-mill for utilizing the timber that he cut from his clearings ; there was a forge for his blacksmiths, where the innumerable materials in iron used about a plantation were made and repaired. But this is enough about farming economy, unless I could hope to awaken a proper spirit among our planters; for that-purpose I could write a book on the subject. XLet us return to the house, and let me tell you something about-Miss Maggy Vivian, shall it be? Miss Maggy was just seventeen, and lately returned from Paris, where she had spent a year to finish her music and sketch ing, and see something of the world. , .J page: 230-231[View Page 230-231] 230 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. She had travelled over Europe, with her brother George and the Colonel. She had clambered up the Righi; had floated down the Rhine; had been on the heights of Arthur's Seat, and the bird-haunted cliffs of Holyhead; she had been presented to the Queen; had been a guest at Dintmere Castle, and knew my old travelling companion in my Swiss tour, Lord Shatterdown. She had been among the pictures and statuary of Italy; among the gondolas and carnivals of Venice; the lords and ladies of Vienna; the operas, balls, and dandies of Paris. All that, and a vast deal more beside; and yet, although she was young, beau- tiful, and accomplished, and had been f6ted and courted enough to turn the heads of a dozen paragons, would you believe it? she was as simple, as artless, and unaffected as a child. Just like her father. Oh, the blue eyes, and wonderful brows, and all the rare beau- ty and grace of bonny Maggy Vivian! And in my dreams, now far away, my fancy wanders back to that fair domain in the clime of the Sun-to sunny Chucka- tubbie! Who's wooing your hand, bonny Maggy? Has some happy mortal won the noble and loving heart of the Jessamine Flower of Mississippi. Wonder if that lovely girl will ever find a spirit pure, and good, and noble enough to mate with hers? Wonder if she will have the courage, when the test-time comes, to feel that she can be heroine enough to endure all the horrors of old-maidendom, rather than prostitute the sanctity of her soul by becoming bone of the bone -and -flesh of the flesh-of one she loved not? Would she have the heroism to devote herself a maiden Sister of Charity, CHUCKATUBBiE. 231 trusting to find her spirit-mate in a higher sphere, rather than desecrate herself to the lust of a brute, who had bought the treasure of her life with gold-? Never! Maggy, at least, is safe : because the Master and Lady of Chuckatubbie are not of the breed of Mr. Jonathan Drawler. They have not instilled avarice and the idolatry of money into their child's heart from her infancy. God's blessing will reward them, that they have fostered every pure and holy- impulse instead, and carefully eradicated every germ of selfish. ness. And that is why the character of Maggy Vivian presents such a charming picture. It is not mine to linger in these sunny scenes. I might write a book of pastoral poetry about Chuckatubbie, and if it would fill all the hearts that glow in the land of the Sun, I would be happy indeed; but my own heart, alas! is not yet pastoral enough. "Jeden Nachklang fihlt mein Herz Froh und triiber Zeit; Wandle zwischen Freud'und Schmerz In der Einsamkeit"' * # # k J * One morning I received a letter from my agent in New Or- leans, informing me that Clotilde Duvaloir was dead. To quote the-language of his letter, "Mle. Duvaloir, inhetrix of the Bonavoine estate, had died intestate, and I, as next in suc- cession, came into- the Crowood and Puckshenubbie property," and it would be necessary for me to -repair immediately to Tus- saleega. page: 232-233[View Page 232-233] 232 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. Maggy wished George had not been so officious-bringing him letters from H--. He might have let them lie there a week longer-he might have known it would be something to take him away from Chuckatubbie, or at least that he would make it the excuse to get away. " He'd rather be making excuses to stay, Miss Maggy." " Oh, no you wouldn't ! " cried she, pouting. " Now you're going away, I'll be left here alone, with no amusement but George, and he prefers the company of his dogs; and papa, who must always be seeing about his negroes, and mules, and sleugh-drains and gin-houses; and mamma, who is always on household cares intent-a mere hose-darning housewife, and doesn't understand French and music--our kind of music, at least, and who can't sketch so much as a toasting-fork-who cannot sing German duetts with me, and does not play on the violin-has forgotten how to dance-and, indeed, does nothing in the way of entertain- ment but play an interminable game of whist, at which poor me dursn't open my lips^for hours together." "You have at least forgotten the Colonel," said I, " who has every accomplishment you have enumerated, and a deal more besides." " Oh yes! a deal more: such as disposing of a bottle of Sherry at dinner, and going to sleep after in his arm-chair in the parlor; such askshooting on the wing, and riding on the wing. To be sure, I'd die, but for the Colonel. But then, one likes a little variety, you know, and the Colonel is toujours perdrix. And besides, uncle is my uncle, and too old and ugly to flirt with, if he were not--" and she laughed archly, with a mis. chievous side glance of her bonny blue eyes, at me. CHUCKATUBBIE. - 233 ' So, you only wished me to stay that you might amuse your- self flirting with me!" said I, pouting in my turn. ( Un petit peu," laughed she. "Yes-the fable of the boys and the frogs," said I. ' It might be sport to you, but it would be death to me.'" "The idea!" she exclaimed, laughing again, ' that little mze could be the death of such a great mustachioed sinner!" --I said nothing about the death of Clotilde-though I felt it deeply enough, I am sure. And they wished very much for me to stay a month longer with them, but I must needs say good-bye. So I started off the next morning in the coach-the old stage-coach again. "Philosophy, my dear boy," said I to myself, as I took my seat on the box and lighted my cigar, " philosophy must sustain you." The driver cracks his long whip, and away we go. Maggy is on the balcony-she waves her white handkerchief, and I take off my cap. A last, lingering, farewell look. A sprig of jessamine she has given me I touch to my lips, and with it waft a kiss. Do you remember that jessamine sprig, Maggy--do you re- member the bonny white jessamine spray 2 page: 234-235[View Page 234-235] A RATTIROAD REVERIE. ONE morning in misty October, I was awaked from a delicious slumber, by a voice at my door:-- "The cars, sir! Get ready; cars start at six o'clock." I was too old a traveller to neglect the summons,-knowing that to be left would be the penalty of " a little more folding of the hands to sleep." When I reached the station it was just breaking day. The stars were all gone, except one or two of the brighter and larger ones, shepherds of the twinkling herds, who lingered to see that no truant Pleiad strayed from the retreating troops. At this early hour there was no bustle and uproar of crowd- ing drays, carriages, and baggage-waggons; no confusion of bewildered passengers and insolent officials. The omnibuses from the ' Charleston Hotel" and the "Mills House " had not yet made their appearance. The platform was quiet and untenanted, save by a few bales of cotton. A mist hung over the city of palmettoes: the station-house A RAILROAD REVYRIE. 