“Here we go, up, up, up—and here we go, down, down, downy,” is a
quotation not more applicable to the movements of children in a swing,
than to the same children in after life, when they are tossed about by
the rude hands of unsteady fortune. In all countries, and in all times,
it has been so to some extent, but never, and no where, in the degree in
which it may be observed in the land and age in which we live.
James Elliot, it is very pleasant for me to state, was an exception to
this general rule: he was a rich man, his father before him was rich,
and his grandfather, who founded the family in this country, was richer
still.
My friend Mr. Elliot lived in a fine old house that had been standing
for two generations; and he lived in a style worthy of a man who owned a
river plantation, and who knew the baptismal name of his grandfather.
You Philadelphians and Knickerbockers cannot be expected to understand
what I mean, or rather the emphasis of my language, when I say _river
plantation_; and therefore I take the trouble to explain that a river
plantation is as different a thing from a sand-hill plantation, or even
a creek plantation, as property in Water street or Wall street is from a
lot up town. There is many a man among us who is undisputed master of
hundreds of acres, who can scarcely pay his taxes: whilst his neighbor,
who owns only half as much, but of a different sort, goes to the springs
every summer, and sends his children into the north to school. You have
seen the “Songs of the South,” I suppose, and I doubt not you liked
them: but let me, as a friend, warn you against forming your opinions of
us and ours from them. They were written by a poet, and if you have any
idea of speculating in southern property do not trust Mr. Simms.
The land of the pine, the cedar, the vine!
O! may this blessed land ever be mine!
Now for a summer residence this is all very well; health oozes from the
resinous bark of the pine, the coolest breezes are playing amidst its
leaves, and the most limpid water bubbles from beneath its roots: but
the fine equipages which dash through your cities, and the well-dressed
ladies who occupy them, would not shine long if they trusted to nothing
better than such “land” to support their bravery. O! no, you must ask
for river bottoms, or rich uplands, and then I will go your security for
the cotton they will grow.
Jane Elliot sings this song remarkably well. I was with her last summer
at Saratoga, and one would think, to hear her, that she was dying to get
back, from the pathos with which she would pray—to the guitar—
“Hide not from mine eye the blue of its sky,”
whilst at the same time I was perfectly aware that she was night and day
teasing her father to spend the whole summer in the north, and then go
to Paris in the fall.
The beaux knew nothing of this however; and one whispered to another, “I
say, Bob, what a sweet little patriot she is. Would not she make a
capital wife, so domestic?”
“I have a great mind,” said Bob, as they walked to the other end of the
saloon, “to try and make an investment in that same ‘land of the pine;’
do you know any thing about the old man? Is he rich?”
“Rich!” ejaculated the dandy, with that upward and downward inflection
of the voice which indicates a good deal of surprise, and some
indignation, “a great deal too rich to own such a man as you for his
son-in-law. No, no, my fine fellow, that’s my game. You could not spend
half her income, whereas, I flatter myself, _I_ can do that easily, and
run the estate in debt by the end of the year.”
Edward Neville was quite in earnest in what he said about his
intentions, and I do not think that any of his friends would differ with
him as to his capacity for getting into difficulties. He had inherited a
small property, enough to educate him, bear his expenses in a few years’
travel, and lanch him, with a good library, upon the wide ocean of the
law: but he inherited none of the perseverance and plodding industry
that had elevated his father to the bench, and made him regarded as the
best read lawyer of his day; and after struggling awhile with his
virtuous impulses, he carefully locked the door of his office, writing
upon the outside, “gone to _court_,” and commenced the ignoble trade of
a fortune-hunter. This was his first season, and Jane Elliot was the
first divinity he had encountered, whose shrine was golden enough to
bring him to his knees.
So far, however, he had made no impression. In fact, I hardly think he
did himself justice. The part was new to him; and the girl herself
seemed worthy of so much purer a feeling, that he was constantly
struggling with himself. “By heavens, I do love her for herself alone,”
he would mutter to himself. “I could die for her, fight for her, do any
thing under heaven for her, except _work_.” And then a sense of his
meanness would overcome him with shame, and he would allow any one else
to take his place in the conversation, whilst he would wander off by
himself to renew his struggles.
My sweet young fortune-hunter, who art reading this page, think what a
poor devil thou art making of thyself. How much more honorable and noble
would it be to labor for thine own support as a street-sweeper even. How
contemptible to coin the heart’s best affections, to degrade the holy
state of matrimony to a matter of bargain and sale, to sell thyself of
thine own will, as an eastern slave is by her masters. O! go to work,
and be a man!
