"Am I in fairy land?--or tell me, pray,
To what love lighted bower I've found my way?
Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled
In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild."
Some where in Virginia, and in a certain year,--but I beg you will not
inquire when or where, for you will break the thread of my discourse,
and I shall be compelled, like corporal Trim when he was rehearsing the
Lord's prayer before my dear uncle Toby, to begin at the beginning, at
every interruption,--there lived a young man, in a certain town--
Now my dear reader, do you suppose I intend telling you a story without
a single name, date or place in it? If you do, I am afraid you would
see me at Kamschatka, or in Simms' hole, before you would make up your
mind to travel one inch with me, or listen to one syllable.
Well, then, in a _certain_ place, and at a _certain_ time, as young
_Timothy_ was sitting in the cool evening's shade, musing o'er the
events that human life befall, and reflecting upon the many ups and
downs he must necessarily encounter during the residue of his life,
that _old_ heathen god, who, paradoxical as it may appear, is still as
_young_ as he was at the day of his birth, I mean sly Cupid, who was,
is, and ever will be a boy to all eternity, happened to have been
snugly perched upon a branch of the very tree under which our friend
was reclining, and the little urchin sat pluming his variegated wings,
and feeling the points of his keen feathery arrows, preparing for his
evening's sport.
Poor Tim! how little did he dream he was the subject the young god had
selected for as merry a frolic as ever fortune smiled upon in her
merriest mood. Tim was in his twentieth year,--"a leal light heart was
in his breast," he knew not the cares and anxieties of the world, nor
had he yet encountered fortune's frowns; he had enjoyed a full portion
of her smiles and blandishments, and his life had flitted along like a
gay summer's dream. He had yet to learn that all his castles were but
air built and fanciful, and it was necessary he should plod a little
upon his mother earth. Tim was none of your dashing thorough-going
bloods, who soar aloft with the eagles of the day, ever and anon to
pounce upon some harmless pigeon,--nor was he one of your gig and
tandem boys,--flourish and dash,--tinsel and paint,--who whirl about
for a season, and are all the go while the chink or the credit lasts,
but who, finally whirl off to jail, or into obscurity and
insignificance, nobody knows where, and nobody cares when. He was a
mild, pleasant, merry-making fellow. As for his person,--my dear miss,
you must excuse me; I know from your looks, you are curious to know
whether he had black hair and black eyes,--or light hair and blue
eyes,--or red hair and grey eyes,--but, really, I can't tell
you,--certain it is, he had eyes and a nose, and
"When he happened to grin,
His mouth stood across
'Twixt his nose and his chin."
There he lay, all defenceless, on his right side, (I like to be
particular,) with his clean white roundabout, and his waistcoat
unbuttoned, both thrown carelessly over his left arm; there lay his
heart, gently swelling and subsiding and he unconscious of its
undulating flow--while Cupid--I was about to say, while Cupid's keen
eyes were penetrating its inmost recesses, and eyeing it as a hawk some
sunny perch in a limpid stream,--but, alas for Cupid--the ancients have
interdicted the use of his eyes; nevertheless, on the present occasion,
it is necessary for my purposes that Cupid should, at least, take the
bandage from off his eyes, and the ancients to the contrary
notwithstanding, I do maintain that the sly god has as beautiful a pair
of eyes as ever were seen,--yes, and he is able to change them at his
pleasure. At one time, he appears with the mildest, softest, kindest,
clearest, heavenly blue eyes;--at another, with the keenest, blazing,
and yet the blackest eyes that ever flashed wit, and eloquence, and
expressing all the passions that the heart ever darts through its open
portals. All eyes are his, of every hue and every form,--and at this
moment, he was using as playful and as devilish a pair, as ever
bewitched and enchanted a trembling maiden. He sat quietly selecting
the most mortal parts of that defenceless heart, with bow well strung,
and barbed arrows, and ever and anon, he placed the winged messenger to
the string and twanged his silver bow. Cupid sometimes but tips his
arrows' point with a poison, as rapid in its action and as efficacious
as the most powerful prussic acid, and wo to the youth or the maid who
feels the deadly pang; at other times, he slightly dips the barb, and
leaves it to time and circumstances to develop its potent influence. On
the present occasion, having smitten poor Tim with a double portion,
away he flew, to practise his wiles on other subjects. Gentle reader,
you are now introduced to our young friend Tim,--you have seen him in a
condition worse than that of Daniel in the lions' den, and whether he
is delivered or not your patience will enable you to discover. Would
that I could have interposed a shield to protect the youth, but what
the fates decree no mortal can prevent,--and you know, what is to be,
happens for the best.