235 was enveloped in mist: a thick bank of white fog lay in a long line along the rice-bottoms. Only a few belated gas-jets, a few lingering stars, in spaces here and. there of blue sky, gleamed in the mist. The old fogy romancers of this generation talk contemptu- ously of the railway. It is an unromantic innovation. They lament, in pathetic panegyric, the by-gone poetry of stage-coach travel. The olden inns, innkeepers, hostlers, highwaymen, and all the rare adventures thereunto appertaining, have vanished at the sound of the shrill neigh of the iron horse into the dim regions of legend. The jolly Boniface, who chatted with you as you leisurely discussed your coffee and mutton-chop, drank your health in a foaming tankard, and wished you a " pleasant journey and a soon return," as he doffed his cap, whilst the fat coachman gathered in his ribbons and cracked his long whip, has given place to a meagre eating-house keeper, who bawls imperiously in your, ear, '"Fifteen minutes to eat, sir," and watches you with a lynx-eye as you come out from your hurried repast, to see that you do not steal off without paying him fifty cents for the abominable hog-feed that you've been bolting. The fat coachman, in his top-boots and many-caped surtout, gives way for the curt conductor, with his labelled cap and mono- syllabic manners, who cries "ticket!" much in the same tone that the highwaymen of old-did "Stand and deliver." No;- I beg pardon. Shades of Dick Turpin and Claude Duval-forgive me the aspersion on the character of your gallant and courteous c., page: 236-237[View Page 236-237] *236 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. profession; you never accosted a traveller with the brusque insolence of a modern conductor.* the innumerable so-styled hotels and railway eating-houses, with their Brobdignagian charges and Liliputian accommodations, do not compare with the comfortable, old-fashioned inns. The Scruggs House, the Whitleather House, the Cripple-crutch House, and the Gristlegreasy Hotel, are a meagre and miserable substitute for the old Boar's Head, Red Lion, Bowl-and-Pipes, Spread Eagle, and other' jolly signs of the olden time. Such laments may do for England. "Merrie England in the olden time " was, doubtless, the traveller's elysium. But there has never been any such olden time in America. There is a plenty of stage-coach travel in America yet; but there's precious little poetry in it. I have enjoyed a stage-coach journey in old Kentucky, where they have good macadam roads, strong and tidy coaches, and spanking teams, besides tolerably good inns, and accommodating drivers; but for ever spare me from the hard-backed, over- loaded, heavy-running, easily-upsetting American stage-coach. To talk of them in the same breath with a roomy, commodious railcar, with its springy plush sofas, easy and rapid motion, and comfortable seclusiveness, is transcendentally ridiculous. There is only one ideal inn in America that I know of. That is "Bell's Tavern," seven miles from the Mammoth Cave, on the road from Louisville, Kentucky, to Nashville. * I cannot omit to do justice to the conductors and agents on the South Carolina roads; they do treat passengers with some politeness; and, on the Southern roads generally, you meet with more civility than on the Northern, where there is none at all. A RAILROAD REVERIE., 237 * That was an approximation towards the " inn " we read of in the old English romances. Old Jimmy Bell was a regular ideal Boniface, with an ideal rosy-cozy phiz, and a real rotund waist (if such an immense superfluity could be called a waist). He had the regular jolly fat laugh that a Boniface should have; he was always in a good humor, and always taking something to drink with somebody. And then the cleanliness of every thing about his establish- ment was perfectly ideal. Only think of such a thing as a country inn, where the bedrooms are airy and dry; where thp tablecloth is immaculate; where the floors are as clean as those of Holland; where the muffins are hot, the steak tender, the butter and eggs fresh, and the coffee divine; And,-in a paragraph by itself,-the very purest and best old peach' brandy, with blanched, crystalline honey, to take with it. Poor old fellow, he's dead now! Peace to his memory. They say that he left it in his will for peach brandy and honey to be served out to stage-coach passengers free of charge as long as his "stand " continued a public house. In grateful acknowledgment of this legatory treat, I propose that every tourist to the Cave contribute fifty cents to build him a monument. -I'll draft the design free of charge. But Here comes the locomotive, with fiery eyes, loom- ing through the mist. My luggage was all piled up, ready to go aboard; and, leav- ing Fally to check it for Nashville, I seated myself next a win- dow, on the cosy-cushioned sofa, raised the venetian, and settled myself down to a "London Punch." page: 238-239[View Page 238-239] 238 SCENES IN, THE SUMMER-LAND. Who could regret the dirty, jolting stage-coach, when enjoy- ing the luxurious space and speed of a railway car Ahb "Samivel Veller," immortal stage-coachmanl Iif you had ever driven a team over one of our Western routes, you would never lament the innovations of the age of steam. The whistle is not so musical as the post-horn (why don't they make it more so?), winding its melancholy, sweet refrain, heard at night on yon distant hill, when you are snugly ensconced in a four-post bbd at home. But it is another thing when you" are inside of the coach, some long weary night in the mountains, at midnight, as I have been-inside the coach, and it recalling that country cottage home of mine, hundreds of -miles