Departing, soon his splendid palace reach'd
And courts commodious:--but he found not there
His white-arm'd princess, fair Andromache;--
For, with her child and maid of graceful garb,
She stood in Ilion's tower, moaning sad,
Weeping and sighing.--Finding not within
His blameless wife, he on his threshold stood,
And of his servants, thus inquiry made.
Be quick, and tell me truly; whither went
My lovely consort, fair Andromache?--
To any of my sisters, did she go;--
Or brother's wives;--or to Minerva's fane,
Where other Trojan dames with flowing hair,
The dreadful Goddess by their prayers appease?
His household's faithful governess replied;--
Oh Hector, (since thou bidst me tell thee true,)
To none of all thy sisters did she go,
Or brother's wives;--nor to Minerva's fane,
Where other Trojan dames with flowing hair,
The dreadful Goddess by their prayers appease:--
But she is gone to Ilion's lofty tower,
Urg'd by the direful news, that in the field
The Trojans suffer much, and Greeks prevail.
Alarm'd and seeming frantic, to the wall
She hurried, and the nurse her infant bore.
So spake the prudent dame.--Impetuous, thence
Great Hector rush'd, retracing (through the streets
With beauteous buildings grac'd,) his former way.
But, through the spacious city, when he reach'd
The Scoean portals, whence into the field
He meant to hasten, there his faithful wife
Andromache, to meet her Hector ran;--
His wife with wealthy dowry, daughter fair
Of fam'd Eëtion,--chief magnanimous,
Who dwelt, in Hypoplacus' sylvan land,
At Hypoplacian Thebes,--Cilicia's king;--
His daughter wedded Hector great in arms,
And now to meet him sprang:--with her the nurse,
Who, in her bosom, bore the tender babe,
Their only son, and joy of Hector's heart,--
Who, bright in youthful beauty, like a star
Resplendent shone.--Scamandrius was the name
That Hector gave him;--others call'd the boy
Astyanax, in honor of his sire,
Sole guard and bulwark of the suff'ring town.
He smil'd in silence, gazing on his son!--
But sad Andromache beside him stood,
With anxious fondness shedding tender tears:
She, sorrowing, clasp'd his hand, and thus she spake:
Ah, rashly brave! thy courage will thyself
Destroy:--nor dost thou pity this thy son
In helpless infancy, and me thy wife,
Unhappy, doom'd a widow soon to be;
For soon the Greeks will slay thee,--all combined
Assailing:--but for me, of thee bereft,
Better it were to sink beneath the ground;--
For no relief or solace will be mine
When thou art dead; but unremitting grief.--
No more have I a father;--now no more
My honor'd mother lives.--Achilles slew
My father, and laid waste Cilician Thebes,
His town, well-peopled, grac'd with lofty gates.
He slew Eëtion;--yet, with rev'rence touch'd,
Despoil'd him not, but burn'd the breathless corse
With all it's splendid armor, and, above
It's ashes, heap'd a monument of earth.
The mountain nymphs, of Ægis-bearing Jove
Immortal daughters, planted round the tomb
A grove of elms, in honor of the dead.--
My brethren, too,--seven gallant heroes,--all
In one sad day, to Pluto's dark abode
Went down together; for the swift and strong
Achilles slew them all, among their herds
And fleecy flocks.--My mother, who had reigned
The queen of Hypoplacus' sylvan land,
Was hither brought, with other spoils of war,
And, for a ransom infinite, releas'd;--
But, home return'd, within her father's halls,
Diana's arrow pierc'd her mournful heart.--
Yet, Hector, thou alone, art all to me;--
Father, and honor'd mother, brother too;--
My husband dear, and partner of my youth.
Oh then, have pity now, and here remain
Upon this tower; lest thy hapless son
An orphan, and thy wife a widow be.--
The people, station at the fig-tree, where
The town is most accessible, and wall
May be ascended:--there, a fierce assault,
The bravest of our foes have thrice essayed;--
The two Ajaces, fam'd Idomeneus,
Th' Atridæ also, and the mighty son
Of Tydeus;--whether by some soothsay'r mov'd
In heavenly tokens skill'd, or their own minds
Impelling them with animating hope.
