Last summer I visited, for a few weeks, a romantic inland town, in the
northern part of New England. While there, some old papers accidentally
fell into my hands, and among them I found the following story; which
appeared to have been thrown into the form of a legend, and thus handed
down through several generations.
The family it relates to were originally among the principal families
residing in the good old town of Salem, toward the close of the old
French war. No branch of the family remained in the place at the time of
the Revolution of ’76; and their name even is now forgotten in the
vicinity, or only to be found on some old tomb-stone. This legend served
me to shorten a weary, sultry, mid-summer hour, and, courteous reader,
with the hope that it may do you the same kind service, I give it to you
without further comment.
* * * * *
The Fayerweather estate was purchased by the first of that family who
appeared in Salem, of a person of the name of Boynton. The estate was
situated in that part of Essex street since called “Old Paved street,”
from its having been the first, and for many years the only one, in the
town which afforded its passengers the convenience of a substantial
stone pavement.
The man Boynton, of whom Mr. Fayerweather purchased the land, was not
much respected in the town; he had but little reputation for honesty;
but Mr. Fayerweather having secured the title deeds, when he paid down
the purchase money, saw but little reason to fear his title being called
in question; therefore immediately on coming into possession, he built
on it a fine mansion. It was a large and respectable looking edifice,
built in the best style of the day; its date was the same with that of
the noted one in which the witches were tried, and which can yet be seen
standing in a green old age, at the corner of North and Essex streets,
having survived the decay and downfall of all its cotemporaries. The
solid beams and rafters of the Fayerweather mansion might have held
together equally as long, but not many years ago they were ruthlessly
torn down to make room for a more showy house of bright red brick, built
in the modern style.
Mr. Fayerweather lived in quiet possession of his land long enough to
see it nearly doubled in value, by his improvements and the increase of
dwellings in that part of the town. At his decease his only son took
possession of the homestead. Boynton’s death took place shortly after.
And now an unexpected claim was set up by his son and daughter, Jemmy
and Nanny, to an undivided moiety of the land, in right of their mother;
and a deed was produced by them, proving their title to this moiety by
purchase in her maiden name, with a date prior to her marriage. The
second Mr. Fayerweather perceived at once the knavery which had been
practiced upon his father, by the old sinner Boynton; but he not being
able to bring himself to contest the point by a recourse to law—of
which he entertained a horror—Jemmy and Nanny proceeded to establish
their claim by taking possession. They removed the little
ill-conditioned building which served for their dwelling, so near the
line which separated the garden and grounds immediately about the
mansion, from the rest of the land, that the hedge of shrubbery marking
the division might conveniently serve them equally well as an inclosure.
Their injured neighbor had no means of redress, however annoyed; and
being of a Christian spirit, still further subdued by affliction—having
lost his wife and several children in succession—he thought more of
securing possessions in another and better world, than of resisting
encroachments on those remaining to him in this. Few, however, are the
evils in this life which are found to be wholly unattended with benefit.
Even the fraud of old Boynton, the aggressions of Jemmy and Nanny, their
continual warfare with the kitchen division of his household, resulting
not seldom in a pitched battle with broomsticks—even these served a
good purpose to the sorrowing invalid. Like a perpetual blister, their
irritation sometimes aroused his spirit, in danger of sinking into
apathy or dejection; and by quickening the flow of his blood, and giving
it a more lively action, perhaps produced a favorable effect upon his
health. It is certain that his life was prolonged to a much greater age
than was prophesied when he took possession of his disputed inheritance.
At his death his estate fell to his son, also an only one, who in turn
became the occupant of the homestead, and whose family furnishes the
principal subject of the pages which follow.
Mr. Fayerweather, the third of the name in Salem, removed from Boston,
where he had married and had resided for several years. He was a man of
great worth, and of good sense, though with some eccentricities. The
handsome property which he inherited, together with that which fell into
his hands by his marriage, constituted him a wealthy man without any
addition; he, however, engaged in commerce for a few years, but not
finding it to his taste, he retired from business soon after his removal
to Salem, and led a quiet though useful life; one of the most beloved
and respected among the heads of the town. His good lady was
distinguished, principally, for kindness of heart, and an almost
laughable simplicity; though in her youth she had possessed much beauty,
and of a kind on which Time can scarce find it in his heart to lay his
withering fingers; spiteful as the old wretch usually is to lilies and
roses and lovely features. This well-matched pair had but two
children—both sons; a niece, however, left an orphan in infancy was
adopted by madam, (this title, in those days, was always borne by
matrons in the higher station,) and she became equally beloved by Mr.
Fayerweather.
Jemmy Boynton never married; despairing, probably, of finding a helpmate
equally as saving and lynx-eyed, as to the main chance as his amiable
sister. Nanny Boynton’s reasons for leading a single life were never
fully known. Perhaps she never received an offer; though being for many
years reputed the richest heiress in Salem, this does not seem probable,
even had her personal charms not been quite irresistible.
However the case may be, the brother and sister lived together in much
harmony; the fraternal tie being strengthened by bonds of principal and
interest. Still they were far from being agreeable neighbors to the
family at the larger house, whose quiet they succeeded in disturbing
almost daily. Madam kept herself as much aloof from them as she could,
consistently with her nature, which was kindly disposed to every
creature that breathed, and led her to do them all the good in her
power. Of this they availed themselves to their no small profit. They
levied contributions, under the name of loans, upon her larder, her
flour-barrel, and her meat-tub; seldom replenishing their own scanty
stock of provisions, until a supply from her store-room had served them
a week. The kitchen utensils were in constant requisition. The servants
sometimes took upon them to resist these exactions, when such a clamor
would be raised, as to throw poor madam into hysterics; in terror of
which and in mercy to his own ears, her good spouse was fain to give
orders that Jemmy and Nanny should have whatever they asked for, without
contention or debate.
This was to the unbounded indignation of Aunt Vi’let; a
sable-complexioned dame, who ruled in the kitchen with despotic sway,
and held old Scipio, her niece Flora, and Peter the footboy, in
wholesome subjection; often extending her dominion to the parlor, where
she found no difficulty in overawing madam; and even Mr. Fayerweather,
though he sometimes proved refractory, as in the above instance, yet he
generally found it his safest course to submit in silence to Aunt
Vi’let.
If there was a being in the world, toward whom Vi’let bore a decided
antipathy, that being was Nanny Boynton. This antipathy was partly
caused by the conviction that the latter was addicted to witchcraft; a
belief in which, not being yet wholly dispelled from the minds of the
ignorant and uneducated in Salem. In Vi’let it existed in as full force
as any of the articles of her religious creed; it might, indeed, be said
to be one of them—and her feelings toward Nanny were governed by it
accordingly; imputing to her agency every untoward event which occurred
in the family generally, but more particularly her own private mishaps,
her ailments and vexations. No fear, however, found a place in her
feelings toward her enemy; for had the latter attacked her, backed by
him of the cloven foot, in bodily shape, she was of a temper and spirit
to hold her ground and berate the foul fiend to his face; and if he had
not fairly turned and fled, panic-struck at the torrent of abuse
accompanying her adjurations, he had proved himself, indeed, a brave
spirit.
The brawls and disturbances occasioned by the hostility of these two
high-spirited maidens—for Vi’let too had forsworn matrimony—rendered
it the first object of Mr. Fayerweather’s wishes to remove the Boyntons;
and he endeavored to prevail upon them to relinquish their claim for a
reasonable compensation; but for many years in vain, their residence in
his neighborhood was much too profitable and convenient for them to be
easily induced to change it.
