Part 8

One fine day, having strolled out together arm in arm, our route led us in the direction of a river. There was a bridge, and we resolved to cross it. It was roofed over, by way of protection from the weather, and the arch-way, having but few windows, was thus very uncomfortably dark. As we entered the passage, the contrast between the external glare, and the interior gloom, struck heavily upon my spirits. Not so upon those of the unhappy Dammit, who offered to bet me his head that I was hipped. He seemed to be in an extravagantly good humor. He was excessively lively—so much so that I entertained I know not what of uneasy suspicion. It is not impossible that he was affected with the transcendentals. I am not well enough versed, however, in the diagnosis of this disease to speak with decision upon the point; and unhappily there were none of my friends of “The Dial” present. I suggest the idea, nevertheless, because of a certain austere species of Merry-Andrewism which seemed to beset my poor friend, and caused him to make quite a Tom-Fool of himself. Nothing would serve him but wriggling and skipping about under and over everything that came in his way, now shouting out, and now lisping out, all manner of odd little and big words, yet preserving the gravest face in the world all the time. I really could not make up my mind whether to kick or to pity him. At length, having passed nearly across the bridge, we approached the termination of the foot-way, when our progress was impeded by a turnstile of some height. Through this I made my way quietly, pushing it around as is usual. But this turn would not serve the turn of Mr. Dammit. He insisted upon leaping the stile, and said he could cut a pigeon-wing over it while in the air. Now this, conscientiously speaking, I did not think he could do. The best pigeon-winger over all kinds of style, was my friend Mr. Carlyle, and as I knew he could not do it, I would not believe it could be done by Toby Dammit. I therefore told him, in so many words, that he was a braggadocio, and could not do what he said. For this I had reason to be sorry afterwards—for he straightway _bet me his head_ that he could.

I was about to reply, notwithstanding my previous resolutions, with some remonstrance against his impiety, when I heard, close at my elbow, a slight cough, which sounded very much like the ejaculation “_ahem!_” I started, and looked about me in surprise. My glance at length fell into a nook of the frame-work of the bridge, and upon the figure of a little lame old gentleman of venerable aspect. Nothing could be more reverend than his whole appearance; for, he not only had on a full suit of black, but his shirt was perfectly clean and the collar turned neatly down over a white cravat, while his hair was parted in front like a girl’s, his hands were clasped pensively together over his stomach, and his two eyes carefully rolled up into the top of his head.

Upon observing him more closely, I perceived that he wore a black silk apron over his small-clothes; and this was a thing which I thought very odd. Before I had time to make any remark, however, upon so singular a circumstance, he interrupted me with a second “_ahem!_”

To this observation of his I was not immediately prepared to reply. The fact is, remarks of this nature are nearly unanswerable. I have known a profound Quarterly Review stumped by the word “_Fudge!_” I am not ashamed to say that I turned to Mr. Dammit for assistance.

“Dammit,” said I, “what are you about! don’t you hear?—the gentleman says ‘_ahem!_’” I looked sternly at my friend while I thus addressed him; for, to say the truth, I felt particularly puzzled, and when a man is puzzled, he must knit his brows and look savage, or else he is pretty sure to look like a fool.

“Dammit,” observed I—although this sounded very much like an oath, than which nothing was farther from my thoughts—“Dammit,” I suggested—“the gentleman says ‘_ahem!_’” I do not attempt to defend my remark on the score of profundity; I did not think it profound myself; but I have noticed that the effect of our speeches is not always proportionate with their importance in our own eyes; and if I had shot Mr. D. through and through with a Paixhan bomb, or knocked him in the head with one of Doctor McHenry’s epics, he could hardly have been more discomfited than when I addressed him with those simple words—“Dammit, what are you about?—don’t you hear?—the gentleman says ‘_ahem!_’”

“You don’t say so?” gasped he at length, after turning more colors than a pirate runs up one after the other when chased by a man-of-war. “Are you quite sure that he said _that_? Well, at all events I am in for it now, and may as well put a bold face upon the matter. Here goes, then—_ahem!_”

At this the little old gentleman seemed pleased—God only knows why. He left his station in the nook of the bridge, limped forward with a gracious air, took Dammit by the hand and shook it cordially, looking all the while straight up in his face with a countenance of the most unadulterated benignity which it is possible for the mind of man to imagine.

