GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXX. May, 1847. No. 5.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

Poetry

[Transcriber’s Notes] can be found at the end of this eBook.

Drawn by J. Smillie from a sketch by T. Addison Richards. Graham’s Magazine, 1844.
Engraved by Rawdon, Wright and Hatch & Smillie.
LOVER’S LEAP.
CHATTAHOOCHEE RIVER

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXX. PHILADELPHIA, May, 1847. No. 5.

THE LOYALIST’S DAUGHTER.

A TALE OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

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BY P. HAMILTON MEYERS.

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CHAPTER I.

The world-renowned city of Paris, always gay, was, perhaps, never more so than in the autumn of the year 1776. Most prominent among the exciting topics of its excitable populace, at that period, was the American war. Possessed of an innate love of liberty, and a generous sympathy for its oppressed supporters, and acting, doubtless, in part, under the influence of an habitual opposition to the British government, the citizens of Paris, and, to a less extent those of all France, had watched with anxiety the growing rupture between the colonies and their parent country, and now hailed with unconcealed delight the prospect of their final separation. Each item of intelligence which gave token of the spirit of the republicans, or the prospect of their success was sought with avidity, and discussed with animation. Not a city in the colonies themselves could boast of a populace so united in their opinion, or more enthusiastic in their anticipations on this engrossing subject. Whatever mistaken ideas of loyalty there might be in America, to arrest the cause of popular freedom, no such obstacle existed in France. They at least owed no fealty to the House of Hanover.

The feeling upon this subject at Paris had been brought to its height by the appearance of Franklin in that capital. Never, perhaps, had an untitled foreigner attracted so much attention, or been received with such distinction. In addition to the cause of his country, his personal reputation as a philosopher, his venerable years, his singular costume and manners, combined to throw around him that charm of novelty so seducing to the multitude. Wherever he appeared in public, crowds gathered to admire. The hotels and club-rooms resounded with the name; the gazettes were filled with his aphorisms and bon-mots; and in every place of public resort, conspicuous among the embellishments the portrait of the American envoy, with grave and sage-like countenance, arrested attention.

That the presence of so decided a lion should be eagerly sought for at the fashionable parties and levees was quite a matter of course. Nor was the American backward in availing himself of all legitimate means to increase the popularity of his cause.

The clairvoyance of imagination, more potent than that of Mesmerism, shall unroof for our benefit the marble and pillared mansion of the Countess De Berne, and give to us a bird’s-eye view of its interior, on the evening of one of her most brilliant fêtes. A flood of light, a blaze of beauty meets the eye. Sitting, standing, promenading, the votaries of fashion, in numberless brilliant groups, are seen. Eminent among this throng for his personal appearance, and his graceful and agreeable manners, was Mr. Francis Gansevoort. American by birth, he had been spending several years in travel on the eastern continent, and only for a few weeks past had been a sojourner in the French metropolis, where he had gained, not without desert, ready access to the first circles of society. The son of a distinguished and wealthy loyalist of New York, he had left his home before the commencement of hostilities, and until his arrival in Paris, had heard but little to awaken his sympathies in behalf of his native land. He had for the last year been traveling in the eastern states of Europe, ignorant of the great events which had taken place at home, and unconscious of the rapid development of those great political principles for which his country was contending. The state of feeling which he found existing in Paris on this subject, the enthusiasm, the ardor with which every thing American was spoken of, operated with an electric effect upon his mind. If any thing were wanting to fan his emotions into a flame, a letter, which he at this juncture received from a much loved sister at home, was that desideratum. It had been written many months before, and although its general intelligence was not new, its details were full of the most exciting interest.

Standing beside Mr. Gansevoort, and engaged in animated discussion with him, was a French gentleman of about his own age, who had been the companion of his more recent travels. Their acquaintance had commenced at Paris, about a year previous to the time now spoken of, and had ripened into a warm friendship. Louis De Zeng was a count of the French empire, and a gentleman of the most unsullied reputation. Like Gansevoort he was a tall and commanding person, and possessed of that rare grace of manner which compels admiration.

Central amid another group, beheld with reverence, addressed with respect, listened to with the most profound attention, numbering the highest nobility among his admirers, was Benjamin Franklin. The winters of more than seventy years had left their frosts upon his brow, without impairing the strength of his intellect. Conspicuous among those who thronged about the philosopher, was a youth of about nineteen years, himself the object of no inconsiderable degree of respect. Evidently of exalted rank, his fascinating manners and address were well calculated to adorn his elevated station. None listened with more earnest and polite attention to the envoy, none asked more minute and pertinent questions than the young Marquis de La Fayette. It is needless to say that the struggles of the revolutionists, their exploits, and their prospect of success were the principal topics of conversation. The circle was soon joined by De Zeng and Gansevoort, both of whom hastened to pay their respects to the American minister, and afterward to the marquis, with the latter of whom each appeared to be upon terms of considerable intimacy.

“Our friend, the marquis, calls this the American camp, Mr. Gansevoort,” said Dr. Franklin; “I am happy to see that you are disposed to join it.”

This was no random remark. The speaker had been made acquainted, in a few words, with the peculiar history of his young countryman, and designed to sound his views. The friends of Gansevoort, all of whom were in equal doubt as to his intentions, listened eagerly for his reply.

“I fear the points of resemblance between this brilliant assemblage and the American camp are but few,” was the answer. “I design, however, that a few months shall enable me better to institute a comparison.”

A thrill of pleasure pervaded the breasts of the listeners at this remark; and the venerable patriot did not hesitate openly to express his delight, and promise his personal influence with the American commander-in-chief in his young friend’s behalf.

“You are of those who ‘forsake father and mother’ to follow the good cause,” he said; “May your reward be proportionate.”

Count De Zeng came to the relief of his friend, by remarking that if the latter forsook father and mother, there was one at least whom he was not required to forsake, but who was herself among the pioneers of liberty. He then spoke enthusiastically of the letter of Miss Gansevoort, which he had been allowed to see, and begged a similar favor for Dr. Franklin. This having been granted, the latter, after perusing a few lines, asked the privilege of reading a portion of it aloud. The request was so earnest, and so heartily seconded by the bystanders, that it would have been uncourteous to refuse. The best educated classes of France, it is well known, fully understand the English language when spoken, although but few can converse in it with precision or elegance. The part selected for perusal was a brief description of the battle of Bunker Hill, of which Miss Gansevoort had had the extraordinary fortune to be a witness, while on a visit at Boston.

The crowd thickened around the majestic form of the ambassador, as with distinct but slightly trembling voice, amidst a general silence he read the following extract from Miss Gansevoort’s letter:

“The British army, under Gen. Howe, crossed the Firth about noon, in a multitude of sloops and boats. Every house-top in the northern part of the city, every steeple, and dome, and hill, was crowded with spectators. The anxiety of all classes was most intense, and especially of those who, like myself, sympathized with the patriots. It seemed as if on the passing hour hung the final destiny of our land. It was the first real struggle, and its issue was to animate or forever dampen the hopes of her gallant defenders.

“The attacking army had formed on the opposite side, and advanced in solid column toward the American redoubt. How breathlessly I awaited the shock! I was in the midst of my loyalist friends, and on every side I heard nothing but confident predictions of an immediate rout of the Americans.

“ ‘Now, now,’ were the whispered words, ‘in a moment you’ll see them fly.’ I could not reply—my voice was choked. I could only send up silent prayers to the Throne of Power; and I firmly believe that tens of thousands of petitions were at that moment ascending simultaneously to Heaven in behalf of our army.

“The British approached nearer and nearer to the cloud-like cluster which hung upon the summit of the hill, without an opposing gun being fired. A death-like silence prevailed in the American camp. ‘They’ll surrender without a blow!’ exclaimed one. ‘They have surrendered,’ said another. In the midst of these remarks, a flash of lightning seemed to pour down the sides of the hill; one long, continuous, rapid roll of musketry was heard, while shouts, and charging cheers rose wildly on the air. Ceaseless, unremitting, deadly, was that fearful discharge of musketry from the camp. The ranks of the assailants were decimated at a breath. Appalled at this unexpected reception, they wavered, and rallied, and wavered again. Still downward poured the iron hail. Vain was their valor. No human courage could have withstood the shock. The British army retreated rapidly down the hill, and one wild shout of triumph rent the sky. From every roof, from every dome and height, those thrilling cheers went up. So great was the consternation of the retreating army that many fled precipitately to their boats. But their officers, with indomitable skill and courage, succeeded in rallying them at length to a second attack. In the mean time the flames of Charlestown were illuminating the heavens. A detachment of the British had fired that beautiful town, and its pillars of flame and smoke, ‘volumed and vast,’ formed a terrific background to the tragedy enacting on the hill. The charge was renewed with increased ardor. Heedless of their galling fire, the Americans, as before, silently awaited the near approach of the enemy, and again greeted them with the same resistless deluge of balls. Completely broken and routed, the British a second time fled to the shore. Their dauntless general, Sir William Howe, remained for some time alone on the field of battle—all the other officers being either killed or wounded.

