Having ascended the brow of a hill, a short distance beyond the bridge, it was agreed between the major and his wife, that, being out of danger, they might now look more after the lost property and think less of assailants. The major, in the meantime, commenced giving his wife an account of the pig's knowing qualities, which, together with a description of the eccentric swine driver, amused her not a little. If the pig, she argued, was possessed of one half the gifts set down to him, he would take care of himself for the night; and as to the chickens, not even the black people who lived on the hill, would think of coming out at night to steal them-for though they were proverbially fond of keeping a large poultry yard, and not over scrupulous of the means by which they supplied it-they were too sparing of their energies to waste them at that hour of night. She therefore enjoined that they return peaceably home, and leave the search to be resumed at daylight. The major admitted the reason of his wife's argument, but declared his determination to traverse the road round and return by way of the tavern. It might, in truth, betray a want of courage, did he retrace his steps at this stage of the road.
"As to courage, husband," said his wife, holding the lantern so near that the shadow reflected over his broad face, "I am sure you have already proved that you are not wanting in that; and as there are but a few hours until daylight, we had as well go home and get us comfortably to bed." The figure of a man, whose dusky shadow reflected along the fence, was now seen approaching in the road. The major had no sooner descried him, than he fell in with his wife's opinion, and as a practical illustration of his faith in it, commenced retracing his steps so fast that it was with much difficulty she could keep up with him. Looking neither to the right nor the left, he continued on until he had gained the house, from the door of which he turned to look back, when, finding the figure had vanished, he said with an air of regained courage, that it was not that he feared the miscreant, but having a wife and three children dependent upon him, he could not hope for forgiveness were he to risk his valuable life in combat with a lurking vagabond. He therefore shut the door, partook of an humble supper, and went quietly to bed, leaving the pig and chickens to take care of themselves until daylight.
CHAPTER XVI.
WHEREIN IS RECORDED EVENTS WHICH TOOK PLACE ON THE DAY FOLLOWING THE MAJOR'S ARRIVAL AT BARNSTABLE, WITH SUNDRY OTHER QUEER THINGS.
THE sun was filling the east with golden filaments, and the sparrows were making the air melodious with their songs, glad, no doubt, at the major's return, when, on the morning following the events I have recorded in the foregoing chapter, I was awakened by a voice singing sweetly under my window. I soon recognized it as the voice of Bessie, whose image rose up in my fancy as the fairest of living creatures. At first, my senses seemed seized with a pleasant delirium; but soon the strains came so sweet and tender that I lost all power over my emotions, while it seemed to me as if my fancy had winged its way to some land where love and joy rules unclouded. "O, sweet transport, whither wilt thou beguile me!" I said with a sigh, as the voice ceased its singing, and the effect was like an electric shock, consuming me with disappointment. But I heard the dulcet echoes mingling faintly with the songs of birds, as if some seraph had strung her lute to give sweet music to the winds; and I was consoled.
After a few moments' pause the voice again broke forth from the garden, and I caught the following words, which, if I can trust my treacherous memory, belong to a song written by the learned Dr. Easley when in the tutelage of his literary career, and heaven knows, (for he was then a priest of slender means,) before he ever thought of translating German or becoming the pensioned puffer of three New York booksellers: "Come, gentle stranger, haste thee hither, Tarry not, for I am lonely—Come and tell me whom thou lovest Or the throbbing mischief will my heart betray." This being a fair and honest specimen of Easley's early attempts at versification, it was said of him by those best qualified to judge, that had he but stuck to the pulpit and sonnet writing, he would in time have become an adept, for he could compose pathetically enough, and so regulate his points as to make his theology appear quite profound. But he had a weakness which ran to the getting of gold, and this betrayed him into the commerce of literature, where he had become a critic of easy virtue, and had attracted about him innumerable adorers, principally maidens of twenty, whose elegant endowments and clever novels he could not sufficiently extol. Besides being a poet and a great praiser of small books, the learned doctor had a rare talent for making ladies' slippers, which, it had been more than once hinted, was the trade of his early youth. It was now charged upon him, though I do not assert it of my own knowledge, that he had found it profitable to become the assassin of criticism and the undertaker of literature, for which offices he was amply qualified, notwithstanding the very serious writers in Putnam's Magazine thought he ought to be transported to Sandy Hook, there to do penance among the breakers a whole November. And this punishment they would no doubt have carried out, but for the two newspapers and four booksellers, who stood in so much need of his virgin goodness that they refused to part with him even for a day.
