MRS. CHAPMAN CULTIVATES NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
It was spring-time of the year 1824. A new era in the history of the nation's wealth and progress seemed to have fairly begun. Strong and vigorous intellects ruled in the councils of the nation and inspired confidence in the people. Science was breathing new life into our enterprise, and leading us rapidly into new fields and richer prospects. It was also brushing away the prejudices that had narrowed our thoughts and confined our action to things of a past age. Steam was an adjustable power now, a reality; still there were sensible men who shook their heads in doubt; and the men who declared it would soon revolutionize the commerce of the world were set down as not safe to do business with.
Steamboats of improved model and of increased size seemed to spring up every day, and might be seen passing up and down the Hudson night and morning. Now a company of reckless New Yorkers proposed to build a steamboat two hundred feet long, and with an engine of one hundred and fifty horse power, to navigate the Hudson to Albany at the rate of thirteen miles an hour. This great experiment, regarded so hazardous at that time, sent the honest and peace-loving Dutchmen along the banks of the river into such a state of alarm that they called meetings, and in the most solemn manner declared that no man's life would be safe while sailing at such a dangerous rate of speed. And they further declared that all these new-fashioned methods of putting an end to the lives of honest people must be stopped. In fine, they predicted nothing but distress and ruin on all who had anything to do with them.
It was at one of these meetings, held in Nyack about this time, and presided over by the school-master, that a number of these honest and peace-loving old settlers resolved, after much grave deliberation, that a man who paid his debts and was contented with what he had was the only true Christian. And it was further resolved, that the world was getting to be very wicked and very full of foolish people, who were in such a hurry to get to the devil before their time that they had devised these steamboats to carry them. And seeing that it was neither wisdom nor prudence for honest people to travel on such craft, they would also not send their vegetables to market on them.
This resolution was kept good for a number of years, the honest people who made it firmly believing that all good and prudent persons would follow their example, and in that way drive the steamboats from the river. Alarming as these things were, there were others which fairly frightened these honest people out of all their courage. The gossips had gathered in force at Titus Bright's inn one night, to enjoy a pipe and a mug of his new ale. There was the school-master, and Doctor Critchel, and Hanz Toodleburg, and other choice spirits, who knew all about the affairs of the nation. When they had discussed all manner of subjects, Titus drew from his pocket a newspaper and read, to the astonishment and evident alarm of his guests, that a man in England had invented a machine to do away with horses. The doctor set down his ale and adjusted his spectacles, and gazed at the speaker with an air of surprise and astonishment, while Hanz and the school-master suddenly ceased smoking.
"Now don't get alarmed, my friends," said Titus, watching with evident delight the increasing alarm of his guests. "It is all here, and true. He has invented a steam-horse, with an iron stomach and wheels; and the animal can, with good management, be made to run over a road at the rate of twenty miles an hour. Yes," added Titus, with a look of great seriousness, "people are already risking their lives by riding in this way."
The doctor heaved a sigh, and, half raising his pipe, gave it as his opinion that a man who would invent such dangerous machines must be in league with the devil. This profound opinion was endorsed by both Hanz and the school-master. The latter, in short, suggested that such men were generally vagabonds, whom it were well to throw into the Tappan Zee, with stones around their necks.
"If the world was going to the devil in this way, what was the use of living in it," inquired the school-master, finishing his ale, and passing his mug for a fresh draught.
"Sure enough, sure enough!" a number of voices ejaculated simultaneously.
"Truly, the dragons are to be let loose upon us," resumed Bright, passing the schoolmaster his mug of ale. "An' here's now in New York, that's got to be so wicked honest folks can't live in it, a lot o' crazy men talking about building one of these here steamboats big enough to cross the Atlantic."
"Der won't be much heerd of de mans nir de vomans vat goes in um," interrupted Hanz.
"Peoples is not sho crazy as t'too any un de sort. 'Tis all hombug;" joined the doctor.
"So I say, doctor!" interposed the school-master.
"Here it is, gentlemen," resumed Bright; "all down in the newspaper. No getting over that." Thus was this important subject discussed until a late hour, the gossips going to their homes with serious faces and heavy hearts.
It is a very well established fact that the question of building steamships large enough and strong enough to cross the ocean was discussed by a number of New York merchants who were ready to embark capital in the project, several years before the keels of the Royal William, the Savannah, the Sirius, or the Great Western were laid. But we must leave this subject for the present, and return to our friends, the Chapmans.