To her the mighty Hector made reply:--
All thou hast said, employs my thoughtful mind.
But, from the Trojans, much I dread reproach,
And Trojan dames whose garments sweep the ground,
If, like a coward, I should shun the war:--
Nor does my soul to such disgrace incline;
Since, to be always bravest, I have learn'd,
And with the first of Troy to lead the fight;--
Asserting so, my father's lofty claim
To glory, and my own renown in arms:--
For well I know, in heart and mind convinc'd,
A day will come, when sacred Troy must fall,
And Priam, and the people of renown'd
Spear-practis'd Priam!--Yet, for this to me
Not such concern arises;--not the woes
Of all the Trojans;--not my mother's griefs;--
Not royal Priam's, nor my brethren's death,
Many and brave, (who, slain by cruel foes,
Will be laid low in dust,)--so wring my heart,
As thy distress, when some one of the Greeks
In brazen armor clad, will drive thee hence,
Thy days of freedom gone, a weeping slave!--
Perhaps, at Argos, thou may'st ply the loom
For some proud mistress, or may'st water bring
From Messa's or Hyperia's fountain;--sad,
And much reluctant, stooping to the weight
Of hard necessity; and some one, then,
Seeing thee weep, will say--"behold the wife
Of Hector, who was first in martial might
Of all the warlike Trojans, when they fought
Around the walls of Ilion!"--So will speak
Some heedless passer by, and grief renew'd
Excite in thee, for such an husband lost,
Whose arm could slavery's evil day avert.
But me, may then an heap of earth conceal
Within the silent tomb, before I hear
Thy shrieks of terror and captivity.
This said, illustrious Hector stretched his arms
To take his child; but, to the nurse's breast
The babe clung crying, hiding in her robe
His little face;--affrighted to behold
His father's awful aspect;--fearing too,
The brazen helm, and crest with horse-hair crown'd,
Which, nodding dreadful from its lofty cone,
Alarm'd him!--Sweetly, then, the father smil'd,
And sweetly smil'd the mother!--Soon the chief
Remov'd the threat'ning helmet from his head,
And plac'd it on the ground, all-beaming bright.
Then, having fondly kiss'd his son belov'd,
And toss'd him playfully, he thus, to Jove
And all th' immortals, pray'd:--Oh grant me, Jove,
And other powers divine, that this my son
May be, (as I am,) of the Trojan race
In glory chief!--So let him be renown'd
For warlike prowess, and commanding sway,
With power and wisdom join'd; of Ilion king!
And may his people say, "This chief excels
His father, greatly;" when, from fields of fame
Triumphant he returns, bearing aloft
The bloody spoils, (some hostile hero slain,)
And his fond mother's heart expands with joy.
He said, and plac'd his child within the arms
Of his beloved spouse:--she him receiv'd,
And softly on her fragrant bosom laid,
Smiling with tearful eyes.--To pity mov'd,
Her husband saw:--with kind consoling hand
He wip'd the tears away, and thus he spake.
My dearest love! grieve not thy mind for me
Excessively!--no man can send me hence
To Pluto's hall, before th' appointed time;--
And surely, none, of all the human race,
(Base, or e'en brave,) has ever shunn'd his fate;
His fate fore-doom'd when first he saw the light.
But now, (returning home,) thy works attend,
The loom and distaff, and command thy maids
To household duties;--while the war shall be
Of _men_ the care;--of all indeed,--but most
The care of _me_, of all in Ilion born.
So saying, Hector glorious chieftain took
His crested helm again.--His wife belov'd
Homeward return'd; but often turned her head,
With retrospective eye, and tears profuse.
At length she reach'd the palace of her lord,--
The stately palace with commodious rooms,
Of Hector terror of his foes, and found
Her numerous maids within; among them all,
Exciting sorrow!--They, with doleful cries,
Hector (tho' living still) as dead, bewailed,
In his own house;--expecting never more
To see the chief, returning from the war,
Escap'd the strength and valor of the Greeks.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE DOOR-LATCH.
