not ramble so much at large, but will hasten on with my story. Time's
magic wing sped on, and days, weeks and months rolled by. In the mean
time, Tim continued his visits to Kate. Sometimes, at an interval of a
fortnight; at other times but a week would elapse; then this short
week began to appear an entire month; finally, weeks were reduced to
days, and days to hours, and Tim was not satisfied unless he paid a
visit at least twice a day.
The gossips of the city were thus furnished with a new theme to run
riot with, and Tim and Catherine were bandied about at a merciless
rate. Some thought it passing strange--others thought it natural
enough. "Did you hear Mr. Wilberforce was courting?" said one; "Did
you know Miss Catherine was engaged?" said another; "I'll bet my life
they will be married!" "I know she has turned him off!" "She will
never have him in the world," said a third, "for she is already
engaged to her cousin Tony." And thus, Tim was known to be courting,
engaged, turned off and jilted, before he himself had ascertained what
his fate would be; but the latter opinion, that he was certainly
turned off, gained the more currency, particularly as our friend was
suddenly called off, by business, to a distant city, where he was
compelled to remain for several months. The busy bodies could not but
notice, with what a heavy heart he departed, and there could be no
possibility of doubt about it. Tim had certainly received his walking
papers. No matter, friend Tim, thou must learn
"What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire."
My best wishes attend thee wherever thou goest.
Most persons would suppose, that after the honest denial, and the
decent ducking Tony had obtained, that the ardor of his love would
have been somewhat cooled, and that he would have been the last person
who would ever have attempted again to mention love in Catherine's
presence. Not so, Tony. He had been more than once rejected already by
his cousin, but because they were cousins, and Catherine had always
treated him kindly, Tony was still induced to harbor hope, when almost
any other person would only have welcomed despair. He found it
impossible "to look and not to love." He was one of those luckless
wights, who love and are not beloved, and yet cannot bring themselves
to give up the loved object--who, though driven from the presence of
their fair ones, continue to cast a lingering look behind, to catch a
glimpse of relenting compassion. He reminded me of the glowing
description of Lot's wife, once given by an humble divine, when he
endeavored to explain to his flock why it was that she continued to
look back as she fled from the ill-fated Sodom. "Ah, my brethren," he
said, "no doubt the good woman had a pleasant little garden there,
filled with all kinds of vegetables, and the remembrance of her
greens, and her turnips, her potatoes, tomatoes, her squashes and
beans, about which she had experienced many moments of anxiety and
vexation, caused her heart to cling to the world, and so from the top
of every little knob, she looked,--and looked,--and there she stands,
a pillar of salt." If Tony but received a look of recognition, it was
sufficient encouragement for him. If he accidentally received a civil
bow, in return for a gracious smile, he would imagine himself welcomed
to her arms. If he offered his hand, and she did not put her arms
akimbo, and look like a very virago, he would return the next morning,
and if he was again told of _friendship_ merely, Tony would only
express his astonishment, and say, "Why then did you give me such
encouragement,--why did you look in that way?" Look in that way! Now
the fact is, no matter which way Catherine might have looked, it would
have been all the same to Tony. If she looked mild and placid, or
fierce and acid; if she had been pensive and musing, or laughing and
romping; had she looked out of her right eye athwart her nose, or out
of her left athwart her shoulder, or had she not looked at all, "like
Paddy, when he shut his eyes to peep in the glass, to see how he
looked when asleep," Tony would have discovered ample cause for
indulging in hope in each smile, frown, curl of the lip, or play of a
muscle. But though, continuing in the same hopeless condition, he
always consoled himself by saying,
"She gaz'd as I slowly withdrew,
My path I could hardly discern,
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return."
Time still moved onward. And Catherine still attracted and received
the admiration of all who beheld her. One day, as she was seated alone
in her parlor, in a somewhat melancholy mood, (for it was a rainy,
dreary day,) with a book in her hand, her back to the door, and her
head leaning against the sash of the window, she began to hum to
herself a little song a friend had lately given her. She would sing a
line or two, and pause,--and then again would raise her mellow voice.
