MR. ASHBURNER IN NEW-YORK.
The philosophy of Mr. Harry Benson (on the occasion when Mr. Harry Benson was last before the public), like the philosophy of many other eminent men, silenced his auditors if it did not convince them. Karl Benson growled out something about its being well enough to say so now, and seemed rather annoyed that Harry should have been more philosophical than he was himself; while Ashburner laughed good-naturedly, and said that that was very good philosophy, and he liked to hear it. The reader will remember that the occasion and philosophy to which we allude were, respectively, the dinner at Mr. Karl Benson's, and a conversation in which Mr. Harry Benson expressed it as his decided opinion that living in a country where one could eat woodcock and drink claret without having to pay very high taxes or do any hard work, was much better than some other things which he then and there suggested. But in the silence which often falls over a small dinner circle, and over a circle where there are good talkers and gay fellows to be found, Karl Benson thought that woodcock and claret, though essential to his comfortable existence, were not the only things he wanted; and Ashburner made up his mind, and more rapidly than was his custom, that the pleasures and comforts which Harry had so glowingly described were not sufficient to engross the mind of an intelligent man, even though parliamentary fame required the sacrifice of twelve hours per day amid red tape and blue books, and the management of a government carried with it responsibility and care. Some other things which Harry had dropped in his rattling dissertation about living in one of the two great abodes of freedom, had struck Ashburner's youthful mind, and, without well knowing why, he determined that neither of the brothers were right, and that he would look a little deeper into matters and things for himself before utterly condemning either politics or politicians, or public men or public measures, in the model republic.
When the silence we have just alluded to had continued a few moments, Karl suddenly rose from the table, and said, "Come, boys, since you are not drinking your wine, and since Harry has talked himself out, I move that we go over the river, as we agreed to before dinner." "Pshaw," said Harry, slowly rising, and following his brother and Ashburner, who led the way, "what an uneasy mortal you are, Karl! just as Ashburner had begun his wine, and we were about enjoying ourselves, you haul us off on your confounded expedition." "Never mind," rejoined Karl, quietly, "it's a pleasant evening, and I want to show Ashburner what a plain American country gentleman is: that's a thing you have not shown him yet; and then, there's a pretty girl to be seen, too—you forget that Ashburner isn't married." "What do you suppose Ashburner wants to see a country belle for?" said Harry; "you know he's been in society these two or three years." "I don't care whether he has or not," Karl replied, "we will show him as pretty a lass as any he has seen; and besides, I saw old Edwards this morning, and told him I was coming over, and, as I am not going alone, you fellows must go along. By the by, shall we have up the waggon, or walk down?" Both gentlemen voted in favor of walking, so the three took their hats, lit fresh cigars, and slowly sauntered towards the river. Karl turned back for a moment, to order the waggon to be at the dock by ten o'clock; and, after sending forward two of his men who were to act as boatmen, joined his friends.
The dinner hour of Karl Benson was the hour at which the leading members of New-York society, in the ordinary routine of life, sat down to their respective tables—that is, three o'clock. It is singular how this important period recedes from the meridian as people grow more refined in their own opinions, or more fashionable in those of their neighbors. The hard-working farmer or mechanic has his dinner at the matin hour of twelve; the country doctor or village lawyer stands upon his dignity and dines at one; in country towns, of twenty or thirty thousand inhabitants, the "good society" feels obliged to dine at two; when you reach the great metropolis ("which is American penny-a-liner for" New-York), you find the dinner postponed to three; and some gentlemen, with English education and English habits, dine in New-York at five; while others, whose business keeps them at the bank, or court, or counting-house till three, have the witching time adjourned to four. These are, however, only exceptions to the rule, and as lawyers say, exceptio probat regulam; the legitimate, healthy, fashionable hour for dining—that in which the Knickerbockers, who know no banks or counting-houses, or dusty courts, save through checks, friends, and lawyers, dine, is three. Modern degeneracy or refinement, or both, it is whispered, have lately carried it to half-past, but on the day of which we write it was precisely three.