“But the contest was not yet decided. The well-disciplined troops of Sir William were rallied to a third attack, and by the aid of Gen. Clinton, who, witnessing from the city their imminent peril, had crossed rapidly to their relief another and more judicious assault was planned. There is little reason to doubt that even this, although made with tremendous force, might have been successfully sustained, but for a most unfortunate and unforeseen event. The ammunition of the patriots began to fail. They were also unprovided with bayonets; and, after a brief resistance, they abandoned the works, and retired with but little loss.

“That the Americans were virtually victorious in this contest is allowed even by many of their enemies; but however that may be, the effect of the battle upon the people is quite the same as that of a victory. It has inspired them with the fullest confidence in their powers, and will lead, beyond doubt, to still nobler achievements. The whole country rings with the tidings.”

A murmur of approbation succeeded the silence which had prevailed during the reading of this epistle. Conversation at once became animated, and the compliments, which were showered with a lavish hand, were divided between the American army and its fair encomiast.

“When do you embark?” inquired De Zeng of his friend.

“Within a few weeks,” said the other.

“I will go with you,” was the sententious reply.

He who had watched the excited bearing of the young marquis at this moment, and the proud flashing of his eye, would not have doubted that in his breast also was forming that lofty resolution which was subsequently carried to so glorious a fulfillment.

——

CHAPTER II.

The city of New York was at this period in the possession of the British. Forced to evacuate Boston, and glad of permission peaceably to depart, Sir William Howe had retired with his troops, temporarily, to Halifax, and soon after, landing at Sandy Hook, had fought his way to New York. Naturally most anxious to visit his relations in that city, Gansevoort had resolved on crossing to London, for the purpose of embarking at that place. But here a difficulty occurred. The English government, irritated by the evident encouragement which France had given to the revolutionists, kept a vigilant eye upon the movements of her military men, and gentlemen of rank. Numbers of these had already enlisted in the American army, and no French officer could at that period have ventured within any of the colonial cities, which were in possession of the British, without liability to arrest and detention. It is true that such an one, so far from being regarded as a prisoner of war, would doubtless have been allowed to re-embark for his own or any foreign shore; but this, in the case of De Zeng, would have been to defeat the very object of his mission. Neither himself nor Gansevoort could endure the idea of separation from each other, nor could the latter possibly forego his design of visiting his friends before entering the army. If another and still more potent cause influenced the count in persisting at all hazards to accompany his friend, it will be readily surmised by the reader. Miss Gansevoort had already taken full possession of his glowing imagination. Incidentally he had become acquainted with the prominent traits of her character, and had learned her surpassing beauty by the accidental sight of a miniature in her brother’s possession. He earnestly desired to form her acquaintance, without any well defined idea of the motives that influenced him. Unless, however, he could meet her before entering the army, there was but little probability that any subsequent opportunity would occur. Let not the sedate reader be alarmed with the idea of being entrapped into the perusal of a love tale, abounding with disguises and stratagems, when informed of the expedient resorted to by the volatile Frenchman in this dilemma. He resolved to accompany Gansevoort as a valet-de-chambre, laughingly protesting that the latter should impose no duties upon him beyond those absolutely essential to the sustaining of his assumed character. To this seemingly absurd proposition his companion, with great reluctance, was prevailed on to accede. Indeed, De Zeng would not be denied, and for the purpose of overcoming the scruples of the other, frankly acknowledged the motives that actuated him.

The plan was duly carried out. The friends proceeded to London, and took passage in an armed packet for New York. Their fellow-passengers were but few in number, and as fortunately none of them were familiar with the French language, they were enabled to maintain nearly as unrestricted an intercourse as usual. A few weeks brought them safely to port. It is unnecessary to depict the delight which marked the re-union of the young American and his friends, whose attachment to each other, years of separation, so far from diminishing, had tended only to increase. It was not, therefore, without deep regret that Gansevoort thought of the pain which he should be obliged to inflict upon his father, by avowing his political principles, and his determination to support them.

In this trying crisis his sister proved a ministering angel. She reminded him of the paramount claims of his country, and of the great probability that, by the course he had chosen, he would render an essential service, ultimately, to the parent whose wishes he was now obliged to contravene. With a degree of natural eloquence, unusual among her sex, she recounted briefly, but feelingly, all those deep and burning wrongs which had been heaped by British arrogance upon our land. She spoke of the martyrs who had already laid down their lives in its behalf and the self-denying labors and perils of those great men who were still engaged in the cause, and who were destined, she said, to an immortality of fame, and to the unceasing gratitude of posterity.

“Do not think, dear Frank,” she concluded, “that I am transcending my proper line of duty. I talk only to you. But if propriety must seal my mouth in the presence of others, I only feel the more deeply.”

The Count De Zeng, in his assumed character, was a witness of this interview. Ellen had been told by her brother that she need not hesitate to talk in his presence, and inasmuch as he himself spoke only in the French language, she had inferred that he could comprehend no other; there was, therefore no restraint upon her feelings.

As, with a heightened color, and eye lighted with strong emotion, she concluded, her brother smiled and replied: “You are the same artless, impulsive girl as ever; but, as usual, you are in the right. Do not believe that your persuasive powers were needed in my behalf. I have not traveled three thousand miles to engage in this war with a faint heart or hesitating mind. But there is another, an ardent lover of liberty, on whom they may not be entirely thrown away. Allow me to introduce you to my friend and fellow-traveler, the Count Louis De Zeng. He travels, as you perceive, under a cloud at present; but I think I may safely trust to your discretion.”

Astonished and bewildered, Ellen could not believe that she had heard aright; and it was not until some moments after De Zeng, with entire self-possession, had advanced to pay his respects, which he did in unexceptionable English, that she found words to reply.

“I know that I have made myself very ridiculous,” she said, blushing deeply; “but if Count De Zeng is really a republican at heart, he will make due allowances.”

Count De Zeng was a republican at heart, but at that moment he felt that there was something at his heart besides republicanism. If ever, in the course of his approaching warfare, he should have occasion to storm a citadel, he could ask no better success than had attended Miss Gansevoort’s undesigned assault. She had carried the outworks, glacis, fosse, and parapet, at a single blow, and stood at that moment in the centre of the works completely victorious. What terms she would be disposed to allow the vanquished, was a question yet to be settled.

Gansevoort hastened to explain to his sister the necessity of his friend’s disguise, and the importance of preserving the secret; and Ellen, delighted, as she believed, at this accession to the American ranks, promised to use all necessary discretion.

——

CHAPTER III.

The senior Mr. Gansevoort was himself a military man. He had been engaged in the last war between France and England, prior to the period now spoken of, which, as is well known, was prosecuted with no inconsiderable warmth on this continent. He had held the rank of colonel in the British service, and acquitted himself with credit; and although now unfitted for a military life, his zeal in the royal cause was none the less ardent. His acquaintance among the English officers resident in New York was extensive, and for several of them his house was a place of frequent resort. Sir William Howe himself was occasionally seen at his table. Among his most frequent visiters, however, was Sir Philip Bender, a gentleman who held the rank of major in the army, but who had seen no actual service. He had come to this country in the suite of Lord Howe, and was supposed to be secretly connected with the mission of that nobleman, and Sir William, to establish peace by negotiation. Profligate and unprincipled, he was a fit agent for some of those disgraceful schemes which were set on foot by the British government, to acquire by fraud what they could not gain by conquest. Major Bender had early manifested a partiality for Miss Gansevoort, nor was either the colonel or his daughter left long in doubt as to his wishes. To the one he was as acceptable as to the other odious. Yet another individual, whom it is necessary to introduce to the reader, was a young American, who had attached himself warmly to the royal cause, and who held an ensign’s commission in the army. To say that Edward Wiley was a friend and confidant of Sir Philip may perhaps be a sufficient indication of his character. In boyhood he had been a companion and schoolmate of young Gansevoort, but even at that age his conduct had been characterized by cunning and deceit. There were of course others among the officers with whom Gansevoort now found himself in occasional communication, who were in every respect worthy and excellent men. From these, as well as from those first named, he met with frequent solicitations to enter the army; and although it was no difficult matter resolutely to decline the alluring offers that were held out to him, the necessity of concealing his sentiments was a source of continual pain and mortification. Suspicion was already aroused, and if confirmed might lead to his detention. He therefore prepared to depart. Convinced that it would be unsafe to acquaint his father with his intentions, he resolved that he should learn them first from the camp of the enemy. Nearly a fortnight had now elapsed since his arrival, nor had De Zeng allowed the time to pass entirely unimproved. Occasional opportunities were afforded him of interviews with Ellen, which had resulted on his part in the fullest confirmation of his first impressions. Unfortunately, however, Count De Zeng knew but little of the female character, and hardly daring to hope for a prize which he valued so highly, he construed reserve into aversion, and failed to discover any sufficient encouragement in the conduct of Miss Gansevoort, to justify a direct avowal of his feelings. Thus, unfortunately, they parted; each uncertain of the other’s sentiments, but both painfully conscious of their own.