"If he return not, ah, she said,
I'll bid adieu to Hope to-morrow."
And this was sung with so much feeling, you could plainly see her
heart had given utterance to its inmost sentiments. Her singing was so
sweet, we might truly say,
"It was the carol of a bird;
It ceased, and then it came again,
The sweetest song ear ever heard."
The notes however died away, and Kate still sat in a seeming reverie.
When we are fairly in one of these musing moods, we will sit for
hours, without being able to tell upon what object our eyes or
thoughts have been so keenly rivetted. Our senses seem to be closed
against ordinary impressions. At any rate, while Catherine continued
thus leaning, some one walked lightly into the room, and discovering
he was not noticed, gently placed his hands over her eyes without
speaking.
"Now, cousin Tony," said Kate, "none of your tricks; I am not in a
humor for trifling to-day." Tony was not satisfied with feeling cousin
Katy's eyes, but turning her head gently back, was feasting on the
face, which a little vexation had slightly ruffled. "I'll pay you for
this, Tony," she said, in a sprightlier tone, "I know it is you, so
let me go." Tony had often played this trick before. "I thought, after
what passed," said Kate, and she was about saying something harsh, but
checking herself, she added, "Never mind, Tony." "Indeed, Kate, it is
not Tony," said the gentleman, releasing his prisoner.
Reader, you have seen blushes! Had you been with me that day, you
would have witnessed "smiles playing with dimples, suffused with
blushes, Aurora alone could rival." You would have seen surprise and
joy chasing away sorrow from a pensive brow; and from the "joy
sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem," you would have sworn that
these were acknowledged lovers.
"Oh, there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart."
Who do you think could have thus intruded and taken such a liberty,
other than cousin Tony? It was our old friend Timothy Wilberforce,
returned from his travels.
Any one of ordinary comprehension, who could have witnessed this
meeting, and seen these looks, would have felt no hesitation in making
affidavit to the fact, that Kate had not only never rejected Tim, but
that they were upon _pretty reasonable terms_.
Some of my fair readers, I have no doubt, have already determined, if
any engagement actually existed, that Tim was a cold, phlegmatic,
inanimate being, or he would have kissed her at every hazard. I know
one young lady, who jilted a beau, because he never offered to salute
her,--she "had no idea of icicles"--not she. And I know another, who
swears! (ladies never swear,) who "vows, 'pon honor, she would turn
off any man under the sun, who would have the presumption to approach
her with such an intention even." But if the doors were closed, blinds
drawn, and they were all alone, and she was sure nobody could see
them, I rather think it would not be quite as shocking as some people
might imagine. The fact is, my dear madam, Tim was excessively remiss
on this occasion, but he must be excused, because, just as he was in
the very act, with one hand under Katy's chin, and the other at the
back of her head, and just as her little lips began to crimson, in
came Katy's dear old aunty! I take my oath, I would have gone the
whole figure, and old aunt Tabby might have gone to the ----. (I beg
pardon.) Tim and Kate took it out in looking, and
"In the large dark eyes mutual darted flame,"
enough was said and felt to compensate the loss.
Now, you must understand, that for some cause, I never could divine
what, aunt Tabby had taken up a mortal antipathy to our friend Tim;
indeed, she was his evil genius, and she always managed to step in, at
the very moment of all others, when her company was least desired. If
he paid a morning visit, and the rest of the family kindly dropped off
one by one, (each, by the bye, making a lame excuse for his or her
absence,) just as Tim would draw up his chair close along side, and
begin those endearments, which all know how to use, but few to
express,
"The gentle pressure and the thrilling touch,
The least glance, better understood than words,"
in would pop aunt Tabby, and down she would sit, like a cat at a hole,
and sit there for hours. Oh how Tim's heart would sicken. If he made
an evening call, and sat till all the family retired to repose, good
aunt Tabby did not think it proper for young ladies to be left alone
with young gentlemen; such things were not tolerated in her day. Thus
did the old lady keep her nightly vigils, rattling away about ten
thousand fooleries, and fretting honest Tim more than a legion of
devils, and at last, after vainly spending the evening, the poor
fellow would slowly depart, growling smothered curses:
"So turns the lion from the nightly fold,
Though high in courage, and with hunger bold,
Long galled by herdsmen, and long vex'd by hounds,
Stiff with fatigue, and fretted sore with wounds:
The darts fly round him from an hundred hands,
And the red terrors of the blazing brands:
'Till late, reluctant, at the dawn of day,
Sour he departs, and quits the untasted prey."