These people professed to be plain and practical, brought up according to the creed of New England. They also affected to despise the small vanities of the world. The effect of prosperity, however, on their natures was singularly instructive, since it entirely changed their manners. No sooner did fortune favor them than Mrs. Chapman began to display an ambition for vulgar show, such as well-bred people never indulge in. She never failed to remind her friends that she was brought up in Boston, where everything was very refined. She regarded it as a compliment to herself that she had an intellectual husband. He had a big head, if he was small, and could carry any number of books in it. That was what Boston people liked. Her thoughts seemed continually navigating between religion and the fashions. She had no deep affection or love for any one, not even for her daughter Mattie, whom she viewed in the light of a rather valuable ornament, in the disposal of which she must make the best bargain she could, not so much for the girl's sake as her own. She could toss her head as disdainfully as any of your fine dames; and she could discourse as glibly about genteel society as a successful milliner just set up for a lady. She had plain Mrs. Jones for a neighbor, and would drop that honest woman a nod now and then, out of mere politeness. But she never condescended to associate on terms of equality with the Jones family. Mrs. Jones's husband was a common, unintellectual sort of person, who retailed groceries for a living.
A singular and mysterious change had now taken place. Chapman no longer got up quarrels with his neighbors. Indeed, he had a good word to say whenever he met Titus Bright. He could shake hands with Doctor Critchel, and agree with the Dominie on matters of religion. In fine, if he was everybody's enemy before, he was now everybody's friend. He admired the Dutch for their honesty and true-heartedness. This singular change gave the gossips of the town something to talk about for a week. The Chapmans and the Toodleburgs were now the very best of friends. Chapman could be seen of an evening sitting in Hanz's little ivy-covered porch, enjoying a pot of ale. And Hanz had been seen smoking his pipe in Chapman's garden. All this meant something, the gossips said, and something of great importance. Where two such men got their heads together, and pipes and ale were called in, there was sure to be something deep going on. Hanz Toodleburg, they said, never smoked his pipe with a man like Chapman but that there was something in the wind. Then Mrs. Chapman and her gushing, blue-eyed daughter had condescended to visit at Toodleburg's, and could make themselves quite agreeable at Angeline's tea-table. And then Angeline, good, kind Angeline, with her face still bright with gentleness and love, was always so happy When Mattie called. Then there was something so simple, so frank and straightforward in Mattie's nature. Angeline could not help loving her. And the affection she cherished for Tite, who was the idol of her thoughts, strengthened the ties of their love.
"We have not forgot you, you see," said Mrs. Chapman, as she bowed herself into Toodleburg's little house one evening. "We expected company at home to-night, but says I to my dear husband, 'you know, my dear husband,' (here Mrs. Chapman bowed to her dear husband, who had followed her,) 'we have been promising so long to visit Mr. and Mrs. Toodleburg.'"
Angeline bowed and invited her visitors to be seated, while Hanz gave Chapman a hearty shake of the hand, and an assurance that no man was more welcome under his roof. "Always glad to see mine friends," said Hanz. "You shall take seats, and be shust so much at home as you is in your own house." And he drew one big chair up for Chapman, and another for Mrs. Chapman. "Peoples always makes themselves at home in mine house."
"You must excuse our humble little place," Angeline said; "we are plain, every-day people." And she made Mrs. Chapman a low courtesy, as that stout, bustling woman, apparently overcome with the heat, settled her solid circumference into a chair.
"Dear a me," rejoined Mrs. Chapman, "what happy people you ought to be. Everything so comfortable round you, you know, and all your own. What a blessing to have things all your own." Here Mrs. Chapman raised her bonnet carefully and used it as a fan.
"Yes, we are quite unpretending people," Angeline repeated. "What we have got is our own. We are getting old now, and if we die owing nobody a shilling we shall die in peace." And her sweet face lighted up with a smile, the true reflex of that goodness her heart was so full of.
"It's so warm—I'm about melted," rejoined Mrs. Chapman, not appearing to notice what Angeline had said. "And this is my new bonnet, you see. Bonnets cost so much money now. People are getting so fashionable, and to be anybody you must keep up appearances." She held her bonnet up admiringly. "And my dear, good husband there—he's such a good husband—says I'm a very expensive wife. Always buys me what I want, though." Here she raised her waxy, fat hand, and dropped a bow of approval to the little husband, who was quietly surveying the scene from Hanz's big chair. "My husband is so intellectual, and does so much for other people. He's always doing for other people. But he's a treasure to me, for all that—"
"My dear, my dear," interrupted Chapman; "what a kind way you have of paying compliments. Mrs. Toodleburg will not understand you, my dear. What more than any one else have I done for other people?"