To return from this digression to our history—which, as the reader has doubtless observed, is not a vulgar description of fictitious persons and imaginary circumstances, but a veracious chronicle of facts, and much above the level of ordinary romances, inasmuch as truth is always stranger than fiction—the early dining hour of the aristocratic Benson (early in an English sense, of course we mean), enabled the three gentlemen to step out on the lawn just as the sun was sinking behind the Kaatskills. After a good dinner, most intellectual men become, or are apt to become, sentimental; and as Ashburner and the Bensons were to the best of their belief eminently intellectual, they of course became so, as in duty bound; for every one is under obligations to conform to the settled usages of good society. "What a charming picture," said Harry Benson; "I swear it is sublime!" "Yes," said Ashburner, poetically, "such a scene as that disgusts one with the noise and bustle and confounded nonsense of city life." "True," said Karl, who suddenly imagined himself for some reason a very wise and exemplary individual, a sort of martyr for principle; "you fellows have no idea of the happiness of a plain country gentleman, living without care or ceremony—having none of the restraints of society, none of your artificial wants—everything simple and unsophisticated. Why, if you knew what it was, you'd give up all thoughts of town, and be living in the country before another month is past."
This speech of Karl was all very fine, but unfortunately it was rather long, and before Ashburner and Harry Benson could promise the simple, unsophisticated, contented, happy country gentleman before them, that they would follow his wise example, they had time to remember, one, that about three hours before he had heard the same gentleman complain of the difficulty of getting servants, shops, &c., in the (American) country; and the other, that, "to tell the truth, the country was all very well about sundown, but was deuced dull and uncomfortable on rainy days." Ashburner, however, felt that the remarks of his host should not be thrown away, at least before his face; so he looked around for a subject, and politely began to talk of farming. On their right lay a newly-ploughed field, over which a workman was passing with measured stride, sowing some kind of grain on the fresh-turned soil, and close behind him, anxious to cover the seed before finishing his day's work, came another laborer with the harrow. Ashburner noticed this, and it struck him that it was just the topic he wanted; so, turning to Karl, he said, pointing to the workman, "You do not follow the classical rule of agriculture, Mr. Benson; you remember Plautus: "Nam semper occant, prius, quam sarriunt, rustici."
"Very good," said Karl, "but I did not remember it—where is it from?"
"From the Captives," replied Ashburner; "don't you remember the slave Tyndavas uses it, when old Hegio tells him he is a sower and harvester of crime?"
"Oh yes, I believe you are right; but to tell the truth, I'm not much of an admirer of Plautus."
"Indeed," replied Ashburner; "why I thought you would admire him extremely; for my part I like his bold unpolished comedies; if it was not heresy for an Englishman to say so, I should say the Maenuhm was equal to the Comedy of Errors; and Shakspeare certainly must have borrowed the idea of his play from Plautus—the resemblance between them is too close to be accidental."
Karl said "Yes," in that cool sort of tone by which people show they assent to admiration without participating in it, and added something of there being no language but Greek; at which Harry Benson laughed and asked him if he was still reviewing his Homer.
Though this was said in raillery, Ashburner remarked that Karl looked quite pleased, and seemed to take the allusion to Greek and Reviews as a special compliment. The fact was that Mr. Karl Benson had just been through a gentle controversy upon the question whether the Greek word καδεστηχνια should be rendered constituting or constituted,—which had redounded very much to the credit of himself or his antagonist—a point not yet decided, and which it is very much feared never will be.
The particulars of this important contest were these: Karl had been classical editor of one of the leading magazines of Gotham, known to the literary public of that literary metropolis as the Zuyderzee. The Zuyderzee when first organized, had not boasted a classical editor among its managers; and as it was devoted to what is vulgarly called "light literature," was supposed by the initiated portion of the public not to want one. Suddenly, however, certain short pieces appeared in the Editor's table (which was printed in small type at the end of each number, and never read), containing severe criticisms on such classical scholars of the nineteenth century as ventured to publish works in the dead languages with notes attached, for the benefit of young England, or more particularly, young America. Though these criticisms were always after the Edinburgh Review model, and finished up in the severest style of the month, and though the Zuyderzee had a classical editor to do them (which we would here explain to be an editor devoted to the review of classical works and subjects, and nothing else), they were to the Zuyderzee a cheap and harmless luxury. Mr. Karl Benson being a gentleman of fortune, was not particular about compensation, but limited his desires to the very worthy object of seeing himself in print. At that time, too, Mr. Benson had not "been up" to works of fiction; or else had restrained his powers and devoted them to the inferior task of "portraying" individuals, and abusing other men's works. The editor of the Zuyderzee, though not particularly anxious for a classical sub (who, to tell the truth, was no more wanted than a Scandinavian critic for the Blunder and Bluster), had no objection to the gratuitous aid of Mr. Benson; and so it came that Karl was installed as classical editor of the Zuyderzee, with full power to annihilate the classics, and with no restraint set upon him except that he was to do it briefly.