But for this, I should have liked Neville well enough; not however as a
suitor to Jane Elliot. I had other views in relation to that matter. Tom
Barton is a friend of mine, and _though_ the son of a silversmith, or
rather, shall I say, _because_ the son of a silversmith, he is one of
the worthiest fellows I ever knew. I went to school with him, and so in
fact did Jane Elliot. We were in Latin and Algebra, and all that, when
she was only beginning to read: but our old master had a fashion of
making the whole school form a ring in the afternoon, and young and old
were compelled to spell a page of “Dictionary.”
What a speller Jane was! The little thing was sometimes far ahead of
some of the largest scholars, and it was a _caution_ to hear how her
little tongue would rattle off the letters of any word in the column,
from “chatter” to “chevaux de frise.” Tom used to be always just next
below her, never getting above her, and never suffering anybody to get
above him.
It was very curious how they stuck together. Tom always missed when she
did: I have known him in fact, to spell “caper” with two “p’s,” though a
better speller than he was I never met. It was a long time before I
found out the secret; but one day as we were all going to our seats, I
overheard Tom saying, rather reproachfully, “Jane, what _did_ you do
that for?” “Why, Tom, you did not speak loud enough.” Aha! said I to
myself, I understand it now. I thought there must be some prompting
going on, or that little girl would never have stood so high in the
school.
I was very old-fashioned as a boy; they used in fact to call me the old
bachelor; and certainly I had one of the habits of the tribe—a greater
pleasure in watching the developments of the hearts of other people,
than in attending to the beating of my own. Any one, however, might have
taken a delight in observing the present case. Jane I shall not
describe, because she has always been a pet of mine, and I should be
certain to overdo it if I made the attempt: but Tom, I shall let you
know was a fine looking boy, with fair hair, an open countenance, and a
muscular and well knit frame; and he has grown up to be decidedly the
best looking lawyer that practices in our circuit.
All our village had watched the progress of this affair with interest,
and we had all settled down into a calm certainty that it was to be, and
even the envious were prepared to wish them joy. The Elliots had always
been popular; and the Bartons, by correct deportment, hard work for
themselves, civility to their neighbors, and kindness to the poor, had
gained the good will of all. There was malice among us, to be sure, and
there would have been the usual ebullition of it had the affair come off
suddenly; but it was too gradual: Tom and Jane had been lovers from
childhood; it was an understood matter, and each man began to feel that
he had a particular vocation to help to bring it about.
Mr. Elliot decidedly gave into the general way of thinking; but no ears
had ever heard his wife say a word on the subject. She was of Huguenot
descent, and rather too fond of mentioning that circumstance; but still
no one disliked her on that account, every one has a perfect right to
think of his grandfather if he likes, and even to speak of him whenever
he can find a listener who is willing to endure it. On the whole, I
confess I took pleasure in hearing her talk. How she used to bridle up!
how firm her voice grew! and how patronizing her manner! I could listen
to her for hours—especially when Jane was sitting by me.
But that is all over now. I hate the Huguenots, the Edict of Nantes, the
Revocation, and every thing else; and I wish to Heaven old Adam’s blood
in flowing down to the Elliots had come through some other veins than
those of that same fierce French faction.
What do you think? About four years ago, when Tom and I came from
college, both having graduated with honor, he decided that it was time
for him to make open and resolute approaches toward the great end upon
which his hopes were fixed. Consequently, all the time he could spare
from the study of law, and his excellent family, he used to spend with
Jane; and so far as I could judge, from occasionally playing the part of
“Monsieur de trop,” in a ride, or walk, or at the piano, she was
entirely satisfied to have it so.
But one night, after Tom had been making himself particularly agreeable,
as he thought, to the old lady, and had listened to the tale of the
Huguenots for the fortieth time, with exemplary patience, though his
brain was boiling, and he was wishing to the very bottom of his heart
that all her ancestors _had_ passed “that bourne from which no traveler
returns!” that very night, after he had taken his leave, Mrs. Elliot
called her daughter to her, and said in a calm and serious voice, “My
dear, I must request that you will not be quite so familiar with Mr.
Barton. I begin to fear that you are liking him too well.”
“Why, mother, we all like Tom.”