away, then the post- horn sounded more melancholy far than sweet. It's all in association, after all. A steam-whistle could be made musical, and will be, some day. The railway is a fact of the age. It is- mere prejudice and: want of adaptability that denies it a romance. There is no great truth-especially noth- ing involving such a grand idea as the motive power of steam, but has poetry in it. There is a sublime poetry in the railway. Here I am on the sea-board; here in the low, swampy lati- tude of oranges, palmettoes, rice, and cotton; by night I will have fowrn three or four hundred miles Northward to the moun- tain land-the land of lichen-clad rocks, and alpine firs. The land of rushing streams and deep, dreamy valleys. No poetry in that? %; Here is a broad river, I soar over it a hundred feet above its A RAILROAD RElf IUE. 239 surface., Here is a mountain barrier, I shoot through its centre in a twinkling,--no poetry in that? I remember once on the road from Chattanooga to Nashville, I took a seat in front of the locomotive, on the " cow-catcher," in company with a young engineer. We went through a tunnel several hundred yards long, that cut through the Cumberland Mountains. It reminded me of "Christian's " journey through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. The bore was perfectly straight, and as we entered we could see the aperture at the other end shin- ing like a star in the dark cavern. The polished surface of the rails, reflecting the light, streamed before us in two silvery rays converging to a perspective point in the dark distance. As we entered deeper in, the clanging engine rang and re- verberated in the vaulted chamber, like the roar of pandemonian thunder. The sound of the rushing wheels came on like the noise of an approaching tempest. The furnace fires lit up a space around us with a lurid and unearthly glare, but before us the darkness was dense and dire. On viewless wings we seemed flying through the dark em- pyrean towards a distant planet. The steam-angel that sped us thus through the bowels of old earth, was it not sublime? The distant star grew brighter and nearer, until streaks of gray light gleamed on the rocky ribs of the tunnel. The day- light comes flashing in. Our thundergong's harsh clanging sub- sides into a sullen roar, -we are out-the dark forest, the deep glen, the high embankment, the dim perspective of mountain i page: 240-241[View Page 240-241] 240 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. peaks, seen through the gaps of grand old hills-a wild alpine scene bursts upon our view, and the warm, fresh air fans our cheek. / * i Was there no poetry in such a transit? If you are a strong- nerved, excitable man, get on the cow-catcher on a railway in a mountain region and travel thus, at the rate of forty miles an hour, and you 'll confess that the, railroad is not without romance. The. road from Chattanooga to Nashville passes through much magnificent scenery. -When I reached Chattanooga I laid aside my Punch; that acrid punster had no attraction when there were mountains, and valleys, and rivers, unfolded like a pastoral story-poem by the locomotive's swift flight. It was like turning over the leaves of an artist's sketch- book, the pictures were so varied, so numerous, and so beautiful. An infinite variety of outline. The scenery is constantly assuming a different character. Here is a river view. A sheet of blue water fading away obliquely towards the background-a line of blue hills beyond. A group of dead trees, and a moored barge below you--a fisher- man's canoe floats idly on the still bosom of the opaline stream. Next comes broad spreading fields of green, groves and groups of noble trees interspersed, flocks of sheep, and herds of cattle grazing quietly,..-.- a white cottage farm-house" nestled in its boscage of shrubbery. Then a deep cut. Rugged rocks, riven and blasted, water trickling down, and vines clinging in the crevices. An embankment. The forest is away beneath you. A hundred A RAILROAD REVERIE. 241 feet below, you look down upon a shady-gravel road winding along the margin of a mountain brook. A lady and her cava- lier are galloping along under the trees. Then- rude, rugged hills tower up in bold, bleak outlines around you. It is the solitude of a wilderness. The perspec- tive yields nothing but hill after hill, all wild and wooded as far as the eye can reach. No,-here is the lonely cabin of a woodcutter. The ragged urchins with bare sallow shanks, and cotton elf-locks, stand star. ing in idle wonder at the steam-sped caravan. We enter a wild forest. The giant trees whirl in a wild waltz past our windows,-vine-draped bacchantes celebrating some drunken rite. Such a grand old wood in the olden land would be haunted with ghouls, goblins, and gnomes--would be stored with many a wild legend. Here it has not even a name. Through the woods, through the woods onward we hie. We rush through the rocky " cuts,"'-we skim across the deep glens on a high embankment. - As we approach Middle Tennessee the country assumes a more civilized character. There is more field, and less forest. It is a grass country too. How refreshing the green velvety sward, after the white sands of Georgia, and the rugged hills of East Tennessee. Green, gracefully-sweeping vales,--round, wooded knolls,- rich, level " bottoms," burdened with luxuriant crops of grain. The evening sun-a mellow autumn sun, is lighting up this Sylvan champagne with a golden pellucid light,-a dreamland light. Leaning out of the car window these agrestial landscapes, page: 242-243[View Page 242-243] 242 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. these shadowy brooks, these many shades of green, varied yet again by a thousand combinations of sunlight and shadow, from the duskiest green pine to the sunniest field, pass in a dreamy diorama across my imagination. Yonder-across that rich, dark-tinted clover field is a group of picture-like trees, with a tall, high-roofed, brick farmhouse, painted gray, and gleaming through the foliage. The barn, stables, and whitewashed negro cabins form part of the picture. Three tall, Lombardy poplars near the railing, at the foot of the gently sloping yard. The brook ripples over its rocky bed in tiny cascades overshadowed by feathery-boughed swamp-willows. The mildest and softest light lies on this picture. It reminds me of my home. I, the wanderer, Jan Jered, an isolation, without a kinsman, without a heart-friend in the world. I had a home like that once. The light of my life was as soft as that-was as warm- The train stops.