young lady.
"And you live up Chestnut now, don't you--among the fashionables?"
"My father's house _is_ up Chestnut street."
"Your mother was a Ross, wasn't she?"
"Her maiden name _was_ Ross."
"I thought so," proceeded Mrs. Quimby; "I remember your father very
well. He was the son of Tommy Atwood, who kept an ironmonger's shop down
Second street by the New Market. Your grandfather was a very obliging
man, rather fat. I have often been in his store, when we lived down that
way. I remember once of buying a waffle-iron of him, and when I tried it
and found it did not make a pretty pattern on the waffles, I took it
back to him to change it: but having no other pattern, he returned me
the money as soon as I asked him. And another time, he had the kitchen
tongs mended for me without charging a cent, when I put him in mind that
I had bought them there; which was certainly very genteel of him. And no
wonder he made a fortune; as all people do that are obliging to their
customers, and properly thankful to them. Your grandfather had a
brother, Jemmy Atwood, who kept a china shop up Third street. He was
your great-uncle, and he married Sally Dickison, whose father, old Adam
Dickison, was in the shoemaking line, and died rich. I have heard Mr.
Quimby tell all about them. He knew all the family quite well, and he
once had a sort of notion of Sally Dickison himself, before he got
acquainted with me. Old Adam Dickison was a very good man, but he and
his wife were rather too fond of family names. He called one of his
daughters Sarah, after his mother, and another Sarah, after his wife;
for he said 'there couldn't be too many Sally Dickisons.' But they found
afterwards they could not get along without tacking Ann to one of the
Sarahs, and Jane to the other. Then they had a little girl whom they
called Debby, after some aunt Deborah. But little Debby died, and next
they had a boy; yet rather than the name should be lost, they christened
him Debbius. I wish I could remember whether Debbius was called after
the little Debby or the big one. Sometimes I think it was one and
sometimes t'other--I dare say Miss Atwood, you can tell, as you belong
to the family?"
"I am glad that I can set this question at rest," replied Miss Atwood,
smiling heroically; "I have heard the circumstance mentioned when my
father has spoken of his great-uncle Jemmy, the chinaman, and of the
shoemaker's family into which uncle Jemmy married, and in which were the
two Sallys. Debbius was called equally after his sister and his aunt."
Then turning to the very handsome and _distingué_-looking young
gentleman who had brought her the flowers, and who had seemed much
amused at the foregoing dialogue, Miss Atwood took his hand, and said to
Aunt Quimby: "Let me present to you a grandson of that very Debbius, Mr.
Edward Symmington, my sort of cousin; and son of Mr. Symmington, the
lawyer, who chanced to marry Debbius's daughter."
Young Symmington laughed, and, after telling Miss Atwood that she did
everything with a good grace, he proposed that they should join some of
their friends who were amusing themselves further up in the woods. Miss
Atwood took his arm, and, bowing to Mrs. Quimby, they departed.
"That's a very pleasant young lady," said she; "I am glad I've got
acquainted with her. She's very much like her grandfather, the
ironmonger; her nose is the very image of old Benny's."
Fearing that _their_ turn might come next, all the young people now
dispersed from the vicinity of Aunt Quimby, who, accosting a housewifely
lady that had volunteered to superintend the arrangements of the table,
proposed going with her to see the baskets unpacked.
The remainder of the morning passed pleasantly away; and about noon,
Myrtilla Cheston and her companions, returning from their ramble, gave
notice that the carriages from town were approaching. Shortly after,
there appeared at the entrance of the wood, several vehicles filled with
ladies and gentlemen, who had preferred this mode of conveyance to
coming up in the early boat. Most of the company went to meet them,
being curious to see exactly who alighted.
When the last carriage drew up, there was a buzz all round: "There is
the Baron! there is the Baron Von Klingenberg; as usual, with Mrs. Blake
Bentley and her daughters!"
After the new arrivals had been conducted by the Chestons to the house,
and adjusted their dresses, they were shown into what was considered the
drawing-room part of the woods, and accommodated with seats. But it was
very evident that Mrs. Blake Bentley's party were desirous of keeping
chiefly to themselves, talking very loudly to each other, and seemingly
resolved to attract the attention of every one round.
"Bromley," said Mrs. Quimby, having called Captain Cheston to her, "is
that a baron?"
"That is the Baron Von Klingenberg."