While acting in this useful capacity, Karl had once had occasion to examine an edition of Agamemnon, published by an eminent Greek scholar. In the course of his review, he had pointed out no less than ninety errors, eighty of which had been of omission in not having the notes sufficiently full to be obscure; five in referring to editions with which Mr. Benson's private tutor had not been on reading terms, three of punctuation, and the remainder of a trivial nature. The classical editor had, however, smiled upon the professor, by saying that the work, though faulty, contained no very outrageous blunders, nothing for example like Relyat Siwel's "constituting," in place of constituted.
Had the sentence been passed upon the ordinary publishers of classical works (a humble race of men who are happy when they can publish books which will bring home neither pay nor abuse), it would probably have been thought extremely flattering to all the parties—a sort of beacon light, to gladden the hearts of the watchmen of Æschylus. As it was, Professor Weston bore his honors meekly, but Mr. or rather Professor Relyat Siwel, was unfortunately a fiery little man, who was thought by a large circle of admirers to be the first Greek scholar in the great Republic; who had expended years of severe toil on his favorite work, which he thought tended strongly to sustain the character of Christianity, by showing that Plato was not opposed to it; and who, moreover, had a cordial dislike to the Gotham school of classical critics, and had resolved to have a crack at Mr. Benson the first favorable opportunity.
Accordingly, in the next number of the Zuyderzee, appeared an "original article," sandwiched between the first part of "A Thrilling Romance of the Second Century," and a "Tale of the Flower Girl of the Fejee Islands," entitled "An Essay on the Greek Language, by Professor Relyat Siwel, LL.D."
In this interesting essay, Professor Relyat Siwel had attacked Mr. Karl Benson on a variety of subjects: first he had exposed him by showing that the initials "K. B.," at the foot of the editorial, did not mean "K. B.," but Karl Benson; and hence he ingeniously argued that Mr. Benson's signing himself "K. B.," when he was not "K. B.," was a fraud on the community. Having thus exposed the malice prepense of the unfortunate Benson, he intimated that the English participle in "ing" often had the meaning of the perfect; and hence that translating a Greek verb in the perfect by the participle aforesaid, was not such a very heinous offence after all. This bomb-shell was not, however, thrown into Mr. Benson's magazine without an immense amount of smoke and noise. He adopted the celebrated ironical Congressional style: "This eminent Greek scholar," "this pattern of classical criticism," "this prodigy of the English universities, who has had his own private tutor, must now be informed that the English participle in 'ing,'" &c., &c. Nor did the essay on the Greek language stop here. It savagely sneered at "K. B.'s" vanity at having been educated in an English university, and made the most cutting remarks on his criticisms in general. Such flowers of rhetoric as "literary scavenger," "purse-proud fop," "half-educated boy," &c., were thrown around as thickly as though the Flower Girl of the Fejee Islands herself had crossed the path of clerical criticism.
Great interest was excited by these little love passages in the different colleges in the country. The studious young citizens read the "criticism" and the "essay" with the most praiseworthy avidity. Karl had replied to the essay in a few majestic sentences in the Editor's Table, the effect of which was somewhat impaired by the real editor's saying in a note at the foot, that he wasn't going to have any more of this sort of thing in his magazine; and that as both parties had had their hearing, it must stop now. In his reply, Karl had offered to do something or other to the Greek language against Professor Relyat Siwel (President Blank being the judge), for a thousand dollars a side. Great was the enthusiasm produced by this offer. Several college periodicals announced it as a renovation of the art of criticism, and an innumerable quantity of young orators hinted it as the beacon blaze mentioned in Agamemnon, shining on Clytemnestra's battlements, and bringing joy to Argos. Some discussion was also induced necessarily as to how the classic contest was to "come off." A great many young gentlemen insisted that it was in the nature of a "set-to," and, for that reason, that Professor Relyat Siwel, being the smallest man, should be allowed to "choose his corner." Many, however, thought that it was in the nature of a steeple chase, and that as the Professor was the lightest weight, he ought to go it "leaded." This vexed question was at length put at rest by an inquisitive Sophomore's reading the foot-note referred to, in which it was discovered that the fun was over. This blow was followed by another, viz., a rumor that Professor Relyat Siwel felt it his duty to decline, for the reason that it was by no means certain that Plato had ever put up a thousand dollars, or any other amount whatever.