-A handsome carriage and a baggage van are drawn up on the edge of an old field. A stout, middle-aged gentleman, two young ladies, and a smart lad, slender and hand- some-with a mass of black curls clustering beneath the rim of his jauntiy blue cloth cap-are standing waiting for us. Their luggage is checked for Nashville. They enter the car I am in, and the two young ladies chance to take the seat just behind mine, while-there being none other vacant near--the lad begs a seat with me. They -are pretty young ladies, both of them, for I steal a glance at them beneath the corner of my cap. They live at the- homestead I have just been describing. From the window I see the returning carriage enter the gateway, A RAILROAD REVERIE. 243 opening on the avenue, that leads to the house. And I hear them admirin'g " our home," as they, too, look out upon its van- ishing outlines. "Whose estate is that?"I take the liberty of asking the. lad sitting by me;- and I indicate the place with a look. "My father's-Judge Fleetwood's, I mean." I relapse into silence. The shadow of a forest flits across the page of my "Punch"--no more than the shadow of a butterfly. The boy -is an intelligent-looking fellow, with well-bred ad- dress, and seems disposed to enter into conversation with me: 1 am not one of those sulky grandees, who refuse to make them, selves agreeable to their neighbor, because they imagine it is aristocratic; but I do not feel like talking,- so I hand him my "i Punch " for his entertainment. He gets to laughing over the woodcuts, and soon finds something so funny that he must show it to his sisters, who join merrily in his amusement. I pulled my cap over my brows, folded my arms, and leaned my head against the window-frame. But these girls would bring themselves into my thoughts. One of them was named Rowena .. I heard her brother call her so .... she was the elder. A tall, dark-eyed lady, with oval face, fine features, a thoughtful intellectual expression, very dark hair, and handsome eyebrows-a web of dark, silky lines, pencilled in a gracious arch over long, thick, black lashes. The younger was a plump little maiden--.a peachy-skinned, strawherry-lipped lassie, with a laughing blue eye, and a turn-up nose-a pretty one, though; and her rounded chin and, cheeks were dimpled as she smiled, and her rosy,- disparted lips, revealed a set of pearly teeth. page: 244-245[View Page 244-245] 244 . SCENES IN THE StMMER-LAND. "Jan Jered!" she exclaimed, in a startled half-whisper, as if the name were familiar to her. If aroused my attention and curiosity, and, looking around, saw her gazing on my name, written in pencil, on the copy of Punch; " and I caught a half-stolen glance of surprise at me. Her emphasis on the word was sufficiently marked to induce me to say-- "Pardon me, miss, but are you acquainted with Jan Jered?" "No, sir,"' she replied, somewhat hesitatingly, but politely; "I've heard some friends of ours that did know him, speak of him so frequently that the name sounds to us 'almost as familiar as that of an acquaintance." "I wish we did know him," joined in the elder. "Yes," added the younger, " he's such a great traveller; I think he might stray as far as Nemorosa in his rovings." "In what land is Nemorosa?"I asked, with a slight smile. "In Dreamland," said the younger, laughingly. "Mr. Jered has never journeyed that far from home," I re- plied, in the same tone. "Do you know him?" -cried the laughing-eyed damsel. "Do tell me something about him. I've such a great curiosity to know him." "Your curiosity is easily gratified then;" and I handed her a card, adding, in a slightly sarcastic tone, and with a very defe- rential bow- "Permit me to introduce to you Mr. Jan Jered, of Crowood, Kentucky." The pretty young lady blushed laughingly, and said-- , . A RAILROAD REVERIE. 245 "I had not thought myself in the presence of Mr. Jered, or I should not'have expressed my wish so freely!" "Fie! Jenny, you did!" cried the elder. "I knew you as soon as I saw the name; I recognized the description.' "Whose description, pray?" "That of your cousin, Mademoiselle Clotilde Duvaloir." "Did you know Clotilde?" "She was our school-mate at Nazareth; she and Jenny were inseparables." "Jenny Fleetwood-indeed! Surely I remember, and ' Lady Rowena '--her letters were full of you. Miss Rowena, there, she gave me for a sweetheart, as much as three years ago." "Ah, Mr. Jered, Clotilde told us what a confirmed old bachelor you are. I fear I'd set my cap for you in vain." "I fear you'd repent your temerity, if you did." "Why, Mr. Jered! I'm surprised at you-so gallant!" cried Miss Jenny, mischievously. ' So affable! I expected to find you as crusty and bitter! I thought you'd hardly look at a woman; and here you are introducing yourself, and playing the agreeable-actually opening a flirtation with Rowena." "What could have given you such a horrible notion of me?" "Clotilde used to show us your letters to her from Europe, you see." page: 246-247[View Page 246-247] SUNLIGHT OF LIFE. "Jam distinguit auitumnus racemes, Varius plupureo colore." , HOB. IT is autumn. I love autumn better than all the seasons :-bette than spring, with its winds, showers, and catarrhs; better than summer, with its sweat, and dust, and sultry sky; better than winter, with its sloppy thaws and pinching frosts. Give me autumn, and its mild skies; its gorgets sunsets, and varied-tinted forests. Seaso of mists and mellow fruitage. Itspraises have been rung on every lip that loveth beauty. tackneyed it never can be, for it is ever changing, ever fresh and lovely. I am always-happy when autumn comes-always sorry when the wrinkled fingers of old winter rub out the gorgeous pitures the genius of autumn has been sketching in the valleys, and-sub- stitutes his own sombre tints of snow and rain, brown and sil vern, ashen-gray'and leaden. In autumn the day-dreams of my wanderings have a deeper charm. The notes of the post-horn sound mellower and further, and re-echo witha voluptuous, faltering-away vibration on the , ! r SUNLIGHT OF LIFE. 247 vale. Even the whistle of the steamboat sounds not harshy in the distance among the dim trees and mist in yonder bend of the river.. Fairy-weft tissues of gold add a richer margin to your fan- cies. The whole being is full of a serene joy-a calm and exalted happiness, unalloyed with the base things of life. To me nothing is more delicious than these dreamy autumn reveries-these strange, indefinable sensations i partalkirg of the hue of the hazy, autumnal horizon, its dim infinitudes, produced by that season, along with the gaudy tints of the forest, the rustling of the crispy leaves