demanded silence in the startling and authoritative tone to which he had
accustomed himself when issuing his orders on ship-board; putting his
hands before his mouth and hallooing through them as substitutes for a
speaking trumpet. He was not so ungallant as to say that in reality the
lady had made the first advances, but he addressed his audience in the
following words:--
"I tell you what, my friends, here's a great noise to little purpose,
and much shrugging, and stamping, and flourishing of hands, that might
as well be let alone. As for me, take notice, that I am quite out of the
question, and after this day I'll have nothing more to do with any of
you. I'm thankful to this young fellow for having opened my eyes; though
I can't approve of his showing me his sweetheart's letter. He has saved
me from the greatest act of folly an old man can commit, that of
marrying a young girl. I shall take care not to make a jackass of myself
another time."
Sam and Dick exchanged looks of congratulation.
"Now," continued Uncle Philip, "if, after all this, the young barber-man
is still willing to take the girl, I know not what better either of them
can do than to get married off-hand. I shall not feel quite satisfied
till I have seen the ceremony myself, so let it take place immediately.
I happen to have a hundred dollar bill in my pocket-book, so I'll give
it to them for a wedding present. Come, I'm waiting for an answer."
Madame Franchimeau and the young couple all hesitated.
"Uncle," whispered Sam, "they have just been quarrelling violently--how
can you expect them to get over it so soon, and be married directly?"
"Pho!" replied Uncle Philip, "an't they French?"
There was a pause of some moments. At last Robertine put on her best
smile, and said in French to Lantiponne--"My estimable friend, pardon
the errors of a young and simple heart, which has never for a moment
ceased to love you."
"What candour!" exclaimed Lantiponne--"what adorable frankness! Charming
Robertine!"--kissing her hand--"more dear to me than ever."
The aunt, though much displeased at Robertine for missing Uncle Philip,
thought it best that the affair should go off with as good a grace as
possible, and she exclaimed, while she wiped tears of vexation from her
eyes--"How sweet to witness this reunion!"
"Boys," said Uncle Philip, "which of you will run for Squire Van
Tackemfast? To prevent all future risks, we'll have the marriage here on
the spot, and Miss Robertine shall return to New York to-day as
Madame"--he had to consult the young Frenchman's card--"as Madame
Achille Simagrée de Lantiponne."
Both boys instantly set off for the magistrate, but as Sam ran fastest,
Dick gave up the chase, and turned to the house, where he startled his
mother by exclaiming--"Make haste--make haste down to the cabin--there's
to be marrying there directly."
"Shocking!" cried Mrs. Clavering, throwing away her sewing. "Is Uncle
Philip really going to play the madman? Can there be no way of saving
him?"
"He _is_ saved," replied Dick; "he has just been saved by a French
barber, Miss Robertine's old sweetheart; and so Uncle Philip is going to
have them married out of the way, as soon as possible. I suppose he is
determined that Miss Robertine shall not have the least chance of making
another dead set at him. Sam is gone for Squire Van Tackemfast."
"But the cabin is no place for a wedding," said Mrs. Clavering.
"Why," replied Dick, "Uncle Philip seems determined not to quit the
cabin till all danger is over. Dear mother, make haste, or Miss
Robertine may yet win him back again."
Mrs. Clavering hastily changed her cap, and ordered a servant to follow
with cake and wine; and on their way to the cabin Dick gave her an
account of all that had passed. In a few minutes Sam arrived,
accompanied by Squire Van Tackemfast, with whom Captain Kentledge
exchanged a few explanatory words. There was no time for any further
preparation. Uncle Philip instantly put the hand of Robertine into that
of her lover. The young couple stood up before the magistrate, who
merely uttered a few words, but which were sufficient in law to unite
them for ever--"In the name of the commonwealth, I pronounce you man and
wife." This was the whole of the ceremony; the magistrate writing a
certificate, which was duly signed by all present.
"Now," said Uncle Philip, looking at his watch and addressing
Lantiponne, "the steamboat will soon be along, and if you are going down
to the city to-day, you will have little enough time to make your
preparations."
The bride and groom curtsied and bowed gracefully, and departed with
Madame Franchimeau, whose last words were--"What a surprise for Monsieur
Franchimeau, and also for papa and mamma and my little darlings!"