Have you ever seen a lady setting her cap for a beau? This is an every
day occurrence, and yet how difficult to explain, though ever so easy
to perform. It is one of those things that delicate fingers alone can
accomplish or pourtray. For my part, I have seen, and heard, and
thought, and talked much and often of these caps, that, nine times in
ten, are no caps at all, and yet the exact method of setting them is
not to be described. Were I to describe the lady's habiliments, you
would have not the least idea how her cap was set,--were I to dwell
upon the peculiar cut of the cap itself,--its points or its quillings,
its trimmings or its laces, and how it was placed, whether on the tip
of the head, or down upon the ears, or a little to one side, or
square,--or round,--it matters not, you would still be wide of the
mark; but yet, when the "cap is set," there is no mistake in the
matter.
Good reader, you are not acquainted with my little Mary. She had as
happy a knack of setting a cap, as ever a lass had since the days of
mother Eve, and on this very evening, she will appear with it set to
such advantage, that all the family servants, as she passes them, will
utter an involuntary "umph--u--u!"--Can you conceive the peculiar sound
here vainly attempted to be embodied--for of all utterable exclamations
it is the most exhilirating to a miss in her teens. If you
cannot:--know, that it signifies, "I tell you what, young massa, you
better steer clear." Little Molly is not the greatest beauty of the
age, nor yet the loveliest flower that ever bloomed, but she was pretty
enough to make Cupid's little arrows rankle in Tim's susceptible heart,
and fate would have it, that they should accidentally meet, some how or
other, wherever they went. She had a peculiar way of her own, of fixing
on a bonnet,--a little gipsy bonnet,--down the sides of which, hung her
long flaxen ringlets, and where she parted her hair on her forehead,
there was carelessly pinned a half blooming moss rose, behind which sat
Cupid laughing in his sleeve. I say carelessly pinned, because it
seemed as though it mattered not whether 'twere there or not, and yet,
more care had been used in giving it its particular position, than all
the rest of her dress,--and perhaps, after all, this was "setting her
cap." Tim had never seen little Molly look half so sweet before, and
when his eyes and her's would meet, there was a sensation created that
thrilled through his every fibre; to him, that rose bud seemed to be
instinct with life and animation, and Cupid's laughing eyes and smiling
face made every leaf "a heart quake." Tim had been thought to be brave,
his comrades always looked up to him as a leader in daring enterprizes.
Men have been known to walk up to the cannon's mouth when the gunner
stood with the lighted match within a few inches of the powder, but to
storm a rose bud, manned by Cupid, on so polished a brow, required a
dare-devil spirit that human nature shrunk from,--and though Tim would
have given the world to have touched that bud, he could not have
advanced his finger an inch towards it by any possibility. This first
symptom of the operation of Cupid's arrows but few have escaped. You
would give the world to approach the loved object, and yet a touch
would create a shock as violent as that from a Leyden jar, well charged
with the electric fluid. Little Molly's was what would be termed a
laughing face, her clear blue eyes were lighted up by a mind vivid and
playful; cheerfulness and contentment were conspicuous on her
brow,--but yet she was one of your real mischievous little imps, who
knew a thing or two, and was up to all kinds of tricks,--in truth, she
used to say of herself that she had a little devil in her;--now don't
be alarmed my good reader; I don't mean the evil spirit who roams
about, seeking whom to devour--"that tailed, horned, heartless
chiel,--the very deil,"--but, she had a way of practising so many
little artful, innocently wicked things, and they were done in so
artless a manner, that though you would think from their effects his
satanic majesty alone was the guilty perpetrator, yet you could not
help loving his highness the more for his misdeeds. Of all things in
the world, she seemed to derive most pleasure from practising her
playfulness on friend Tim, and at every successive effort, Tim would
only exclaim, "surely the devil's in the girl! what in the devil does
she mean?" Tim had better have suffered the devil to go about his
business--but no, he kept inquiring what in the devil the girl meant,
till Cupid had him, head and ears, neck and shoulders, heart and soul,
body and life, as safe a prisoner as ever was incarcerated in a
dungeon's darkness. Little Molly was perfectly innocent of any
intention to entrap our friend; nothing was further from her thoughts;
she only intended at the outset to gratify her disposition for fun, and
she knew no more the state of her own heart than if she had been
deprived of that throbbing, thumping, turbulent member; but when
kindred hearts often sport together, and kindred eyes often meet with
kindred glances, kindred throbs will beat, awakening kindred feelings,
which some little flaxen haired, clear, blue eyed lassies find truly
difficult to obliterate.