“I know that; and I’m very well satisfied to have him here as often as
the other young gentlemen of the town. His mother is a very proper
person, and so is his father, but there has never been any thing further
than a street acquaintance between us, and I do not mean that there
shall.”
“But, mother, why so? they are very good people surely.”
Mrs. Elliot did not answer directly, but walked to the centre-table,
upon which some refreshments were still standing, and taking up one of
the spoons from a waiter, she placed it in her daughter’s hand, and with
an air of quiet satisfaction, directed her to read aloud what she saw on
the handle.
“I see nothing very remarkable, my dear mother,” said the smiling Jane.
“Here is the old family crest, and your initials and my father’s
blended, and quite an ambitious wreath of flowers running round the
whole.”
“I will thank you, my daughter, to speak more respectfully, when you do
speak of such matters; but that is not what I mean, read the stamp on
the other side.”
“A. Barton, and some hieroglyphics which I cannot make out, is all that
I see.”
“Do you know who A. Barton is, my dear?”
“Of course; it is old Mr. Barton, Tom’s father. Why, mother, I have read
this a hundred times before. It is printed on my pap spoon, and on all
the new-fashioned silver we have in the house. But what of that?”
“Simply this, Miss Jane Elliot, I shall never give my consent for you to
receive as a lover the son of a man who makes our spoons, and cleans our
watches, and who, in short, is only a mechanic. Good night.”
Jane was too much surprised and grieved to say any thing, and she went
to her room, her heart cruelly divided between the duty she owed to her
mother, and the love that she had so long cherished for her _betrothed_.
I ought not to have written that last word. I am not a good novelist, or
I would have been brought to my confessions at a slower rate. However,
it is a fact. Theirs was the rare case, in which neither the language,
nor the feelings of childhood had ever changed. They had vowed
themselves to each other at least a hundred times. More and more solemn
the pledge had grown at every repetition; and when Tom came from college
a few weeks before, it had been cemented with tears.
Ah! she was a noble girl, that Jane! Why did not fate give me a chance
at her, or rather, why did not I, instead of flirting with all the
pretty faces that I saw, why did not I love her, and cherish her, as Tom
did from the first.
However, that is nothing to any body but myself. Jane rose next morning
unrefreshed from her sleepless couch, and the first thing she did was to
write the following note:
“Dear Tom,—My mother is angry with me for the intimacy to which
I have admitted you, and has directed me to break it off. So you
must not come here so often. Nothing in my life has grieved me
more than this, but I am sixteen only, and my mother’s will is
mine. Wont you travel? I prefer not seeing you at all, than not
to see you as of old. But be assured, wherever you go, and
whatever may be your fortune, one heart will be with you, that
of yours ever,
Jane Elliot.”
Now was not she a dear girl. She wept when she wrote it, and she wept
when she sent it, and she had not dried her tears when little Cæsar
brought back this answer:
“Dear Jane,—Your letter was like a thunderbolt to me, and I am
hardly able to pen a reply. But I see the wisdom of the course
you suggest, and shall make my arrangements at once to go to the
law school at Cambridge. I know my own heart so well that I can
have no doubts concerning yours; and if labor, and toil, and
success can win your mother’s approbation, it shall be mine. But
in any case I am yours till death.
Thomas Barton.”
Accordingly, Tom went off to Cambridge, and devoted all his strength to
the herculean task of piling up his legal knowledge “higher than one
story”—Everett has said so many witty things in his day, that he need
not mind lending one occasionally—whilst I, with envy in my heart, was
still playing the part of a faithful friend, and keeping Jane advised of
all his movements, and of all his success.
But neither his success in his studies, nor the reputation which one
year’s practice at the bar had given him, softened the prejudices of the
Huguenot lady; and it was as much with a view of keeping them apart as
any thing else, that she traveled with her daughter every summer.
Edward Neville was precisely to the taste of the old lady. She favored
him in every way—gave him a seat in her carriage to Lake George,
invited him to her private parlor, told him at what hour in the morning
she drank the water—in short, turned me completely adrift, and adopted
him as her constant attendant.
I feared the result, and wrote to Tom about it. In reply he thanked me
for the interest I had manifested, but assured me that he had no fears,
that he had the most perfect trust in Jane, that he was laboring with
assiduity to improve the little fortune he had inherited, for he was
sorry to add that there was every probability, that the Elliots would be
in need of the assistance of their friends, and that very soon.