Karl hailed this decision of the Professor as a "back out," and after reading his reply to the essay several times in manuscript, and innumerable times in print, he came to a conclusion that the controversy contained the two great desiderata of all controversies, those for which ignorant men study, lazy men work, ministers quarrel, quiet old gentlemen write newspaper articles, ladies set their caps, and nations go to war—namely triumph and defeat. As he had had the "last word," of course his last arguments were unanswered—he was triumphant, and Professor Relyat Siwel beaten.
This comforting reflection did not reach so far as the colleges and universities, and within their peaceful walls was heard a voice of anger and regret. The quiet portion of the undergraduates (who intended to be clergymen and physicians) mourned the loss of the anticipated contest as a defeat of the cause of learning—one which it would probably survive, but still one in which it had been floored. The unquiet portion (who intended to be lawyers or statesmen) heard the news with virtuous indignation; by them the senior editor, with even the Zuyderzee itself, was anathematized. In the literary societies, where embryo lawyers are always largely in the majority, for the reason that fifteen-sixteenths of the young men of the United States intend, in early life, to be Cokes and Littletons, there were passed, by acclamation, most severe resolutions, expressive of deep regret, that in the nineteenth century, in a free country, in the empire state, in a city devoted to literature, an editor—one conducting a magazine professing to be favorable to the development of the nation's resources—should take upon himself, in defiance of public opinion, of the wishes of his patrons, of the interests of humanity, to stifle free discussion and the fame of the Attic sages. These resolutions were generally prefaced by a preamble setting forth that whereas the editor of a magazine known, as The Zuyderzee, had done so and so, therefore it was resolved, &c. In some cases, the societies resolved that they would not pay their subscriptions for The Zuyderzee (resolutions which it is due to them to say they religiously stood by), and in others they sent copies of the resolutions to the senior editor, who, however, survived the several shocks.
We left Ashburner and his host talking about Plautus and agriculture. The conversation lasted until they reached the river, and took their seats in a plainly painted and rather ordinary kind of skiff. Ashburner noticed it, and also remarked that instead of the picturesque boat-house of an English gentleman, Karl used a small wharf at which sloops loaded and unloaded their cargoes. Ashburner said something of this to Karl, and Karl said something of ice in the spring, freshets in the fall, and low water in the summer; but Harry Benson, as usual, put in his oar, and explained the matter more fully, and no doubt more truly: "You see, Ashburner," said he, "the fact is, we are not a sporting people; our gentlemen rarely ride, and our ladies never walk. In England, every one knows, or pretends to know, something of field sports, or riding, or yachting, or something or other of that sort; and then, too, your English girl thinks nothing of walking three or four miles; but it is not so here. The reason is, partly, that our rich men are business men, and our poor ones always engaged, and partly because our climate is so different from yours. I think the climate is the most effective cause of the two; you see the year begins (here at the north, I mean) with deep snows; at the south they have rain and mud; then, when spring and mild weather come, they last but a very little while, and we have the melting red-hot sort of days that you've been through already. To be sure our Indian-summer is the finest weather for exercise in the world, but then it only lasts a little while, and after it come the fall rains. It can't be denied, though," pursued Harry, after pausing a moment, "that we might all exercise a great deal more than we do, if we really wanted to. In Virginia, they ride and shoot a great deal more than we do here. But our girls' heads are busy with polkas rather than walks, and then the weather makes a good excuse for them. It can't be denied, though, Ashburner, that your countrymen, after being here a short time, exercise as little as we do ourselves; yet it's hard to say which has the most to do with their degeneracy—example or weather."
"But," said Ashburner, "I should not think that hot or cold weather could prevent a gentleman from having a light and handsome boat."