George Fayerweather, the elder of Mr. Fayerweather’s two sons, being the
hero of this legend, it may be as well to give some account of his
boyhood, especially of those events and associations that had some share
in the formation of his character. Though in strength and frame a young
giant, he had delicate, handsome features, and a complexion which seemed
to defy the effect of sun or wind, rosy cheeks, and long, curling,
golden hair. He resembled his mother very much; and madam could not
always avoid betraying her fond pride in this living image of herself,
as she smoothed his hair, and turning each golden lock over her finger,
formed it into ringlets round his blooming face and ivory throat, after
her daily operations of washing and dressing him. These offices she took
upon herself until he was eleven years old, and there is no knowing how
much longer she might have chosen to perform them, if his father had not
interfered—“Finding,” as he said, “the boy was in danger of becoming a
conceited, effeminate coxcomb—which no son of his should be.”
One morning Mr. Fayerweather was reading in a small apartment, which
opened out of the sitting-room, formerly used by him as a counting-room,
and still retaining the name, though it might have been dignified with
the title of library, being lined with book-shelves well filled. The
door was half open, and hearing some one enter the sitting-room, he
looked up and saw his son, who had just undergone the above-mentioned
dressing operations under his mother’s hands. The boy, not perceiving
his father, went up to the large looking-glass which hung over the
marble slab, where he stood apparently admiring himself, while he took a
handful of sugar-plums from his pocket, and putting them into his mouth,
ate as he gazed.
Mr. Fayerweather, with difficulty restraining his indignation, left the
room quietly by another door, which opened at the foot of the stairs, up
which he went. He descended quickly, bringing a silk gown of his wife’s
on his arm, and a lace cap in his hand, and softly approached George,
who was still absorbed in the contemplation of his own image. Seizing
the boy, who, paralyzed with shame, could make no resistance, he
stripped off his upper garment, and put the gown and cap on him; then
taking him on his knee, he began to trot and dandle him, singing, “High
diddle diddle.” George’s rage obtained the mastery; he struggled and
kicked with the strength of a half-grown Hercules, and at length freeing
himself from his father, he stripped off the gown and stamped upon
it—madam’s very blue-watered tabby! then catching a glance at himself
in the glass, and seeing the cap on his head, he tore it in two, and
flying up to the glass, with one blow of his fist, broke it into a
thousand pieces. The tempest now subsided in a torrent of tears, and the
poor boy ran off to hide his shame.
His father, when he saw the result of his experiment, almost repented
having carried it so far. He did not think of the value of the glass,
though he had sent “_home_” for it, at the cost of fifty guineas; and in
its elaborately carved and gilded frame, it was the pride of all “Paved
street”; nor madam’s blue-watered tabby, though it was her fourth
best—indeed, she rather preferred it to her Pompadour lustring, having
an idea that Mr. Fayerweather thought it becoming to her complexion—the
value of these twice-told he would have thought well-bestowed if they
cured George of his girlish vanity, and called forth in him a manly
spirit; but he regretted having outraged the feelings of his son. He,
however, courageously repressed the yearning which he felt to go and
soothe the boy and do away the effect of his severe lesson by sweetmeats
and caresses. He very sensibly left George to himself for a while.
Madam was out at this juncture. I pass over her lamentations, on her
return, at the injury done to her favorite gown and cap, and the still
louder ones which escaped her at the sight of the broken looking-glass;
suffice it to say, that Mr. Fayerweather promised her a green damask to
replace her outraged tabby, and to send home for a pair of glasses by
the next vessel. George did not make his appearance at dinner, but his
father manfully resisted his inclination to seek for him, and succeeded
in keeping down madam’s hysterics, by diverting her mind with some news
which he told her relating to the king and queen. He did not, however,
prevent her from heaping up a plate with every dainty the house
afforded, and giving it to Scipio, with a charge “not to leave till he
had found the child, and made him eat his dinner.”
Tea-time came, and no George took his accustomed seat, as near his
mother’s apron-strings as possible. On the door being opened, however,
which led into the passage between the sitting-room and kitchen, his
voice was heard in pretty loud and determined tones, and Vi’let
expostulating with him; which somewhat allayed madam’s fears that her
pet had run away and jumped into the river, or had cried himself sick.
The tea-things were cleared away, but he did not appear. Amy, who had
presided at the tea-table, went to the window and looked out, thinking
her uncle had been almost too hard upon poor George.
It was near the close of a fine day in mid-winter. The sun was just
setting, and the whole atmosphere appeared kindled into one bright red
flame, giving a rosy tint to the new-fallen snow, which lay deep upon
the ground, smooth and undrifted, and covering every roof; while the
grotesque figures of the long icicles which hung from the eaves were
glittering in the ruddy light. The moon’s broad disk was full in view in
the east, but as yet her rays of silver were lost in the brighter glow
of twilight. Amy thought how pleasant a sleigh-ride would be, if the
culprit could be taken into favor, and they could all go.
The hour passed without its accustomed cheerfulness to the family
within. Mr. Fayerweather paced the room, with his hands clasped behind
him, as usual, when his mind was not perfectly at ease. Madam had taken
her knitting, and was seated at one side of the fire-place, occasionally
giving a gentle sigh; while little John counted his marbles into her
lap, for want of a more convenient place, and missing his brother very
much, but not venturing to ask why he did not come in. The room was warm
from the fire of hickory which had blazed in the wide chimney all day,
but which was now reduced to a mass of burning coals covered with white
ashes. This was the hour in which it was customary for Scipio, preceded
by Vi’let as pioneer, to make his appearance with a log as big as he
could lug, to lay the foundation of the fire for the next day.
After some altercation having been heard in the passage, Vi’let entered
alone with a more portentous scowl than usual, and surveying Mr.
Fayerweather over her spectacles, muttered something which sounded
marvelously like “an old Turk,” and “folks being in danger of their
lives;” then making a dive into the coals with her huge kitchen-shovel,
she gave a deep sigh, which ended in a grunt, and continued her
grumbling, her last audible words being “a poor, broken-hearted family.”
All this passed unheeded by them, as “only pretty Fanny’s way.”
No Scipio followed; but in his stead, in came Peter, with his milled
cap, his striped homespun and tow apron, carrying a log larger than
usual; on seeing which, Mr. Fayerweather, whose nerves were still
vibrating, broke out in wrath, as the log fell into the hollow made to
receive it by Vi’let, throwing the coals and ashes far out over the
hearth.
“Peter, how dare you come into the parlor with the log? Do you not know
it is Scipio’s work, you blockhead? And what did you bring in such a log
as that for? Did you mean to break your back, to save me the trouble of
breaking your head?”
The boy turned his face around to Mr. Fayerweather, who stood aghast at
seeing him; for the streaked and clouded visage which met his view, did
not belong to Peter, but to his own son, who had involuntarily doffed
the milled cap from habitual reverence as his father spoke.
“Why, Mr. Fayerweather, it’s George, if I’m alive!” screamed his mother;
“and he has cut off all his beautiful curls, and his face is all
streaked with I don’t know what! It will never come white again. What
upon earth has got into the boy!”
George was silent for a moment; at length he muttered, “I don’t mean to
be dressed in girl’s clothes again.”
“You are right, my man,” said his father, speaking with some difficulty,
and shaking his son’s hand, he continued; “now you make me proud of you;
but you need not wear Peter’s clothes, and you should not have lifted a
log as big as a cider-barrel—it might have strained your back.”
The boy’s countenance brightened as his father spoke; at the last words
he held his head boldly up and said, “It did not hurt me at all, sir—I
can lift a log twice as big as that. I mean to bring in all your wood,
to pay for the looking-glass, I—” his lip quivered, and he could not
finish.
The father’s eyes twinkled; he coughed, and made one or two ineffectual
efforts to speak; but all would not do—and he was obliged to quit the
room precipitately, to hide his emotion. In a moment he was heard
calling out to Scipio, in a voice between a sob and a shout, to bring
out the sleigh; and now, his eyes dried and his throat cleared, Mr.