This intelligence very much surprised me. I knew that the old gentleman
had endorsed most imprudently for a friend who was speculating in
western lands, but I had heard only the day before the most glowing
accounts of the value of those lands.
However, the season ended; and when leaving the springs, Mr. Elliot, at
his wife’s earnest solicitation, invited Neville to pay him a visit
during the winter. He accepted it gladly, went to New York, sold his
books, rented his office, and told his friends that he had given up law,
and was thinking of _making an investment in the South_.
But the denouement of this true history presses upon me, and I must
hurry its narration.
About the merry Christmas time, our court-house door and village papers
informed the people that the SHERIFF would sell “all that valuable, &c.,
&c.,” enumerating every earthly thing that Mr. Elliot possessed.
It was a melancholy truth. His friend’s debts came upon him with such
suddenness that he was overwhelmed. He gave himself up for lost, refused
every offer of assistance from Tom and myself, and every one else, and
determined to let the law take its course. He confessed that all he
wanted was time, but he declared he would not suffer any of his friends
to endanger themselves for him.
Tom and I sat up nearly the whole night laying our plans; and it was
determined that I should bid off every article, and that he would be
prepared to pay for them.
On the day of sale one might have thought that there was to have been a
funeral instead of a vendue. The bell seemed to toll in melancholy
notes, and the red flag that the old negro was hobbling about the
village with, one would have thought, by the countenances of those who
looked upon it, was rather the forerunner of a pirate’s visit, than of a
sheriff’s sale.
The northern stage had just driven up to the tavern door, and a handsome
man was stepping from it as the flag was passing. He caught it from the
negro’s hand, and exclaimed, “Good God! driver, what Elliot is this who
is to be sold out to-day? Not Mr. James Elliot the rich planter!”
“Well, I reckon it is,” was the cool reply, as he handed down hat-box
and dressing-case, and a couple of large trunks.
The handsome stranger walked with a very unsteady step into the bar, and
took up an old paper, which one might have supposed that he was reading,
if he did not notice that he was holding it upside down. He appeared to
be dreadfully agitated, but at length he started up and asked if the
stage had gone.
The barkeeper told him that it had driven round to the stable to change
horses, and would be back in an instant.
The stage soon came with a new driver and fresh horses, and into it the
handsome man tumbled with bag and baggage as before. As he wheeled off,
the old driver said to the barkeeper,
“That ’ere is a quare chap. He rode on the top with me a while to-day,
and told me he was gwine to spend the winter here, and p’raps to live.
Did he let you into his name and business?”
“No, but that infernal big trunk of his’n was marked in white paint, ‘E.
Neville.’”
Meantime the sale went on. The property realized more than enough to pay
all that Mr. Elliot was bound for, and yet was struck off for one third
its value.
I settled with the sheriff, and then went to Mr. Elliot, and offered to
put the property again in his hands, and give him his own time to pay
for it.
He accepted my offer with tears in his eyes, and although I felt mean
for taking, even for a moment, the credit which belonged of right to
Tom, yet I stood it like a man.
All would have gone on very well, but the wife of the man from whom Tom
borrowed the money for the purchase was a gossip, and could not keep to
herself any thing she knew; and very soon the true state of the case was
made known to the Elliots.
For a while Tom was very anxious about the result, but he came to me one
morning with this note in his hands:
“Dear Sir,—I have behaved very foolishly. If you can add
charity to generosity, come and see us, and you will find me
very truly your friend,
Emile Neufchatel Elliot.”
It did not take Tom long to go. It did not take me long to explain to
Parson Harris that his services would be wanted in the chancel one of
those mornings. The service itself was short, though from my boyhood up,
I never knew Mr. Harris to offend against a rubric. And it was a short
ride from the church to the plantation. Mr. Harris said a short grace,
and the dinner was delightfully long.
At the end of it, I noticed Mrs. Elliot playing with one of the silver
spoons, and then suddenly dropping it when she perceived that I was
observing her.
This motion drew general attention to her, but though embarrassed for a
moment, she recovered herself, and said with a pleasant smile, “I must
confess, my dear Jane, that I am entirely happy in retracting a speech
which I made to you some years ago. You shall have all the new-fashioned
silver in the house, and I am sure it will be doubly valuable in your
eyes, because the name you have adopted is already stamped upon it.”
Thus happily endeth the true history of the Silver Spoons.
* * * * *