"Yes, it does," rejoined Harry, "not directly, but indirectly. The weather, business, and amusements, turn attention into other channels, and consequently our country gentleman does not keep his light skiff and picturesque boat-house, because there's nobody to row the one or admire the other. Now, here's Karl, who lives in the country, and continually talks about country air and country exercise, why, bless you! if I hadn't taught him to ride, he wouldn't exercise at all: he does not walk a mile a day; hasn't rowed across the river since he's lived here; wouldn't join in a cricket-match to save himself from apoplexy; in short, is as lazy a fellow as can possibly be found. Then our country girls are just the same. Once in a while they ride, but there are hundreds of them living in the country who have never been on horseback; and when they do know how, they ride rarely, because they've no one to ride with them,—a young lady's dashing off ten or twelve miles with only a servant after her would be thought highly improper. Then, the way we dress is perfectly ridiculous: nothing substantial—nothing useful; a girl's walking shoes are as thin as paper; an English nobleman wears heavier boots than one of our laborers. The truth is, we have a great deal too much of Paris refinement; we must get England to come over and uncivilize us. If we do live in a new country, we want to learn a few of the barbarous arts of riding, driving, walking, hunting, &c. It's a pity, too, that our young men, instead of being hale, hearty fellows, such as you have at the English universities, are generally a thin, hollow-chested, dyspeptic, consumptive-looking set—children at twenty, and old men at thirty."
Ashburner had noticed this before, and it had surprised him that in a land where, less than a century ago, the inhabitants were literally denizens of the wilderness, he should find fewer field sports and less attention paid to that class of amusements than in the oldest counties of England. As Harry said, the weather and business were probably chief causes of the evil, while the inundation of French fashions and ideas had helped to sustain it.
By the time Harry had concluded his lecture, and Karl had got in a general and particular remonstrance, the one on behalf of all country gentlemen, and the other on behalf of himself, they had nearly crossed the broad river, and the boat was rapidly gliding into a small bay surrounded by high wooded banks. The sun had gone down, and the stillness of a summer evening had settled upon the scene; the swallows skimmed along the smooth water, which the breeze no longer ruffled, and from the distant sloops that now seemed sleeping on the calm surface, Ashburner could plainly hear the voices of their crews. In a few moments the men stopped rowing, and in another moment the boat grated on the gravelly beach, and the party jumped out. Karl told the men when they would return, and then they began clambering up a narrow path which wound up the hill. Ashburner noticed a light skiff lying in the bay, painted and fitted up with more than ordinary taste, and with light oars that looked as though they were meant for a lady's hand. Soon the path brought the little party to the top of the hill, which opened on clear meadows, across which could be seen a plain white house, half hidden by the old trees that were grouped around it. The Bensons seemed well acquainted with every thing, for they led the way without hesitation, till they reached what seemed to be a carriage-way from the house to the public road, that could be seen not a great way off. Ashburner saw at a glance, as they approached the house, that there was a mingling of old things with new in a great deal that concerned it. While the edifice itself was old, and among old trees that told its age far better than the modern verandah which ran around it, or the white paint which covered it, the approach to it had been laid out with more modern taste. There could be seen the remnants of an old fence that had recently bounded a road, innocent of windings, and regardful only of distance. The trees along the carriage-way had not been set out long, and the clumps scattered here and there, with a good deal of taste, were but saplings, and more closely around the house were tall elms that had been growing many a long year, and told plainly of ancient times and ideas.
Karl Benson led the way to the front door, and, after answering Harry's inquiries as to dogs, by saying that no one else need be afraid, as they (the dogs) always bit him (Karl), he raised an antiquated brass knocker, and gave two or three taps, which seemed to echo through an immense number of empty rooms. "Take care," said Harry, "or you'll frighten Miss Mary into something or other." "There's no fear of that," replied Karl; "she's not so nervous as you." Harry was proceeding to rap back; but he was interrupted by hearing some one coming to the door, which was the next moment thrown open, and Ashburner saw a fine-looking, plainly-dressed old man, or thought he saw such an one, for it was too dark to distinguish clearly. "How are you, Judge?" said Karl, stepping forward, and shaking the old gentleman's hand. "Hullo, Benson! my fine fellow! is this you? Why, who have you got with you?" "This is my brother Harry," said Karl, "and this is my friend Mr. Ashburner. Mr. Ashburner, allow me to introduce you to my friend Judge Edwards." "How do you do, sir?" said the Judge, stepping forward, and shaking Ashburner by the hand; "very happy to make your acquaintance, sir."