The theatre of war at this period was exclusively in New Jersey. But war in reality there was none. That celebrated campaign of Washington, by which, with an inferior and enfeebled army, he had driven Howe and Cornwallis from almost all their strong-holds in that state, had drawn to a close. The severity of the season was an effectual bar to further military operations, and by tacit consent, hostilities, with the exception of a few slight and occasional skirmishes, were suspended. The quarters of the American commander-in-chief were at Elizabethtown, and thither, without delay, Gansevoort and De Zeng repaired. The reader may perhaps be aware that the time now spoken of was that critical period of the war, in which, for the sake of the common safety, Congress had invested General Washington with a degree of dictatorial authority. Among other plenary powers, he had been authorized to levy and organize a very large force, in addition to those already in existence, and to appoint and remove all officers under the rank of brigadier-general.

Franklin had not failed of his promise to commend Gansevoort to the special attention of the commander-in-chief, nor was a recommendation from so high a quarter ineffectual. Both himself and friend immediately received a colonel’s commission in a regiment of light-horse, of which several were then being formed, but which were not designed for service until the ensuing spring. In a skirmish which soon after took place between a small party of the Americans under Gansevoort, and a foraging, or rather pillaging party of the enemy, the young officer displayed so extraordinary a degree of skill and courage as to elicit the particular commendation of Washington. It led to an unexpected result. The commandant at Fort Constitution had signified his desire to retire temporarily from that station, by reason of ill health; but it was difficult, at that juncture, to supply his place. Washington would have offered it, unhesitatingly, to Count De Zeng, who, although scarcely twenty-six years of age, had brought with him a distinguished military reputation from abroad, but he could not conceal from himself the fact that there was a growing dissatisfaction among the people, at the number of foreigners already promoted in the army. The appointment was to be but temporary. The fort, completely garrisoned, was considered entirely invulnerable, and could be safely entrusted to any officer of integrity and common skill. He resolved to place it in the hands of Gansevoort, and, in order that the latter might be able to have the advantage, if necessary, of a larger experience than his own, signified his desire that the count should accompany his friend. It is needless to say that this arrangement was most acceptable to both. It led to results but little anticipated.

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CHAPTER IV.

Fort Constitution has been not inaptly termed the Gibraltar of America. Situated in an almost inaccessible fastness, about thirty miles above New York, and commanding the Hudson river, as well as the passes of the mountains on its western shore, its possession was considered a matter of the utmost moment to both parties. At this period it was most earnestly coveted by General Howe, for a reason unknown as yet to Washington. The northern expedition of Burgoyne, although not yet undertaken, had been fully planned, and was to be set on foot in the ensuing spring. General Howe was, of course, cognizant of these intended operations, to the full and complete success of which, nothing seemed wanting but the ability on his part to form a timely junction with Burgoyne on the banks of the Hudson—the one army descending from Quebec—the other ascending from New York. Fort Constitution, the key of the county of Albany, as it was termed, would be the principal impediment to this movement on the part of General Howe. Thus, it will be seen, circumstances combined to render its possession, at this period, the very point on which the issue of the whole war might depend. Its fall would have struck terror into the whole country.

Count De Zeng, who, with the commandant, had immediately repaired to the fort, did not hesitate to express the liveliest gratification at the condition of the works. The garrison also was complete, and the count, with the spirit of a true soldier, saw only one thing to regret, which was the entire improbability of an attack. There was but little duty to perform, beyond an occasional sally in defence of the neighboring settlements against the incursions of tories and savages; and even those calls were rare, the Indian operations being chiefly confined to a more northerly region. During this repose of arms, there was, therefore, abundant leisure for other and more pleasing pursuits. A village of no inconsiderable size, which lay sheltered beneath the guns of the fortress, afforded the means of an agreeable social intercourse to the officers, and festivities were in reality more frequent, and probably better enjoyed, than in the “piping times of peace.” Of its inhabitants, although the most were republicans, some of course were loyalists. These, however, remaining entirely inactive, claimed to have their rights, if not their opinions, respected. The society was too small to allow of any political line of demarcation, and the friends of King George and the supporters of Congress were seen mingling harmoniously together in the evening parties, or at the midnight ball. It is true, there were some whose naturally sour dispositions, rendered more rancorous by the events of the war, kept them entirely aloof from their opponents, and some, more despicable still, who concealed the bitterest animosity under a pleasing exterior.

Not belonging to either of the classes last named, although a loyalist, was Captain Wilton, a friend and former companion in arms of Colonel Gansevoort, but a gentleman of more liberal views, and of the most perfect integrity. He had two daughters, whose characters may be briefly described. Both were exceedingly pretty. The elder was graceful and gifted, but vain, conceited, and imperious. The preponderance in her character of that one quality, which is so often the bane of beauty, subverted what would otherwise have been a sound and discriminating judgment. The younger, with more than her sister’s charms, possessed almost none of her faults. She had been taught, by the daily and hourly deportment of the other, to believe in her own comparative inferiority, and was consequently but little conscious of her attractions. Thus had she grown up, as it were, in the shade, but fortunately under circumstances favorable to the development of all those pure and winning graces of the heart, which so immeasurably transcend the flitting charms of beauty. Cheerful, modest, confiding and affectionate, Alice Wilton was “a gem of purest ray serene.”

Gansevoort was a frequent and welcome visiter at the house of Captain Wilton. Although attracted unconsciously by the charms of Alice, the ingenuity of her sister, Arabella, contrived to make him, ostensibly at least, a suitor of her own. She did not hesitate to appropriate his attentions exclusively to herself although she could not fail to see that they were otherwise designed. Indeed Arabella was possessed of an art, which it is to be hoped is lost to her sex of the present generation, of compelling the addresses of the gentlemen. Gansevoort was far from considering himself a suitor of either of the sisters. His mind was chiefly engrossed by the duties of his station, and his hours of relaxation were controlled mainly by accident. Thus, therefore, without giving sufficient thought to the subject to enable him to fathom the designs of Miss Wilton, he allowed himself to appear to the public in the character of her professed admirer.

It has been said that the winter was rigorous and severe; but it had not yet been sufficiently cold to entirely close the lower part of the river, which was still navigable from the fort to the city of New York. Occasionally a ship of war, from the latter place, penetrated up to the neighborhood of the fortress, (avoiding, of course, an imprudent proximity,) for the purpose probably of facilitating intercourse with some parts of the interior. From one of these, a messenger, under the protection of a flag, was sent to the fort, to request permission for Ensign Wiley to visit some friends at the adjoining village. Gansevoort readily gave the desired permit. At an interview which he soon after had with Wiley, the latter seemed disposed to claim the full benefit of their early acquaintance and intimacy. The commandant did not repel his advances, chiefly, perhaps, lest any coldness which he might manifest should be attributed to the pride of superior station. They met frequently, and at all times with apparent frankness and cordiality. Wiley did not even hesitate to introduce and discuss the subject of the war, and its probable results. New and formidable forces of the enemy were hinted at. Defection in the highest quarters in our own ranks was boldly asserted. Negotiations were now pending at New York, he said, by which several distinguished leaders of the republicans would return to their allegiance, and receive the clemency of the king. Gansevoort, of a cool and phlegmatic temperament, often listened without reply; and the other, mistaking his silence for conviction, or at least for doubt, grew still more bold. Those, he said, who were the first to claim the royal favor, would doubtless receive it the most abundantly. But little merit would attach to the submission of those who submitted only when there were no longer any hopes of effectual resistance. These remarks, however, were kept carefully free from every thing of a personal character. They were made, too, with an air of the utmost nonchalance, as if they were on a subject in which neither speaker or hearer had the slightest interest. Gansevoort was, fortunately, a man of quick perceptions. Not slow to discover when himself was insulted, or his cause dishonored, he yet had that fortunate command of temper, which, in all controversies, is of such immeasurable importance to its possessor. Like the true Italian diplomatist, as painted by McCauley, his eye was large, dark, and dreamy, expressing nothing, but discerning every thing. The interviews alluded to usually took place at the house of Captain Wilton, where Wiley also was a frequent visiter. He was, of course, not admitted within the fort.