RECOLLECTIONS OF A MARRIED MAN.
"Go back and shut that door!" roared I in a voice of thunder.
"How can you, my dear," said Julia, with a supplicating glance, "speak
so _very_ loud, when I have just told you that my head is bursting
with pain."
"Because," said I, "I can bear it no longer. It is now ten years since
we moved into this room, and ten times every day have I been compelled
to get up and shut that door after one and another. I have talked--and
talked--but it is all of no use: the door still stands wide open, and
I cannot bear it--No! and I _wont_ bear it any longer--I'll sell the
house sooner than endure it another week."
Her tiny white hand was pressed against her throbbing forehead, as I
finished the sentence with a glance at her of undissembled sternness,
and the mild look of patient suffering and imploring submission with
which she returned my angry frown--it cut me to the heart! I could
read my own death warrant at this very hour with less of pain than I
felt at that moment, as she raised her blue eyes glistening with
suppressed tears, and with all the innocence and affection of an
expiring saint, begged me in the silent eloquence of nature to spare
her whom I had promised to "cherish and to love."
"I have never seen you troubled," said she, (uncomplaining spirit!
there was no emphasis--no! not the _least_, on the word _troubled_!)
"I have never seen you troubled at any thing except that door--and
gladly would I remedy it, but you know that I cannot. Were a very
little filed from the inside of the catch it would shut without
difficulty--I should never think of it," added she after a pause, "on
my own account, but it causes you so much vexation."
It was true as she had said, that I had felt more anger in consequence
of that unfortunate door than all the other untoward events which I
had experienced from the time of my marriage. A _heavy_ loss--a _sore_
disappointment--a _great_ calamity, I could endure with composure. The
trial required philosophy for its support, and the exercise of
philosophy was a gratification to pride. But a door-latch! What
occasion could that give for philosophy? None, and therefore I let it
gall me _to the quick_!!! It was, as I observed, so easy to shut it,
with a little care--such a _little_ thing, if only attended to.
"True!" whispered Philosophy in my ear, "but such a 'little thing' to
get angry about! such a 'little thing' to make you miserable for an
hour every day! for shame, Mr. Plowman!" To tell the truth I did begin
to feel a little ashamed when I recollected how much unhappiness it
had caused not only myself--but _through_ me my dearer wife.
"I declare, my dear!" said I, "that if that door-latch had only been
filed ten years ago, it would have saved each of us one year of pain
before this time!"
Thomas had brought in a file before my speech was finished, and in a
few moments the door shut as easily and firmly as ever door did. I
swung it a few times on the hinges with an air of triumph, and I
verily believe that the work of that single moment conferred more
happiness on Julia as well as myself, than all his blood-bought
triumphs ever yielded to the conqueror.
"The root of bitterness," said I, "is removed at last, and I can only
wonder at my own stupidity in not thinking of the simple remedy
before--but Heaven forgive me! I had entirely forgotten your headache:
the sound of that file must have been _torture_ to you!"
She smiled sweetly as she leaned her head on my shoulder,
declaring--although her forehead burnt my hand, and the blood was
_raging_ through her veins, that it was "quite cured, _since the door
shut so easily_!!" Uncomplaining, devoted, self-sacrificing treasure
of my heart! How could I do less than clasp her to my bosom and swear
to cherish her with tenfold care, and pray--while I kissed away the
tear from her eye--that my own cruel thoughtlessness might never fill
its place with another.
Such pleasure was too rare and valuable to be interrupted at the
moment of its birth--so I look my arm chair from the corner, and
sitting down at the side of Julia, who, while she held my hand, looked
me in the face with very much of that expression of innocent delight,
which so rarely survives childhood. I pursued my cogitations somewhat
in the following order. "Life is made up of moments. Our happiness or
unhappiness during any one of these moments depends almost invariably
upon the merest _trifles_. If these momentary trifles are in the scale
of happiness, life is happy. Take care then of trifles, and _great_
events will take care of themselves. (Somewhere about here I began to
think _aloud_!) I lost a grandfather--an amiable, excellent, and most
affectionate grandfather--and my grief was _great_. Nevertheless, I do
believe that if the _hard bottomed_ chair, [N. B. It was of white
oak.] in which I have sat for the last eight--yes! nine years--if this
chair had but been well covered with a good, soft sheepskin--that
sheepskin--purchased at the cost of ninepence,--would have saved me
from a greater grief than the death of my grandfather!"