Fayerweather was himself again.
“Come, my dear,” he said to madam as he returned, “put on your cloaks,
you and Amy, and we’ll all have a sleigh-ride. There’s the moon just up,
and it will be as light as day; the sleighing is like glass. George, my
man, be quick, and go put on your own clothes, and wash your face—I
intend you shall drive.”
The sleigh was brought out, and they all got in; madam and her niece on
the back seat, and Mr. Fayerweather and the two boys on the front,
where, having seen them comfortably seated, well cloaked and blanketed,
their feet at the hot bricks, of which Vi’let always kept a supply at
the kitchen fire, summer and winter, the reader and I will leave them,
being somewhat in haste to finish this part of my story.
George from this moment put off childish things; his fair complexion and
rosy cheeks became a source of serious mortification to him; and he
endeavored by exposure to all kinds of weather, to bring them to a more
manly hue. He began now to mingle with other boys of his age; and the
noble and generous spirit which appeared in him, on every occasion that
could call it forth, rendered him a great favorite with his companions.
The smaller boys looked up to him as their champion; the weak and
defenseless—as he considered the whole tribe of the lower animals to
be—he took under his especial protection; and wo to the merciless boy
who infringed on their rights, by depriving them of their liberty, or by
any other act of cruelty toward them in his sight. His prodigious bodily
powers, his fearlessness and spirit of adventure, made him a leader in
every bold enterprise.
There is apt to exist, in every town, a rivalry and jealousy between the
inhabitants of different parts; this spirit was maintained to an unusual
degree between the population of the eastern and western sections of
Salem—the “Down-in-towners” and the “Up-in-towners,” as they were
respectively called. This feeling displayed itself among the boys
particularly, and on every occasion of their meeting. It was even said
that the flock of geese which led their goslings to feed in the vicinity
of “Broadfield,” and often breasted the waters of “Mill Pond,” and those
which, more adventurous, dared the waves washing the “Neck,” often took
the field against each other in hostile array, when dire would be the
hissing and great the loss of feathers. This, however, is not vouched
for; but it is certain that the biped youth without feathers, had
regularly a grand pitched battle of snow-balls every winter near the
first of January; and the victorious party usually maintained their
superiority for the remainder of the year, and held possession of the
play-ground, then the common, constituting a kind of border territory,
being situated at nearly an equal distance between the eastern and
western extremities of the town. This common has since become a fine
promenade, shaded with trees, forming Washington Square.
For several years the Down-in-towners had been victorious in the annual
fight; probably they being mostly the sons of sea-faring men, their
_bringing-up_ had rendered them stronger and more fearless than the
“land-lubbers,” as they called the boys of the west end. But as soon as
George Fayerweather took the field, the face of affairs was wholly
changed; the foe was routed in every engagement, and the play-ground was
so quietly yielded to the Up-in-towners at length, that the possession,
losing all its glory, ceased to be an object; and George prevailed on
his band to cede it back to the Down-in-towners, urging that it properly
belonged to them, and that it was a shame to keep them out of their
right. This trait of magnanimity gained him many friends among the sons
of Neptune at the east end, and finally brought about a peace between
the hostile powers.
Among George’s new acquaintances was one whom he liked particularly,
because he was almost as bold and fearless as himself; but more
especially, because he had once done him the extraordinary favor of
falling through the ice as they were skating down to “Baker’s Island,”
thereby affording George a glorious opportunity of showing his prowess
in pulling the lad out of the water at the manifest peril of his own
life. It would be difficult to say which felt the most obliged on the
occasion, George or Dick Seaward; but the foundation was then laid of a
strong and lasting friendship between the parties.
About two months after this event Captain Seaward returned from a long
voyage in the Two Pollys, and Dick lost no time in bringing about an
acquaintance between his father and his friend. The latter went by
special invitation one evening to eat cocoa-nuts, and see the
curiosities which the captain had brought home. The old salt took a
liking to George at first sight, and, in his rough way, spared no pains
to entertain him. He appeared like some hero of romance to his wondering
guest; and pleased with the lad’s admiration, he ransacked his memory,
stored by voyages of five-and-twenty years, for marvelous adventures,
unheard of perils by shipwreck, pirates, etc. His narrative, interlarded
with high-sounding and mystic terms, such as “Mawlstroom,” “Tuffoon,”
“Mousoon,” “Kamskeatshy,” and the “Chainymen,” produced much such an
effect on his hearer’s excited imagination, as Don Quixote might have
experienced at hearing the adventures of Amadis de Gaul from his own
mouth.
The captain then displayed his curiosities; these were numerous and
strange, and served in some sort as illustrations of his discourse.
There were elephant’s tusks and ostrich’s eggs, the sword of the
sword-fish, and the saw of the saw-fish; there was a nautilus’ shell,
which might have carried a boat’s crew; and there was the entire skin of
an enormous snake, which the captain intended to have stuffed and hung
as a capital ornament round the best room. There was one upon which Mrs.
Seaward set an especial value, it being the first gift the captain had
brought her home, when he was “a courting her.” This gift of true love
was an elephant’s tail, with about twenty black bristles on it, the size
of darning-needles, and looking like polished whale-bone; but the one
upon which her spouse particularly prided himself, was the gaping jaw of
a monstrous shark, with its triple row of teeth, suggesting the
pleasurable idea of one’s leg or arm, or half one’s body serving as a
_bonne bouche_ to the monster. These treasures were displayed before
George’s admiring eyes, and he looked upon the possessor of them with a
feeling almost amounting to awe.
A word or two more regarding these same curiosities: after being handed
down through several generations, they were among the first deposited in
the Salem Museum upon its being founded; and they there formed a
nucleus, around which has been gathered, from time to time the present
noble collection.
But to return to our narrative; when George rose to take leave at this
first visit, the captain, overflowing with good-will, brought out two
cocoa-nuts, a pine-apple, and a pot of foreign sweetmeats—
“Here, you may stow away these for your ma’am;” (the pockets were
capacious in those days) “and mind, don’t forget to ax your sir to let
you come down next Wednesday, and you and Dick may go over the Two
Pollys.”
The desired permission being obtained, the two lads were taken to visit
what was nearest to its proud owner’s heart—after his “old woman and
Dick”—his good vessel the Two Pollys. To describe George’s ecstasy at
the view of the new world now presented to him would be impossible. He
examined every part of the vessel—let himself down the sides, and
clambered up again—bestrided the bowsprit—ran up the shrouds—and,
before the captain could call out—“Take care, boy, do you mean to break
your neck!” he was swinging by his two hands from the top-mast. The
frightened seaman swore a tremendous oath, and threatened the
nine-tails; but by the time George had reached the deck, which he did in
a whole skin, his terror for the boy’s life was changed into admiration
at his daring.
“Your sir ought to make a sailor of you; it’s a shame that such a lad as
you should be a land-lubber.”
So thought George, and his resolution was from this moment taken.
The chief part of his time, out of school, was now spent on board the
Two Pollys; and in the course of a month he was nearly as well
acquainted with every part of the vessel—knew the name of every mast
and sail, of the ropes and the yards, and understood their management
nearly as well as an ordinary mariner of half a dozen years’ standing.
But the climax to George’s enjoyment was yet to come.
One evening his father received a call from Captain Seaward, accompanied
by his son Dick. Mr. Fayerweather, although somewhat surprised, gave his
guest a very cordial reception, and ordered out his best wine. The
captain took the glass, and after the accustomed “My sarvice to you,”
drank off the wine and smacked his lips; then clearing his throat he
opened his business.