——

CHAPTER V.

Nothing could exceed the grief and anger of the elder Mr. Gansevoort on learning the conduct of his son. The first burst of his resentment fell upon poor Ellen, whom he had long suspected of entertaining disloyal views, and who he now fully believed had been chiefly instrumental in forming the sentiments of her brother. Her continued repugnance to the addresses of Major Bender, had already incensed her father most highly, and, his anger being now literally without bound, he notified her, in the most peremptory manner, that she must prepare for her immediate marriage with that gentleman. In vain did she expostulate. “You alone,” he said, “remain to inherit an ample estate, derived from the bounty of a generous sovereign. Never shall it pass to rebellious hands. Son, or son-in-law, never shall a traitorous subject lord it in these halls.”

Ellen was not without the most serious alarm. She knew well her father’s firmness and her own helplessness. She did not doubt his power, in conjunction with Sir Philip, to execute his threat in relation to her marriage. The times were favorable to almost every scheme of iniquity and fraud. Indeed, an event similar to the one threatened, and which had proved almost tragical in its termination, had but recently taken place in the city. There was none to whom she could look for help. Her mother who alone had ever possessed any real influence over the iron will of her other parent, had been many years deceased. She was literally confined, a prisoner in her room, excepting when compelled to descend to the parlor to receive the visits of Sir Philip, who did not fail, on his part, to use every art and blandishment which a life of gallantry had placed at his command to overcome her dislike. He painted in the most alluring colors her reception in England as his bride; the sensation which her beauty would make in the highest circles, and the prospect of his own expected elevation to the peerage. It is needless to say that his assiduities only increased her abhorrence. At length he assumed a sterner tone. He claimed her hand as a matter of right, alledging that prior to her brother’s arrival, her encouragement of his addresses had been such as to constitute an implied contract of marriage. This assertion was palpably false, but the change which he supposed Francis had wrought in her political sentiments, he thought would give color to it. The fulfillment of that contract, he said, he had a right to enforce. Her father was anxious for their immediate marriage, and if she persisted in interposing her childish objections, means could readily be found to overcome every obstacle.

“Do not think,” he said, “that when every thing conspires to favor me, I will be thwarted by a foolish whim. But let me beseech you to lay aside your scruples; and if your regard for me is not now all that you would desire, doubt not it will become so. The attachment which commences after marriage, if less romantic in its character, is often the most permanent. If my society is now displeasing to you, you shall be relieved from it at once, until your feelings become tranquillized. Business of the utmost importance calls me immediately from town, and my absence may continue for several weeks. Let but the ceremony be performed⁠—”

“Never! Sir Philip Bender,” she exclaimed with emphasis, starting from her seat, which he had gradually approached. “It shall never be. The God of Heaven will protect me. I will never be your bride.”

A flush of mingled mortification and anger reddened the cheek of Sir Philip. Pausing a moment to recover his self-command, he coolly replied,

“My bride you certainly will be, although I can scarcely find it in my heart to deprive the stage of so admirable an actress.” Having thus spoken, he formally took leave, but with an expression of countenance that bespoke the most determined resolution.

Frightened by threats, galled by taunts, every nerve strung to its utmost tension with excitement, Miss Gansevoort hastily retired to her room, where for many minutes her violent sobs, and the convulsive heavings of her breast, alone testified her irrepressible emotion.

On the afternoon of the ensuing day, Colonel Gansevoort, and his intended son-in-law, were seated together in a private parlor in the mansion of the former. A profound silence existed, excepting the noise occasioned by the scratching of Sir Philip’s pen, who was diligently engaged in writing.

Answering the violent ringing of a bell, the maid of Miss Gansevoort made her appearance.

“Is my daughter ready?” inquired Col. G.

“Please, sir,” responded the maid, “Miss Ellen is in a dreadful way. She pulls out the roses—”

“A curse upon the roses!” exclaimed the other. “Fling them into the fire, and see that she is dressed and in the adjoining parlor within ten minutes.”

“If you please, sir, she is almost ready now. Every few minutes she gets faint-like, and then we go on.”

Entirely unmoved by this statement, Bender deliberately finished, and laid upon the table a neatly embossed marriage certificate, ready for signature.

“Your priest can be depended on, I hope, Sir Philip?” inquired Col. Gansevoort.

The other smiled as he slowly replied, “Doctor Felton owed his appointment as navy chaplain to me, ten years ago, at a time when he had not lost more than half of his faculties. His sight is dim now at the best, and in a judiciously darkened room, will be found all that can be desired; and as to hearing, he has laid no claim to the use of that organ within my memory. But even were both senses perfect, I do not think he would either see or hear more than I desire.”

Scarcely had he finished speaking when the clergyman was announced. His appearance fully justified the eulogy which had just been pronounced upon him. Of bulky form, and rubicund face, he shuffled with unsteady gait into the room, and with attempted gayety, but in a husky and scarcely audible voice, replied to the salutation of his patron.

“You may find my daughter a little eccentric in her conduct,” said Colonel Gansevoort, after being introduced to the priest. “She is young and romantic. It will not be necessary that you should take any particular notice of these things.”

“Yes, sir—no, sir—of course, sir—certainly not, sir,” mumbled the chaplain rapidly, as with unsteady hand, in compliance with an invitation from Sir Philip, he helped himself at the sideboard, to an antidote against the cold.

The maid now made her appearance, to announce that her mistress was ready; and the little party immediately proceeded into the adjoining room, where, half sitting, half reclining upon the sofa, white as the dress she wore, and to all appearance lifeless, sat the bride elect. She was in reality in a swoon. No questions were asked—no explanations made. Sir Philip stood beside her, and the ceremony went rapidly forward. The priest knew the service by rote; he held his book merely for form. Not a word of its contents could he have seen, if it had been necessary. “Does she answer?” he inquired, putting his hand to his ear, when the decisive interrogatory was put. Bender bowed, and the ceremony went on.

“The ring?” inquired the chaplain.

Sir Philip produced the golden circlet, and after it had passed through the hands of the priest, proceeded with gentlest motion to place it upon her finger. The touch was like electricity to her frame. She sprang to her feet, and catching the robe of the terrified chaplain, sank upon her knees before him.

“No, no, no!” she shrieked, “it must not, shall not be.”

Bender hastily disengaged her hold, and leading Dr. Felton out of the room, informed him that Miss Gansevoort was laboring under a fit, to which she was subject, but which would soon pass off.

“Certainly, sir—yes, sir—of course, sir—poor thing!”

“Father, dear father,” exclaimed Ellen, turning next to him, and gasping for breath as she spoke, “you do not, cannot mean it. I implore, I beseech you by the memory of my dear, sainted mother, to spare me. See,” she said, pointing suddenly to a portrait of her deceased parent, “she looks at you! She speaks to you! Her eyes, her lips are moving! God of heaven!” she exclaimed, “she is coming down from the canvas!”

Wrought up by excitement to a point of positive delirium, Ellen once more fell senseless to the floor.

Her father, shocked and terrified, hastily threw open a blind, and gazed for a moment in awe at the picture. It hung motionless against the wall.

Summoning her maids, he then ordered them to bear Ellen directly to her room. To Sir Philip’s expostulations he briefly replied; “Do not believe that my purpose is shaken. On the contrary, it is more fixed than ever. I know that I am doing my duty, and that she will yet thank me for it. But it is impossible to proceed now. One week from to-day she shall be yours. Attend, then, with your wooden priest, and the honor of Edmund Gansevoort stands pledged for the fulfillment of his word.” Bender saw that it was vain to reply. Having therefore enjoined the strictest confidence upon the chaplain, and made an appointment with him to attend on the day named, that obsequious gentleman took his leave, muttering as usual,

“Yes, sir—no, sir—of course, sir,—certainly not.”

——

CHAPTER VI.