of yellow and brown, crimson and gold, falling through the branches, shooting fitfully hither and thither in the feverish wind---"wind that to and fro drives the thistle in-au- tumn's dusky vale." So calm is the autumn landscape. Old mother earth has drunk a chilice of ruby wine from her vineyards; the tears and cares, the storms and sorrows, that mark her queenly counte- nance, have passed away; a voluptuous languor ,transfuses her limbs; her eyes swim dreamily beneath their heavy lids; she sleeps in the sunshine; her harvest labors over, she is indulging in some sweet bacchanalian dream, while the amorous sun ca- resses her in a warm embrace. The winding road is carpeted with the unsoiled fallen leaves. The stage-coach crosses the reedy brook, whose banks are green beyond their time: w e enter the motley-tinted forest where the ring of the sportsman's rifle is heard bursting on the still air. We skirt a'frost-bronzed meadow, and there is an old barn and rotund hayricks, and sheep nipping the scant remnant of page: 248-249[View Page 248-249] 248 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. green grass s Beyond is a coppice, from which curls the blue smoke from a cottage chimney. Kentucky is a more pastorally-beautiful country than the States- that border on the Gulf. They are tropically beautiful. You hear the cowhell's quiet tinkle. You list to yon lonely blue-bird perched on the moss-mantled bough of an ancient apple. tree, singing its low, sweet melody, as it sits with a sunbeam gleaming on its fairy boddice of purple and blue. You hear the plaintive song of some distant slave coming home from his labor.- You hark to the hum of the night-hawk, skimming over the deep still water of the brook, now shadowed and sheened by evening's hues, with the fresh-fallen leaves dancing lifelike on its stilly bosom, where are reflected the slen. der wand-like reeds, the overhanging vine, the wide-branched' beach, the hill side, and the blue sky and the sun-lit cloud I You gaze on the far-away, dim-defined horizon, and wonder about the vast world beyond it; forest, and field, and river, mountain and plain, quiet cottages, romantic villages, smoky cities, whose busy hum, softened by distance, is murmuring in your imagination. -Then you look west, towards the dark wood, denizened by owls and wolves, eagles and deer; the watery marsh, with its golden rushes, croaking frogs, and stalking herons; the wide grassy prairie, with its buffalo herds, where the lone savage hunter, with his long spear and waving plume, gallops across it. Such fancies as these come up like the vague imaginings that haunt you at the theatre before the play begins, when the overture is playing, and you are listlessly contemplating the pie ture on the drop-curtain. SUNLIGHT OF LIFE. 249 Yes, there is music here, too-not just that of the opera orchestra,-but there is music: the distant cock-crow, the bay of the watch dog, the quaint cry of Guinea fowls, the drumming of pheasants, and the whistle-of partridges. Yonder is the dark-shadowed Tussaleega. There is the old stone bridge; the ivy vine I planted five years ago has quite covered one abutment, and is clustering over the parapet. Beyond is the picket fence of Crowood park. Once more I see the firs and hollies. There are the grand old oaks,--they are there, before my eyes. So long have I been absent, that it seemed to me as if Crowood was a sort of myth, and I had no right to expect to find it real- ized again as it existed in the day-dreams of my boyhood. But there it was. The road approaches Crowood from the east. As we drew near, the sun was sinking behind the farmstead, and the glorious sunset, with its brilliantly-hued background of gorgeous clouds, environed the dear old home with a halo of beauty. - The dark, high-peaked roof, the stacks of chimneys, the quaint old latticed dormer windows, the tall Lombardy poplars, stood out in soft scenic relief against that sunset sky. There were long lines of clouds in the west, varying in tint from palest rose to deep umber, from hazy lilac to purple; and the transparent, rosy-gold sky was dotted with dimpled flecks, like tide-washed strands of golden sand upon some ocean shore. The blue sky above was shot with gold: the sun rays beamed up in a pencilled aureola, as is oftener seen in sunset pictures than in reality. And a big bright star shone in that blue ether, and cast a sparkling sheen on the dark brook. And the shadow under the "I* page: 250-251[View Page 250-251] 250 SCENES IN THE SUtMRR-LAND. old bridge; the turret of the little stone chapel peeping up through the evergreens that surrounded it, and the diamond panes of the chancel window a-glare with the sunset gold,--all reminded me of one of those quaint, warm-colored pictures on the odd old-fashioned china I used to see, standing in grim array, on the buffet in the back parlor. Providence is very good to me, that nature wears such a beautiful aspect on my return. I could almost fancy it a welcome home. When we had- crossed the bridge, I made the coachman stop, and got down from the box, telling him to leave my luggage at the big gate. I knew a pathway, from the chapel to the western extremity of the grounds, that ran through the best scenery in the park, and mpassed the purlieus of many a spot haunted by dearest associations in my heart. It seemed very strange for a great rough man, five years a citizen of the world-for five years with no such thing in his heart as home, love, poetry, ties of association, or any thing of the kind-to take up these toy-dreams, these doll-baby fancies, into. his big stern heart, and re-dandle theni there, re-caress them mnd sigh-over them with a sort of dotage, and almost feel himself -boy again! There was more of the old-time look about Crowood than had hoped for. It was - chiefly changed in the shrubbery and rees, which had, grown and developed-themselves, and made of he park a more matured and richer-blended wood scene. The grounds had a somewhat neglected aspect, perhaps. oung shoots had sprung up, vines had overgrown the pathway, VIaovrrw h twy SUNLIGHT OF LIFE. 251 and the pruning-knife might be applied here and there with ad- vantage; yet I do not know that I' objected to it as it was. Such a scene is in keeping with autumn. Upon reaching the chapel, I turned aside into a boscage near it, which was shut off from the rest of the grounds by a high iron railing. Within its precincts the ground was covered with moss and myrtle. I had great difficulty in getting in, for the gate was locked and the bolt rusted. I clambered over the railings at length, and found myself