“I come to ax a favor of you, Mr. Fayerweather; d’ye see, Captain
Brayton sets sail to-morrow, if the wind’s fair, on a v’yage to the West
Ingees, and he’ll touch at New York going out, to see a vessel of his’n,
that’s laying there, and only waiting for his orders to come home. Now,
Captain Bob Stimpson and I, and one or two more of us old fellows, think
of taking the trip with him as far as New York, and coming back in his
vessel. I’m going to take my boy here with me, and I want you to let
your son George go. I ha’n’t said nothing to him about it, bethinking
myself, as how if you wa’n’t willing he’d be disappinted, and I knew he
wouldn’t go without your leave, and I’m sure I shouldn’t think o’ taking
him. We expect to be gone three days.”
Mr. Fayerweather was pleased with the honest bearing and hearty
good-will of his weather-beaten guest, but he hesitated about letting
George go; the company not being altogether exactly such as he would
have chosen to trust his son with for so long a time; although all who
were named bore the character of worthy men. He was endeavoring to frame
a refusal that would not wound the captain’s feelings, when his son
entered the room. On hearing his old friend’s errand from Dick, George
expressed so much delight at the proposed expedition, that the fond
parent prevailed over the prudent one, and the consent was given.
Captain Seaward took his leave, with a charge to George to be ready by
two o’clock next morning, if called for.
We pass over his mother’s expostulations, and Vi’let’s evil prognostics,
who said she had seen Nanny Boynton that very day, “sowing seed in the
ground backward, and talking to herself all the while, when she went
over to scold Dinah for not bringing home the brass kettle she had
borrowed.” George was deaf to all. He was up and dressed next morning by
one o’clock; the wind, however, had no mind to be hurried, and did not
choose to set fair till day-break, when Dick appeared with his summons,
and off the two lads set in high spirits.
His mother would probably have passed a very melancholy day, it being
the first time her son had been out of her sight, with the prospect of
being absent longer than a few hours; but her husband taking occasion to
intimate that his counting-room wanted a thorough cleaning, and his
book-shelves putting in order—a task she always superintended herself,
aided by her niece—he hinting, moreover, that he should be glad of
their assistance in making out a catalogue of the books, which had long
been needed, ample employment was afforded to all three, to keep George
from their thoughts.
It was now about the middle of June. The summer had so far been dry and
dusty, and every thing appeared languishing for want of rain. At length
Dame Nature, like a notable housewife, began to feel her temper rise at
the dirt and disorder of every thing belonging to her. She rated her
house-maids soundly—“Idle hussies! that did nothing but loiter and
sleep night and day; they had not done a stroke of work to tell since
the March cleaning; they did not even earn the breath they drew! There
were her beautiful grassy carpets, not three months old, an inch thick
with dust; their flowers were all faded and their turf dried up and
withered. Her windows! not a star could shine through them; and as for
the curtains, they were of such a color, it would puzzle a philosopher
to tell what they were made of. Her crystal and once clear fountains
were unfilled, and the bright surface of their mirrors covered with
green slime. She was actually ashamed the sun should look upon such a
scene of neglect! The slothful, lazy jades had better bestir themselves,
for not one of them should get into their beds till every hole and
corner was cleaned, and put into thorough order; or she would know the
reason why!”
The elements roused from their lethargy, and chafed by their imperious
mistress, sighed and muttered—the clouds huddled together scowling, and
sending forth a low murmur of discontent, dropped a few angry tears. The
winds brandished their besoms, and with one sweep made dust, leaves and
branches, and even small trees, scuttle-doors and hen-coops all fly
before them. It was an unlucky day for ancient buildings! The roof of
one respectable old barn, whose shingles had for some time been moving
up and down like feathers on a fowl’s back, was at length seen sailing
with great dignity across the street, to the manifold terror of two old
women who kept a huckster’s shop there; but whose premises, however,
escaped uninjured, it alighting very considerately on the field behind
their house. The winds having performed these feats, rested awhile to
take breath. The lightnings now flashed and the thunders roared; the
clouds dashed from their brimming pails the torrents, which rolling over
hills and valleys and through streets and lanes, formed rivers in the
gutters, and carried all before them, which the winds had scattered in
their way, into the sea.
In the afternoon of this day, two hours before sunset but after tea,
Madam Fayerweather and her niece took their accustomed seat at a
pleasant window in a small apartment which served as a kind of ante-room
to madam’s own chamber. On one side a door opened at right angles with
the head of the front stairs, and from which a long passage led through
this story. Facing this door was the one which opened at the head of the
back stairs; while a third, opposite the window, led into madam’s
chamber. Vi’let was seated at the kitchen-door, directly beneath the
window, solacing herself with her pipe; while Tabby winked and purred at
her side.
Jemmy Boynton’s kitchen and wood-shed, at the distance of some rods,
were nearly hidden from sight by a hedge of tall lilacs and rose-bushes
bounding Mr. Fayerweather’s premises on this side, the view took in
gardens, orchards and fields extending to the North river, (a small
inlet from the sea so called,) the whole space of which is now covered
with streets and houses.
Amy was reading to her aunt, who, with a large basket of fragments of
silk of various colors at her side, was deeply engaged in an elaborate
piece of work, concerning which she affected a great mystery, keeping
its purpose and destination a profound secret. Both aunt and niece were
so much engrossed by the subject of the book—it was Clarissa Harlow,
which had lately been received from England—that the darkening sky and
rising wind had escaped their notice. A loud scream from Vi’let aroused
their attention.
“O! the massiful s’us! there’s the old witch flying away at last! Land’s
sake alive! O-h-h-h!”
They both looked out, and behold! there was Nanny Boynton in good
earnest—at least so their terrors made them believe—high in air, her
red cloak fluttering, amidst a cloud of dust, shingles, staves of old
tubs, broomsticks, etc. etc.
She directed her course south, and was soon lost to view, while the
dismay of madam and Amy deprived them of the power of utterance. At
length, on Amy’s turning her eyes to the spot whence she supposed the
whirlwind had caught up their ill-fated neighbor, what met her sight but
the object of their terrors herself, on firm ground, but despoiled of
cloak, ’kerchief and cap; her lean and bony arms bare and extended, and
each separate hair of her gray locks on end; giving her much the
appearance of one of the weird sisters in the midst of an incantation.
The aunt and niece were expressing their relief at Nanny’s escape from
being carried off bodily, when the recollection of her son, exposed on
the water to the fury of a hurricane, now darted into the mind of the
former. She shrieked out:
“Oh, George! my child, my child! what will become of you! Oh, Mr.
Fayerweather, why did you let him go!” she exclaimed to her husband, who
at this moment entered the apartment.
He was ashy pale, but no other indication of the dreadful apprehension
under which he was suffering was visible on his countenance, and not
being able to nerve himself to bear the sight of his wife’s agonies,
should she know how strong were the grounds for her fears, he endeavored
to make light of them.
“Oh, my dear, do not be in trouble about George; he’s far beyond the
reach of this little squall; he and Dick have probably been in New York
these two hours.” (Mr. Fayerweather hoped devoutly to be forgiven for
thus belying his conscience, well-knowing that implicit confidence would
be placed in his assurances.) “He and Dick, I have no doubt, are now
patroling the streets with eyes and mouths wide open at the wonders they
see.”
“Well, I am rejoiced if they are out of the reach of this hurricane; but
I hope Captain Seaward will not trust them alone in New York streets; I
have always heard it is a terrible place for children. Sometimes they
are kidnapped as I have heard tell,” replied Mrs. Fayerweather, her
fears somewhat quieted.
“Oh, you need not be afraid of that, my dear; the captain promised
faithfully that he would not suffer George to go out of his sight,” said
her husband as he left the apartment, and Amy resumed her book.