Nearly a week had passed since the arrival of Ensign Wiley in the neighborhood of Fort Constitution, and he had as yet manifested no disposition to return. The vessel from which he landed still lay sleeping at anchor, just beyond the reach of the cannons of the fort; and himself, mingling freely in society, was every where received as a welcome addition to its limited numbers. Gansevoort, at this period, received a letter from his sister, which she had found means to send to Washington’s camp in New Jersey, and which had been forwarded from there. It was of recent date, and fully detailed the unparalleled persecution to which she had been subjected, and to a recurrence of which she was so soon to be exposed. Utterly astounded by this intelligence, and moved almost to madness by her earnest appeals for a relief beyond his ability to bestow, his grief yielded only to the most bitter and burning wrath against the infamous author of her sufferings. Long and anxiously he revolved the subject in his mind, without being able to decide upon any feasible plan of relief. The time appointed for the compulsory nuptials was so close at hand, that no action but the most speedy could be of the least avail. There was no possibility of his quitting his post, without special leave of the commander-in-chief, which could not be obtained within the requisite time; and to complete the combination of untoward events, his friend and counsellor, the Count De Zeng, was temporarily absent from the fort. His return was not expected until the ensuing morning, and Gansevoort was compelled patiently to await that event, with the very faint hope that some means of rescue might be devised. In the mean time, hoping to meet Wiley, and obtain from him some information that might be serviceable to his plans, he made an evening visit at the house of Captain Wilton, where, for the first time, he found himself alone with Arabella. Conversation, as was not unusual, took a political turn, and the affairs of King and Congress were discussed for some time in a semi-jocular vein.

“Colonel Gansevoort is now in the camp of the enemy,” Miss Wilton at length remarked; “if I could expect him to speak the truth under such circumstances, I should be disposed to trouble him with a very serious question.”

“Colonel Gansevoort will speak the truth, if he speaks at all,” replied the latter, smiling, “even in the enemy’s camp.”

“Tell me, then, Frank,” she rejoined, assuming a familiarity that their acquaintance in early life may possibly have justified, “tell me if you really desire to see the independence of these colonies established.”

For a moment Gansevoort was too much astonished at this question to reply. While he hesitated, a light of startling intensity broke upon his mind; but subduing every sign of emotion, he still remained silent.

“I know,” she continued, “that although Congress has declared independence, there are many of its supporters who in reality desire nothing more than an honorable peace with Great Britain, as her subjects. Suppose, then,” she added, “that you had it in your power to contribute to that end, and thus to promote the best interests of your country, and spare the effusion of human blood—would you not do it?”

Still Gansevoort did not reply.

“Suppose, also,” she continued, “that in so doing an honorable, praiseworthy action, you could secure to yourself affluence and distinction, would you not do it?”

Her companion at length spoke. “Why should we waste time in these idle hypotheses?” he said; “I know of no such opportunities.”

“But would you avail yourself of them if presented to you?”

“If Miss Wilton believes that I would not act in accordance with what was at once just and honorable, best for my country, and most advantageous to myself, she certainly gives me but little credit for discretion.”

“You have spoken at last, sir oracle, and like a man of sense and spirit. You seek the substantial good of your country. For this alone you have taken up arms; and for this, when it can be best accomplished by so doing, you are willing to lay them down. You are ready to take part in that patriotic and spontaneous movement which is every where making to promote a permanent peace. You are a prominent and influential man, whose example will lead others to return to their duty; and as such, his majesty is ready to testify his regard for you, in a particular and most gratifying manner.”

“His majesty has long had the reputation of being a gentleman of benevolence,” replied Gansevoort. “May I inquire in what manner he proposes to display it toward so insignificant a personage as myself?”

“Francis Gansevoort,” said Miss Wilton, “it is not unknown to the officers of the king, that your patriotism has brought upon you the curse of a loyal father, and that you are a disinherited and penniless man. You shall see that your sovereign is more easily propitiated than your sire. The royal exchequer will furnish an ample substitute for a forfeited patrimony. A free gift of ten thousand pounds will testify the approbation of our most gracious sovereign for his friend and subject, Sir Francis Gansevoort.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Gansevoort; “Is it possible?” now carried away by real surprise. “But,” he continued, after a pause, “is there nothing expected from me in return for such munificence, besides renewed allegiance?”

“Nothing,” replied Miss Wilton, “literally nothing. It is true, that merely as a proof of your sincerity, you will be expected to give up this useless air-castle of yours, which, now that the war is exclusively in another quarter, is in reality of no value either to King or Congress.”

“It is an air-castle, truly,” exclaimed Gansevoort, glancing momentarily from the window at the flag which floated among the dark clouds of night. “Have I not reason to suspect that your dazzling project is also a castle in the air and of less substantial texture? Kings do not usually employ such agents in their negotiations.”

“His majesty does not lack an agent far more worthy to represent him than myself. When you are prepared to enter upon the negotiation, he shall be forthcoming. Ensign Wiley⁠—”

“Enough!” cried Gansevoort; “I do not treat with ensigns. My own rank, and the importance of this transaction demand an envoy of far higher station, and one whose word is capable of binding the British government.”

“Be satisfied, then,” said Miss Wilton; “at this hour to-morrow, and at this place, you shall meet with one, to whose name, and rank, and authority, the utmost fastidiousness could not object.”

“Doubt not I will meet him,” was the reply. And thus they parted.

A few hours later in the evening now referred to, two individuals were seated in the cabin of the British sloop-of-war Dragon, engaged in earnest conversation. Both were in military undress. The one was young, slight, and good looking, with an air, however, of recklessness and audacity, that spoke the fitting agent of dark and hazardous deeds. The other was a middle-aged man, of more dignified and gentlemanly deportment. His demeanor was one that denoted station and influence, but his countenance bore that sinister expression, which nature often stamps upon the vile, and which no effort of assumed honesty can fully eradicate or conceal. Like the mark of Cain, it is indelible; but, unfortunately, unlike that sign, it is perceptible only to an eye practiced in the study of the human visage. An animated discussion had been followed by a prolonged silence, when the latter, after rising and rapidly pacing the floor, turned suddenly to his companion, and said,

“If you have made sure of success in this matter, Wiley, we shall have accomplished a work of the utmost magnitude, and your reward will be proportionate.”

“I assure you there is no room for doubt,” was the reply. “I have felt my way step by step. Our conversations have been frequent and prolonged. He believes that his cause is declining; that the leaders are rapidly giving in their adhesion to the crown; that all oppressive measures will be abandoned, and thus the chief object of the war attained. What wonder, then, that he should hasten to be among the earliest penitents, and thus secure to himself so brilliant a reward. In truth, I begin to regret that you bade so high.”

“It is too late to think of that,” said the other, musing. “And Miss Wilton is his affianced bride. Well, well—we have played for a heavy stake, and won. How will these tidings rejoice Sir William!” Thus muttering to himself, he continued to pace his limited apartment, until his companion reminded him of the lateness of the hour.

[Conclusion in our next.

THE IRISH MATCH-MAKER.

A STORY OF CLARE.

———

BY J. GERAGHTY M‘TEAGUE.

———

Those of my readers, (and particularly of my fair readers,) who may expect to hear a love story, will, I am afraid, be grievously disappointed; for though my legend certainly treats of that which, in most countries, is the consequence of the contrivances of the cunning little god, yet we will hazard our affirmation that the course of true love, as it runs through the hearts of the lads and lasses of Columbia, is widely different in its manner among those of the west of Ireland, and of all places in Ireland, the county of Clare.

To those who are familiar with the truly glorious tales of William Carleton, all this is unnecessary; for these, with wonderful humor and pathos, faithfully portray the endless peculiarities of Irish character. Who that has alternately roared with merriment which he could not suppress, and sobbed with strong emotion at the history of the “Poor Scholar,” can ever forget it?

Among all Carleton’s delineations of Irish character, that of the Shanahus is the one which chiefly bears on our present subject. “And who is the Shanahus?” you ask. Well, I will tell you a few of his characteristics from my own personal knowledge and observations.

In most countries under the sun, the getting of a wife is no such railroad-speed kind of affair; and, (dating from the first eloquent glance of a bright eye, or sly squeeze of a lily hand, to the happy day when a certain little ceremony is performed,) occupies some little time, and, as many probably will be inclined to admit, no little anxiety, interlaced with a thousand little disappointments, &c.; all very well known, and very delightful in their way, no doubt, when all comes right at last. But in the land we are treating of, unlike all others, except in some particulars the Eastern nations, from whom many of our customs are derived, affairs are carried on in another kind of manner.

The week before Lent, or Shrove, is the great time in Clare. And, oh! what a study is here for the plenipotentiary, the attaché, or the financier. A young man, (suppose, for instance,) hears of the “great fortune” of some young lady in the neighborhood, or, what generally happens, he is waited on by one of his friends, (quite by accident) when a conversation to the following purport occurs:⁠—

“Well, Jimmy, who do you think I’ve in my eye for you?”

“Why, then, how do I know, Corny?”

“What do you think of Judy Tucker?”

“Oh, that would be great, Corny! I hear she has a good stockin’ full?”

“Is it her? Two hundred pounds—no less; she’s no great beauty, but⁠—”

“Oh, never heed, Corny. Do you think you could manage it?”