"It is a mortifying reflection," said Julia, interrupting my
soliloquy, "and one which at first thought would seem to speak little
for your heart--yet a true one perhaps; and not more true with you
than with many others."
"And still," said I, "I am without the sheepskin. Why? Because the
pain endured in a single moment is so trifling that if we do not take
the trouble to add all the moments together and look at the pain _in
the aggregate_, one would hardly turn his hand upside down to be freed
from it."
"But why not purchase the sheepskin, now that you _have_ added the
moments together?" said she.
"After all my reflection I should never have thought of that but for
you. But a sheepskin! It will never do! A green velvet cushion may
answer instead; and as the old one in your rocking chair seems to be
somewhat worn I must even buy another for you."
"Oh! _green_ velvet by all means!" said she. "It will correspond so
well with the carpet and the new hearth rug which you promised me a
month since. That was to have _green_ for its border, you know."
I could not withstand the hint, and brought in the rug with the
cushions that evening--and, to one who has ever _seen_ my wife, I need
not say that the smile that lit up her face and beamed from her eye
was worth the price of a thousand.
G.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
DESART GRIEF.
BY LUCY T. JOHNSON.
There are no dews in desart lands--
No showers refresh their skies;
But oft the winds sweep o'er their sands,
And breathe their voiceless sighs
Thro' depths profound, where naught hath been
To glad the ever wearied scene.
So weeps the soul in ripened years,
Mid life's turmoil and grief;
When the last fount of balmy tears
Hath lent its last relief,--
And when the lips oft pour their sighs
O'er blighted hopes and broken ties.
O! in this world so full of tears,
There is not one for me--
The fountain of my early years,
Of heavenly drops so free,
Hath ceased to pour its natal tide
When cares oppress, or ills abide.
Where is the balm to Israel blest,
That Gilead gave of yore?
Can it not sooth the heart to rest
As it hath done before?
Methinks I hear a voice doth say--
Pray thou, in fervent meekness pray.
Tis done--that prayer was not in vain;
Its incense reached to heaven;
And sweet's the joy that springs again
In chaste emotion given.
Flow on, flow on, ye balmy tears,
As ye have flow'd in other years.
So falls the dew on desart sands,
And showers refresh their skies,
When from the founts of distant lands
Some grateful mist may rise,
And pour its fresh'ning breath at last
On all the melancholy waste.
_Elfin Moor, Va. September 1835_.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SONG OF THE PIRATE'S WIFE,
ON HER PASSAGE FROM CORUNNA TO NEW YORK.
Air--"Meeting of the Waters."
"The wife of the Spanish Pirate, Bernardo de Soto, hearing in Corunna,
in Spain, of the trial and condemnation of her husband in Boston,
immediately freighted a small schooner, and leaving her three
children, sailed for Boston. She visited Washington to intercede for
her husband, returned to New York, and hastened to Boston to afford
him the solace of her presence."
Adieu to the shores of my dear native clime,
The land of the olive and pale-tinted lime!
Your bright orange tree, and your clustering vine,
No pleasure can yield to this sad soul of mine.
I go from the land of my dear cottage-home--
My babes, they are there--from my babes I must roam;
A mother's fond heart, it hath bid them adieu,
And fatherless children left motherless too.
That cheek, from my own I have torn it away,
Unlock'd the dear arms that would force me to stay;
All eloquent, vainly, the big tears did flow,
The heart of the wife bade the mother to go.
Blow breezes! blow breezes! fill kindly the sail--
My panting heart leaps at the voice of the gale;
Swift onward! swift onward! his doom may be seal'd,
Unheard my petition, my love unreveal'd.