Reader, dost thou expect me to give thee in black and white my hero's
courtship? Of all the things in the world, the most tame and insipid
are lovers' courtships,--it may be the most interesting, animating,
soul-stirring, thrilling courtship that ever mortal breathed, but canst
thou enter into the feelings and go along with the heart in its gentle
outpourings? 'Tis not words, sentences, nor ideas, clothed in the dress
of fancy, or robed in imagination's best attire. 'Tis the look, the
touch, the action, that constitutes the universal language of love none
can misunderstand.
I must take thee my good friend, (for we must be friends who are
travelling so cosily together,) and place thine eye at a key hole,
where "you shall see what you shall see." Alas poor Tim! I have been
watching thy movements; thou evidently knowest not what thou
doest,--instead of reading as thou wast wont, thou hast been serving
thine apprenticeship to that _manufacturer_ Cupid! Of all the epithets
that ever were applied to a heathen god, none can be more appropriate,
though I say it who should not, than this epithet bestowed by me upon
Cupid.--Cupid a manufacturer? Yes, a manufacturer. Whenever you see a
poor fellow sweating over the fire, filing, and stretching, and
polishing rings, carving hearts and diamonds, and the like, you may set
it down that Cupid is teaching his apprentice the first rudiments of
his art,--for he is the master workman who superintends the manufacture
of all such invaluable tokens, and teaches the how, and the where, and
the when, they are to be distributed and bestowed. You are now seated
at that key hole; I have told you what has been Tim's employment, make
the best use of your eyes, and tell us what you see. Who ever saw a
fellow try on a ring in that way before?--putting the ring upon the
fore-finger?--the rogue knows as well as you do, that that little ring
will not go over the first joint of that finger, but then it is so
pleasant to try, the finger is so soft and white. Trying it on the
middle finger?--he knows that the ring will not go over the nail, but
that finger is so tapering, how could he avoid it. Had it been you or
I, we should have placed it at once on the ring finger, and there would
have been an end of the matter,--but look! the fellow is trying it upon
the little finger--that finger is so little, and some how or other, so
lonely, he feels for it a tender compassion. A little finger look
lonely when in company with three fingers and a thumb?
Aye,--lonely,--and its little nail is so thin you may see the blood
circulating under it, and of all things to see the blood flowing fresh
from the heart, so delicately tinged, is----The fellow has slipped the
ring on, is gently squeezing the whole hand, and "has raised his
wistful eyes to heaven,"--and little Molly has gently tapped him on the
cheek with her fan, as much as to say "you rogue."
Get away from the door, my good friend, you have now seen as much as we
bargained for: and my dear miss, you are curious to know what
conversation passed all the while between Tim and little Mary; I'll
tell you: there did not pass one solitary word, but two little hearts
were in as much of a flutter as ever was made by a flock of partridges,
springing from their cover.