"Well, between ourselves, he's about as ugly a man as ever I laid my
eyes on. At least, he looks so at that distance; a clumsy fellow, with
high shoulders and a round back, and his face all over hair, and as
bandy as he can be, besides; and he's not a bit young, neither."
"Barons never seem to me young," said Miss Turretville, a young lady of
the romantic school, "but Counts always do."
"I declare even Mr. Smith is better looking," pursued Aunt Quimby,
fixing her eyes on the baron; "don't you think so, Miss?"
"I think nothing about him," replied the fair Turretville.
"Mr. Smith," said Myrtilla, "perhaps is not actually ugly, and, if
properly dressed, might look tolerably; but he is too meek and too weak.
I wasted much time in trying to entertain him, as I sat under the tree;
but he only looked down and simpered, and scarcely ventured a word in
reply. One thing is certain, I shall take no further account of him."
"Now, Myrtilla, it's a shame, to set your face against the poor man in
this way. I dare say he is very good."
"That is always said of stupid people."
"No doubt it would brighten him wonderfully, if you were to dance with
him when the ball begins."
"Dance!" said Myrtilla, "dance with _him_. Do you suppose he knows
either a step or a figure? No, no! I shall take care never to exhibit
myself as Mr. Smith's partner, and I beg of you, Aunt Quimby, on no
account to hint such a thing to him. Besides, I am already engaged three
sets deep," and she ran away, on seeing that Mr. Smith was approaching.
"Well, Mr. Smith," said the old lady, "have you been looking at the
shows of the place? And now the greatest show of all has arrived--the
Baron of Clinkanbeg. Have you seen him?"
"I believe I have," replied Mr. Smith.
"You wander about like a lost sheep, Mr. Smith," said Aunt Quimby,
protectingly, "and look as if you had not a word to throw at a dog; so
sit down and talk to _me_. There's a dead log for you. And now you
shan't stir another step till dinner-time." Mr. Smith seated himself on
the dead log, and Mrs. Quimby proceeded: "I wish, though, we could find
places a little nearer to the baron and his ladies, and hear them talk.
Till to-day, I never heard a nobleman speak in my life, having had no
chance. But, after all, I dare say they have voices much like other
people. Did you ever happen to hear any of them talk, when you lived in
England?"
"Once or twice, I believe," said Mr. Smith.
"Of course--excuse me, Mr. Smith--but, of course, they didn't speak to
_you_?"
"If I recollect rightly, they chanced to have occasion to do so."
"On business, I suppose. Do noblemen go to shops themselves and buy
their own things? Mr. Smith, just please to tell me what line you are
in."
Mr. Smith looked very red, and cast down his eyes. "I am in the tin
line," said he, after a pause.
"The tin line! Well, never mind; though, to be sure, I did not expect
you were a tinner. Perhaps you do a little also in the japan way?"
"No," replied Mr. Smith, magnanimously, "I deal in nothing but tin,
plain tin!"
"Well, if you think of opening a shop in Philadelphia, I am pretty sure
Billy Fairfowl will give you his custom; and I'll try to get Mrs.
Pattypan and Mrs. Kettleworth to buy all their tins of you."
Mr. Smith bowed his head in thankfulness.
"One thing I'm sure of," continued Aunt Quimby, "you'll never be the
least above your business. And, I dare say, after you get used to our
American ways, and a little more acquainted with our people, you'll be
able to take courage and hold up your head, and look about quite pert."
Poor Mr. Smith covered his face with his hands and shook his head, as if
repelling the possibility of his ever looking pert.
The Baron Von Klingenberg and his party were all on chairs, and formed
an impervious group. Mrs. Blake Bentley sat on one side of him, her
eldest daughter on the other, the second and third Miss Bentleys
directly in front, and the fourth, a young lady of eighteen, who
affected infantine simplicity and passed for a child, seated herself
innocently on the grass at the baron's feet. Mrs. Bentley was what some
call a fine-looking woman, being rather on a large scale, with fierce
black eyes, a somewhat acquiline nose, a set of very white teeth (from
the last new dentist), very red cheeks, and a profusion of dark
ringlets. Her dress, and that of her daughters, was always of the most
costly description, their whole costume being made and arranged in an
ultra fashionable manner. Around the Bentley party was a circle of
listeners, and admirers, and enviers; and behind that circle was another
and another. Into the outworks of the last, Aunt Quimby pushed her way,
leading, or rather pulling, the helpless Mr. Smith along with her.