They're gone, the bright shores of my dear native clime,
The land of the olive and pale-tinted lime--
All tearless, bright shores, I can see you depart,
For stronger than death is the love of my heart.
The stain of his hands, though the crimson of blood,
That may not be blanch'd with the deep ocean-flood--
The sin of his soul against mercy and truth
Cannot wean from the pirate the wife of his youth.
For mercy! for mercy!--to offer my plea,
Nor ocean nor land can have terrors for me;
From country and home I can heedlessly part--
The cell of the pirate is home to my heart.
There's pardon! there's pardon! and long shall his life,
Unsullied by crime, be the bliss of his wife--
And blessed, thenceforward, most blessed shall be
The home of Senora, beneath the lime tree.
ELIZA.
_Maine_.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
ANOTHER VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS
OR THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY HUMBUG, ESQ.
_A new version of an old story_.
Too much rest is rust,
There's ever cheer in changing;
We tyne by too much trust,
So we'll be up and ranging.
_Old Song_.
In order to recommend myself and the article, which, to use the
fashionable phraseology, is now being prepared for the Messenger, to
the favorable consideration of its readers, I beg leave to premise
that I am a gentleman of good education and respectable talents--that
I am in circumstances of ease and leisure, and what is a still
stronger recommendation at the present alarming crisis, I am both from
conviction and expediency, a decided anti-abolitionist. You must know,
Mr. Editor, that besides having been afflicted all my life with that
rabid propensity, which in classical dialect is called _cacoethes
scribendi_, I have been troubled with another inconvenient and rather
expensive malady, which I shall call the _cacoethes perigrinantis_, by
which I mean, that about the time of the dog-days I am generally beset
by an unconquerable desire for locomotion, an irresistible propensity
to change my place of abode and all its multiform incidents and
relations, and to launch forth as it were into a new creation--to look
abroad upon Nature and Nature's works, and to contemplate my
fellow-worms in some of their new antics and attitudes.
Accordingly, during the late summer, attracted by the fame of the
Virginia Springs and the salubrious region in which they lie, I
deposited my frame (none of the smallest) in one of those republican
vehicles called a mail coach, a true and happy invention by the way,
for bringing discordant spirits into close communion with one
another--an admirable machine for levelling all artificial
distinctions--a kind of itinerant temple where Patrician and Plebeian,
both masculine and feminine, where mountebank and statesman, puritan
and profligate, and all the moods and genders of character may nestle
together and worship at the same altar of democracy. But for certain
drawbacks and inconveniences which will readily suggest themselves to
the reader--such as the dangers of dislocation and fracture, and
sundry annoyances too tedious to mention--a man of observation like
myself would find it as agreeable to spend his summers in a stage
coach as any where else. It is a kind of moral Kaleidescope, where at
every turn some new combination or some curious variety in human
character is presented to the eye. It above all imparts a refreshing
hilarity to the spirits, which are too apt to stagnate when chained
down to one solitary spot on the earth's surface. But this is a
digression. Having deposited myself in the vehicle as before
mentioned, I shall not entertain the reader as is the custom with some
of the more learned fraternity of tourists, by long and elaborate
details of the several points of arrival and departure--by curious and
profound dissertations upon the philosophy of a coach wheel revolving
upon its axis--nor by beautiful and extatic bursts about the blue
skies and verdant meadows and lofty forests. Suffice it to say, that I
found myself on the evening of an August day, on the summit of the
Warm Spring Mountain which overlooks the first thermal fountain in the
Pilgrim's path to Hygeia. Here I commence my adventures. This is the
starting point of my story, and it is henceforth of course that I
shall expect my gentle reader to sharpen his attentive faculty--and as
Mark Anthony said to his countrymen at Cæsar's funeral, "lend me his
ears." Gently and by slow degrees had we surmounted the ascent of this
celebrated mountain, (celebrated at least in the Old Dominion and by
all travellers to the Springs,) and now we were about to pass down