The gust, after several vain attempts to shake the solid old mansion
from its foundation, at length relaxed its efforts and fell into a calm;
the sky cleared up and the sun went down in tranquil beauty. Before its
disc had wholly disappeared, however, it was surrounded by a light haze,
which gradually spreading and deepening, at length assumed the form of a
dark thunder-cloud, reaching nearly to the zenith.
A flash of lightning was the signal for the whole household to assemble,
and before the low, deep bass of the distant thunder reached their ears,
they were all collected within madam’s chamber and its nearest
precincts. The bed was her own retreat, and she would have been glad to
have given the whole family a place on it could they have found room.
Amy, whose fears were scarcely less, seated herself on a low stool by
the bed-side, and leaning her arms on the bed buried her face in the
counterpane. Vi’let without ceremony ensconced herself in the
easy-chair, rocking to and fro and groaning out at intervals, “Oh, that
old witch!” while old Tabby, who did not choose to be left alone in the
kitchen, crowded in by her side, and took her full share of the cushion.
Not finding another low seat, Flora took the floor at the side of Miss
Amy, and leaned her arms on a chair in imitation of her young mistress;
and Peter placed himself at first on the top-most of the back stairs,
but by degrees, as the storm increased, edged further into the
apartment, and at length after a loud clap of thunder, planted himself
on one leg against the side of the door, with his woolly poll half in
his mistress’s chamber. John, who enjoyed a thunder-storm above all
things, took his station at a window where he could best see the
lightning, while his father and Mr. Wendell, a young lawyer who was an
admirer of Amy, and was now added to the family party, paced up and down
the long passage, extending their walk into the antechamber
before-mentioned, in a corner of which Scipio had placed himself.
Though the long summer twilight had but just commenced, darkness had
suddenly covered the face of all things, when a dash of lightning, more
intense than the sun, quivered for a moment through the passage and in
the chambers, accompanied by a crash of thunder.
“The massiful s’us!” groaned Vi’let. “The lawful massy!” ejaculated
Flora. Poor madam could only whisper, “O dear! dear!” Amy trembled.
“That’s royal!” cried John, starting up and clapping his hands.
“Be silent, boy,” said his father, sternly—“is this a time—”
“Mr. Fayerweather, my dear, are you sure George is safe?” madam
implored.
“Oh, yes, my dear,” replied her husband, “he’s safe as we all are—in
the hands of Divine Providence. Peter, get candles.”
A chattering of teeth was heard, but the statue did not stir from its
pedestal.
“Scipio, do you?”
“Please, master, it’s Aunt Vi’let’s business to get ’em ready,” said
Scip in a trembling voice.
The worthy gentleman, not feeling himself equal to an encounter with
Vi’let in such an extremity, said—
“Well, it will be the shortest way to get them myself,” and made
preparations to do so; at which Vi’let, safe in the easy-chair,
displayed great indignation.
“Why don’t you go, Scip? there’s master going himself, if I’m alive. I
wish I was near you, I’d see if you didn’t stir your stumps.”
A low grumble was heard from Scip in the ante-room.
“Hold your tongue, you black nigger,” returned Vi’let from the
easy-chair; “aint ye ’shamed yeself? ’sturbing madam and all the good
family with your clamor. If I was master I would soon clear the house of
you all.”
During this colloquy, or rather monologue, John, starting up, made but
two steps over the stairs and soon reappeared with lights. Mr.
Fayerweather then took up the prayer-book which, with the large bible,
lay on the table in the inner chamber, and asked his young friend if he
would read prayers, his own broken voice sufficiently showing himself
unequal to the office. Mr. Wendell, with a little hesitation took the
book, turned over a few leaves, while the household all assembled
kneeling in the chamber; when, amidst the roar of the storm without, his
voice was soon heard, in tones solemn and low, like some spirit of peace
rebuking the angry elements. He read with deep feeling a part of the
evening service, with prayers for the midst of a storm. This act of
submission and trust in Him who rules the tempest and makes the
whirlwinds to obey, calmed the spirits and elevated the thoughts of the
little assembly. Madam soon fell into a gentle slumber, and Vi’let’s
nasal organs gave tokens that she had followed her mistress’s example.
Flora and Peter ditto.
The storm at length somewhat abated, but Mr. Fayerweather resumed his
walk. After a while he stopped suddenly for a moment, and then
exclaiming,
“The Almighty be praised! there’s George’s voice,” and ran down stairs,
followed by John, Mr. Wendell and Amy.
Loud and rough voices, but in high good-humor, with shouts of laughter,
were now heard rapidly approaching the house. They all opened the
front-door together, and in crowded Captain Seaward, Captain Bob
Stimpson and the two lads. Captain Seaward said—
“Here, Mr. Fayerweather, I’ve brought George home t’ye, safe and sound.”
Captain Bob Stimpson, in order to draw the attention of the company to
himself, cleared his throat with a humph, in which were harmoniously
blended the German guttural and the French nasal, and striking his huge
cane on the floor, added—“And if there’s another two such lads in the
whole province of Massachusetts Bay, I am not Captain Robert
Stimpson!—why, they saved the vessel and the lives of us all.”
Here Captain Seaward chimed in.
“D’ye see, Mr. Fayerweather, the gale was sich a one as not many of us
had often been out in afore; and at one time when it blew so strong as
to threaten to capsize the vessel, one of the ropes got loose, and it
was needful for somebody to go aloft and make it fast without loss of
time, or the vessel would have gone to pot in less than no time. Not a
lubber of a sailor would stir, but they all stood staring at each other
like so many sculpens. Brayton’s stout-hearted enough, but he’s lame,
and Stimpson here and I are both old and clumsy”—Captain Bob Stimpson
fetched a grunt—“but we were going to try what our old carcases could
do, when them ’ere two lads pushed afore us, and were up the shrouds in
a twinkling and fastened the rope. The vessel was saved, but she was so
much strained that we were obliged to put back for repairs, and for
Brayton to get some better hands. So, now we’ll shake hands and bid ye
good-night.”
Mr. Fayerweather tried hard to prevail on the two sea-worthies to stay
and eat supper; but Captain Seaward excused himself, alleging that his
“old woman would be skeared about them;” his friend, Stimpson, adding—
“And my daughter, Judy, will cry herself to pieces, if she doesn’t see
her sir to-night.”
The noise below now aroused Madam Fayerweather, who called out between
sleeping and waking:
“What’s the matter, Amy?—Mr. Fayerweather?” Then thoroughly awake, she
exclaimed—
“Where are they all gone?” and rising from the bed, said in a louder
tone—“Vi’let, what upon earth is the matter?”
Vi’let snored out, “It’s that ’ere Scip; he’s the torment and plague of
my life—he’s always making a hullagaloo.”
Here the whole party entered the chamber. What was madam’s surprise at
seeing George! When she discovered that he had been out in all the
storm, she complained loudly of having been kept in ignorance of his
danger.
“As if I was not his mother, and had not a right to know every thing
about him; but it’s the way you always do, Mr. Fayerweather, and I do
not take it kindly of you at all. I should have had a fit had I known
that he was on the water all this time.”
And madam was near falling into one at the idea of it; but the fear that
her son might be half-starved, and not be able to get any thing to eat
if she should take up the time in having hysterics, made her think
better of it; so she desired Vi’let to get a good supper and make George
some white wine-whey. Vi’let, punching Peter down stairs before her, and
followed by her satellite Flora, made her descent, grumbling and
muttering at having _vittles_ to get at that time o’ night.
They had an excellent supper, during which George related all the
wonders which he and Dick had seen and performed on that memorable
day—and if he felt somewhat lifted up, might he not be pardoned? After
supper Mr. Wendell took his leave, and the family sought repose; though
not before offering up fervent thanks for George’s preservation.