The Baron Von Klingenberg (to do him justice) spoke our language with
great facility, his foreign accent being so slight that many thought
they could not perceive it at all. Looking over the heads of the ladies
immediately around him, he levelled his opera-glass at all who were
within his view, occasionally inquiring about them of Mrs. Blake
Bentley, who also could not see without her glass. She told him the
names of those whom she considered the most fashionable, adding,
confidentially, a disparaging remark upon each. Of a large proportion of
the company, she affected, however, to know nothing, replying to the
baron's questions with: "Oh! I really cannot tell you. They are people
whom one does not know--very respectable, no doubt; but not the sort of
persons one meets in society. You must be aware that on these occasions
the company is always more or less mixed, for which reason I generally
bring my own party along with me."
"This assemblage," said the baron, "somewhat reminds me of the annual
_fêtes_ I give to my serfs in the park that surrounds my castle, at the
cataract of the Rhine."
Miss Turretville had just come up, leaning on the arm of Myrtilla
Cheston. "Let us try to get nearer to the baron," said she; "he is
talking about castles. Oh! I am so glad that I have been introduced to
him. I met him the other evening at Mrs. De Mingle's select party, and
he took my fan out of my hand and fanned himself with it. There is
certainly an elegant ease about European gentlemen that our Americans
can never acquire."
"Where is the ease and elegance of Mr. Smith?" thought Myrtilla, as she
looked over at that forlorn individual shrinking behind Aunt Quimby.
"As I was saying," pursued the baron, lolling back in his chair and
applying to his nose Mrs. Bentley's magnificent essence-bottle, "when I
give these _fêtes_ to my serfs, I regale them with Westphalia hams from
my own hunting-grounds, and with hock from my own vineyards."
"Dear me! ham and hock!" ejaculated Mrs. Quimby.
"Baron," said Miss Turretville, "I suppose you have visited the Hartz
mountains?"
"My castle stands on one of them."
"Charming! Then you have seen the Brocken?"
"It is directly in front of my ramparts."
"How delightful! Do you never imagine that on a stormy night you hear
the witches riding through the air, to hold their revels on the Brocken?
Are there still brigands in the Black Forest?"
"Troops of them. The Black Forest is just back of my own woods. The
robbers were once so audacious as to attack my castle, and we had a
bloody fight. But we at length succeeded in taking all that were left
alive."
"What a pity! Was their captain anything like Charles de Moor?"
"Just such a man."
"Baron," observed Myrtilla, a little mischievously, "the situation of
your castle must be _unique_; in the midst of the Hartz mountains, at
the falls of the Rhine, with the Brocken in front, and the Black Forest
behind."
"You doat on the place, don't you?" asked Miss Turretville. "Do you live
there always?"
"No; only in the hunting season. I am equally at home in all the
capitals of the continent. I might, perhaps, be chiefly at my native
place, Vienna, only my friend, the emperor, is never happy but when I am
with him; and his devotion to me is rather overwhelming. The truth is,
one gets surfeited with courts, and kings, and princes; so I thought it
would be quite refreshing to take a trip to America, having great
curiosity to see what sort of a place it is. I recollect, at the last
court ball, the emperor was teazing me to waltz with his cousin, the
Archduchess of Hesse Hoblingen, who, he feared, would be offended if I
neglected her. But her serene highness dances as if she had a
cannon-ball chained to each foot, and so I got off by flatly telling my
friend the emperor that if women chose to go to balls in velvet and
ermine, and with coronets on their heads, they might get princes or some
such people to dance with them; as for my part, it was rather
excruciating to whirl about with persons in heavy royal robes!"
"Is it possible!" exclaimed Miss Turretville, "did you venture to talk
so to an emperor? Of course before next day you were loaded with chains
and immured in a dungeon; from which I suppose you escaped by a
subterranean passage."
"Not at all; my old crony the emperor knows his man; so he only laughed
and slapped me on the shoulder, and I took his arm, and we sauntered off
together to the other end of the grand saloon. I think I was in my
hussar uniform; I recollect that evening I broke my quizzing glass, and
had to borrow the Princess of Saxe Blinkenberg's."
"Was it very elegant--set round with diamonds?" asked Miss Matilda
Bentley, putting up to her face a hand on which glittered a valuable
brilliant.