Ashburner bowed his acknowledgments and intimated, according to custom, that he was very happy, and then, after slapping Harry on the back, and asking why he hadn't been over before, the Judge asked every body to walk in. They did so—the Judge leading the way—and calling to several individuals of the female gender, as Miss Squires would say, for light. The call was a necessary one, for the day had been as hot and sultry as though it were August; and on a summer evening, in both town and country, it is a frequent custom to sit in the dark by the open windows, and enjoy the cool air which these times always bring. The excellence of the custom did not, however, prevent Ashburner from falling over a chair, or Harry from running against a centre table, with a crash that left the party in some doubt whether he or the table was upset. "Bless me," said the Judge, who noticed these mishaps, "they ought to have had lights here," and then he added, in explanation, "that in hot weather they liked to sit in the dark, as it seemed cooler and kept the musquitoes out; which excuse for a very proper, pleasant and sensible custom, is invariably given in the United States, in all houses, rich or poor, high or low, whenever a stranger happens to find the parlor unlighted." In a few moments, however, a girl made her appearance with the usual inquiry, "Did you call, sir?" "Yes, yes, Susan, bring some lights here as soon as you can!"
A pause ensued, which was broken by the Judge's remarking that it had been a very hot day, and Harry Benson's assenting, "Yes, very hot, really wonderful weather for the time of year." Ashburner tried to say something, but it is hard talking in the dark, to a gentleman you have never seen, especially when you are in his own house; so Ashburner gave it up after one or two attempts, and another pause ensued, fortunately broken by Susan's return with a couple of lighted candles, in old-fashioned silver candlesticks.
Ashburner now looked at the Judge with some interest, which was rather cooled down by observing that he was looking with an equal curiosity at himself. This scrutiny, though brief, seemed, however, satisfactory, for the Judge told Susan to tell Miss Mary that Mr. Benson and one or two other gentlemen were there.
Ashburner's glance showed him that the Judge was a large and intelligent-looking man apparently about fifty, and though dressed carelessly, bearing the marks of a gentleman. But Ashburner also saw that though the Judge was a gentleman, he was by no means a fashionable or even a polished one. He was simply one of those well-bred men in whom simplicity is more perceptible than refinement, while good sense and good feelings prevent any gross breaches of etiquette.
From looking at its owner, Ashburner turned to look at the room they were seated in. It was a parlor of medium size, with a low ceiling and plainly papered walls. On the latter hung several old-fashioned portraits, one of which was evidently the Judge's, another his wife's, and two more his parents'. Besides, there were one or two drawings, and their pleasing gracefulness and ease formed an agreeable contrast to the prim and starched old relics they hung beside. In the middle of the room was a centre table of the same old-fashioned cast as the pictures, but covered with those little articles of taste that none but a lady can select and arrange.
"Mr. Ashburner is an Englishman, Judge," said Karl, after some other remarks, "and I am showing him how simply we American farmers live."
"Is it possible?" said the Judge, looking intently at Ashburner; "well, now, I should never have thought so if you had not told me. He looks more like an American than a foreigner: it's very singular, quite unusual. Do you know," pursued the Judge, talking to Karl, but keeping his eyes intently fixed on Ashburner, "do you know that I can almost always tell a foreigner as soon I see him? Why it was only yesterday a couple of fellows came into the field where I was, and wanted work, and before they said a word, just as soon as I saw them I knew they were Englishmen, and told Mary so."