When they were all fairly off, Mrs. Clavering felt as if relieved from
the weight of a mountain; and she could not quit the cabin till she had
had a long discussion with Uncle Philip on the recent events.
In about an hour, the steamboat passed along, going close in shore to
get all the advantage of the tide; and Robertine, who stood on the deck
leaning on her husband's arm, smiled and waved her handkerchief to Uncle
Philip.
To conclude--it was not long before the old gentleman prevailed on Mrs.
Clavering and her family to remove with him to a house of his own at
Salem, a plan which had been in agitation for the last year; and in due
time the boys commenced their apprenticeships, Sam to the captain of an
Indiaman, and Dick to a shipbuilder. Both succeeded well; and have since
become eminent in their respective professions.
Uncle Philip looks not much older than when he first allowed himself to
be smitten with Miss Robertine; but he has never since fallen into a
similar snare. He has made his will, and divided his whole property
between Mrs. Clavering and her children, with the exception of some
legacies to old sailors.
The Simagrée de Lantiponnes have a large establishment in Broadway.
The Franchimeaus and their system soon got out of favour at Corinth, and
they have ever since been going the rounds of new villages.
THE ALBUM.
"Tis not in mortals to command success."--ADDISON.
"Ungallant!--unmilitary!" exclaimed the beautiful Orinda Melbourne, to
her yet unprofessed lover, Lieutenant Sunderland, as in the decline of a
summer afternoon they sat near an open window in the northwest parlour
of Mr. Cozzens's house at West Point, where as yet there was no hotel.
"And do you steadily persist in refusing to write in my album? Really,
you deserve to be dismissed the service for unofficer-like conduct."
"I have forsworn albums," replied Sunderland, "and for at least a dozen
reasons. In the first place, the gods have not made me poetical."
"Ah!" interrupted Miss Melbourne, "you remind me of the well-known story
of the mayor of a French provincial town, who informed the king that the
worthy burgesses had fifteen reasons for not doing themselves the honour
of firing a salute on his majesty's arrival: the first reason being that
they had no cannon."
"A case in point," remarked Sunderland.
"Well," resumed Orinda, "I do not expect you to surpass the glories of
Byron and Moore."
"Nothing is more contemptible than _mediocre_ poetry," observed
Sunderland; "the magazines and souvenirs have surfeited the world with
it."
"I do not require you to be even _mediocre_," persisted the young lady.
"Give me something ludicrously bad, and I shall prize it almost as
highly as if it were seriously good. I need not remind you of the
hackneyed remarks, that extremes meet, and that there is but one step
from the sublime to the ridiculous. Look at this Ode to West Point,
written in my album by a very obliging cadet, a room-mate of my
brother's. It is a perfect gem. How I admire these lines--
'The steamboat up the river shoots,
While Willis on his bugle toots.'"
"Wo to the man," said Sunderland, "who subjects his poetical reputation
to the ordeal of a lady's album, where all, whether gifted or ungifted,
are expected to do their best."
"You are mistaken," replied Orinda; "that expectation has long since
gone by. We have found, by experience, that either from negligence or
perverseness, gentlemen are very apt to write their worst in our
albums."
"I do not wonder at it," said Sunderland. "However, I must retrieve my
character as a knight of chivalry. Appoint me any other task, and I will
pledge myself to perform your bidding. Let your request 'take any shape
but that, and my firm nerves shall never tremble.'"
"But why this inveterate horror of albums?" asked Orinda. "Have you had
any experience in them?"
"I have, to my sorrow," replied Sunderland. "With me, I am convinced,
'the course of albums never will run smooth.' For instance, I once, by
means of an album, lost the lady of my love (I presume not to say the
love of my lady.)"
Orinda looked up and looked down, and "a change came o'er the spirit of
her face:" which change was not unnoticed by her yet undeclared admirer,
whose acquaintance with Miss Melbourne commenced on a former visit she
had made to West Point, to see her brother, who was one of the cadets of
the Military Academy.
Orinda Melbourne was now in her twenty-first year, at her own disposal
(having lost both her parents), and mistress of considerable property, a
great part of which had been left to her by an aunt. She resided in the
city of New York, with Mr. and Mrs. Ledbury, two old and intimate
friends of her family, and they had accompanied her to West Point. She
was universally considered a very charming girl, and by none more so
than by Lieutenant Sunderland. But hearing that Miss Melbourne had
declined the addresses of several very unexceptionable gentlemen, our
hero was trying to delay an explicit avowal of his sentiments, till he
should discover some reason to hope that the disclosure would be
favourably received.