“Oh, let me alone.”

Corny then mentions it to his wife, and she takes an early opportunity to go over to Judy’s residence, where she (quite casually) mentions Jimmy Melish.

“Oh, but that’s the nice boy, Judy, agrah!”

“Is it Jemmy Melish you mane, that lives beyond the old church of Kilbricken?”

“Yes, agrah!” (softly.) “Oh, but it’s he would make you the dashin’ husband!”

“Oh, yeh! what’s that you say?”

“A husband, dear! And sich a beautiful farm! Ten cows—no less, and every one of them white with a black star on their foreheads. Did you ever see him, Judy?”

“No, I never did.”

“Well, come wid me to mass on Sunday, an’ I’ll show him to you.”

And thus is the ice broken. But who is Corny, all this time? Why he is the veritable Shanahus; and he it is who is the oracle for all the matches in the neighborhood.

Every district has its “Corny,” and it is he who has been the projector of half the matches that have been made for years in that part of the country; and seldom does it happen, so good is his judgment, that any bad selection takes place.

As soon as the ice is thus broken, sundry meetings take place at the houses of both the suitor and the sought. In former days, countless were the gallons of whiskey swallowed on these occasions, and bitter the disputes. I have known a match broken off altogether from a discussion as to which party was to provide the spirits for the wedding banquet; but they are frequently annulled, even now, by a dispute about a pig, which one side insists on being added to the “fortune,” and the other refuses.

And now you see, my fair readers, that love has but little to do with these matches. I can positively state, and many will bear out my assertion, that the blooming bride, and the happy bridegroom, have frequently never before set eyes on each other until they stand up to the ceremony, and it is singular to see the lady nudge a neighbour on the arm, and say “which av ’em is it?” Yet these things are; though I’ve no doubt they will gradually wear out, become matters of history, and Clare grow “like the rest of the world.”

It is but justice to my country people to say, that in all my life, I have never heard of an unhappy match. Unfortunate it may be, and the dire cravings of hunger may be often felt; but though these strange people may show but a faint trace of what we call love in these matrimonial speculations, of which I have given you a slight outline, that they possess the strongest affections for their partners, in their joys and sorrows, cannot for one instant be questioned. In sickness, health, joy, sorrow, fortunes, and reverses, we will, for constancy and affection, defend the “choice of the Shanahus” against the whole world.

Will it, then, be considered amiss, if we pass away one of these evenings, or wet days, as the case may be, by relating a few of the more remarkable doings of a pretty good specimen of the genus, who existed, or (as we may truly say) flourished, in the county of Clare, some little time ago?

Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick, (or Michael Fitzpatrick) then, was eminently fond of his jokes, and was accounted, by all, the most knowing fellow in the parish of Ballinacally. He had, withal, a happy genius, and was peculiarly famed as a mediator in matrimonial arrangements. On this account, Mehicle’s advice and assistance were frequently solicited to transact these little matters of business, and truly surprising was the consummate tact he would display on such occasions. Were he engaged on the part of the “boy,” who, perhaps with scanty means and expectations of his own, wished to secure a rich heiress, his forte consisted in making him appear, in the eyes of the opposite party, as rich again as he really was. Was he, on the other hand, on the side of her friends—in that case, he had to exert all his abilities in putting the very same “boy” off with the least possible amount of fortune. Notwithstanding, Mehicle was a jolly fellow, and no one could enjoy more than he a good-humored frolic, especially when coupled with an affair of this kind, which was ever to his fancy.

Now, some particularly “cute” things, which Mehicle did at various times, bid fair long to live in the remembrances of the good folks of Ballinacally; and if a sample or so will be at all acceptable (that is, amusing) to my readers, they shall have one, and “lead mille failte” into the bargain.

Mehicle, then, had occasion one season, in conformity, alas! to a too general custom, (which would plunge me too much into an Irish agrarian political discussion were I to describe,) had occasion, I say, to sow his “handful of pratees” on a farm some miles from his own house, and might be seen, early and late, going to and returning from his work.

He had been for some time thus engaged in preparing his potato-field, when he observed that every day a young man of his acquaintance regularly passed through the end of the same field, on his way to and from the house of a rich old farmer, who lived on the other side of the hill.

Now, as Mehicle watched him night and morning, he could not help guessing (and he guessed rightly for once, for he was a shrewd observer in these matters) that this young man was hard at work making love to the said rich farmer’s daughter.

It happened, that between the field in which Mehicle was sowing his potatoes, and that which led to the rich farmer’s house, there was a wide water-course; not exactly a drain, but a hollow, wet, rushy place, that divided the lands. It was dry enough in summer, no doubt; but, in its flooded state it was, though very wide, quite such a place as a young, active fellow like Aidey Hartigan, who possessed a clean pair of stockings, and brightly polished shoes, would rather risk a flying jump across, than wet the one, or sully the lustre of the other, by splashing through.

Not a little surprising was it to Mehicle to observe his friend Aidey, every morning, after having come out of the farmer’s house, (where he had spent the night,) walk straight through this nasty, wet, boggy place, to the great detriment of the nice clothing of his nether man; but what still more astonished him was, that just when he was about to leave off work, he saw Aidey, as he was coming to the farmer’s hopping and jumping as he neared the trench, and clearing it at a bound.

Mehicle, who as I have hinted, was ever inquisitive, could at last no longer bear to see Aidey going on in this manner, and determined not only to inquire the reason of this strange behavior, but also to try to have his hand in the making of the match, if such was in view; and accordingly, when Aidey appeared next morning, after having as usual covered himself with bog-dirt and mud, in blundering through the trench, he went forward to meet him, and they addressed each other with the usual salutations. Let me detail their conversation, as Mehicle used to relate it, and fond was that very same boy to tell over all the adventures, schemes and diplomacies, in his life of Shanahusy.

“Good morrow, Mehicle! God bless your work.”[^[1]]

“And you likewise, Aidey. How are you to-day?”

“Why, then, middlin’, only! but there’s no use in complainin’!”

“Indeed, faix, Aidey, you’re airly up! but an’ sure they say it’s the airly thrushes get the airly worms. Whisper! what are you about above here at big house?”

“What house? Is it Brian Mungavan’s you the mane?”

“Yes, to be sure!”

“Ah! myself that knows that! Maybe, though, I might tell you, in the course of time, and maybe yourself might assist me for a bit.”

“Oho! is that the way? Well that it may thrive with you! That’s a business, at any rate, that serves all men, includin’ the priests!”

“And Shanahuses!” said Aidey, grinning, “and I ever knew you to be a capital one!”

“Well, I’m glad you’re going to make a trial of me, and I say again, that it may thrive with you! But, aisy awhile, and answer me one question. I’ve been noticing you, and I’ve seen you passing backward and forward, these few days past, being, as you see, diggin’ the place of a half acre of pratees for myself, and every morning, when you used to be coming out of owld Brian Mungavan’s house, and over that wet place beyant, you used to walk straight through it, and not mind the wet one straw; but when you used to be going in to Brian’s when I was lavin’ off work for the day, and when I was wairy and tired enough myself, it’s then I used to see you give a hop and a jump, and clear the trench in flyin’ colors. And faith it’s not such a bad jump aither, not at all; and it’s no wonder (so it isn’t) that you’d like to carry a dry shoe in to herself; but why shouldn’t you do the same when you’re comin’ out?”

“Why, then,” answered Aidey, mournfully, “I’ll tell you. Every word of what you say is true; and I’m much afeard it’ll be the cause of my giving up Brian Mungavan’s house; and what’s worse, Eileen herself; and what’s worse again, her fortune—for the rale honest fact is, I must do it; I can’t stand it any longer—for, indeed, when I come out of Brian Mungavan’s house, Mehicle, I am not able to jump over the trench.”

“Why, man alive, why not? Wouldn’t one think now, that the good dinner you’d get, and good supper, and good sleep, and the sight of herself, would put you in the best of spirits, and that you’d clear the trench in a jiffey? But, God help you! Sure you’re in love, I suppose. As Larry Burk says in the song,⁠—

“Love, she is a killin’ thing!”

“Ah, let me alone! Faith, then, that’s not what’s killin’ me, I can tell you. Little you know what a place that house above is. Little you know what sort of a man is Mungavan. There! redden the pipe, and let’s sit down behind the rock, and I’ll tell you all about it, and let you know the hobble I’m in.”

“Very well, out with it,” said Mehicle, as he drew a puff of his pipe; “and if I can serve you, you know me, and what I am.”