Ashburner colored a little at this implied comparison, and felt annoyed on seeing that Harry Benson was enjoying the joke. To turn the conversation, he said something about the Judge's having a pretty place, and inquired whether his judicial duties allowed him to be there a good deal of the time. At this inquiry all three gentlemen laughed, and his honor explained that once upon a time he had been appointed judge by the governor, and had acted as such for four or five years, but that for the last fifteen years he had merely enjoyed the title, and was but a plain country gentleman, as he had been all his life. Ashburner inquired if he had not been educated for the bar. "Oh, no," said the Judge, smiling, "that was not at all necessary for a judge of the Common Pleas, though for that matter, as Edmund Burke said in his speech on American affairs, 'in America every man's something of a lawyer.' You see, Mr. Ashburner, there used to be five of us. Some were farmers and some were lawyers, always one or the other, for the pay was not very high, and nobody but farmers and lawyers have time to work for nothing in this country. By the bye," said the Judge, "I never knew any one yet a judge of the Common Pleas, unless he was either a lawyer or a farmer: did you, Benson?" Karl answered in the negative, and the Judge continued: "If there were any cases before us that were of importance, the lawyers would carry them up to the Supreme Court. But I never could discover that it made much difference who were judges in the Common Pleas, for the judges who were lawyers would have their opinions reversed just about as often as we farmers. I suppose you English gentlemen would think it a great piece of nonsense, taking three or four men for judges who had never practised at the bar; but the truth is, that such men look closely at the real justice of the matter, and pay very little attention to technicalities, while your second-rate lawyers if they are made judges in an inferior court, study nothing but technicalities, and misapply them half the time besides. Then you see we want cheap expeditious courts for the trial of small cases—whether the court is wrong or right is not so much matter—law is a lottery anyhow, and the fact is, the sooner a case is decided and out of the way, the better for both parties. I never knew myself of any man's making a fortune by going to law, though I have heard of such things. But I suppose, Mr. Ashburner, that you much prefer the old-fashioned English courts, with the judges in gowns and wigs, and every thing done in the most solemn manner. Now, to tell the truth, Mr. Ashburner, don't you think it great nonsense for us to have one or two plain business men like me, hoisted on to the bench to administer laws which Coke and Blackstone studied for a lifetime, and which in your own country no one is thought fit to administer them till he has spent years in practising, and has raised himself up by his own labors?"
Ashburner became interested in all this, and was struck with the intelligence of the speaker, who, notwithstanding his plainness and his remarks about foreigners, seemed still to have the tastes and delicate perceptions of the educated man. He asked several questions as to the American judiciary, and informed the Judge that the works of some of the American luminaries of the law occupied a high place in the estimation of English lawyers, were noticed in English reviews, and quoted in English courts. The young Englishman could see, as he said this, that the Judge's face lit up with an expression very different from that of either of the Bensons, and he felt pleased when he heard him say with some exultation, "Your countrymen are not such bad fellows after all, sir; I really believe they always do us justice, and there are no national confessions to be made."
Ashburner was proceeding to state that in England the old feeling of contempt had entirely disappeared, when the door opened, and a girl of about eighteen entered. She threw a quick but calm glance around the room, seemed a little confused at the number of gentlemen, and then, recognizing Karl, went up to him, and shaking hands, asked after his wife. "Mary," said the Judge, as soon as the inquiry was answered, "this is your old friend, Mr. Harry Benson, and this is Mr. Ashburner, an English gentleman; Mr. Ashburner, my daughter, sir."
The young lady shook hands with Harry, and bowed with more reserve to the stranger, who contrived to hand her his chair, and place himself quietly in the next one.
The first thought of Ashburner as he looked at his companion was, "How sweetly pretty she is!" the next, "She is certainly very different from any girl I have seen yet in this country;" and a few moments' conversation confirmed each opinion. She was in truth a very pretty girl, not strictly handsome, but of that bright and good-natured winning beauty that always indicates a warm, kind heart, and always insures its owner friends as well as admirers. She was below the average height, with a girlish, though pretty, rounded figure; her dark brown hair fell smoothly over a white, clear brow, and came down so as partially to hide a rosy cheek; her dress was simple, but the taste and neatness it displayed showed that its wearer was a person of refinement.