Like most other men, on similar occasions, he gave a favourable
interpretation to the emotion involuntarily evinced by the young lady,
on hearing him allude to his former flame.
There was a pause of a few moments, till Orinda rallied, and said with
affected carelessness, "You may as well tell me the whole story, as we
seem to have nothing better to talk of."
"Well, then," proceeded Sunderland, "during one of my visits to the
city, I met with a very pretty young lady from Brooklyn. Her name is of
course unmentionable; but I soon found myself, for the first time in my
life, a little in love--"
"I suspect it was not merely a little," remarked Orinda, with a
penetrating glance; "it is said, that in love the first fit is always
the strongest."
"No, no!" exclaimed Sunderland; "I deny the truth of that opinion. It is
a popular fallacy--I know it is," fixing his eyes on Orinda.
At that minute, the young officer would have given a year's pay to be
certain whether the glow that heightened Miss Melbourne's complexion,
was a _bona fide_ blush, or only the reflection of the declining
sunbeams, as they streamed from under a dark cloud that was hovering
over the western hills. However, after a few moments' consideration, he
again interpreted favourably.
"Proceed, Mr. Sunderland," said Orinda in rather a tremulous voice;
"tell me all the particulars."
"Of the album I will," replied he. "Well, then--this young lady was one
of the belles of Brooklyn, and certainly very handsome."
"Of what colour were her eyes and hair?" inquired Orinda.
"Light--both very light."
Orinda, who was a brunette, caught herself on the point of saying, that
she had rarely seen much expression in the countenance of a blonde; but
she checked the remark, and Sunderland proceeded.
"The lady in question had a splendidly bound album, which she produced
and talked about on all occasions, and seemed to regard with so much
pride and admiration, that if a lover could possibly have been jealous
of a book, I was, at times, very near becoming so. It was half filled
with amatory verses by juvenile rhymesters, and with tasteless insipid
drawings in water colours, by boarding-school misses: which drawings my
Dulcinea persisted in calling paintings. She also persisted in urging me
to write 'a piece of poetry' in her album, and I persevered in declaring
my utter inability: as my few attempts at versification had hitherto
proved entire failures. At last, I reluctantly consented, recollecting
to have heard of sudden fits of inspiration, and of miraculous gifts of
poetical genius, with which even milkmaids and cobblers have been
unexpectedly visited. So taking the album with me, I retired to the
solitude of my apartment at the City Hall, concluding with Macbeth that
when a thing is to be well done, 'tis well to do it quickly. Here I
manfully made my preparations 'to saddle Pegasus and ride up
Parnassus'--but in vain. With me the winged steed of Apollo was as
obstinate as a Spanish mule on the Sierra Morena. Not an inch would he
stir. There was not even the slightest flutter in his pinions; and the
mountain of the Muses looked to me as inaccessible as--as what shall I
say--"
"I will help you to a simile," replied Orinda; "as inaccessible as the
sublime and stupendous precipice to which you West Pointers have given
the elegant and appropriate title of Butter Hill."
"Exactly," responded Sunderland. "Parnassus looked like Butter Hill.
Well, then--to be brief (as every man says when he suspects himself to
be tedious), I sat up till one o'clock, vainly endeavouring to
manufacture something that might stand for poetry. But I had no rhymes
for my ideas, and no ideas for my rhymes. I found it impossible to make
both go together. I at last determined to write my verses in prose till
I had arranged the sense, and afterwards to put them into measure and
rhyme. I tried every sort of measure from six feet to ten, and I essayed
consecutive rhymes and alternate rhymes, but all was in vain. I found
that I must either sacrifice the sense to the sound, or the sound to the
sense. At length, I thought of the Bouts Rimées of the French. So I
wrote down, near the right hand edge of my paper, a whole column of
familiar rhymes, such as mine, thine, tears, fears, light, bright, &c.
And now I congratulated myself on having accomplished one-half of my
task, supposing that I should find it comparatively easy to do the
filling up. But all was to no purpose. I could effect nothing that I
thought even tolerable, and I was too proud to write badly and be
laughed at. However, I must acknowledge that, could I have been certain
that my 'piece of poetry' would be seen only by the fair damsel herself,
I might easily have screwed my courage to the sticking place; for
greatly as I was smitten with the beauty of my little nymph, I had a
secret misgiving that she had never sacrificed to Minerva."