The shrill reveille of the barn-yard trumpeter early aroused Nature from
her slumbers, and fearing she had overslept herself from the fatigues of
yesterday, she threw off her dark counterpane and donned in haste her
gray kirtle. The bull-frog had ceased tuning his eternal bass-viol, and
with the beetle, the whippowil, the owl, and other roysterers of the
night, had gone to bed. All was still, excepting that here and there
might be heard the soft twitter of some warbler who was to take part in
the grand chorus of the morning, as nestled among the branches he tuned
his little pipe. Her wearied handmaidens were yet sleeping after their
night’s toil; and their indulgent mistress left them awhile longer to
their repose, for never had they better performed her bidding. The
eastern casements were new hung in draperies of rose-color and gold, and
the morning-star was peeping in, to see that all was in order for his
monarch’s arrival; while the moon still lingered near the western
portal, to take one look at his joyous visage before her departure. The
west-wind now woke, and sweeping fragrance from the new-born flowers,
gently fanned the face of the careful matron as she cast a pleased eye
over her fair domain. Her fountains were filled to the brim and gleamed
in the early light; her fresh green turf was glittering with gems, and a
diamond hung from every leaf of her foliage. But the paling of the
morning-star now gave notice of the sun’s approach; and spying his
steeds advancing over the ocean, and her broad mirrors reflecting his
glance on their burnished surfaces, she gave the signal for the morning
concert to strike up, and all radiant with smiles welcomed her lordly
visitor. The moon meekly courtesied her adieu.
Vi’let was early astir this morning. She went down stairs, her cap on
one ear, very much out of humor at having the house to put to rights
again, “arter working like a dog all yesterday from sunrise till
midnight.” Routing up Scip and Peter, and setting Flora to put the
breakfast-room in order, she then placed the coffee and chocolate on the
fire, and the cakes into the Dutch-oven to bake—this, the reader will
recollect, was before the era of cooking-stoves and ranges—after which
she called out to Flora to know if Dinah had brought back the
frying-pan.
“No, Aunt Vi’let,” returned Flora, in a deprecating tone; “but you
mustn’t blame me, for I told her you’d want it this morning to fry the
flap-jacks.”
“That’s always the way with that old witch, Nanny; if she gets any thing
out of anybody, they’ve good luck to get it again—Pete’, what are you
gaping at me for? Why don’t you clean master’s shoes, you lazy nigger?
What’s Scip’ poking about—why don’t he bring in the stuff to make the
fire burn? Breakfast wont be ready till nine o’clock, and madam will be
down scolding so that the house wont hold her—sich a life as I lead!”
Here she went across the yard to the hedge dividing her master’s
premises from those of Jemmy Boynton, thrust her head through the lilacs
yet in full bloom—the white linen border of her cap turned back,
setting off to great advantage her ebony complexion—and called out,
“Dinah!”—then louder and sharper, “Dinah!”—no Dinah appeared.
“What the old gallows ails the gal, that I must split my throat a
screeching arter her!” then raising her voice to the utmost
pitch—“Di-i-ina-ah!”
Here Dinah’s head appeared out of a little square window in the
out-house.
“What’s wanting, Aunt Vi’let?”
“What’s wanting?—the frying-pan’s wanting—what d’ye think?”
“Laud ’a’massy, Aunt Vi’let, I forgot all about it; we had sich a rumpus
here yesterday.”
“Rumpus! yes, I ’spect you _had_ a rumpus! I only wonder the house wa’nt
blowed away. Them as lives with witches must ’spect to ride in the air
some time or ’nother.”
“Hush! Aunt Vi’let,” cried Dinah, in a voice somewhat lower. Here she
ran across the yard to the place of rendezvous, frying-pan in hand, and
added, in a whisper, “I reckon she’s got sharp ears; I wonders sometimes
how our most privatest conversations gets to her hearing.”
“Has she got her cloak back?” asked Vi’let.
“No, she han’t got it yet; but I ’spect she’ll get it to-day; the wind
blowed it over to South fields, and it got stuck in the top of a tree.
They had sich a time about it last night, I thought they’d raise the
neighbors, case Tom Duckenfield wouldn’t go and look arter it, arter
he’d rung the bell for nine. She ’clared she’d put him in jail for the
one-and-sixpence he owed her for milk; and Tom said she’d better take
care, or he’d let out about the bran, he see her steal, that old Swasey
begged for his pig, to feed her cow.”
“The bran from old Swasey’s pig!” exclaimed Vi’let in indignation; “I
guess she needn’t steal much bran! the cow gets all her living out of
our barn. She gets in when the gate is shut fast! the old witch knows
how. Pete’ says he see her lift up the latch with her horns; now, what
nat’ral cow, that’s _raly_ a cow, would have sense to do that, I want to
know! Oh, I see’d well enough what she raly was, one night last winter.”
“Why, what was it?” asked Dinah, with ears and eyes wide open for the
marvelous.
“Why it was just afore nine o’clock, and I heard old Tabby miaow
terribly at the kitchen-door. I opened it, and in she flew, looking as
if she was skeared to pieces! her tail was as big as that,” (doubling up
her fist.) “So I looks out to see what it was as frightened her so,
when, a standing inside the barn-door, I see’d—as true as you stand
there—I see’d a woman, all in white, without n’ary head! it had a
handkercher in its hand, and it kept a waving it back’ards and
for’ards—”
“I should ha’ swounded away dead,” said Dinah.
“So would anybody but me; but I kept up my courage, for my temper ris; I
thought Nanny was at the bottom of it all along, though I know’d it was
a sperit—for I’ve see’d enough on ’em,” she continued, her imagination
kindling with the subject; “and it rolled its eyes, and—and—”
“But, Aunt Vi’let,” observed Dinah, submissively, “I thought you said it
hadn’t n’ary head.”
“Hold your tongue, you fool! what do you keep ’terrupting me for? Where
was I? Well, then, it fetched a sithe—sich a sithe!—I couldn’t stand
it no longer; so I called master out. ‘There, sir,’ says I, ‘now I hope
you’ll believe your own eyes’—for he always laughs and ri-dicules at
witches and ghosts, and all them sort o’ things. So I tell’d him—and
out he goes. I see all the time he was skeared enough, only he was
’shamed to show it afore me; but when he got to the barn-door, he set up
sich a laugh—you might a hearn him into your house. I ’clare it made my
hair stand on eend to hear him. ‘Here,’ says he, ‘Vi’let, your woman
without a head is changed into a cow’s hind legs and tail!’ and sure
enough, it was the beast then, but I know’d well enough what it was
afore. Howsomenever, it wan’t no use a telling him; so I takes a skillet
of biling water, that was on the fire, to bile some eggs—for our folks
must always have some mess o’nother hot for supper, to keep me at it
slaving from morning to night; not but I likes a little bit o’ suthen
comfortable myself afore I goes to bed, and the most part on it comes
into the kitchen. So I was going to fling it on to her, to see what
she’d turn into next; but master tell’d me to let her alone, for the
barn wouldn’t miss a little hay. Did you ever hear any thing so
’diclous! I tell’d him—”
“Aunt Vi’let! Aunt Vi’let!” was now heard from the kitchen-door; “the
cakes is burning, and mistress wants to know if breakfast wont be ready
soon.”
“And why don’t Flora take the cakes out of the oven, then! Can’t nothing
be done without me?” cried Vi’let. “For the laud’s sake, give me my
frying-pan, and let me go, or I shall have the whole house arter me.”
She went into the kitchen in a hurry, took up her cakes, and fried her
flap-jacks.
After their morning devotions, the Fayerweather family, in high spirits,
gathered round the breakfast-table. This was laid in the western room,
before an open glass-door, which looked into the garden. The cool
morning breeze, after frolicking among the flowers, found its way in at
the door, and mingling its stolen perfumes with those of the coffee and
chocolate, played antics with the table-cloth.