into the valley of the warm waters. Kind reader, if your steps have
never led you thither, I must inform you that the descent on the
western side is most exceedingly and _unaccommodatingly_ abrupt. The
pilot, however, _alias_ driver, who in this instance at least
entertained some regard for his living freight, used the precaution of
_locking_, to speak technically, or rather of _shoeing_ one of his
hinder wheels--but no sooner had the yet untired steeds commenced
their downward course, (the coach with its ton weight at least of
flesh and bone rapidly following,) than spang went the lock chain
asunder! and away flew the mettlesome animals as fast as their heels
would carry them. _Now_, we plunged onward as if driving through the
mountain forest,--then, suddenly turning, rolled at some distance on
the margin of a frightful precipice, each moment expecting to be
dashed headlong down its angry side. Here gliding as swiftly as an
arrow over a tolerably smooth surface, and there jolting and rattling
over some rocky gutter, which communicated its jarring vibration to
each sensitive nerve--and then what confusion and consternation
within! There was my unlucky self, for example, tossed to and fro, in
a manner which reminded me of poor Sancho in the memorable blanket
scene. First thrown in one direction, I found one of my elbows
actually goring the side of a stout nullifier from the Palmetto
State--then hurled to the opposite point of the compass by another
pitch of the coach, I found myself in the act of suffocating a little
New Yorker, whom I took to be an abolitionist. Next, by another cross
movement, I detected myself almost in the lap of a fat middle aged
lady, who weighed at least thirty pounds more than myself, and
presently I came almost in contact with the lips of a rosy cheeked
damsel of seventeen, who was about to make her _debut_ at the White
Sulphur. And then what a crowding and jostling of knees, and what a
thumping and bruising of shins! The ladies screamed--the nullifier
roared and threatened, and the little Manhattaner protested that in
case of any serious accident to the party, the coroner's inquest would
be murder in the first degree against both the driver and proprietor.
As for me, I confess that my thoughts were multitudinous and not very
delightful. First I thought of Capt. John Gilpin, and wished most
heartily that I might come off as well as that renowned officer of the
London militia--then I thought of that silly old fellow Phoebus, who
from paternal weakness alone committed the reins of his golden chariot
to a foolish boy, and lastly I was harrowed in imagination at the
terrible idea of Ixion revolving forever on his infernal wheel.
Neither did I forget that classical sentence which flashed across my
memory, and which I fear is too true in more senses than that in which
the poet used it--
_Facilis descensus Averni_, &c.
Fortunately, however, the genius of terror passed over us without
exacting any of the usual sacrifices of broken bones and dislocated
limbs, and in a short time our Palinurus (who to do him the justice
performed his part handsomely) landed us in front of the spacious
portico of the Warm Spring Hotel.
Every person in the world (I mean that portion of the world which goes
to the Virginia Springs,) who knows any thing of the great hotel at
which we stopped--knows that it is kept by Col. Fry--one of the most
polite, accommodating and facetious landlords that ever lived from the
time of "Mine Host of the Garter" down to the present day. He will not
only give you the best which his ample house affords, but he is always
ready to say a good thing with a good grace, in order, I suppose, to
put his guests in the most comfortable humor imaginable. The visitors
to the Springs however never remain long at the Colonel's Caravansera
at the commencement of the season. Those who come from the north and
east generally give "mine host" a passing salutation attended by a
stout promise to devour his substance as they return from their merry
circuit. He on the other hand is not backward in hastening their
return somewhat after the following manner. "After being well charged,
gentlemen, with Calwell's sulphur--well _salted_ by Erskine and
Caruthers--your pulsations equalized--and your expectations realized
by Burke--your palates feasted and _sweetened_ at the bubbling
fountain of friend Rogers--and your carcases _boiled_ and sweated by
Dr. Goode--you may then safely return and be _fried_ under my special
direction." All this terrible process it seems I was destined to
undergo, and accordingly I gave my valedictory blessing to the