“I am quite sure you’ll win it, Dammit,” said he with the frankest of all smiles, “but we are obliged to have a trial, you know, for the sake of mere form.”

“Ahem!” replied my friend, taking off his coat with a deep sigh, tying a pocket-handkerchief around his waist, and producing an unaccountable alteration in his countenance by twisting up his eyes, and bringing down the corners of his mouth—“ahem!” And “ahem,” said he again, after a pause; and devil the word more than “ahem!” did I ever know him to say after that. “Aha!” thought I, without expressing myself aloud—“This is quite a remarkable silence on the part of my friend, Toby Dammit, and is no doubt a consequence of his great verbosity upon a previous occasion. One extreme induces another. I wonder if he has forgotten the many unanswerable questions which he propounded to me so fluently on the day when I gave him my last lecture? At all events he is cured of the transcendentals.”

“Ahem!” here replied Toby, just as if he had been reading my thoughts, and looking like a very old sheep in a reverie.

The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more into the shade of the bridge—a few paces back from the turnstile. “My good fellow,” said he, “I make it a point of conscience to allow you this much run. Wait here till I take my place by the stile, so that I may see whether you go over it handsomely, and transcendentally, and don’t omit any flourishes of the pigeon-wing. A mere form, you know. I will say ‘one, two, three, and away.’ Mind you start at the word ‘away.’” Here he took his position by the stile, paused a moment as if in profound reflection, then looked down, then _looked up_, and, I thought, smiled very slightly, then tightened the strings of his apron, then took a long look at Dammit, then put his fore-finger to the side of his nose, and finally gave the word as agreed upon—

_One—two—three—and away!_

Punctually, at the word “away,” my poor friend set off in a strong gallop. The style was not very high, like Mr. Pue’s—nor yet to say very low like that of Mr. Pue’s reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure that he would clear it. And then what if he did not?—ah, that was the question—what if he did not? “What right,” said I, “had the old gentleman to make any other gentleman jump? The little old dot-and-carry-one! who is _he_? If he asks me to jump, I won’t do it, that’s flat, and I don’t care who _the devil he is_.” The bridge, as I say, was arched and covered in, in a very ridiculous manner, and there was a most uncomfortable echo about it at all times—an echo which I never before so particularly observed as when I uttered the four last words of my remark.

But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied only an instant of time. In less than five seconds from his starting my poor Toby had taken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring grandly from the floor of the bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes with his legs as he went up. I saw him high in the air, pigeon-winging it to admiration just over the top of the stile; and of course I thought it an unusually singular thing that he did not _continue_ to go over. But the whole leap was the affair of a moment, as they always say in the crack historical novels, and before I had a chance to make any profound reflections, down came Mr. Dammit on the flat of his back on the same side of the stile from which he had started. In the same instant I saw the old gentleman limping off at the top of his speed, having caught and wrapped up in his apron something that fell heavily into it from the darkness of the arch just over the turnstile. At all this I was much astonished; but I had no leisure to think, for Mr. Dammit lay particularly still, and I concluded that his feelings had been hurt, and that he stood in need of my assistance. I hurried up to him and found that he had received what might be termed a serious injury. The truth is, he had been deprived of his head, which after a close search I could not find anywhere—so I determined to take him home, and send for the homœopathics. In the meantime a thought struck me, and I threw open an adjacent window of the bridge, when the sad truth flashed upon me at once. About five feet just above the top of the turnstile, and crossing the arch of the foot-path so as to constitute a brace, there extended a flat and sharp iron bar, lying with its breadth horizontally, and forming one of a series that served to strengthen the structure throughout its extent. With the edge of this brace it appeared evident that the neck of my unfortunate friend had come precisely in contact.