Our hero paused a moment to admire the radiance of the smile that now
lighted up the countenance of Orinda.
"In short," continued he, "I sat up till 'night's candles were burnt
out,' both literally and metaphorically, and I then retired in despair
to my pillow, from whence I did not rise till ten o'clock in the
morning.
"That evening I carried back the album to my fair one; but she still
refused to let me off, and insisted that I should take it with me to
West Point, to which place I was to return next day. I did so, hoping to
catch some inspiration from the mountain air, and the mountain scenery.
I ought to have recollected that few of the poets on record, either
lived among mountains, or wrote while visiting them. The sons of song
are too often fated to set up their household gods, and strike their
lyres, in dark narrow streets and dismal alleys.
"As soon as the steamboat had cleared the city, I took out my
pocket-book and pencil, and prepared for the onset. I now regarded the
ever-beautiful scenery of the magnificent Hudson with a new interest. I
thought the Palisades would do something for me; but my imagination
remained as sterile and as impenetrable as their eternal rocks. The
broad expanse of the Tappan Sea lay like a resplendent mirror around me,
but it reflected no image that I could transfer to my tablets. We came
into the Highlands, but the old Dundeberg rumbled nothing in my fancy's
ears, Anthony's Nose looked coldly down upon me, and the Sugar Loaf
suggested no idea of sweetness. We proceeded along, but Buttermilk Falls
reminded me not of the fountain of Helicon, and Bull Hill and Breakneck
Hill seemed too rugged ever to be smoothed into verse.
"That afternoon I went up to Fort Putnam, for the hundred and twentieth
time in my life. I walked round the dismantled ramparts; I looked into
their damp and gloomy cells. I thought (as is the duty of every one that
visits these martial ruins) on the 'pride, pomp, and circumstance of
glorious war.' But they inspired nothing that I could turn to account in
my lady's album; nothing that could serve to introduce the compliment
always expected in the last stanza. And, in truth, this compliment was
the chief stumbling-block after all. 'But for these vile compliments, I
might myself have been an album-poet.'"
"Is it then so difficult to compliment a lady?" inquired Orinda.
"Not in plain prose," replied Sunderland, "and when the lady is a little
_à l'imbecile_, nothing in the world is more easy. But even in prose, to
compliment a sensible woman as she deserves, and without danger of
offending her modesty, requires both tact and talent."
"Which I suppose is the reason," said Orinda, "that sensible women
obtain so few compliments from your sex, and fools so many."
"True," replied Sunderland. "But such compliments as we wish to offer to
elegant and intellectual females, are as orient pearls compared to
French beads."
Orinda cast down her beautiful eyes under the expressive glance of her
admirer. She felt that she was now receiving a pearl.
"But to proceed," continued Sunderland. "I came down from the fort no
better poet than I went up, and I had recourse again to the solitude of
my own room. Grown desperate, and determined to get the album off my
mind and have it over, an idea struck me which I almost blush to
mention. Promise not to look at me, and I will amaze you with my
candour."
Orinda pretended to hold her fan before her eyes.
"Are you sure you are not peeping between the stems of the feathers?"
said Sunderland. "Well, then, now for my confession; but listen to it
'more in sorrow than in anger,' and remember that the album alone was
the cause of my desperation and my dishonour. Some Mephistopheles
whispered in my ear to look among the older poets for something but
little known, and transfer it as mine to a page in the fatal book. I
would not, of course, venture on Scott or Moore or Byron; for though I
doubted whether my lady-love was better versed in _them_ than in the
bards of Queen Anne's reign, yet I thought that perhaps some of the
readers of her album might be acquainted with the last and best of the
minstrels. But on looking over a volume of Pope, I found his 'Song by a
Person of Quality.'"
"I recollect it," said Orinda; "it is a satire on the amateur
love-verses of that period,--such as were generally produced by
fashionable inamoratoes. In these stanzas the author has purposely
avoided every approach to sense or connexion, but has assembled together
a medley of smooth and euphonous sounds. And could you risk such verses
with your Dulcinea?"