Some readers will say, "what difference would it make if aunt Tabby
was present?" I set all such down as utter boobies; for if any one
could carry on a courtship, or after engagement could carry on a
conversation with his intended, when the "Mother of Vinegar" was
present, in the shape of an old maid, and that old maid a sworn enemy,
I would unhesitatingly pronounce, that Cupid had nothing in the world
to do with the matter.
Tim and Kate however, found opportunities, at other times, to elude
even the vigilance of aunt Tabby, and the old lady finding matters
were going on swimmingly, in spite of her interruptions and vigils,
only became the more determined to break off the match, if it could by
possibility be accomplished. The dear old lady never failed to whisper
into Katy's ear, every idle slander that the fertility of her own mind
enabled her to invent, or that she accidentally picked up among the
malicious gossips of the neighborhood, and more than once Katy's faith
had been shaken by her plausible inventions. Nevertheless, as yet, Tim
was smoothly gliding on the unruffled wave of happiness; all was quiet
and calm, and but a few days had elapsed since Kate appointed the
period for the consummation of their nuptials.
On a former occasion, when Tim and little Molly were engaged, my
readers will remember how Tim endeavored to break the matter to his
mother. How he began with a desire to have the old house in which they
lived, newly painted, and how, before they came to the conclusion to
do so, the matter was suddenly terminated, by the unlucky intrusion of
a small _friendly_ epistle, which not only rendered it unnecessary to
paint the house, but actually caused Tim to kick up more dust and
soot, than could be effaced by the best coat of English lead that
could be procured.
At the present juncture, the first intimation the old lady had of the
matter, was afforded her by an army of carpenters, bricklayers,
stone-masons and painters, scaling her house with ladders and
scaffolds, and turning the whole concern, topsy turvy, from the garret
to the cellar. Here ran the painters devils, rubbing every thing with
sand paper; there shouted the bricklayer, "mortar! bricks here!" Here
whistled the carpenter, and jarred the old timbers with his hammer,
banging and whacking away with the force of a giant.
"In the name of common sense," said the old lady, "good people what do
you mean?" If ever you saw a hen fluttering when a hawk made a sudden
dart at one of her brood, you would have some idea of the old lady on
this memorable occasion. It was as plain as the nose in her face, that
something was to pay, and she half suspected what it was; but that Tim
should go to work without any consultation was unaccountable, and more
than that, it was unreasonable. She hallooed for Tim; he was not
forthcoming. She asked the carpenter what he was about? "Mr.
Wilberforce had ordered him to mend every thing that required
mending." She inquired of the bricklayer what he was doing? "Mr.
Wilberforce told him to cap the chimnies, relay the hearths and mend
the whole concern." She asked the painter what he meant by all this
preparation? "Mr. Wilberforce sent him to paint the house all over."
"You must have made a mistake in the house," said Tim's mother.
"No--there was no mistake. It was to be done, and in the best style,
and in the shortest possible time." The old lady packed off the
servants in all directions for Tim, and in the mean time continued
fluttering about, stowing away this thing and that thing, into this
hole and that cuddy, until she had fatigued herself into a perfect
fever. At length, Tim arrived. "My dear son," said she, "what in the
world has got into you? Do you mean to ruin yourself, Tim?" "Mother,"
says Tim, kindly, "I told you I was going to be married." "No you
did'nt." "Well, I tell you so now, and I think our house wants a
little furbishing." Now, the old lady had frequently of late, been
charging Tim with being in love with Kate, and though he never exactly
denied it, yet he never had admitted it; and though she had no decided
objection to the match, yet she never had made up her mind to it, and
therefore she seated herself and began to cry. She did'nt ask Tim, who
he was to marry? Where the young lady lived? What she was like?