He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homœopathics did not give him little enough physic, and what little they did give him he hesitated to take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a lesson to all riotous livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked a _bar_ sinister on his family escutcheon, and for the general expenses of his funeral, sent in my very moderate bill to the transcendentalists. The scoundrels refused to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once, and sold him for dog’s meat.

* * * * *

THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.

BY G. A. RAYBOLD.

The first kiss of love, when the favor is won, Fills the heart with pure bliss, if ’tis modestly done, For ’tis like a brief glance from the sun’s clouded eye Which just touches the earth and flies back to the sky.

Ah! the bliss of that moment; ’twill ever remain, While my heart in its depths can feel pleasure or pain; For that kiss, to my heart was like rain to the flower, Just ready to die, till refresh’d by a shower.

The soft touch of _her_ hand, the bright glance of her eye; The whisper’d word spoken, the half suppress’d sigh, May be proofs of true love, but the _kiss_ is the token, And pledge of a faith which may _never_ be broken.

How fondly does memory dwell on it yet! The scene and the hour, who can ever forget, When reclin’d on your bosom, sustained in your arms, You breathed out the heart long subdued by her charms?

Her _kiss_ was the answer; so slight yet so sweet, ’Twas enough; and that moment your bliss was complete; From the lips to each heart went a holier thrill, Delighting and binding those hearts closer still.

That first kiss of love, when no mortal was near, Was a _sign_ that dispersed the last vestige of fear; She is mine, she is mine; mine now and forever; By those holiest ties that death only can sever.

* * * * *

LAME FOR LIFE, OR LESLIE PIERPOINT.

A TALE, IN TWO PARTS.

BY PROFESSOR J. H. INGRAHAM, AUTHOR OF “LAFITTE,” “KYD,” “THE QUADROONE,” ETC.

“Is health returnless? Never more may I Throw by the staff on which, alas! I lean? Is the woof woven of my destiny? Shall I be ne’er again what I have been? And must the bodily anguish be combined With the intenseness of the anxious mind?” F. W. Thomas.

If the reader will take the trouble to look in the revised edition of the Philadelphia Directory for the year 1838, he will find recorded the name of

“Leslie Pierpoint, Gent. House No. 2-7 South Sixth St.”

At the period of which we write this was the residence of this distinguished party to our story, and still would have been but for the simple incident that has led us to write it.

It was on a cold, bleak evening, late in the autumn of that year, that Major Pierpoint (for he had once borne a commission in the National Guards—so he loved proudly to designate the militia) was seated before his cheerful grate, with the crimson curtains warmly drawn over the closed shutters. The room was partly library and partly sitting room. Rich cases filled with costly volumes adorned two of its sides, while lounges and one or two luxurious patent easy-chairs occupied the other. The floor was covered with a thick Wilton carpet that returned no sound to the foot-fall, and a hearth rug of Turkish fabric lay before the fire in the rich fleece of which the slippered feet of Mr. Leslie Pierpoint were half buried. The whole apartment wore an air of comfort and elegant ease, combined with that cheerful warmth and inviting repose which are so delightful of a wintery night. There was a large round table near the centre of the room, strewed with books, magazines, pamphlets, opened letters, &c., &c. In the midst of it stood a tall bronzed lamp that shed a soft, clear light over all. The table turned upon a pivot so that Mr. Pierpoint, without moving from the comfortable arm-chair in which he was reposing, wrapped in his brilliant Chinese _robe de chambre_ (a present from his particular friend, Mr. Dunn), could revolve it by the slightest touch and bring within his reach any book or paper lying on the side opposite to his chair. Mr. Pierpoint was a wealthy bachelor, and, therefore, was an epicure in luxuries of this description. Bachelors, having nothing else to do but to make themselves comfortable, can carry these little personal conveniences to their perfection. Having said that Mr. Leslie Pierpoint was a bachelor, it becomes us to explain how he came to be a bachelor. He possessed a handsome person and an ample fortune—was not only well born, but a gentleman by education and cultivated tastes—and even at this period of his life, when forty-one years had passed over his head, a child might have numbered the gray hairs mingled with the fine brown locks that shaded his noble forehead. Why, then, was Leslie Pierpoint a bachelor? Let us go back twenty-years, and inquire of by-gone days.