By this time Tim had become grave and sentimental, and oh! if you ever
heard music!--morning, noon, and night, there was the most incessant
fluting,--fluting,--fluting. It was all of that soft die-away kind, you
would have thought that Tim's soul was melting away and softly escaping
through his flute. His heart, too, had undergone as thorough a change
as that of the silk worm transformed into the fluttering moth. His mind
was etherealized: instead of the humdrum, commonplace, prosing thoughts
he once indulged in, his imagination now soared aloft,--he was dwelling
amid the heights of Parnassus, his soul was drinking in the nectar of
poesy and revelling in the ambrosia of fancy. You may talk of the
pierian spring as the fount of knowledge; you may invoke the muses from
their heavenly habitation, and Apollo and Minerva may attend in their
train, but unless Cupid's arrows have drank of the heart's blood,
tinging the sources of the mind's impressions, poesy will still be
steeped in Lethe's wave, and never spring into life's gay morn. Now,
every thought is dressed and ornamented, and oh! the fantastic
flights!--oh! the soft mellow pastorals,--the country life, the blue
vaulted arch unspotted with a cloud--nature, simple and gay; there she
is, sweetly clad all beautiful and fresh--aye, and the loved
one!--pearls and gems, and diamonds, and roses, and lilies, and stars,
and suns, and firmaments in splendor glowing, and "could the busy bee
but taste those lips, he'd quit his hollow domes to revel 'mid the
sweets upon that hallowed spot."
As for little Molly, she, too, had undergone a metamorphosis, she who
was wont to play so many "tricks before high heaven," who loved to play
them off upon poor Tim, better than on all others, had grown so shy,
you would have sworn she hated the very sight of him. In the company of
others, when Tim was present, she scarcely opened her mouth,--to him,
she scarcely ever spoke,--of him--no word of remembrance broke from her
lips,--you would have thought he was obliterated from her mind; but
more could be read by these two in a single glance of the eye, than
volumes could express. As for me, I'd rather have the sensation
produced by one of those stolen glances than be made a king. In such a
situation, I would not be compelled to talk, by all the racks of the
inquisition--silence is delight. But at such a time, to be bored with
one of your real clatter, clatter, jabbering, never ending, incessant
talkers, is the most horrible purgatory. Poor Tim was just in this
situation. Little Molly had a noisy, officious cousin, who, he thought
uglier than the veriest hag that ever shrank and shrivelled into
stringy nothingness, and yet the girl was comely enough. She had taken
it into her head, that her cousin Mary hated the aforesaid Tim, and
therefore kindly volunteered to rid her of so troublesome a companion;
and in consequence of such sage surmises, never failed when Tim paid a
visit, to intrude herself among them;--and oh the clatter!--Tim's heart
sank within him--he came not to talk!
My dear young miss, whoever thou art, that seest these lines, let me
advise thee as a friend, to take thyself to thine own apartment, and
remain in solitude the balance of thy life, rather than interfere in
these critical moments; for you may rely upon it that thou art hated,
contemned, abhorred and despised to a degree that is truly sinful. Thou
art cursed with ten thousand more curses than ever Dr. Slop poured upon
the head of luckless Obadiah.
Gentle reader, (for thou must be gentle to have travelled with me so
far without wincing, and yet have heard so little,) can you tell me how
it is that when a man is in love, however rambling and roving his
disposition may have been before, as soon as he is fairly caught, he
becomes from that moment confined to one solitary route. Let me explain
myself,--for I have been carefully noticing our friend Tim. He and
little Molly lived in the same town, but at a considerable distance
apart, and yet to whatever part of the town Tim was called, he was as
certain to pass by little Molly's house as he was to pass out of his
own door. For instance, he would go to the post office, and from the
frequency of his visits, you would have supposed he had more
correspondents than all the merchants of the place put together, and
while the post office was up town, little Molly's was down town, and
yet he invariably went down town by little Molly's to get up town to
the post office. One might suppose that Tim expected to see little
Molly at the windows, but she was not one of your starers, who employ
themselves in gazing at the comers and goers, and I'll venture to say,
that in six months, Tim never saw her once, and yet go in what
direction he might ultimately intend, go down town in the first place
he must,--and he experienced more pleasure in passing that house than
in eating his breakfast or his dinner.--This is a species of
hydrophobia that I will leave you to think on and cure.
These incidents had occurred--these symptoms had been made
manifest.--In the mean time two years rolled onwards.--Tim was in his
twenty-second year, and little Molly in her eighteenth.