Whether she had a fortune or not? But she sat down, as one bereft of
all hope, and tuned up her pipes. Alas for Tim! He had been too
precipitate. Such matters require some introduction.
The truth was, nothing could give the old lady so much happiness, as
to contribute in any way to Tim's comfort and felicity, or to know
that he was happy; but then, she and Tim had lived so long together,
now that he was going to be married, it seemed to her as though she
and he were to be divorced forever, and a thousand conflicting
feelings rushed into her bosom. Tim asked his mother if she was
dissatisfied with the match? "No," she said, in a tone of
inextinguishable grief, and then burst forth into fresh weeping.
Now, gentle reader, I have told you that the painters were making
terrible preparations for their work, and while Tim and his mother
were engaged, as we have just seen,--he, endeavoring to soothe the old
lady's unreasonable and ill-timed grief, and she, exhibiting as much
woe as she could possibly have done, had Tim been wrapped in his
winding sheet before her,--one of these aforesaid daubers kept
continually passing in and out at the door, until he had heard enough
to satisfy him that Tim was going to be married, and that the old lady
was most vehemently opposed to the match. He had not heard her deny
her opposition, but he had seen and heard her weepings and wailings,
which convinced him that she would never consent to the match in the
world. So, on his way home that day, he happened to meet his cousin
Patsy Wiggins, and stopping her in the street,--"Did you know, cousin
Patty, that young Mr. Wilberforce is going to be married?" said
brushy. "But I tell you what, it has kicked up a terrible rumpus. I
just left the old lady, breaking her heart about it, and poor Mr. Tim
is in a peck of troubles." Brushy went his way, and so did cousin
Patty, but meeting her dear friend Miss Deborah Dobbins, as she was
gossiping about the neighborhood; "Ah, my dear Deb," says she, "have
you heard the news? Old Mrs. Wilberforce says, she will see her son in
his grave, before she will give her consent to his marrying, and
what's more, Miss Catherine Turberville shall never darken her doors
while her head is hot. You may rely upon it, they will have monstrous
work of it." So off posted the friendly Deborah Dobbins, to visit her
crony, good Miss Catherine's dear aunt Tabby. "Aunt Tabby," said Deb,
"I am afraid I have bad news to tell you." "What is it child?" "I know
it will _distress you_ to hear it, but Mrs. Wilberforce has just heard
that her son and your niece are engaged, and she has told her son, in
the most peremptory manner, that her family shall never be disgraced
by such a connexion--that your niece is beneath his notice, and if he
does not break off the match immediately, he never more shall see her
face. Now, Mr. Tim swears he will marry her in spite of all
opposition, and so the whole house is in an uproar. If I were Kate,
I'd let them know who was disgraced."--"Beneath them!" said aunt
Tabby, turning up her nose until it nearly twisted over the back of
her head--"Beneath them, indeed!" "Darken her doors!" "She disgraced
by my niece!" "She!"
Gentle reader, you may readily imagine what else these good people
said and devised; but while this tale was going the rounds, gathering
as it rolled, Tim had entirely reconciled his mother to his intended
marriage, and as he unfolded his little plans, for his own and her
future comfort, the old lady cheered up and resumed her wonted good
humor.
The next day, Tim as usual, called to see his dearest Catherine, but
he was told she was not at home that morning. In the evening he called
again. "Miss Catherine was so unwell, she had taken to her bed." Early
the day after, Tim called to inquire how Catherine was. "Tell Miss
Catherine," said Tim, "I called to see her, and hope she is better."
Tim rambled about the lower part of the house. "Miss Catherine was not
so well." In this way, Tim called for several days, vainly hoping to
see his Kate, or at any rate to receive some kind word or message. At
last, he was honored with the following letter.
"_Richmond, March 10th_.
