WHAT OCCURRED AT BOUSCH'S TAVERN.
Let us follow Mr. Jinks.
That gentleman went on his way, reflecting upon the step which he
had just taken, and revolving in his mind the course which he should
pursue in future.
The result of his reflections was, that a matrimonial engagement would
just answer his purpose, especially with a lady possessing a "small
property--" at which words, as they left his muttering lips, Jinks
frowned.
It was Miss Sallianna's favorite phrase.
Miss Sallianna!
The tumult which arose in Jinks' breast upon the thought of that young
lady's treachery toward himself occurred to him, may, as our brother
historians are fond of saying, "be better imagined than described."
Before, Jinks' brows were corrugated into a frown; now, however, two
mountain ridges, enclosing a deep valley, extended from the upper
portion of the bridge of the Jinks nose to the middle of the Jinks
forehead.
The despairing lover resembled an ogre who had not dined for two whole
days, and was ready to devour the first comer.
What should he do? Take revenge, or marry the perfidious woman? Jinks
did not doubt his ability to perform the latter; and thus he went on
his way in doubt and wrath.
At least he would go that very morning and charge her with perfidy;
and so having decided upon his course so far, he strode on rapidly.
Mr. Jinks bent his course toward Bousch's tavern, where he proposed to
take up his temporary residence.
Since this house has become historical, let us say a word of it. It
was one of those old wooden "ordinaries" of Virginia, which are now
never seen in towns of any size, crouching only on the road-side or in
obscure nooks, where the past lives still. It was a building of large
size, though but two stories in height, and even then presented an
ancient appearance, with its low eaves, small-paned windows, and stone
slab before the door. Behind it was an old garden, and near at hand,
two ponderous valves opened upon a large stable-yard full of bustling
hostlers.
The neighborhood in which this ancient dwelling stood was not without
a certain picturesqueness, thanks to the old, low-eaved houses, dating
from the French-Indian wars, and grassy knolls, from which quarries of
limestone stood out boldly; above all, because of the limpid stream,
which, flowing from the west just by the portico of the old tavern,
murmured gaily in the traveller's ear, and leaped toward him as he
crossed it, or allowed his weary animal to bathe his nostrils in the
cool water. Two or three majestic weeping-willows plunged their broad
trunks and vigorous roots into the clear stream, and sighed forever
over it, as, passing onward, it ran away from the Bousch hostelry
toward its ocean, the Opequon.
This old tavern, which exists still, we believe, a venerable relic
of the border past, was, in the year 1777, the abode of a "number of
Quakers, together with one druggist and a dancing-master, sent
to Winchester under guard, with a request from the Executive of
Pennsylvania, directed to the County-Lieutenant of Frederick, to
secure them." The reasons for this arrest and exile may be found in
a Congressional report upon the subject, (Anno. 1776,) which states,
that well-attested facts "rendered it certain and notorious that those
persons were, with much rancour and bitterness, disaffected to the
American cause;"--for which reason they were requested to go and
remain in durance at Winchester, in Virginia. How they protested at
Philadelphia against being taken into custody--protested again at the
Pennsylvania line against being carried out of that state--protested
again at the Maryland line against being taken into Virginia--and
ended by protesting at Winchester against everything in general--it is
all written in the Book of the Chronicles of the Valley of Virginia,
by Mr. Samuel Kercheval, and also in an interesting Philadelphia
publication, "Friends in Exile." To this day the old sun-dial in the
garden of "Bousch's Tavern" has upon it the inscription:
"_Exul patria causâ libertates_" with the names of the unfortunate
exiles written under it--always provided that the dial itself remains,
and the rain, and snow, and sun, have not blotted out the words. That
they were there, the present chronicler knows upon good authority.
How the exiles passed their time at Winchester, and finally returned,
will, some day, be embodied in authentic history.
It was many years after the quaker inroad; in fact the eighteenth
century, with all its philosophical, political, and scientific
"protests" everywhere, was nearly dead and gone, when another scene
occurred at Bousch's tavern, which history knows something of. As that
august muse, however, does not bury herself with personal details, we
will briefly refer to this occurrence.
It was about mid-day, then, when a carriage, with travelling trunks
behind it, and a white, foreign-looking driver and footman on the seat
before, drew rein in front of the old hostelry we have described.
The footman descended from his perch, and approaching the door of
the carriage, opened it, and respectfully assisted two gentlemen to
alight. These gentlemen were dressed with elegant simplicity.
The first had an oval face, which was full of good-humor, and in
which an imaginative eye might have discerned an odd resemblance to a
_pear_; the second, who seemed to be his brother, was more sedate, and
did not smile.
The gentlemen entered the inn, and asked if dinner could be furnished.
The landlord replied that nothing could be easier, and called their
attention to a noise which issued from the next room.
The elder gentleman, whose accent had indicated his foreign origin,
approached the door which led into the dining-room, followed by his
companion.
They looked in.
A long table, covered with a profusion of everything which the most
robust appetite could desire, was filled with ploughmen, rough
farmers, hunters from the neighboring hills, and a nondescript class,
which were neither farmers, ploughmen, nor hunters, but made their
living by conveying huge teams from town to town. They were travelling
merchants--not wagoners simply, as might have been supposed from their
garments full of straw, and the huge whips which lay beside them on
the floor. When they chewed their food, these worthies resembled
horses masticating ears of corn; when they laughed, they made the
windows rattle.
The good-humored traveller shook his head; over the face of his
companion passed a disdainful smile, which did not escape the
landlord.