I might here describe the breakfast; but as there was nothing
appertaining to it which greatly differed from a modern one, I will just
ask the reader to imagine his or her own family circle—which is,
doubtless, the most agreeable in the world—in the best possible humor,
and with excellent appetites, before a repast exactly suited to the
taste of each individual of said family, seasoned by all the wit and
liveliness possessed by each, in a peculiar degree, and my task will be
accomplished in the best possible manner.
From this memorable period, all George’s accustomed avocations became
tedious and disagreeable to him. Greek and Latin, in both of which he
had made an unwilling progress, under Master Goodwin, of the grammar
school, to prepare him for college, he now actually loathed; and his
father found he must give up the hope nearest his heart, of ever seeing
his eldest son distinguished in one of the learned professions.
“Well, my boy,” he said at last, “if, as you say, you are convinced you
can never make a scholar, as it is not my way to drive a nail that will
not go, I consent to your giving up Greek and Latin; though I _did_ hope
to see you in one of the professions which your grandfathers followed so
creditably. As to your going to sea, remember, it is wholly against my
inclination. I shall expect you to continue at school two years; then,
if you make such progress in general learning, and in studies connected
with navigation, as to give me reason to hope seeing you something above
the mate of a Marblehead skipper, I will then consent, though I should
much prefer your going into a counting-house in London.”
The youth, satisfied with the hope of obtaining his father’s consent to
his following the sea on any terms, promised faithfully to do all that
was required of him; and, moreover, possessing some common sense, a
quality not usually abounding in characters of his stamp, he set his
mind to applying itself with energy and perseverance to the studies
dictated by his father and Master Goodwin.
During the two years specified, two events of note occurred in the
Fayerweather family; one was Amy’s marriage. This was conducted with all
the state due to so important an occasion. The time for Amy’s “_walking
bride_,” as it was termed, for the three Sundays succeeding the wedding,
happened to be unfortunately in the early spring, the first Sunday
falling on Easter, near the beginning of April. The bridal procession,
consisting of the happy pair walking arm-in-arm, four bridemaids and as
many groomsmen, set off from Mr. Fayerweather’s and paraded the whole
length of Essex street to the end of St. Peter’s, where stood the church
of wood dedicated to the same saint, lately replaced by a handsome
gothic edifice of stone.
The bride was attired in a rich white satin; her fair neck shaded by a
tucker of costly Brussels’ lace, a ruffle of the same falling over her
dimpled elbow. Her sharp-pointed shoes, with heels three inches high,
were of white brocade, with a silver flower in the toe, and brilliant
paste buckles, nearly covering the instep. Any thing in the shape of
hat, bonnet, cloak or scarf would have been altogether _outré_ on such
an occasion. The large fan which it was customary for the bride to
carry, and to hold up gracefully to shade her face, was mounted with
white leather on which was painted, in lively colors, the wedding train
of Isaac and Rebecca; Rebecca in a sacque, with triple ruffled cuffs,
and Isaac in a full-bottomed periwig; walking side by side, through
arches festooned with flowers, followed by six pairs of young nymphs
holding the Jewish bride’s train; whilst a winged Cupid, with bow and
arrows, and a Hymen, with his torch pointing to the church in the
distance, marshaled the procession. A pair of turtle-doves, imagined to
be cooing, sat on the arch directly over the heads of the happy couple.
This fan was the wonder and admiration of the _élite_ of Salem.
Mr. Wendell was in a coat of milk-white broad-cloth, with nether
garments of white satin, and paste knee-buckles; and a white satin
waistcoat flowered with silver, in the button-hole of which was placed a
large bouquet of hyacinths, which Amy had coaxed to bloom for the
occasion. A chapeau-bras held under his arm completed his equipments.
It was a raw and disagreeable day in this least pleasant of the seasons
in New England; with an east wind—which sourest and most ill-tempered
of the children of Eolus usually blows on the seacoast from the
beginning of April until the end of May, and oftentimes encroaching far
into June. By a miracle the bride did not catch a cold. On the second
Sunday she wore her second suit, a rose-colored damask, and on the third
a straw-colored paduasoy; each week “sitting up for company” every day,
with her attendants, in the afternoon for ladies, and in the evening for
gentlemen, drest in the habiliments she wore on the Sunday beginning the
week. These indispensable ceremonies were usually performed under the
roof of the bride’s parent or guardian; after which the new-married pair
took possession of their own house. That of Mr. and Mrs. Wendell, as
will be seen presently, was situated at a very short distance from Mr.
Fayerweather’s, where Amy still spent the greater part of her time.
The other event of importance that took place during George’s two years
of probation was the obtaining of a quit-claim by Mr. Fayerweather from
Jemmy and Nanny Boynton. This he had obtained through the assistance of
his new nephew, Mr. Wendell, and without paying more than one third more
than it was worth. After securing this deed or quit-claim the kind uncle
converted Boynton’s house and his old ware-house, which stood near it,
into a pretty residence for the young married couple, in order, as he
said, to have Cousin Amy still under his own wing. As soon as the
important negotiation with the Boyntons was concluded, Mr. Fayerweather
came with all possible haste to make the joyful communication to the
family. As he laid the document in triumph on the table he said,
“There, my dear, I have got the quit-claim at last from the Boyntons.
The land is all our own now.”
On hearing these words, madam aroused herself from a deep reverie and
exclaimed,
“La! Mr. Fayerweather, you don’t say so; how thankful I am. How did you
prevail on them?”
“Oh, Wendell and I were too strong for them; though Nanny, I believe,
would still have held on if I had not offered a good deal more than I
had intended; and she was not satisfied after all; but I don’t care, I
have the deed, and now we shall be rid of them.”
The two lads, who were laying their heads together at the window, and
planning, it is to be feared, some mischief, started up in a transport—
“Then we’ll have a bonfire out in the field to-night, as high as the
house, in spite of them,” cried John, “to-night’s Gunpowder Treason.”
“Yes,” added George, “and we’ll burn Jemmy for Pope; I know a capital
way to get his old wig.”
“You’ll do no such thing, boys,” interrupted their father; “you may make
your bonfire up to the moon if you will, but let Jemmy Boynton alone—we
are quit of him now, and you shall give no occasion for any more brawls
with him or Nanny either.”
“With Nanny! no indeed!” and madam, clasping her hands, cast her eyes
upward, rolling them in a very remarkable manner.
The youths went out, and their father was following them, when a “Mr.
Fayerweather, my dear,” stopped him short, and he turned round to his
better half, who, he saw, was dying to make some very momentous
communication.
“Well, my dear, what is it? What have you to tell me?”
“Oh, my dear, I meant to have told you before, but you were so full of
business this morning that I had not a chance; but I think you ought to
know.” Madam looked awful and mysterious.
“Why, what was it? Did Nanny’s red cloak take another flight?”
“La! no, my dear—you’ll never forget that, I believe—but this is what
took place in our own kitchen, and I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Well, what was it then? I am all impatience to know?”