"You have been a perfect Christian, my dear, so you have," resumed Mrs. Chapman, giving her head a toss and pressing the fore-finger of her right hand on the arm of the chair. "Why, Mrs. Toodlebug—pardon me; I never did pronounce names correct." She turned condescendingly to Angeline. "You must know that my dear husband created a whole town once. Then he built a great and flourishing church, founded on advanced moral ideas. And he intended to have sold it for the good of others, and would have sold it, but for an unforeseen circumstance."
"A very unforeseen circumstance, my dear," rejoined Chapman, shaking his head admonishingly. "You see, I have got one of the very best wives in the world. She has a philosophy of her own, and we agree in everything."
"Shust like me and mine vife," said Hanz. "We agrees in everything. Lived dese forty nor more years togeder, mitout a quarrel." Hanz had been sitting where a pale shadow of the dim light played over his broad, kindly face, and, with his long, white hair curling down his neck, gave a clearer outline to the picture.
"Never had even a little quarrel?" resumed Mrs. Chapman, inquiringly. "I have heard married people say it was so nice to have a little quarrel now and then. But my dear husband is such a good husband, Mrs. Toodleburg. Just like yours." Here she turned toward and dropped Angeline a bow. "I never want to live to see the day when I shall have to marry a second husband." Here she turned and dropped a bow to her dear Chapman. "I should be always praising you, my dear. And unless my dear second husband was a saint there would be trouble in the house, you know. My dear, let us drop this subject. It is not pleasant to look to far into the future." Here she turned to Angeline, who had proceeded to get some strawberries and cream for her guests.
"You are so nice and comfortable here," she resumed; "it takes one back to the good old times, when everything was true and simple." Mrs. Chapman gave quicker motion to her tongue. "You have your loom, and your spinning-wheel, and homespun made by your own hands. How delightful."
"My dear, my dear," interrupted Chapman; "what a homily on the beauties of economy you are reading our friends—"
"Don't interrupt me, my dear," resumed Mrs. Chapman, and she again turned to Angeline. "Do you know, Mrs. Toodlebug, that I have always felt that we ought to be the best of friends?"
"You are very kind," said Angeline, "very kind. We are very plain people."
"That's why I like you all the better," Mrs. Chapman resumed, with an air of condescension. "My husband and your husband must also be the best of friends. They can make a fortune by it, you know. You see, my husband proposes to make your husband's fortune. He is the greatest man to make other people's fortunes. Yes, he is. My husband's head is full of great progressive ideas. And he has made the fortunes of so many men." Here Mrs. Chapman lowered her voice to a whisper, and drew her chair a little nearer to Angeline. "There is another little matter that should make us firm friends. I would not mention it, you know; but I feel that it is no secret." Here she dropped one of her most significant bows. "I have taken such a liking to your son. Such a promising young man, he is. That voyage will make a man of him; who knows but he may come home with a large fortune. I have known stranger things than that. I have been encouraging a little love affair between him and my daughter Mattie. You have seen my Mattie? She is clever, wonderfully smart, handsome, too; and if she gets the right kind of a husband, will shine in society."
"My poor boy, my poor boy!" exclaimed Angeline, her eyes filling with tears at the mention of his name. "How, how, how I should like to see him to-night. There is where he used to sit, (here her voice yielded to her emotions,) and here is the chair we always kept for him. Perhaps we shall never see him again. He was so good and so kind to us. I hope God will be good to him, and will watch over him, and carry him safe through dangers, and bring him back to us. Oh, I know God will be good to him. We are both old now, and have nothing to live for but him." Again she gave way to her grief, and as the tears flowed buried her face in her hands.
"My dear, good friend," rejoined Mrs. Chapman, rising from her chair, and placing her hand consolingly on Angeline's shoulder; "there is nothing in the world to weep for. Nothing in the world. I would be proud of a son who had courage and ambition enough to go on one of these voyages. It is proof, my good woman, that he has something in him. And if he should bring home a fortune, you know. Oh, he'd have so many friends. Don't weep, my good woman, don't weep. He'll be such a joy to you when he comes home. And I will encourage Mattie to think of nobody else."