As the elder turned round, he observed his servant inscribing their
names in the tavern-book. He would have stopped him, but he had
already written the names.
He thereupon turned to the landlord.
Could they not have a private room?
Hum!--it was contrary to rule.
They wanted to dine.
Could they not make up their minds to join the company?
The younger traveller could not, and would not--a room.
The landlord assumed a dogged expression, and replied that he made no
distinction among his guests. What was good enough for one was good
enough for all.
Then, the young traveller said, he would not stay in such a place.
The host replied, that he might go and welcome--the sooner the
better--he wanted no lofty foreign gentlemen with their airs, etc.
The two gentlemen bowed with grave politeness, and made a sign to
their servants, who came forward, looking with terrible frowns at
Boniface.
Prepare the carriage to set out again--they would not dine there.
How Monseigneur would go on in spite of--
Enough--Monseigneur would consult them when it was necessary. Harness
the horses again.
The result of which command was, that in ten minutes the two gentlemen
were again upon the road.
The landlord watched them, with a frown, as they departed. He then
bethought him of the book where the servant had inscribed their names,
and opened it. On the page was written:
"MR. LOUIS PHILLIPPE,
"MR. MONTPENSIER,
PARIS."
The landlord had driven from his establishment the future king of the
French, and his brother, because they wanted a private apartment to
dine in.
The common version that the Duke was personally assaulted, and turned
out, is a mere fiction--our own account is the proper and true one.
So Bousch's Tavern was only fated to be historical, when Mr. Jinks
approached it--that character having not yet been attached to it.
Whether the absence of such associations affected the larder in Mr.
Jinks' opinion, we cannot say--probably not, however.
Certain is it that Jinks entered with dignity, and accosted the fat,
ruddy, German landlord, Mr. Bousch, and proceeding to do what a
quarter of a century afterwards a Duke imitated him in, asked for a
private chamber. Mr. Bousch seemed to see nothing improper in this
request, and even smiled an assent when Jinks, still scowling,
requested that a measure of Jamaica rum might be dispatched before
him, to his chamber.
Jinks then strolled out to the pathway before the tavern, and looked
around him.
Suddenly there came out of the stable yard a young man, mounted on a
shaggy horse, which young man was clad in a forest costume, and held a
rifle in his hand.
Jinks directed a terrible glance toward him, and started forward.
As the horseman came out of the gateway, he found the road obstructed
by Mr. Jinks, whose drawn sword was in his hand.
"Back! rash youth!" cried Jinks, with terrible emphasis, "or this
sword shall split thy carcass--back!"
And the speaker flashed the sword so near to Cloud's eyes that he
tossed up his head and nearly reared.
Verty had been gazing at the sky, and was scarcely conscious of Mr.
Jinks' presence;--but the movement made by Cloud aroused him. He
looked at the sword wonderingly.
"Stand back!" cried Jinks, "or thou art dead, young man! Turn your
horse into that receptacle of animals again, and go not toward the
Bower of Nature!"
"Anan?" said the young man, calmly.
"So you pretend not to understand, do you! Vile caitiff! advance
one step at your peril--try to go and complete arrangements for a
matrimonial engagement at the Bower of Nature, and thou diest!"
Verty was getting angry.
"Mr. Jinks, you'd better get out of the way," he said, calmly.
"Never! stand back! Attempt to push your animal toward me, and I
slaughter him. Base caitiff! Know that the rival you have yonder is
myself! Know that she loves you not, and is now laughing at you,
however much she may have made you believe she loved you! She is a
wretch!"
Verty thought Mr. Jinks spoke of Redbud--the dominant idea again--and
frowned.
"Yes! a perfidious, unfeeling traitoress," observed Mr. Jinks,
grimacing terribly; "and if thou makest a single step toward her, I
will spit thee on my sword!"
Verty cocked his rifle, and placing the muzzle thereof on the Jinks'
breast, made a silent movement of his head, to the effect, that Mr.
Jinks would consult his personal safety by ceasing to obstruct the
way.
Jinks no sooner heard the click of the trigger, and saw the murderous
muzzle directed towards his breast, than letting his sword fall, he
started back with a horrified expression, crying, "murder!" with all
the strength of his lungs; and even in his terror and excitement
varied this expression by giving the alarm of "fire!"--for what
reason, he always declined to explain, even to his most intimate
friends.
Verty did not even smile, though he remained for a moment motionless,
looking at Mr. Jinks.
Then touching Cloud with his heel, he set forward again, followed by
the dignified Longears. As for Longears, we regret to say, that, on
the occasion in question, he did not comport himself with that high
decorum and stately courtesy which were such distinguishing traits
in his elevated character. His mouth slowly opened--his lips curled
around his long, white teeth, and his visage was shaken with a
nervous tremor, as, looking over his shoulder, he went on in Cloud's
footsteps. Longears was laughing--positively laughing--at Mr. Jinks.
That gentleman ceased crying "fire!" and "murder!" as soon as he came
to the conclusion that there was no danger from the one or the other.
He picked up his sword, looked around him cautiously, and seeing that
no one had observed his flight, immediately assumed his habitual air
of warlike dignity, and extended his hand--which held the hilt of his
undrawn sword--toward Verty. This gesture was so tragic, and replete
with such kingly ferocity, that Mr. Jinks was plainly devoting Verty
to the infernal gods; and the curses trembling on his lips confirmed
this idea.
He was standing in this melo-dramatic attitude, gazing after the
Indian, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and heard a jovial
voice say, "How are you, Jinks, my boy! What's the fun?"
The voice was that of Mr. Ralph Ashley.