"Quite likely it was, but I never look at diamonds; one gets so tired of
them. I have not worn any of mine these seven years; I often joke with
my friend Prince Esterhazy about his diamond coat, that he _will_
persist in wearing on great occasions. Its glitter really incommodes my
eyes when he happens to be near me, as he generally is. Whenever he
moves you may track him by the gems that drop from it, and you may hear
him far off by their continual tinkling as they fall."
"Only listen to that, Mr. Smith," said Aunt Quimby aside to her
protegée, "I do not believe there is such a man in the world as that
Hester Hazy with his diamond coat, that he's telling all this rigmarole
about. It sounds like one of Mother Bunch's tales."
"I rather think there is such a man," said Mr. Smith.
"Nonsense, Mr. Smith, why you're a greater goose than I supposed!"
Mr. Smith assented by a meek bow.
Dinner was now announced. The gentlemen conducted the ladies, and Aunt
Quimby led Mr. Smith; but she could not prevail on him to take a seat
beside her, near the head of the table, and directly opposite to the
Baron and his party. He humbly insisted on finding a place for himself
very low down, and seemed glad to get into the neighbourhood of Captain
Cheston, who presided at the foot.
The Blake Bentley party all levelled their glasses at Aunt Quimby; but
the old lady stood fire amazingly well, being busily engaged in
preparing her silk gown against the chance of injury from any possible
accident, tucking a napkin into her belt, pinning a pocket handkerchief
across the body of her dress, turning up her cuffs, and tying back the
strings of her cap to save the ribbon from grease-spots.
The dinner was profuse, excellent, and handsomely arranged: and for a
while most of the company were too earnestly occupied in satisfying
their appetites to engage much in conversation. Aunt Quimby sent a
waiter to Captain Cheston to desire him to take care of poor Mr. Smith:
which message the waiter thought it unnecessary to deliver.
Mrs. Blake Bentley and her daughter Matilda sat one on each side of the
Baron, and showed rather more assiduity in helping him than is customary
from ladies to gentlemen. Also their solicitude in anticipating his
wants was a work of super-erogation, for the Baron could evidently take
excellent care of himself, and was unremitting in his applications to
every one round him for everything within their reach, and loud and
incessant in his calls to the waiters for clean plates and clean
glasses.
When the dessert was set on, and the flow of soul was succeeding to the
feast which, whether of reason or not, had been duly honoured, Mrs.
Quimby found leisure to look round, and resume her colloquy.
"I believe, madam, your name is Bentley," said she to the lofty looking
personage directly opposite.
"I am Mrs. Blake Bentley," was the reply, with an imperious stare that
was intended to frown down all further attempts at conversation. But
Aunt Quimby did not comprehend repulsion, and had never been silenced in
her life--so she proceeded--
"I remember your husband very well. He was a son of old Benny Bentley up
Second street, that used to keep the sign of the Adam and Eve, but
afterwards changed it to the Liberty Tree. His wife was a Blake--that
was the way your husband came by his name. Her father was an
upholsterer, and she worked at the trade before she was married. She
made two bolsters and three pillows for me at different times; though
I'm not quite sure it was not two pillows and three bolsters. He had a
brother, Billy Blake, that was a painter: so he must have been your
husband's uncle."
"Excuse me," said Mrs. Blake Bentley, "I don't understand what you are
talking about. But I'm very sure there were never any artist people in
the family."
"Oh! Billy Blake was a painter and glazier both," resumed Mrs. Quimby;
"I remember him as well as if he was my own brother. We always sent for
him to mend our broken windows. I can see him now--coming with his glass
box and his putty. Poor fellow, he was employed to put a new coat of
paint on Christ Church steeple, which we thought would be a good job for
him: but the scaffold gave way and he fell down and broke his leg. We
lived right opposite, and saw him tumble. It's a mercy he wasn't killed
right out. He was carried home on a hand-barrow. I remember the
afternoon as well as if it were yesterday. We had a pot-pie for dinner
that day; and I happened to have on a new calico gown, a green ground
with a yellow sprig in it. I have some of the pieces now in patch-work."
Mrs. Blake Bentley gave Mrs. Quimby a look of unqualified disdain, and
then turning to the baron, whispered him to say something that might
stop the mouth of that abominable old woman. And by way of beginning she
observed aloud, "Baron, what very fine plums these are!"