One day as Tim stood ready with his hat in his hand to take his leave
after an interview,--it had been a long and hopeless one,--looking
wistfully at her, he said energetically and in a voice deep toned--"It
is the _last_ time I will ask. If you are in earnest, I go forever!" I
listened, but could not hear the reply. There was a pause. Perhaps,
nothing was said. I thought I heard a kiss. I may be mistaken, but
certain I am, that instead of hearing Tim leave the house, I heard him
walk rapidly to the table, and throw down his hat. When I again saw
him,--the pensive, musing, meditative Tim was the merriest fellow that
ever cracked a bottle.
When a man has had his hat in his hand, and with a wo-begone
countenance has risen to make a final adieu, under the impression that
he is utterly discarded and despised, and suddenly resumes his seat
with such evidences of change of purpose; we generally presume he has
obtained the liberty of hanging his hat up, which is tantamount to
obtaining the liberty of the domicil, and is what I should call the
gentleman's setting his hat, in contradistinction to the lady's setting
her cap.
Day after day, go when you would, and peep into that passage, you would
find Tim's new beaver hanging upon the same hook, and these two young
innocents sitting side and side, cheek and joke, feasting on each
others' eyes.
Tim would sometimes talk of the future, and develop his little schemes
for their mutual happiness; but if ever he touched upon that most
delicate of all subjects, the ascertainment of the period when their
two hearts were to be linked indissolubly together, all the delicacy of
the female character would instantly be aroused, and little Molly, in a
playful mood, would sing out "time enough yet, time enough yet."
Matters remained in this unsettled condition, our friend Tim still
enduring the same uncertainty, living in that half delightful, half
vexatious state which totally unfits a man for any occupation, unless
it be "breathing soft music through a mellow pipe." Our friend thought
more than once 'twas time these scenes should be ended: accordingly he
determined to inform his good mother of his happy prospects, as a
prelude to his future movements. Many ineffectual efforts were made,
but it was a delicate business. How to commence these soft narrations
has puzzled more heads than one. He had given the old lady repeated
chances to help him out, by sly hints and inuendoes, but she would
never perceive what he was driving at. The truth was, she had selected
in her own mind a most eligible match for her son, and she could not
believe he was so blind as not to discover its advantages. Money was
the foundation upon which that edifice was to be erected; but Tim, poor
fellow, belonged to an ill-fated family. Not one of his ancestors had
ever married other than a poor girl, from the remotest antiquity, and
he had a sentimental notion of such affairs, that would forever exclude
the idea of his marrying a rich one, whatever other qualifications she
might possess.
At length, Tim succeeded in getting his mother safely cornered, the
door shut and no one else present. Walking backwards and forwards for a
minute or two, he stopped suddenly, as if he was about to commence. The
old lady was knitting away by the fire. Instead of commencing, Tim
walked to a chair as if he was about placing it close along side and
stating the whole case like a man; but turning about, he deliberately
sat the chair in the corner and folded his arms.
"Mother," said Tim, and then he cleared his throat. "What, my son?" "I
have been thinking whether it would not be better to have our old house
painted?" This was a new idea, one that never had crossed Tim's mind
till it was uttered, and as it happened, 'twas not an inappropriate
one. "But, my child, it will answer very well as it is, for such an old
body as I, and if you begin to paint, you will be compelled to furbish
up every thing else." "But, mother, suppose I should think of courting
some young body?" "Oh, if you will fall in love with my little
favorite, you can afford to paint and furbish too." That was a chord
Tim had heard struck before to-day. "Suppose _she_ wont love me, and
somebody else will." "Faint heart," said his consoling mother, "never
won fair lady." The old lady was off upon the old track; but Tim having
fairly begun, was not to be so easily baffled this time--so taking up
his chair, he walked deliberately to the fire and seating himself,
placed his feet upon the fender.
"Mother," said Tim, "it is time I should tell you that"--rap, rap,
rap,--tantarara, bang--rang the old brass knocker at the outer door.