It is the year 1808. One of the most stately mansions in Third street, then one of the most aristocratic portions of Philadelphia, is brilliantly lighted. Its gorgeous rooms are thronged by the beauty and chivalry of the city. We mingle with them also, dazzled by the flash of jewelled brows, bewildered by the beauty of the wearers, confounded by the music and moving forms, entranced, intoxicated by the whole scene of enchantment! Let us retire a little to the silence and shade of this verandah, where the moon finds its way to the marble floor through trellised vines, and where the music and the sound of dancers’ feet reach but faintly the ear. There are others here besides us who have quitted the gay scene to seek refreshment of spirits in the quiet night breeze and in the calm light of the moon. Hither approach us, leaning on each other, arm fondly linked in arm, a noble pair. How stately _his_ carriage, yet how tenderly he bends till his lips breathe upon the cheek of the fair creature he whispers to! They pause in the shadow of the thick vines! Her eyes meet his upturned and swimming with tenderness,—his arm glides around her waist—she is pressed to his manly breast, and their lips meet! It is but for an instant—a footstep is heard! and they move on again arm in arm. His lips bend over her willing ear as they slowly promenade the verandah. She suddenly starts, and with her face receding a little from his, says, in an earnest manner:

“Indeed, Leslie, you wrong me. Nothing could change my love for you!”

“But, yet, there are circumstances which _might_ transpire, and which might lead you to withdraw your affection, dear Clara.”

“No, no! nothing on earth. I feel I shall love you while I have a heart to love. Dear, _dearest_ Leslie, how can you doubt me?”

“I do not doubt you, dear Clara,” he said laughing and lifting her hand to his lips. “God knows,” he earnestly added, “I should be miserable to doubt where all my hopes of happiness are centered.”

“Indeed, you should not—you ought not! What should I gain, Leslie, by transferring my love to another? Certainly not a nobler person, a finer face, a better fortune (if I may name this), a kindlier heart, or better temper. Believe me, dear Leslie, when I say you are the handsomest man I ever beheld, so that no higher degree of personal beauty could lead me from you!”

“You are a silly flatterer, child, and I half believe, fell in love with me because you thought me the ‘handsomest man you ever beheld!’”

“Now you are mocking me, Leslie. But I will confess that the first time I saw you promenading the ball rooms at the —— Assemblies with Miss P—— on your arm, I was struck with your stately and elegant walk. I had not seen your face, but followed you with my eye till you turned and, and—”

“Met your gaze full fixed upon mine! That was not the first time _you_ had attracted my attention that evening, Clara. I had observed you on my first entrance, and my heart from that instant became yours.”

Leslie Pierpoint pressed her to his heart as he spoke.

“It shall ever be yours, dearest Leslie,” was the softly whispered response of the blushing girl; “nothing would turn my love from you.”

“Thank you for the pledge, dearest—I believe you. Come let us return into the rooms—our absence will be remarked.”

After Leslie had plucked a “Forget me not” and placed it in her hair, the lovers slowly returned from the verandah.