"I hope Mr. Wilberforce will pardon me for having denied myself so
often. At first, it was to me as painful as it could have been to him,
but if he knew the reason which prompted the course I have adopted, he
could not fail to applaud, what he now, no doubt, condemns. In
determining not to see him again, I have consulted not only his peace,
and the felicity of those dearest to him, but I am convinced, my own
happiness also. My reasons would satisfy the most scrupulous--but as I
cannot divulge them, I must bear the scoffs of the world, for the
fickleness and coquetry which my conduct apparently justifies. I hope
my friend will bear this blow with becoming fortitude. The
determination I have made is painful to myself, but it is irrevocable.
If it will afford my friend any satisfaction to know, that nothing
that he has said or done, has produced this sudden change in my
purposes, I freely acknowledge the fact. He is in every respect worthy
of the best and loveliest. Forgive me, as freely as I acquit you. Our
engagement is terminated.
CATHERINE TURBERVILLE."
Tim sat down,--his elbow on the table,--his head on his hand.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MY TONGS. BY ----.
During the very cold weather which ushered in our last spring, I was
one night sitting in my dormitory, before a blazing fire, luxuriating
in that most selfish of all pleasures, _vulgo_ a "brown study." There
was something so indescribably comfortable in my situation, that,
although I had half a dozen unprepared lectures for the next morning
staring me in the face, I found it a matter of utter impossibility to
open a text book, still less to direct my attention even for the
shortest time to its contents. Stretched in my capacious arm chair--my
feet toasting before the aforesaid blazing fire--I lay listening with
a dreamy sort of consciousness, to the continual, dull, unceasing hum
of the falling snow. Regardless and entirely independent of the cold
and storm without, my eyes fixed on the fanciful figures, changeable
as the images of the Kaleidescope, which the burning coals assumed--in
a word, settled in that position, a description of which has been so
often attempted--and which every man who has one particle of soul
about him has often and oftentimes enjoyed, I fell into a long train
of reflections as absorbing and delightful as they were false and
illusory. The future--the present--the past--castles in the air--my
far distant home--were the most prominent and strongly marked images
in the scenes which flitted across the magic mirror of my fancy.
"I thought about myself and the whole earth,
Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,
And how the deuce they ever could have birth;
And then I thought of earthquakes and of wars;
How many miles the moon might have in girth;
Of air balloons, and of the many bars
To perfect knowledge--of the boundless skies."
I know not how long I had been in this situation, when my dreaming was
suddenly interrupted in a most singular manner. My tongs, which were
but little removed from the direct line of my vision, seemed suddenly
to become extremely uneasy. The simple, unoffending tongs, which,
except when used, had quietly occupied their allotted station in the
corner during the whole session, appeared to be seized with a strange
propensity for locomotion, and at the same time to be altering the
figure of their outward self in a manner singular, wonderful,
unaccountable. The general appearance--the "_tout ensemble_" was, it
is true, nearly the same, but still there seemed to have been effected
a certain change, which attracted my wandering attention rather more
immediately towards them. You may smile perhaps, and say that either I
was rather light headed, or that I was neither more nor less than
dreaming in reality. But there before my eyes, which were as wide
awake as they are at this moment, upon the round knob which I had so
often and so unceremoniously grasped, was as quaint and humorous a
face as ever came from the pencil of Hogarth. A slight glance now gave
me an insight into the whole figure. Imagine the long spindle legs
cased in a pair of rusty looking "shorts"--the body, what little there
was of it, surrounded by one of those comfortable old garments, which
have been, not inaptly denominated quaker coats--and the rest of the
clothing in strict keeping with a style which, all who can recollect,
or even have heard much of the good old days of our grandfathers, will
at once recognise. Just imagine, I say, this odd figure, thus
garmented up, and you will form a good idea of the general appearance
of my visiter--(For I cannot believe it was the same _boná fide_ pair
of tongs, which are now so peacefully reposing before me.) The first
glance was sufficient for an introduction. A slight start on my side,
and a familiar "at home" sort of nod on his--and all was settled. His
first motion was to seat himself on my fender, where he deliberately
crossed his legs--his first remark was on the subject that last
engaged my thoughts. A voice sweet and delightful as the first waking
notes of distant serenade, but perfectly full and distinct, stole over
my enraptured senses.