in a tangled maze of junipers, holly, yew, and hemlock; the wild sweethrier and the myrtle had over. grown every thing. I worked my way through the wilderness of vines, briers, and bushes, until I came at length to a lofty Deodar cedar, around whose base there was a small open space covered with a thick mossy turf. It was on a sort of bank, and at its base ran a small brook in a deep channel, whose rocky margin was thickly covered with gray lichens and green moss, and spanned by a rustic bridge. At the foot of the Deodar cedar was a mound, with a very simple marble head-piece, on which was engraved in black letters the words: "Edward and Eulalie." I threw my arms over that myrtle-clad mound, and wept there, as I knelt, tears that were--sweet and bitter:- "Oh, God of mercy, in this hour of memories sad and dark, wipe the stain of blood from this desolate heart. .. . I slew him in self-defence; his blood is not on my hands-. page: 252-253[View Page 252-253] ;6OH . SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. but it is on my heart; for I vowed to my dying father that I would hunt him to the death - The pathway regained by crossing the bridge, I strolled leisurely down its moss-spread margin, among the fine old beeches and larches that grew along, in a mood that the angels them- selves might have envied. I came to an old familiar spot on the brook-side; a place where the stream sprawled over a broad flat rock in foamy shal. lows, and settled in a clear deep pool below: a pool that Clo- tilde, Sarah and I had, in our childhood, christened "Elfin-Sea * " where we had launched many a violet-freighted vessel of leaf or bark, or goose's feather, sailing them away into Dreamland. Who is that? There was a lady seated on the bank beneath a beech-tree, reading a book, who, startled by my approach arose-looked at me hesitatingly for a moment, and uttered a cry of recognition. "Aidyl!" I exclaimed. For at the first blush I had for- gotten that she had come to Tussaleega, probably with her father, nce his espousing Mrs. Brookwood. "Miss St. Landry! is it Wossible?." "You hardly dreamed of seeing me at Orowood, Mr. Jered, dare say. We have been looking for you for some time." "An accident delayed me-an upset in a stage-coach." "This has been a favorite walk of mine ever since I have een in Tussaleega. I have become quite familiar with your ousin Clotilde's park and grounds. I am charmed with Cro- ood-such a romantic place! I almost envy her its posses- on." SUNLIGHT OF LIFE. 253 "It is not hers--it is mine," said I. "Yours! They told me at Tussaleega that your father had left all his estate to your stepdame." "Only the property in Louisiana." "I suppose I need not vindicate myself from any suspicion of curiosity about your affairs; they tell me every thing in a lit- tle village, like Tussaleega, whether you will or no." "If they would only always tel the truth," said I. Aidyl looked so radiant, so happy, and so beautiful. She had subdued her gayety to a quieter tone upon observing my mourning dress, to which she gave a glance of surprise. There was a charm and a novelty about meeting here,; we who had met as strangers in the far South, at this old Kentucky home; among these scenes familiar to my boyhood. Aidyl seemed to be under the influence of that spell as well as myself. "You never mentioned your cousin, Mademoiselle Duvaloir. I am surprised at you-such a charming person, as I am told at Tussaleega she was!" "Have they not told you also at Tussaleega that Clotilde Duvaloir was dead?' ( Oh!-pardon-surely not. I had heard nothing of it." There was a momentary pause, during which we directed our course towards the house. Miss St. Landry's path to her step- mother's was the same as mine. She had to pass near my house. ("Crowood,"' said I, as we strolled leisurely along the path. way that wound through the park-now across an open glade, now through a clusters or a thicket,--"Crowood was sold after my father's death; I was absent at the time.... Indeed, I have never been here since--I never could brook the idea. I ordered page: 254-255[View Page 254-255] 254 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. its sale because Lestocq- had swindled my father to such an amount that I could not afford to keep it.' All my fortune since that time has been the interest on the fifty thousand dollars I got for Orowood. "It was bought by Clotilde's guardian, Mr. Brookwood, at her request, though I had always supposed that he purchased it for himself. And now that she is dead, it comes back again to me." "I would not have made so free with it if I had known that. I 'have rambled all over it-I like it so much. It comes up more completely to my idea of a home than any thing I ever saw." ",I am glad you are going to be my neighbor," said I; ' I, foresee we shall be very great friends, and I want to consult your taste in adorning and improving it." Aidyl blushed slightly, and murmured something about her defective culture in such matters; and added, with a slight tinge of persiflage, which she sometimes threw over her conversation, "And are you really going to stay at home now? Won't you be packing up to start for Japan, or New Zealand, to- morrow f " "No.- My roving life is done with. My journeys will be confined henceforth to a yearly voyage to and from Puckshe- nubbie. Puckshenubbie is mine, too," I added, in answer to a look of surprise from her. "Hereafter I settle down into the quiet patriarchal life of a Southern planter." I fell into a reverie-a blissful day-dream; a: day-dream that seemed at lastpractically realizable. We walked some dis- tance in silence, for Aidyl did not interrupt me. She also seemed to have fallen into a brown study. - SUNLIGHT OF LIFE. 255 "Have-you not been enjoying this delightful Indian summer weather?"I asked, at length. . "Very much, indeed! There is a sort of intellectual exalta- tion, induced by the warm, calm, hazy atmosphere." "Surely there must be autumns in heaven," I exclaimed. "In heaven? No. There are no autumns there. The pe- rennial spring-flowers of Beulah are never decayed by the de- stroying touch of time. And Fall, with all its beauty, has with it-constitutes, perhaps, half its charm--the idea of evanescence, of decay: at best, the hectic glow 'of onsumption." I page: 256-257[View Page 256-257] AIDY;. THE old Rectory, now the residence of General St. Landry, was in the edge of the village. The high picket of cedar-posts which inclosed the grounds, ran the length of the last street forming the outer boundary of that side of the village. This picket was close enough, and high enough, to