"Yes," said the baron, helping himself to them profusely, "and apropos
to plums--one day when I happened to be dining with the king of Prussia,
there were some very fine peaches at table (we were sitting, you know,
trifling, over the dessert), and the king said to me, 'Klingenberg, my
dear fellow, let's try which of us can first break that large
looking-glass by shooting a peach-stone at it.'"
"Dear me! what a king!" interrupted Mrs. Quimby, "and now I look at you
again, sir (there, just now, with your head turned to the light),
there's something in your face that puts me in mind of Jacob Stimbel,
our Dutch young man that used to live with us and help to do the work.
Mr. Quimby bought him at the wharf out of a redemptioner ship. He was to
serve us three years: but before his time was up be ran away (as they
often do) and went to Lancaster, and set up his old trade of a
carpenter, and married a bricklayer's daughter, and got rich and built
houses, and had three or four sons--I think I heard that one of them
turned out a pretty bad fellow. I can see Jake Stimbel now, carrying the
market-basket after me, or scrubbing the pavement. Whenever I look at
you I think of him; may be he was some relation of yours, as you both
came from Germany?"
"A relation of mine, madam!" said the Baron.
"There now--there's Jake Stimbel to the life. He had just that way of
stretching up his eyes and drawing down his mouth when he did not know
what to say, which was usually the case after he stayed on errands."
The baron contracted his brows, and bit in his lips.
"Fix your face as you will," continued Mrs. Quimby, "you are as like him
as you can look. I am sure I ought to remember Jacob Stimbel, for I had
all the trouble of teaching him to do his work, besides learning him to
talk American; and as soon as he had learnt, he cleared himself off, as
I told you, and ran away from us."
The baron now turned to Matilda Bentley, and endeavoured to engage her
attention by an earnest conversation in an under tone; and Mrs. Bentley
looked daggers at Aunt Quimby, who said in a low voice to a lady that
sat next to her, "What a pity Mrs. Bentley has such a violent way with
her eyes. She'd be a handsome woman if it was not for that."
Then resuming her former tone, the impenetrable old lady continued,
"Some of these Dutch people that came over German redemptioners, and
were sold out of ships, have made great fortunes." And then turning to a
lady who sat on the other side, she proceeded to enumerate various
wealthy and respectable German families whose grandfathers and
grandmothers had been sold out of ships. Bromley Cheston, perceiving
that several of the company were wincing under this infliction, proposed
a song from one of the young officers whom he knew to be an accomplished
vocalist. This song was succeeded by several others, and during the
singing the Blake Bentley party gradually slipped away from the table.
After dinner the company withdrew and dispersed themselves among the
trees, while the servants, &c., were dining. Mrs. Cheston vainly did her
utmost to prevail on Aunt Quimby to go to the house and take a _siesta_.
"What for?" said Mrs. Quimby, "why should I go to sleep when I ain't a
bit sleepy. I never was wider awake in my life. No, no--these parties
don't come every day; and I'll make the most of this now I have had the
good luck to be at it. But, bless me! now I think of it, I have not laid
eyes on Mr. Smith these two hours--I hope he is not lost. When did he
leave the table? Who saw him go? He's not used to being in the woods,
poor man!"
The sound of the tambourine now denoted the approach of the musicians,
and the company adjourned to the dancing ground, which was a wide
opening in the woods shaded all round with fine trees, under which
benches had been placed. For the orchestra a little wooden gallery had
been erected about eight feet from the ground, running round the trunk
and amid the spreading boughs of an immense hickory.
The dancers had just taken their places for the first set, when they
were startled by the shrieks of a woman, which seemed to ascend from the
river-beach below. The gentlemen and many of the ladies ran to the edge
of the bank to ascertain the cause, and Aunt Quimby, looking down among
the first, exclaimed, "Oh! mercy! if there isn't Mr. Smith a collaring
the baron, and Miss Matilda a screaming for dear life!"
"The baron collaring Mr. Smith, you mean," said Myrtilla, approaching
the bank.
"No, no--I mean as I say. Why who'd think it was in Mr. Smith to do such
a thing! Oh! see, only look how he shakes him. And now he gives him a
kick, only think of doing all that to a baron! but I dare say he
deserves it. He looks more like Jake Stimbel than ever."
Captain Cheston sprung down the bank (most of the other gentlemen
running after him), and immediately reaching the scene of action rescued
the foreigner, who seemed too frightened to oppose any effectual
resistance to his assailant.
"Mr. Smith," said Captain Cheston, "what is the meaning of this
outrage,--and in the presence of a lady, too!"