Ashburner opened the conversation by saying that he supposed Miss Edwards was a resident of the country, and inquiring how she liked it. She answered that she far preferred it to the city, and a little argument ensued, in the course of which she assured Ashburner that the country was always the pleasantest—one always had so many little things to be interested in, and so much more time for reading. "There was nothing," she said, "of the formality and coldness of city life, nor of its frivolities." It amused Ashburner to hear this philosophy from a girl of eighteen, one who was pretty enough to command more than her share of attention, and who was evidently not of those young ladies who, sincerely desiring to pursue the strict path of duty, make the great mistake of deriding gayety or pleasure whereever they may happen to find it. In the meanwhile the other gentlemen became engrossed in the probable profits of the railroad which was to adorn the other side of the river, and occasional allusions to the tariff, and chances of the various candidates for the presidency, in all of which the Bensons joined as warmly, and laid down their positions as dogmatically (their contempt for their country, its laws, and affairs, to the contrary notwithstanding), as though they had not been expressing, an hour or two before, the most entire ignorance and thorough disdain of and for railroads, politics, and politicians, and particularly the railroad just mentioned, and the politics and politicians of the United States. If Ashburner had listened to this, he would have learned that it is very often the custom among American gentlemen to sneer at and contemn political measures, among strangers (no matter whether foreigners or not), as though the elective franchise, and every thing connected with it, was an immoral sort of vulgarity that no gentleman was expected to know any thing about; a thing to be abandoned to the canaille and an interesting set of patriots known as the Hemispherical Club, who varied their patriotic duties by breaking their opponents' heads and their country's ballot-boxes, and who, moreover, were so modest that they never could be induced to exercise the glorious right of depositing their suffrages, until the candidates on their side had "planked up" for the benefit of the Club; whilst among their friends and neighbors, these same gentlemen talk politics in the most furious and excited manner, each person insisting that he knows all about them, and that every body else will see he's right before the year's out. But unfortunately Ashburner had got so deeply engrossed with the lessons in philosophy he was receiving that he entirely forgot all about his friends. He had discovered that Miss Edwards had been among the "Upper Ten" of New-York, and knew many of the acquaintances he had made. She spoke of them with so much correctness that he was convinced of her excellent judgment in character, while the artlessness with which she spoke, and the almost amusing simplicity of some of her remarks, indicated that she had not studied human nature, as too many of us do, by experience. Ashburner, like most young men, thought himself a shrewd observer, particularly female character (which, by the bye, is what young men know least about), but the subject he was studying puzzled him; Miss Edwards evinced such a mixture of penetration and simplicity that he could not understand how both could exist together. This sort of character has baffled many wiser persons than Mr. Ashburner, who have investigated it with the same interest. The study of young ladies is dangerous at all times to a young man, and most particularly when he does it from philosophical motives; and if any caste of character is more dangerous than another, it is that which blends penetration and simplicity; the one interests while the other charms. Not knowing these truths, Mr. Ashburner had mentally resolved to enter upon this field of philosophical research. The simplicity, the humor, the acuteness of observation, the intelligence, and perhaps the pretty face of his companion, tended to interest him in an unusual manner. And she, too, seemed attracted by the young Englishman, whose education and intelligence rendered him an agreeable companion to any educated and intelligent person. It was pleasant for Ashburner to find a young lady who could talk about something else than the polka or the last party,—who, in short, had read his favorite authors, and could join in admiring them without affectation; and he felt quite annoyed when Karl Benson interrupted the tête-à-tête. As they all rose, the Judge approached Ashburner and said, "I shall be happy to see you again, Mr. Ashburner; if you stay at Mr. Benson's, and have nothing better to do, come over whenever you please; you must excuse my calling on you, for we old fellows are privileged, you know." Ashburner said he would be very happy to do so, and was "desirous of learning something more about American jurisprudence, if Judge Edwards would allow the trouble it would occasion him." The Judge of course said he would bestow all the information in his power, and added, that he had a high regard for England and Englishmen. "I like a great many of your customs," said the Judge, "much better than I do our own. Your girls have a physical education which preserves their health and freshness, while ours sit still and waste their time and ruin their health. Now here's Mary, who is a country girl, and yet hardly exercises from one week's end to another." The Judge said this in a reproving sort of way, but he looked down on his daughter with a smile as he said it; and she smiled back in the same way as she said, "Oh no, father, you forget that now I ride to the post-office every day." It was plain that such reproofs as this was all that Mary ever knew (and as Ashburner marked the affectionate look that passed between father and daughter, he thought all that she ever needed). "How pretty she looks (he thought to himself) standing there by her rough old father, looking up to him with that pleased, confiding look; how much prettier than a fashionable belle who is ashamed of her father because he is plain, and shows it whenever there is some one by, I think"—
"It is time we were over the river," said Karl, interrupting Mr. Ashburner in his contemplations.
"I think," said Mr. Ashburner to himself, as they were crossing the water on their way home, "I think I will call to-morrow and see if she really is as artless as she seems;" and a moment after to his companions, "I believe I will practice rowing a few hours a day for the next few days; physicians say it's a capital exercise."
"I think," said Karl, "you had better not. Exercise on horseback."
Said Harry, "Its precious little rowing you'll do."
"Yes," Ashburner rejoined, "I will, and to convince you, I mean to go alone."
We will say with one Virgil—
"Felix qui protuit rerum cognoscere causas."