exclude every vulgar eye; but, as if that were not enough, a hedge of Cherokee roses, planted on the inside, overran the top of the picket with a fringe of its densely tangled green vines. A tall, stoutly built oaken gate was the 'only means of gain. ing entrance to the grounds. Once inside, you saw a broad closely turfedA lawn, some five or six acres in extent; but of a character so simple, that you might have wondered why it was so jealously guarded. There were a few black locusts and wal- nuts, some wild cherry trees, and one or two grand old oaks; these were scattered thinly over'the grounds. But simple as this was, there was nothing harsh, raw, or meagre in the landscape it presented. Quite the contrary. The surface of the lawn was just sufficiently undulating not to be fiat. AIDY. 257 There was no evidence of culture here, or adornment; nothing could be simpler, yet the effect was-decidedly good. To the right there was a white railing, separating the lawn from the garden and orchard; to the left, was a meadow with a brook. There was an air of retirement and seclusiveness about the place that one liked. Immediately around the house there was some shrubbery, though rot much; and there were lofty cedars-old cedars, with rugged bark and massy boughs; there were tall Lombardy pop- lars and gloomy black locusts. The house itself was- quite as simple in conception and de- tail; and yet there was a prestige, a harmony of proportion, a harmony with the surrounding scenery, that rendered it impres- sive. It was a tall, old-fashioned edifice of brick, painted a pearl- gray; the windows were round-arched, opening on richly ballus- traded balconies: there was a round-arched brick portico, with a a campanile roof and an oeil-de-beuf: the cornice was deep, and richly moulded; and the roofs were high-pitched, and painted a dark russet-brown. It was one of those buildings with a gable front, flanked by two lower wings, after an old English model; and the campanile-roofed portico was at the side of the gable- front. There was an unpretending antique air pervading every thing about the Rectory, that you seldom find in our country, where all is new style, gaudy, and flaring. It was such a contrast to the gimcrackery of our modern model-cottages. The grass in the yard was as deep and thick as though it had page: 258-259[View Page 258-259] 258' SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. been growing there for ages. There were no fresh-set, raw-look. ing trees, with mould and clay about their roots. A vine of Irish ivy had clambered over a bay-window of the parlor wing, and half enveiled it in its dark green drapery. The garniture and adornment of the Rectory was in a style: that artists--somewhat inappropriately, I think-call severe : a style, the tone of which was to the utmost simple and chaste; but with that there was a warm glow of feeling pervading the subdued coloring and quiet ornament, which precluded the idea of severity. Prom the entry in the turret to the' drawing-room, there was a wainscoting of rich time-darkened walnut; and the doors, win. dow-casings, and the like, of the same: the wails and ceilings of those exquisite neutral-tinted frescoes, that harmonize so well with old oaks and walnuts. In the drawing-rooms the frescoes were worthy a palace in Europe. In these apartments the soft, luxurious Turkey carpets,-the old China vases in- the fire-places--the rosewood piano,-the furniture,--the china-monkeys on the mantel-piece,-the old portraits on the walls,-the silver candelabras and bronze giran- doles,-all were elegant and costly; but all of the old fashion. When I called here the next evening after my arrival, I re- cognized every thing as almost unchanged since the days of my boyhood, when Ispent here such happy hours with Olotilde and Sarah Brookwood. When Clotilde and I rambled through the little lawn, and read the "Children of the Abbey " under the old oak, by the big, mossy rock. When we read the "Myste. ries of Udolpho " in the garret, where there was a terrible skele- AIDY. 259 ton, and a stuffed pelican; a place that Clotilde would never visit without Sarah and me.-When we built our hermitage by the brook in Crowood park, and Clotilde's bower at the foot of the garden: when I used to steal green gages for the girls from the Rectory orchard, and nectarines and peaches. Every thing here is just as it was then. It all seemed very familiar to me, and yet strange that it should be so. There was old Turk, a Newfoundland dog that I knew before I left Cro- wood: old Turk was dozing in his- old way on the grass; he- looked up at the sound of my footsteps, and I half believed he remembered me, for he came running towards me, wagging his tail and snuffling, as he used to do. The door-bell is answered by a young mulattress in a yellow ' turban and blue frock. She does not know me, but I -ask if Miss St. Landry is in, as though it were perfectly natural for a Miss St. Landry to be at Clotilde's old Rectory, at Mr. Brookwood's, old Rectory, at my old Rectory; and yet it feels very strange to me. Notwithstanding, she says Miss St. Landry is in, and shows me into the drawing-room, and I give her a card, just as though I were a perfect stranger, and she goes away with it, leaving me alone, and I sink down into an arm-chair, and think--- How can- I impale those memorypathic impulses, which we call thoughts, upon paper . I, Jan Jered-a great, bearded man, hardened and strength-. ened in the training-school of the great World-at the Rectory once more, with the light of other days brought back, and shining upon my heart! Here I have come back into my boyhood, somehow. It is the same furniture, the same pictures, and the same page: 260-261[View Page 260-261] 260 SCENES IN THE SUMMRER-LANDo piano-the same china-monkeys and mandarins. Just the same old drawing-room. I half fancied that Aidyl must have pre- served it so, intentionally. Here is my old friend, a stuffed flamingo, in one niche; in another alcove, curtained by a feather-work shawl from Peru, is a grotesque Aztec idol; in a third, a Chinese pagoda, made of varnished bamboo; in the fourth, a plaster statue of Rowena. There was a subdued, mellow light--the casements were up, and the jalousies closed. Those in the western bay-window could not be shut, for the Irish ivy had pinned them to the walls, and formed a jalousie with its foliage, instead. The soft evening" sunlight stole through the leaves, and cast a mottled mosaic of sheen and shadow upon the rich Turkey carpet. There was a portfolio of drawings, of dark maroon morocco, with the word "( Clotilde " printed on it in gold, lying on the centre-table. I knew it of old. In looking over its contents, I found many old familiar drawings of dotilde's-chiefly crayon sketches of landscapes; but also flowers in aquarella, and some heads and caricatures, with "Jan Del'tO scribbled on the corner. There was one sketch which had been taken out of the port- folio, and was lying on a book.