After another pause, the voice of Bessie again struck up, and this time she sung: "O, had I Ariadne's crown, At morning I would sing to thee—Would sing of dew-drops on thy ringlets, Then my Apollo thou should'st be." This, also, was by the learned Doctor Easley, and is extracted from a poem published in his native village many years ago. Having great confidence in its numerous beauties, which the villagers, being humble people, failed to discover, the doctor resolved to seek his fortune in New York, confident that first rate poetic talent never was appreciated in the country.
The sweetness of Bessie's voice (not the words) so enchanted me, that I arose, dressed myself, and hurried down stairs, and into the reading room, where the little deformed man was premeditating the ill fate of his lecture. He returned my salutation with great earnestness of manner, told me he had walked three times around the square, listening to the birds sing. And, too, he had been regarded by young Barnstable as an object of curiosity. Impatient to engage me in conversation, he drew forth his notes, which he as suddenly shut up and returned to his pocket, on seeing the clerical looking man enter the room, accompanied by his bride, her countenance the very picture of innocence betrayed.
The little deformed man had evidently taken a dislike to the gray haired and milky faced groom; for no sooner had he pocketed his notes than he set to pacing the room rapidly, frisking his fingers alternately behind and before him, and casting half angry glances over his shoulder at him. I took advantage of this display of irrascibility on the part of the lecturer, and passed into the hall, where Bessie, having ceased her singing, was busily arranging the furniture and attending to those little domestic duties which, in towns where fashion rules, are left to untutored servants. She received my salutation with a modest courtesy, but became so confused and agitated as I pressed her hand, that, unable to resist the temptation, I stole a kiss ere she was conscious of my intention. "It is not kind of you, sir," she said, in a half chiding whisper; "you must not do it again." And she set her black eye upon me, inquiringly, and artlessly raised her apron, as if to wipe away the blushes. Fain would I have pressed her to my bosom, and beseeched her to regard me as a brother. But her face suddenly became lighted up with a smile, and such was the perfection of its beauty that to me it seemed created only for an angel. I asked myself if there was on earth any thing I could aspire to with so much gallantry as her love; nor could I suppress the thought, that he who would betray it was unworthy even of the devil.
Bessie quickly regained her temper, and as if suddenly recalling something to mind, began prattling to me in the most artless manner. "Just think, sir," said she, "what a disturbance there is in town this morning." And she laid her hand gently upon my arm. "That queer man they call the major, and who is thought half fool and half philosopher, has got back; and there's always such a time in town when he comes. And, don't you think, he has brought an audacious pig with him. And the pig has gone to work (they say, sir, that he is possessed of a devil) and broke into poor Elder Boomer's fowl yard, and eat up all his chickens. And the brute does such queer things! As for the poor elder, God knows he has a hard enough time to live. He only gets five hundred dollars a year, and what the sewing circle does for him. Only last week the circle gave him new dresses for all his family, and a nice three-ply carpet, which I made for him. I forgot to tell you, too, that about a month since the circle gave him a new set of dimity bed curtains, and two marseilles quilts; and now they will have to make him up the loss of his chickens. Just think of it, sir! And he's such a good old man, and preaches such good sermons. I do wish, you could hear him once, sir." Here Bessie paused to take breath. I assured her that he must be a fortunate man who had such lips to speak his praises. At which she gave me a rogueish look, blushed, and tossed her head reprovingly. Nothing, I replied, would give me so much pleasure, especially did she bear me company, as to attend the elder's church; but, however strong my inclinations, they could not now be gratified, for the imperative nature of my mission left me but one or two days to tarry in Barnstable. This caused her feelings some disquiet; but with great good sense she changed the subject of conversation, and commenced giving me a detailed account of the various kind acts performed by the sewing circle, of which she was a member, and which was chiefly made up of worthy ladies, who sought out the needy and relieved their wants, knowing that charity well bestowed is recorded in heaven.