“Oh, well I know who and what you are; and that the dickens a better Shanahus than your four bones ever stood in shoe leather to undertake a bargain of the kind; and so I’ll ask your opinion. And, first and foremost, you must know that there’s not such a kinnadt[^[2]] in the province of Munster, than that same Brian Mungavan—and himself knows it well; and it’s an unhappy life he lades his poor wife, and his nice girl of a daughter, he’s such an owld crust himself; and, indeed, myself believes he begrudges even the crusts to the poor dogs. In fact, I’d have run off with Eileen long ago—for I could do it in a minute—only I know if I did, I’d never finger a penny of her fortune, which is pretty nice, too.”

“But,” said Mehicle, “what, in the name of goodness, has this to do with jumping over the trench?”

“Every thing,” said Aidey, groaning—“wait a minute. When I go in, you see, at night, I’m in tolerable good spirits; and then I think nothing of the trench—so much for that. Well—that’s all very well. I go in, and after a while, we all sit down to dinner; and, to be sure, to do the man justice, it’s not a very bad dinner at all that he gives us. Well, we begin; and all of us pelt, and cut, and tear, and ate away at the dinner, as hard as ever as we can; but all wont do, Mehicle. Brian ates twice faster nor any of us; and in less than five minutes he purtends to be done, and—‘Here, now,’ says he, ‘take away,’ says he. ‘Remove those dishes immediately,’ says he. ‘The Lord be praised, we’ve had enough! and thousands of the poor starvin’ all over the country,’ says the big rogue; and all the while, Mehicle, we haven’t half enough to ate, nor a quarter; and then it’s a poor night’s rest a man gets on an empty belly, Mehicle. So, then, for fear of bein’ starved intirely, I start off before breakfast. I don’t go home at night, (because she and I can get a great dale of talk before bed-time, and then it’s too late to be goin’ home so far.) I go, I say, before breakfast, for then I’m lost altogether with the hunger, and I’m not able hardly to move, and I come to the trench, and it bothers me entirely, and I’m obligated to wade. And, Mehicle, Eileen tells me it’s the same way at breakfast, and he allows them but the two meals a-day; but, and listen to me, now. She says he gets up in the night, and gets things that’s left from the dinner, and ates them within in his bed, the dirty, unmannerly brute! Now, did you ever hear of such a rascal? Oho! Muvrone! if I ever get the fingerin’ of any of his cash, it’s I’ll show him how a good boy can spend good money. But how can we manage it, Mehicle? Can you give me any resate to cook the old scoundrel with?”

“Faix, I can so!” said Mehicle, handing him the pipe, “and a good way. It’s easily known that you’ve not the laste sperrit, though, indeed, you’re a fine, likely lad—but, to be sure, you’re in love? You can’t do a single ha’porth. No, if you really want to cook that chap, you must get an owld trainer like me, and then, maybe, if both of you help me right, we may get some good out of him; at any rate we’ll have diversion, and, Aidey, my boy, take courage, and if you do lose her, and her dirty fortune, I’ll be bound, by the pipe in your mouth, to secure as good a one for you in the space of one month.”

“O, Mehicle, I don’t doubt that in the least; but my heart is for Eileen, and you must try and get her first, any how.”

“Very well, Aidey, we’ll try. ‘Worse than lose we can’t,’ as Mike Gorman said, when the doctor pulled out his tooth; do you stop diggin’ here along with me to-day, it’s the least you can do. I have a famous dinner here in the basket—we’ll ate that soon, and then we’ll have a tremendious, grand, famous appetite by evening; and my hand and word to you, we shall have enough and lavins at dinner to-day.”

“Do you think so, Mehicle? God bless you for sayin’ so! I always heard you had a great head for these things.”

“Yes, maybe I have; but two heads are always better than one, even supposin’ they were no better than a couple of boiled pigs’ heads.”

With this profound reflection, they set to work, and with the help of the dinner which Mehicle had brought, and the tibbacky, managed to dig a good piece of the stubbles; and when evening came on, they made their way over the hill to Brian Mungavan’s house.

“And now,” said Mehicle, “do you introduce me just as your friend, but say nothing whatever about the match; lave all that to my management.”

They went in accordingly, and were welcomed, civilly by Mrs. Mungavan, coolly enough by Mr. Mungavan; but as for Miss Mungavan, it may not be too great a presumption to suppose that the fault would not lie in that quarter, were the match not made.

Dinner, the much dreaded dinner, was announced; and, as faithful historians, we must say, too, what was for dinner. There were, then, a couple of good sized fat fowls, a turkey, too, and some bacon, with a proportionate supply of cabbage. Miss Mungavan, on being asked the dish of her choice, preferred, for certain reasons of her own, the delicate breast of the turkey; Mehicle, before whom were placed the fowls, not a little to the astonishment of all, who stared at so unusual a proceeding, clapped one on Aidey’s plate, and kept the other himself, observing that “it wasn’t worth while to be dividin’ them for birds.”

Mr. Brian Mungavan, from old custom, gobbled up his bacon and cabbage with all celerity; but when he raised his eyes, and beheld the fierce and determined attack on the good things, he evidently foresaw it was useless to give the accustomed order to “take away;” for that if given, it would remain perfectly unheeded.

A fowl a-piece, with the bacon and various other appurtenances, was not a bit too much for men who possessed such keen appetites as Aidey and Mehicle; Miss Mungavan, as she had some one to keep her in countenance, also transgressed the rules, and doubtless enjoyed her share; the old woman, her mother, had enough; in short, it was a great day for that family. A dinner so completely discussed, was there, a rare occurrence. Such a day had never before been seen; but it was but a trifling forerunner of what was to come.

In fact they ate enough, and after they had eaten, they drank, all but the old kinnadt; he seemed quite lost in amazement at the quantity eaten, and bewildered at the assurance of Mehicle, who laughed, and talked, and played all sorts of antics, and cracked lots of jokes, as he always did, when engaged in an adventure just to his mind, as this was.

At length night came on, and bed-time was declared. All separated to their respective rooms, with the exception of Mehicle, who was to remain where he was, and to be content with occupying a “settle-bed” near the kitchen fire—and a not uncomfortable berth it is. But not long had Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick enjoyed his first sleep, when as he was, I believe, chuckling inwardly, while he dreamt of the tricks he was playing, a slight noise near the fire attracted his attention, and rousing him from his slumbers, caused him to raise his head cautiously. Peeping over the side of the settle-bed, he discovered Brian’s wife in the act of kneading on the table a cake of wheaten flour.

“Oho!” thought Mehicle, “this must be the supper that Brian gets every night, the scoundrel. He begrudges honest people the bite, and the sup, and it would be only a proper good deed to chate him out of it himself.”

So Mehicle waited until he saw the old woman finish her cake, and cover it carefully in the hot ashes that still remained red on the hearth; and as soon as she had gone in to her room, he got up, slipped on his clothes, took his seat at the fire, and in a short time, out came the old woman, thinking the cake was now almost ready.

“O,” said Mehicle, “good morning, ma’am. I heard the cock crowing, and I thought it was break-of-day, and then I got up and sat here; and after that I considered it couldn’t be day, or you’d be up; but now I see it is.”

“See that, now,” said Mrs. Mungavan, “you’re wrong all the while. Our cock always crows at twelve o’clock, and it’s not one at present; but my husband has a great tooth-ache, and he says he’d be the better for a smoke, and I just came in for a red coal, and I’d advise you to go to bed again.”

“So I will, ma’am, by and bye; but as I’m up at all, I’ll wait until he’s done smokin’, and when I’ve got a puff of the pipe myself, I’ll go to bed.”

“O, wisha, wisha!” thought she, “what’ll I do? I’ll be kilt both ways. I’d be ashamed to take up the cake, and it’ll be burned entirely—and what’ll he say?”

“What are we to do?” said she, going in to her husband, “there’s that man, bad manners to him, up, and sittin’ near the fire; and I don’t like to let him see me take up the cake, but he says he’ll go to bed when he smokes; he heard our old cock, bad luck to him, bawlin’ and he thought it was day.”

“Well, here,” said Brian, “take him the pipe, and make haste and bring me the cake; but don’t let him see you takin’ it up.”

“Here, sir,” said she, “here’s the pipe; his tooth-ache’s greatly better. Well, now, to be sure, tibbacky is a fine thing. Myself takes a sly puff now and again, to comfort me; can you tell me, sir, where it grows? I heard it grew up in Ulster?”

“O, not at all ma’am, but in Americky, ma’am, where there’s plenty av land idle, and wantin’ occypation; and, faix, indeed, ma’am, that’s not the way here, when we’re a’most starved, and it’s so scarce, and wonderful dear; sit down here, if you plaze, ma’am, and I’ll tell you all about my own land, and how I lost it, and the hobble I’m in. Will we put down some turf, and make a good rousin’ fire?”