Madam cleared her voice—“Why, I happened to be in the kitchen
yesterday, just before tea-time, when Dinah came over to borrow half a
pint of meal to make some porridge for Nanny, so I asked Dinah what was
the matter with her? for you know that nobody takes porridge but when
they are sick, and not then, if they can afford a little posset, or even
oatmeal gruel with raisins in it. Dinah said, she was sure she did not
know what ailed her, but she was so nervous and cross there was no
living in the house with her. I reproved Dinah for talking so of her
mistress, and after she was gone I told Vi’let to make some nice
sack-posset, and carry it over to Nanny; you know, with all their money,
they scarcely afford themselves the necessaries of life. Vi’let grumbled
enough, and said ‘water porridge was good enough for witches, and too
good, too;’ however, she went to get the skillet to boil the milk in,
and when she came back with it in her hand, what should slip in between
her feet but a monstrous great black cat. Old Tabby always fights all
strange cats, but when she saw this, she slunk away, and hid herself
behind the settle. Vi’let was going to strike the strange cat over with
the skillet, but I would not let her—not bethinking myself that it was
any thing more than a common cat—though it was the biggest one I ever
saw—but it seemed to be nothing more than skin and bone, and it rubbed
up against me and mewed so pitifully, that I told Vi’let not to hurt the
creature, but to give it something to eat. Vi’let said she wasn’t going
to do no such thing; and if I wanted to give Christian folks’ vittles to
evil sperits I might get it myself. Then she tried to strike it again;
when the creature, or whatever it was, hunched up its back and spit at
her; and then it set up an awful yowl and disappeared. I thought I saw
it go out after Dinah; but Vi’let said it banished up chimney; and she
was sure Nanny sent it to bewitch us all. And this morning she says she
was pinched black-and-blue all night, so that she couldn’t sleep a wink,
and took three crooked pins out of her sleeve, which she was sure she
never put there, for she has only two, and one of them hasn’t any head.
She showed me her arm that was pinched so; it was certainly very much
swollen, though I couldn’t see any black-and-blue marks for the color of
her skin. I am pretty sure _I_ felt some twitches, too, in my right arm;
and this morning I had the strangest cramp in my foot. I wet my finger
and crossed the place, and the cramp went off; but I feel all the time
as if it was coming on again. Now what do you think of all this, Mr.
Fayerweather? Don’t you think it high time Nanny was seen to?”
Mr. F. looked comical.
“Now what are you laughing at?” said madam, in an unwonted pet; “I’ll
never tell you any thing again, if Nanny bewitches us all together,
which it’s likely enough she’ll do, now we have the land against her
will.”
“Don’t be offended, my love,” said her husband; “I was only pleased to
have my mind made easy on one score—you’ll never be hanged for a witch,
I am sure; and as to Nanny, why, I think you may safely leave her to
Vi’let—I’ll match her with any witch in the Bay Province.”
Madam was appeased, though not wholly satisfied, but, as in duty bound,
said no more, not being quite sure as to the twitches; and having,
moreover, a vague suspicion that Vi’let’s swollen arm might be
occasioned by the rheumatism, though she would have scarcely ventured
such a surmise to Vi’let herself. The matter of the strange cat she
dismissed from her mind.
George’s two years of probation passed rather slowly to him; but at last
they came to a close. He had improved his time to the entire
satisfaction of his father, having made such progress in his studies as
to reflect great credit on Master Goodwin, and also prove his own
industrious application. His predilection for a sea-faring life had
rather strengthened than abated, and his father could no longer withhold
his consent. A favorable opportunity was all George waited for, which
soon presented itself. Captain Brayton was going on a voyage up the
Mediterranean, and was to proceed to London, and touch at several
European ports in coming home. He had a good crew, and Captain Seaward
made interest with his old friend to take his son and George as light
hands, and to keep them under his especial protection, lamenting at the
same time that the Two Pollys, which was lying in the dock, undergoing
some repairs, could not be made ready for the voyage.
Before Captain Brayton sails, we beg leave to introduce to the reader
another one of young Fayerweather’s acquaintance Down-in-town.
He, also, bore the title of captain, which was accorded to all who, like
himself, had ever been a ship-master—old Captain Bob Stimpson—a short,
thick-set man, with legs like a mill-post, the upper parts encased in
leather breeches, the lower parts in blue worsted stockings, with smart
shoes fastened with huge silver buckles of great brilliancy. His wig,
which had once been black, was rendered nearly red by age, and formed a
setting to his redder face, which matched well with his huge bottle-nose
of the same fiery hue. But do not mistake, gentle reader; Captain Bob
Stimpson was a temperate man. He usually wore a brown coat and
waistcoat, out of which latter appeared ostentatiously the ruffle of his
shirt, broader than usual for the fashion of the day. He was a man of
substance, and owner of a rope-walk, at the door of which he was usually
found seated, pipe in mouth.
What could a youth of seventeen find in the society of such an old
codger of fifty-two? Can you guess, my fair reader? He had a
daughter—the Down-in-town beauty, she was called; a girl of whom any
father might have been proud.
She was his only child; her beauty was a rare specimen of the blonde,
with a high polished forehead, and exquisite features. A slight drooping
of the lid at the outer corner of her clear blue eyes, sometimes gave a
shade of sadness to her lovely countenance; but when animated, these
eyes became bright and merry, and her face was radiant with dimpled
smiles.
Captain Stimpson’s house was considered a fine one for the time in which
he lived. It was a large square building, situated in the midst of a
spacious terrace, of which the under part was improved for shops, for
the sale of ready-made seaman’s clothing; and the lawn in front of his
house was directly over their roofs. The ascent to the terrace was by a
long flight of stone-steps, situated between two shops. The lawn was
covered with fine grass, bordered with rose-bushes and lilac-trees, and
a broad gravel-walk through the centre led to the house. This was of
three stories, with a cupola on the top, which cupola the two captains
used for a look-out, when vessels were coming in or going out; it
commanded a view of the harbor; the house being situated in that part of
the town now called Neptune street, or as they used to say, “down on the
wharves.” There was nothing further remarkable about the house,
excepting the cap of the front-door, which was ornamented by a figure of
Neptune, with his trident—the wonder and admiration of all the young
mermen of the vicinity.
George first saw Judith Stimpson—conceive of a beauty with such a
name!—as he went with Dick, one summer afternoon, on some errand from
the father of the latter to Captain Stimpson. She was with a little
troop of companions who were on an afternoon’s visit to her, having
finished all the tasks of sewing and knitting which their prudent
mothers had set them. As yet pianos were scarcely invented, and there
was but one spinnet in the place, and this was viewed by some with
distrust, as having a secret connection with witchcraft. Judith and her
companions issued from the house for a game of romps on the terrace. It
was not in those days considered as infringing on decorum for girls of
thirteen to play at “blindman’s-buff,” “old Tickleder,” or
“hide-and-seek” in the open air. The little girls had just formed the
magic circle around the beautiful Judith, who, dressed in a yellow
grogram, with elbow-sleeves and ruffles of worked cat-gut over her
round, white arms, was dancing with great glee, and singing in a voice
rather loud for a young lady of her years, “Ring around the maiden in
Uncle Johnny’s garden,” her light, silken curls flying in every
direction round her glowing and innocent face, when who should appear on
the terrace but the two young men! Away scampered the girls, vainly
endeavoring to reach the house before their tormentors could catch them.
Judith was caught by Dick, who pretended to insist strongly on taking
the forfeit she had incurred, while she blushed and struggled to free
herself from his grasp. George, seeing the pain and confusion she
evidently felt at being thus surprised, insisted on Dick’s releasing her
without the forfeited kiss; and it was then he first observed her great
beauty and modesty. While his friend went into the house to do his
errand, he so improved his acquaintance with the little girls that he
soon became foremost in their plays. At “hide-and-seek” and “old
Tickleder,” he was found incomparable. They were just forming a circle
in “Ring around the maiden,” round Betty Brayton, a little black-eyed
girl, the intimate friend of Judith, the hand of the latter of whom
George had taken care to secure, when Dick came out. He, after teazing
the girls and rallying his friend a little, drew him, rather
reluctantly, away; not, however, before George had gathered a rose, and
flinging it at Judith, said slyly, in a rather low tone, “Keep that for
my sake.” From this time he seized every opportunity of improving his
acquaintance with Judith; and several keepsakes passed between them.
Those from Judith being extorted rather than given, and those from
George received with a merry laugh.
[_To be continued._
* * * * *