Colonel, who take him for all in all is "a fellow of infinite jest and
most excellent humor." Being again reconciled to my mail coach,
notwithstanding recent alarms, I soon found myself alighted in the
spacious lawn of the far-famed _White Sulphur Springs_. All who visit
the mineral region are bound by a law more absolute than that of
gravitation to wend to this favorite spot. It is the great magnet
which alike attracts the way worn valetudinarian and the votary of
fashion. Imagination depicts it as the very elysium of hope and the
paradise of enjoyment! It is the _Almacks_ of watering places, where
all the dignitaries of the land--the learned and unlearned--the young,
the gay and the beautiful, submit to humiliation and sacrifice, in
order to gain admission. The multitudes who thronged the porches of
the pool of Bethseda, looked not with more anxiety for the coming of
the angel who troubled the waters, than do the hundreds who crowd
around King Calwell's throne, await the approving smile (the
_Introito_) of his principal Secretary of State. Woe be unto the
luckless wight who is found at a crisis of pressure, in a public
conveyance,--who does not bring along with him a flaming equipage and
attendants; he is laid on the shelf, or to use the customary phrase,
is _turned off_ with the same _sang froid_ with which a Netherlander
smokes his pipe, or a Westerner shoots his rifle. To me, however, the
stars were propitious, and when the little Grand Vizier tipt me the
nod of assent, I followed the guide to my dormitory with as light a
heart and elastic a step as if I had been appointed an ambassador with
full powers. What became of my stage companions I did not stop to
inquire. I was indeed so much elated with my own good fortune that for
once I forgot my usual benevolence, and it was not until the next
morning that I learned that a due proportion of them were sentenced to
perform quarantine in the neighborhood. Here then, said I to myself,
have I at last reached the goal of my desires! This is the spot where
so many thousands are sighing to come without being gratified--where
so many love sick city nymphs and whiskered beaux are panting to try
their luck in the wheel of life's lottery. What a lucky dog am I to
have gained admittance into this region of delight!
I continued to soliloquize in this rapturous strain, until Blackamore
(it was night fall on my arrival) conducted me to my chamber,--where,
being somewhat fatigued, I proposed to retire at an early hour and to
rise with the morning sun, renovated and refreshed for all the
countless enjoyments of the next day. The serene current of my
thoughts was, to be sure, somewhat ruffled, when on reaching my
apartment I found it to be a quadrangle of about eight feet
dimensions, with a cot and mattress on each side of the door arranged
for two lodgers. A couple of chairs, a wash stand, and a fractured
mirror about the size of the Jack of Spades, constituted the sum total
of the furniture. "My worthy descendant of Ethiop!" I exclaimed, "here
is some mistake! Do you take a gentleman of my size and respectability
into a room not larger than a closet? No fire either to warm my limbs
in the chilly night air of these mountains? I will forthwith complain
to the Prime Minister!"
"Lod masser," answered Syphax, or Juba or Jugurtha, (I forget his
name) "complaining will do no more good than saying nothing at all.
Take a nigger's advice and keep quiet--for you ought to remember, sir,
that mass Calwell _don't charge not a cent for board nor lodging_."
"Thou son of old Sycorax!" I replied fiercely, "do you take me for a
strolling mendicant? I will teach you and your master too, and his
Grand Vizier to boot, that I expect to pay for my accommodations, and
must therefore have them to my taste."
"You're a high larned gentleman," said old Cato, (I think Cato was the
name) "but nigger speaks the truth for all that. Mass Calwell not
charge a four pence ha'-penny for eating and sleeping, but he charge
_eight dollars a week for use of de water_."
Notwithstanding that I was upon the verge of permitting the organ of
my destructiveness to preponderate over that of my benevolence, I
could not forbear smiling at the old negro's logic. "Eight dollars a
week for water!" exclaimed I--"A fellow might drink his pint a day of
the very best London particular for one half of that sum--Well, sir,
we will try this precious elixir to-morrow morning. In the meantime,
thou worthy descendant of Ham, I shall be inexpressibly obliged to you
if you will lead me down to the drawing room, in order that I may warm
these wearied and rheumatic limbs before retiring to rest."