"See who is there, my son." Hang all the world thought Tim--shall I
never have an opportunity of telling the old lady? Tim took no candle
with him to the door. "Who's here?" "Harry, sir." "Well, uncle Harry,
what do you want?" "Mass Tim, Miss Mary send her complements, and tell
me give you dis letter." Tim ran his hand into his pocket and gave old
Harry a bit of silver. "I reckon," said Harry, who began to think Mass
Tim and he were old cronies, "I reckon young Missus dont send letters
to young Massa for nutting." "Wait for an answer a moment, uncle
Harry," said Tim kindly. "Who's at the door, my son?" said the old
lady, as Tim returned, holding an open letter in his hand. "A servant,
madam," was the reply. "What," said Tim to himself, as he walked to the
candle, "does my Mary want?"
Good reader, while old Harry is waiting at the door in the best humor
in the world, because he had the good fortune to be the bearer of a
_love letter_ as he shrewdly suspected, from his young mistress to so
good a young gentleman, and while the good old lady is knitting away
and thinking how to induce her son to fall in love with _her_ favorite,
if thou wilt follow my example, thou mayst perceive what is going on
for thyself. Thou seest that I am about to take a sly peep over friend
Tim's shoulder, and if thou wilt peep over the other, thou mayst
discover what otherwise thou wilt never have an opportunity of
perceiving.
"_Saturday Evening_.
"MR. TIMOTHY WILBERFORCE.
"Can Mr. Wilberforce forgive and forget one who has injured him much?
Oh! how I reproach myself for having given you hopes, my friend, that
can never be realized. Mr. Wilberforce, you must forget me; and oh, can
you not attribute my strange conduct to my youth? I am so young and
thoughtless. Indeed, I would not willingly give you pain. Can we not
continue friends? I hope we may, but indeed you must forget the
promises I have made you, and if possible forgive me. I find I do not
love you as I ought. Let us be friends, but nothing more. MARY."
Tim had seen his mother watching his countenance while he was reading:
so putting on a smile, "Is that all? Pshaw, I thought it was something
important," said he, going to the outer door. "Harry, there is no
occasion to wait--no answer is necessary." Slam went the door. The bolt
rang with a double turn. The letter was wadded in his breeches' pocket.
"Who was that letter from, Tim?" said his mother. "A young friend has
asked me to go serenading with him," replied honest Tim. Down he sat,
with his feet upon the fender, and his arms folded over his breast.
Then seizing the poker,--punch, punch, punch--you would have sworn it
was freezing. Every coal was upturned--the room was filled with dust
and smoke. "My son, it is not very cold to-night." Tim kept stirring
the fire. "Did you desire to have the old house painted, Tim? If you
wish it, my son"--"madam?"--"You were saying, Timothy, that you were
about to tell me something?" "Did I?" Down went the poker, and Tim
paced the apartment.
My good friend, were you in such a situation, what would you do? Only
think of that rap at the door at such a moment--of the contents of that
_love_ epistle--of that dear uncle Harry! For my part, I shall ever
believe as long as I live, that there is something in names, and that
none but a very old Harry Scratch himself could have been charged with
such a scrawl. What would you have done? Tell the old lady the whole
matter? What! with all those contending, conflicting
feelings--passions--hopes--blasted and utterly destroyed! As for me, I
think a man would be _almost_ excusable if he had walked premeditatedly
to his razor case and cut his throat. Tim did no such thing. He walked
to--bed.
Will you be so kind as to explain to me, why little Mary--our sweet,
innocent, flaxen-haired little Molly, who was as much in love as ever
lassie was, should have acted thus strangely? You who pretend to fathom
the profundity of human motives and to ascribe proper causes for every
action, will you unriddle this enigma? But the day before, she was as
kind, as affectionate as usual, and in every way the same to Tim. From
this time forward, too, she was as friendly as any other friend; and
yet, as indifferent as if their hearts had never beat in unison--as if
their eyes had never read the inmost thought of each others soul--as if
their lips:--to me and to Tim, it is utterly inexplicable.
Time--old father time--flies with his mowing scythe. This is the
account the ancients give of the matter, but I have a notion that we
should as well exclaim, time--old doctor time--flies with his healing
balm, cicatrizing every wound; for if it was not for doctor time, Cupid
might be more appropriately represented with his sickle gathering in
his harvest; but time with his "balm of Gilead," or some pleasing
draught, manages to cure many a bleeding heart. I thank thee, good
doctor, thou hast come "with healing under thy wings," more than once
to me.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.