of fortune in the history of Carolina. I will instance the sudden
and total transformation of the Count of Wolstein. That one who
nature had designed for a tall and well proportioned man should by a
few months' studying become hunchbacked--and by having a scar on his
face, one eye lost, and a limp in his gait, should be so deformed as
to be called a monster! and that Carolina a young lady who had been
two months at court and likely had some idea of politeness should
when introduced to the Count instantly hide her eyes with her hands,
give a piercing shriek and disappear like a flash of lightning at
midnight is demanding too much from our credulity. We know pretty well
what effect the loss of an eye, the scar, and the limp might have
had but we cannot otherwise account for his other deformity than by
supposing that he sat in a remarkably uneasy posture, or studied much
more intently than any of our modern statesmen do: not one of whom, I
believe, have broken their backs by studying politics however their
minds may be deformed by it. Don't you think that the Canoness should
have been totally deaf, as well as nearly blind, whilst the Pavilion
was building in her garden?
"I can't for my part see the necessity of obliging Carolina to HAVE
it built; as, had it been already there. In adding the embellishments
would have been a sufficient surprise to her dear mama. In short,
I am of opinion that the author did not require his readers to have
common sense. Excuse the liberty which I have taken with your Book and
believe me to be much obliged to you for the favor.
"Yours,
"E. K."
The close of Mrs. Kearny's life was blighted and narrowed by adversity.
Money matters estranged her from many of her old intimates, and she
wrote pathetically to each member of the circle after a lawsuit with
Richard Stevens: "Have you too entered the lists against me?" Unlike
Mrs. Montagu, of whom Wraxall recorded that she wore glittering jewels
to dazzle those her reputation failed to astound, Mrs. Kearny's last
years were tinctured by the plaintiveness of homespun.
In the fall-time of the year 1799 the Amboyites who wandered past
the wide lawns of Franklin Palace often saw by one of the windows of
Kearny Cottage a figure bent low over a writing-table. It was Mrs.
Kearny working industriously. Soon the rumor went abroad that Pinderina
was completing her works for publication. No one dared question her.
Covert glances were bestowed upon her when she entered her pew in old
St. Peter's on a Sabbath morning. The thoughts of their former leader
were to be handed down to posterity in print. Betsey Parker, one of the
sisters at the castle who had scoffed her effusions in secret, decided
to call at the cottage as soon as etiquette would permit. Feuds over
money matters seemed trivial things after this great news.
Pinderina's star was again in the ascendancy. She smiled fondly on
the pages of finely-written manuscript she was putting together. A
glorious triumph seemed near at hand. One morning Mr. Freneau was
seen leaving Kearny Cottage. After him trotted a black boy, bearing
aloft a heavy bundle. Curious eyes watched him from behind the partly
closed shutters of many a sedate-looking building facing the green.
The gossips felt sure that the fruit of Mrs. Kearny's genius was being
borne away for the approval of the New York publishers. They circulated
the tale industriously. The élite of the town had not been so excited
since the day an irate Mrs. Franklin broke all the mirrors of the
palace on finding that her husband had been made a prisoner of war.
Three times the "Liberty" sailed into Amboy. On each occasion bevies
of ladies found it necessary to transact business near the wharf. A
case of fine nabobs, which had lain at old John's for a fortnight, was
suddenly discovered. Captain Goelet had brought home some necklaces of
Indian sea-shells. Anything plausible was used as an excuse to parade
along the water-front.
And after all the weary watching Mr. Freneau arrived by coach. A gray
mist enveloped the roadway that night, as if to keep his return a
secret. But it was decreed that he should be observed. A member of the
circle, who lived close by the cottage, chanced to bring out on her
balcony a plant thirsting for rain. She recognized the figure which
alighted from the mud-bespattered vehicle before Mrs. Kearny's door.
The wind spread wide his great-coat. Its fluttering folds guarded from
view the package of manuscript which had been rejected by the lords
of New York's Printing House Lane. The woman on the balcony saw him
enter the house; then she ran into her own dwelling. It took but a
few moments to find the Hanway umbrella and the lantern. Excitement
overcoming her timidity, she hurried out into the night to share her
news with the neighbors.
An hour later a few courageous souls were wending their way to
Pinderina's. Each carried some peace-offering. A bowl of white jelly,
an ounce of Mr. Stebben's snuff, an orange that had colored in some
sunlit Amboy window were hidden beneath wet garments. Before the worn
door, which the darkness and the rain made grim and sinister looking,
they huddled together. Suddenly there was a noise inside. A thrill went
over the company as it swung back and showed Pinderina holding a candle
aloft in her hands. "I know why you are here," she said, gazing at them
mockingly. "It is not true. The villains have refused my work." Some
faithful member of the circle started to speak, then stopped. "As the
poetess of Perth Amboy I have lived, and as the poetess of Perth Amboy
I shall die," she continued. There were smiles in the darkness,--the
smiles akin to tears.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation mistakes have been corrected.
Page 131, missing opening quotation mark added before "Close along
the..."
Page 221, illustration caption: "Andre" changed to "André."
End of Project Gutenberg's Through the Gates of Old Romance, by W. Jay Mills