"Yes," replied Sunderland; "with _her_ I knew that I was perfectly safe,
and that she would pronounce them sweet and delightful. And in short,
that they would exactly suit the calibre of her understanding."
"Yet still," said Orinda, "with such an opinion of her mental
qualifications, you professed to love this young lady--or rather you
really loved her--no doubt you did."
"No, no," replied Sunderland, eagerly; "it was only a passing whim--only
a boyish fancy--such as a man may feel a dozen times before he is
five-and-twenty, and before he is seriously in love. I should have told
you that at this period I had not yet arrived at years of discretion."
"I should have guessed it without your telling," said Orinda,
mischievously.
The young officer smiled, and proceeded.
"I now saw my way clear. So I made a new pen, placed Pope on my desk,
and sitting down to the album with a lightened spirit, I began with the
first stanza of his poem:
'Fluttering spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart--
I a slave in thy dominions,
Nature must give way to art.'
And I then added the second and sixth verses, substituting the name of
my fair one for that of Aurelia."
"What would I not give to know that name!" thought Orinda. "But, in
those verses," she remarked to Sunderland, "if I recollect aright, there
is no direct compliment to the lady's beauty."
"But there is a very great one by implication," answered the lieutenant.
"For instance, the line--'Hear me pay my dying vows.'--What more could I
profess than to die for love of her! And a lady that is died for, must
of course be superlatively charming. In short, I finished the verses,
and I must say they were very handsomely transcribed. Now, do not laugh.
Is it not more excusable to take some pride in writing a good hand, than
to boast of scribbling a bad one? I have known persons who seemed
absolutely to plume themselves on the illegibility of their scrawls;
because, unfortunately, so many men of genius have indulged in a most
shameful style of chirography.
"Well, I viewed my performance with much satisfaction, and then
proceeded to look attentively through the album (I had as yet but
glanced over it), to see if any one excelled me in calligraphy. What was
my horror, when I found among a multitude of Lines to Zephyrs and
Dew-drops, and Stanzas to Rose-buds and Violets, the identical verses
that I had just copied from Pope! Some other poor fellow, equally hard
pressed, had been beforehand with me, and committed the very same theft;
which, in his case, appeared to me enormous. I pronounced it 'flat
burglary,' and could have consigned him to the penitentiary 'for the
whole term of his natural life.' To be compelled to commit a robbery is
bad enough, but to be anticipated in the very same robbery, and to find
that you have burdened your conscience, and jeoparded your self-respect
for nothing, is worse still."
"There was one way," observed Orinda, "in which you could have
extricated yourself from the dilemma. You might have cut out the leaf,
and written something else on another."
"That was the very thing I finally determined on doing," replied
Sunderland. "So after a pause of deep distress, I took my penknife, and
did cut out the leaf: resolving that for my next 'writing-piece,' I
would go as far back as the poets of Elizabeth's time. While pleasing
myself with the idea that all was now safe, I perceived, in moving the
book, that another leaf was working its way out; and I found, to my
great consternation, that I had cut too deeply, and that I had loosened
a page on which was faintly drawn in a lady's hand a faint Cupid
shooting at a faint heart, encircled with a wreath of faint flowers. I
recollected that my 'fair one with locks of gold,' had pointed out to me
this performance as 'the sweetest thing in her album.'"
"By-the-bye," remarked Orinda, "when you found so much difficulty in
composing verses, why did you not substitute a drawing?"
"Oh!" replied the lieutenant, "though I am at no loss in military
drawing, and can finish my bastions, and counterscarps, and ravelins,
with all due neatness, yet my miscellaneous sketches are very much in
the style of scene-painting, and totally unfit to be classed with the
smooth, delicate, half-tinted prettinesses that are peculiar to ladies'
albums."
"Now," said Orinda, "I am going to see how you will bear a compliment.
I know that your drawings are bold and spirited, and such as the artists
consider very excellent for an amateur, and therefore I will excuse you
from writing verses in my album, on condition that you make me a sketch,
in your own way, of my favourite view of Fort Putnam--I mean that fine
scene of the west side which bursts suddenly upon you when going thither
by the back road that leads through the woods. How sublime is the
effect, when you stand at the foot of the dark gray precipice, feathered
as it is with masses of beautiful foliage, and when you look up to its
lofty summit, where the living rock seems to blend itself with the
dilapidated ramparts of the mountain fortress!"