* * * * *

A few weeks passed, and Leslie Pierpoint had prevailed on the blushing Clara to name the day when she would redeem her pledge given in the verandah, and become wholly and irrevocably his own. It was now at hand, and Leslie counted the hours which envious Time thrust between him and his anticipated bliss. Leslie loved the chosen bride of his bosom with the most impassioned ardor. His whole heart was involved in his affection, and he had so given himself up to his passion that any revulsion promised to make him miserable. The beautiful Clara Clayton, on her part, was deeply enamored of Leslie, but it was rather with his handsome person than with his mind; for of his fortune she thought little, being equally wealthy. She was a gay, haughty, spoiled beauty, with not half heart enough to measure Leslie’s broad love, nor half mind enough to penetrate the superior powers of his intellect. But if they married, they were both likely to be happy so long as one retained her loveliness and the bewitching smile and flashing dark eyes that had captured Leslie, and the other the elegant form, air and gait which had first inspired Clara with an interest in him.

The week preceding his wedding day Leslie was commissioned a Major of Militia, and the following day he turned out for review with the battalion to which his regiment was attached. He had purchased a high spirited horse for this occasion, and had but twice mounted him previous to his appearance on parade; and though the animal evinced an indomitable spirit, and had once proven nearly unmanageable, yet these traits were regarded by the youthful officer rather as recommendations for the military service for which he destined him than as serious objections. He was, moreover, a finished horseman and well knew he could so control the fiery animal’s impatient action as to render it subservient to a more masterly display of his own horsemanship.

On the day of parade, therefore, Leslie Pierpoint made his appearance on the field, the best mounted officer in the battalion. His steed, as he pranced along, seemed to beat the air rather than the earth, so lightly he moved over the ground, so daintily he bent his slight yielding fetlocks to his rider’s weight.

“Ah, Major, a beautiful creature you have there,” said General ——, whose aide-de-camp Leslie was that day; “you outshine us all. What an eye! Will he stand fire?”

“I have not tried him, General. But a horse of his blood has no fear in him. He can never be taken by surprise.”

“Do not trust him! See!” and the General suddenly flashed his sword before his eyes.

The animal moved not from the statue-like attitude in which Leslie had reined him up beside the General.

“Very well. He may do; but I advise you, Major Leslie, to be upon your guard during the day, I don’t much like the beast’s eye. It looks devilish.”

“I have no fears, General; let him do his worst,” answered Leslie laughing, and in a moment afterwards he galloped along the line to execute an order.

During the parade the beautiful steed behaved admirably, and elicited, by the grace and swiftness of his movements, the universal admiration of every eye. At length the firing by platoon commenced. At the first discharge, he leaped bodily into the air with his rider and lit upon the ground twenty feet distant; and Leslie’s superior horsemanship only saved him from being thrown to the earth. He now sat more firmly and watched him with hand and eye. But the successive discharges of musketry, even by companies, had no further effect upon the animal, save that there was a wider dilation of the pupil of the eye and a quick erect movement of his delicately shaped ears. This favorable change not only put Leslie off his guard but made him so self confident that he resolved to ride up to a park of artillery about to be discharged, gaily betting with General ——, as he triumphantly rode past this officer, that he would not flinch even at that.

“_Nous verrons_, Leslie,” said the General smiling. “Do not be too confident.”

With the reckless impetuosity of youth, and desirous of defending the character of his favorite horse from his military friend’s aspersions, Leslie spurred onward to the point. He drew up in the rear, within a few paces of the ordnance, and awaited the signal for their discharge. There were eight pieces of cannon and they were to be fired in rapid succession. At the first loud, sharp report, the animal sprung, with a mad leap, directly among the echoing artillery. Maddened by the reiterated peals, he dashed, with the most terrific bounds, across the line of fire and within a few feet of the muzzles of the pieces. At the discharge of the last piece he became so terrified that he threw himself headlong upon the earth and bit and pawed the ground with fury. Major Leslie, who had maintained his seat with perfect skill and coolness, fell beneath him and received his whole weight upon one of his legs and his left side. Instantly the animal ceased his struggles, and when those who hastened to Major Leslie’s assistance arrived on the spot, they discovered that the horse had broken a blood vessel and was fast bleeding to death. Leslie himself, though silent, was pale from suffering.