- It was a winter sketch of Cro- wood, with snow on the ground, snow on the roof, snow on the old cedars, the bright hollies, and the dark pines. It was taken from a summer-house in the garden, and repre- sented that side next the conservatory, where was my little turret bed-chamber. It might have been a mere coincidence, but the hands of the clock-face on the turret pointed to two. ... There were many books scattered rather negligently about, . AIDY. '261 and a pile of unbound music on an ottoman, against which leaned a satin-wood guitar; and a large crimson velvet cushion, seamed with gold lace, and with heavy bullion tassels at the corners, was cast upon the floor, as though it had been occupied as a lazy lounge in looking over the music. A pencil of light from the bay-window fell on this cushion, and gleamed on the gold tassels. I took a peep at the music. It consisted of choice pieces by Schubert, Hunten, Mozart, Schuman, Chopin-favorites of Clo- tilde. I looked over the' books. They were our old friends-the Gamaliels at whose feet Clotilde, and Sally, and I had sate- Ossian, Goethe, Shakspeare, Shelley, Heine, and a few brown- backed numbers of that genial and glorious old friend and lit- erary Mentor, Blackwood's Magazine. Do other people, I wonder, feel conscious of a sort of tinge that pervades certain scenes and incidents in our lives-a certain bouquet du, souvenir, which gives the tone and tint to our remem- brance of them long after they are past-brought back, most often, by some piece of music which you heard then, and which is a clue to the old charm? Very sweet was :the charm that association lent to this old parlor, of the days that Clotilde and I dreamed away here; and dearer still were the associations that Aidyl's spirit had cast upon my recollections of Batoosaloa. And now they were so strangely blended here I The place seemed new-hallowed by the spirit of Aidyl's ge- nius. I could see andfeel it in every thing. page: 262-263[View Page 262-263] SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. The piano was open, and upon the stand a cahier of music- the beautiful songs without words. A book was open-" iHeine's Letters "-and there werepen- oil-marks through it ..... Whilst I was looking over 6ne of the marked passages, I heard the rustle of a dress behind me. I turned. She was approaching. I felt the magnetic influ. once of her presence before I saw her. In the dim sunset light that pervaded the old, lofty cham- ber, she looked like a being come down from the higher spheres. A ray from the ivied window in the west gleamed upon her auburn hair, gilding it with a lustrous halo. It was thrown back from her forehead in wavy grace and gleam: her pale, intellec- tual forehead, shone like a twilight star. "You find my parlor turned into a boudoir," said she, as she took a seat on the divan near which I was standing. "I have so little company that I use it for a reading-room. I enjoy the autumn evenings here so much, especially the half-veiled sunset light in that window." "You use it, then, for a better purpose than a boudoir." " How do you mean ? "Boudoir is, I suppose, from bouder, to pout." "A boudoir, then, is a poutery?" - "A place, where, of old, the 'fayre ladye' was wont to re- tire when she had a quarrel with her liege lord." "But I never have any thing to pout about,-and so no use For a poutery." "What! Not when the Honorable Jeremy Ginswig would }e playing the devoted to your rival, Miss Calla Blackfield ? - AIDYL. 263 ' "My rival !" she cried, holding up her hands in mock indig- nation, and then changing her tone, " Oh, my wildest ambition never dreamed of aspiring to the conquest of Col. Ginswig, nor of competing with the incomparable Miss Blackfield." "How magnanimous you ladies are!" "It is not so much magnanimity in us as the vast penetration of the gentlemen, that forces it upon us." It was a palpable hit. I laughed, and turned the conver- sation. I spoke of the old times at Crowood and the Rectory. She spoke of Olotilde, her accomplishments; regretted her own inability in art --- "This charming autumn evening, if I could give you those Songs without Words,' it would inspire you with a poetry of feeling that might induce you to improvise the words." ' Those beautiful songs need no words. Theirs is the lan- guage of heaven itself; they tell their tales of beauty almost by the direct influence of soul upon soul. It were sacrilege to attempt to embody them in poor human speech." " How I would love to hear them!" "Have you not ?" "No." ' I feel almost tempted to play some of them for you." "And do you play?" she cried, with an expression of delight and surprise. "If I had only known that, I should have had the pleasure of listening to your performance ere this ... . I smiled. "Perhaps not." Why?" "I have not played for some years now, except in moments page: 264-265[View Page 264-265] 264 SCENES IN THE SUMMER-LAND. of the utmost solitude. The piano was my mother's favorite instrument; and I used to play duets with her. , "Recently I have spent some time at Chuckatubbie, the resi- dence of Mr. Wilifred Vivian's uncle-" "Indeed! Then you know my friend Maggie Vivian?" "Oh, yes. And isn't Miss Maggie a charming creature? It was with her that I resumed my piano practice." "I am so glad you know Maggie Vivian. The opportunity of' playing duets with her would be quite irresistible, I should think.: You fell in love with her, of course." "Somehow I did not. 'Twas very bad taste in me I own." "I think so, I am sure. What an incorrigible old bachelor you must be i' "Perhaps some other was already paramount in my heart." Aidyl might have indulged in something of her playful raillery here,-but she did not. Perhaps there might have been that in the tone of my saying so that precluded raillery. Instead of that, she cast down her eyes; a shade of pallor came over her cheek, and her voice was low and sweet, faltered almost into a murmur, as she replied,- "It were an indiscretion, perhaps, to express a curiosity to know who you hold paramount to Maggie Vivian?" "No indiscretion ; but I dare not trust myself with words, I'll tell you in the language of Mendelssohn." I sat down to the piano, and played- "Du bist wie eine Blume." THE END.