“O, yeh, no, sir!” getting frightened about the cake, “we’d never get to bed if we’d a good fire.”

“Well, then, never mind, ma’am. You see, about my farm. I was tellin’ you, ma’am, my farm (puff) was just like that,” pointing to the ashes smoothed down quite flat over the cake; “well, my farm was quite smooth, and level, and flat, just like that; but if it was, ma’am, my second brother, Pat, ma’am, (p-p-f-f-f)—here, ma’am, here’s the pipe for you, and smoke for a bit.”

“Thank’e, sir. Well! well, what about your brother Pat?”

“O, I’ll tell you. My second brother, Pat, ma’am, went to a blackguard ’torney, and got an advice, and found out that he’d as good a right to the farm as I had myself; and he went to law with me, and he bate me, ma’am; and then it was all left to arbitration, ma’am, and,” said Mehicle, taking a piece of broken scythe in his hand, as if to illustrate his description, “the rascals were bribed, I’m sure; but, however, they made me divide the land into two halves, just now as I might divide this,” making a desperate cut across the ashes, and, of course, through the centre of the cake.

“O, dear, sir! that was terrible,” said she. “I hope they didn’t do any more to your land?”

“O, yes; that was nothing, ma’am. The next brother, Terry, then, ma’am, says, says he, ‘Why hasn’t myself as good a right as them two?’ says he. ‘I’ll go to law,’ says he; and so he went to law, and we did our best, but he bate us, and it was left to arbitration; and then we had to divide our land somehow so,” cutting across again, “or, stop, I’m wrong, there was more of a corner cut off than that—it was more like this;” another sliver, “and there was a wall running across, as it might be so;” and here followed another slice; by this time, too, the cake was pretty well minced.

“O, dear, dear!” said she, “it must have been spylte entirely for you, then, sir;” said she, thinking of the cake.

“O, musha, then! indeed it was, ma’am, not worth one fraction. But that wasn’t half of the misfortune; my youngest brother, Jack, ma’am, says, says he, ‘Why,’ says he, ‘why isn’t it mine as much as theirs?’ says he. ‘I’ll go to law,’ says he; and he went to law, and it was left to arbitration; and they were bribed, and if they were, they made us turn, and mix, and twist it all to and fro, higgeldy piggeldy, in and out, this way and that way, just for all the world like that,” said Mehicle, mixing ashes and cake all up together with the bit of scythe; “and see, now, it’s all destroyed and ruined, and broken up, just like that,” pointing down at the fire.

Mrs. Mungavan was, to be sure, grievously vexed, but said nothing till she went in to her husband.

“O, Brian,” said she, “that’s a terrible man, that man at the fire. He has cut up and spylte your eligant cake, tellin’ me a story;” and here she told her husband how it happened.

“Well, Molly, accidents can’t be helped; but, indeed, faith, I’m very hungry. What else is there in the house?”

“Nothing, agrah, nothing. Them lads eat every bit that we had at dinner—howld on, there’s the cabbage that was boilt with the bacon, and maybe some av the bacon itself.”

“O, that’s right. Is that man in bed?”

“O, I’m sure he is.”

“Well, where’s the bacon and cabbage?”

“In the skillet, near the settle-bed.”

It was rather dark in the room; however, he found the right skillet, which Mehicle watched him putting down, determined, however, to cheat him of it if he could. As soon as Mr. Mungavan had put down the cabbage, he retired to bed, and Mehicle hopped up.

Seeing another skillet near him, he examined it, and, O, joy! it was half full of tar.

In one minute the bacon and cabbage had vanished down his own throat, and in another the tar was beginning to hiss slightly in the skillet on the fire. Just then, said Brian to Molly, “Don’t you think, Molly, agrah, but the cabbage is near bein’ warm enough?”

“I think it ought to be now, Brian,” said Molly, “will I get a spoon for you?”

“O, no—wasn’t fingers made before forks.”

So out he came, and walking straight up to the fire, sat down on his heels, and flopped down his hand into the now nearly boiling tar, but quickly drew it up, all covered with the horrid stuff, and was hardly able to bear the pain.

“O, the divil carry it away for a skillet! O, Monum un ustha, but my fingers are all destroyed! Oh! oh!—I put down the wrong skillet! Well, I’ll not bawl out, I’d waken this honest man, and all the people—and they’d only laugh at me; O, voh! what’ll I do at all?”

In his agony, he bolted out into the garden, while Mehicle slipped out of the window, shillelah in hand, and though it was dark, saw Mr. Mungavan run to the cabbages, and begin stripping off the leaves, while he rubbed them to his fingers, in his vain attempts to cool his hands, and get the tar off.

“Hallo!—who’s this!” said Mehicle, running up with the stick, “who’s this?”

“O, dear! so you’ve caught me,” said Brian, “who are you?”

“Ah, ha! I’ve caught you, have I? I’ll let you know who I am. Here, Mr. Mungavan! Mr. Mungavan! quick! come out! jump up! here’s a man staylin’ your cabbages! Take that, you scoundrel; how dare you come here!” And here Mehicle began whacking him as hard as he could.

“Don’t strike me!” said Brian, “don’t! I’ll do any thing you like. Oh! Oh! don’t! Don’t you see it’s me that’s here?”

“O, I see you well enough! Come out, Mr. Mungavan!” said Mehicle, continuing to beat him.

“O, stop! and God reward you! stop! Sure I’m Mr. Mungavan!”

“O, thunder, and pratees, and buttermilk! Why didn’t you tell me so before! Sure I wouldn’t do such a thing if I didn’t know it was you. Come in to the house. Poor man! are you much hurt?”

And now, many were the explanations on both sides. When they came in, Brian set to work, and called up all that were in the house, as it was now daylight. “And,” said he, “here, in the name of all that’s good and bad, let’s have breakfast, for I’m famished, not to spake of the scaldin’ and batin’ I got; but sure it’s all accidents, and can’t be helped.”

Breakfast was prepared and finished, and Brian got, gradually however, into better humor. But when that was over, his wife called him aside, and said,

“Now, Brian, all these accidents happened through your own fault; so, by all the books in Connemara, you must take my advice to-day. Have a fine dinner, and make them ate and drink enough; and if it’s Eileen that boy wants, faith, he’s a smart young man, and we couldn’t do better. Say you’ll give her a hundred pounds, or two, if one wont satisfy him; but, for goodness sake, give that Mehicle enough to ate.”

What a truly sensible speech was this. Here was the proper view of the question. Brian Mungavan overcame himself for once, and was generous. And there was such a dinner! Eileen took good care of that. Turkeys, geese, and all manner of delicacies, graced the board. Take the words of a contemporaneous poet:⁠—

“Mutton, and good fat bacon

Was there, like turf in creels.”

Or rather in the language of the old song:⁠—

“There was lashins of beef there,

And stammins of sheep there,

And whiskey came pourin’ galore.”

And then it was, when all, including Mr. Mungavan, were in that happy state denominated soft, that Mehicle opened his unerring batteries, never yet known to fail.

Let us merely now wish them a happy wedding; but we somehow cannot help thinking there is in this tale a

MORAL.

Be ever hospitable; but, if you invite a friend or two, beware, when you say “Take away;” for you know not whether some time or another you may not fall in with a Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick.

SONNET.

My wandering feet have trod those paths to-day,

Where I so late with thee in joyance went,

And gladly thitherward my steps I bent,

Turning me from the dust and din away,

And tracing with a quiet joy each spot

Hallowed by some remembrance dear to me,

A smile, a tone that cannot be forgot⁠—

Places whose every charm was won from thee;

And therefore do I love that grassy way,

And every spot which thou hast wandered o’er,

And as a miser counts his secret store

When darkness has obscured the light of day,

So in thy absence, which is my heart’s night,

Thy treasured words and smiles tell I with deep delight.

THE STOLEN CHILD.

———

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

———

“There’s a glory over the face of Youth⁠—

And Age as fair a light displays,

When beautiful Love and spotless Truth

Have guided all her ways!

“But Sin is a hideous thing to see,

His eyes are dulled before his prime,

And each year leaveth the mark of three,

For he hurries the hand of Time!”

Thus spake the awaiting Angel Death,

By a way-side beggar-crone,

Who wrestled with the reluctant breath

On a pillow of broken stone!

’Twas a fearful sight to see her gasp,

And clutch the air in her sinewy palms

As if forcing from a miser’s grasp

The miserable alms!

But a sight to bring the tear-drops down

Was the little maiden pale and thin

Who stood by her side in a tattered gown

Which let the sharp air in!