Part 6

Some years ago a kind of "Hickory Quaker," (as he called himself,) but whose real name it is needless to mention, found his way, "par hazard," from one of the middle States to Congress. Being thus ranked among the honorables of the land, it was not long before he received an invitation to a _Squeeze_. His intense curiosity to see something of which he could not, from the name, form the slightest conception, got the better of his prudence, and he very rashly determined to go; although, as he afterwards confessed, in relating his mishaps, not without many misgivings which he with difficulty suppressed. On consulting one or two of his friends, who were already initiated into all the mysteries of squeezes, as to the proper time to go, the only information given was, "_be sure not to be the first of the company_." This injunction relieved him of much of his apprehension, being very confident of his power to fulfil it. His confidence however, proved too overweening, for having waited and waited until his usual bed hour at home, the sudden fear seized him of erring in the contrary extreme, and finding the party broken up. Under this impression he hurried off, in his best Quaker dress, as fast as his _legs_ could carry him, for taking _a hack_ was out of the question. Having soon arrived, he knocked loudly at the door with his knuckles, not being yet cognizant of the bell-bolt contrivance,--demanding, at the same time, in his customary way, "who keeps the house?" The opening of the door immediately followed, and he was about to enter; but the finely dressed servant whom he mistook for the master of the house, manifesting, not only much surprise, but some strong symptoms of resistance, friend Ephraim (as I beg leave to call him,) deemed it best to say--"I have some particular business with the lady, who sent for me herself." This at once proved an "_open sesamè_," and in he marched, putting as bold a face on the matter as he could, and anxiously hoping to find, in a few minutes, some friends to keep him in countenance. But alas! it is not in man that liveth, to form hopes which shall not be disappointed; for upon being ushered into the lady's presence, he found her, to his utter astonishment, entirely alone, and looking at him as a perfect stranger; and well she might, having never cast eyes on him before. This most unexpected occurrence, this jumping, as it were, out of the frying-pan into the fire, so utterly confounded him, that he was very near taking to his heels with all possible speed, and escaping by the way he came, if he could find no shorter exit. Luckily however, he bethought him of producing his credentials for admission, which he had most fortunately slipped into his pocket, being yet ignorant of the fashion of leaving it in his room, as if through carelesness, but in reality to display the extent of his honors, so far as these depend upon the number of one's visiting acquaintance. The exhibition of his ticket instantly put matters to rights; the lady's countenance brightened up with smiles ineffable; he was overwhelmed with apologies for not knowing him, although greatly did he marvel how she should; and so much pleasure and happiness was expressed at his having honored her party by his presence, that he began to ask himself, with infinite self-complacency, whether there might not _really be_, as he had heard when a boy, such a thing as "_love at first sight_." The repetition however, of nearly the identical expressions to every gentleman who afterwards entered, brought to his mind the mortifying conviction, either that the boyish tale was false, or that his hostess must be in love with every gentleman of the company, which he at once pronounced impossible.

Until more company arrived, our quaker friend found himself in a sad predicament; for having no plausible excuse for escape, and deeming himself bound, at least to try to entertain the lady with some kind of conversation, he sat many minutes pondering over the few topics on which he thought himself able to converse, but finding none that exactly pleased him, he at length resolved to hazard something about cabbages, and peas, and poultry; shrewdly imagining that such matters would be more amusing, as well as instructive to her, than any contained in his "knowledge box." Great was his pleasure and wonderment to find her perfectly at home as to all these mysteries; so much so, indeed, that he could hardly suppress the exclamation, "Oh! that my old woman knew half as much." All things, however, must have an end, although friend Ephraim began to fear that the tête à tête between the lady and himself never would; and when their chat was fast dying away, like the flickering blaze in the nearly empty socket of a candlestick, suddenly the doors were thrown open, and in rushed pellmell, such a mixed multitude, as struck him with speechless astonishment. Very soon (as he himself described the scene,) he had to abandon his seat; and according to his notions of politeness, was every moment making room, first for one stranger and then for another, without having time so much as casually to shake the hand of an acquaintance, before they were thrust apart. Thus elbowed, and shoved, and bumped about on every side, and not knowing how to keep out of every body's way, which seemed a physical impossibility, he found himself, at last, most unexpectedly squeezed into the midst of a party altogether of ladies, whose united voices raised such an unintelligible din, as brought to his recollection what he had read in his Bible, about the confusion of tongues at the tower of Babel. Resolutely bent, however, upon "seeing the show out," he determined to persevere. But, at the same time, having the accommodation of others much at heart, he resolved to try a yet unessayed position, by way of making himself as small as possible. This was to thrust his hands behind him, the first moment space enough was given for the purpose; at the same time straightening his arms as much as practicable, and grasping one wrist with the other hand, to secure their union. He had but a few seconds for self-congratulation upon so ingenious a device, before some sudden, undesigned impetus in front, forced him back, so that his hand was pressed against something hard. Of this he involuntarily took hold, but without turning his head; that indeed being impracticable. He mistook this hard article (as he afterwards found to his cost,) for the end of a narrow shingle, although for the life of him he could not imagine why, or how it got there, as he had seen nothing like building going on about the premises. Scarcely, however, had he taken hold of it, before it was forcibly jerked from his grasp, and his hands were once more disengaged. His conjectures as to what it could possibly be, were still puzzling his brain, when a fierce Pendragon sort of a fellow, whiskered and mustached to the very tip of his nose, forced his way to him through the dense mass by which he was surrounded, and in a very authoritative, menacing tone, told him that Mrs. ---- desired to see him. He obeyed the mandate as speedily as possible, but in mortal dread and astonishment as to the cause of it. The moment he reached his hostess, she demanded, with a look of indescribable indignation, "how he dared to insult a lady in her house?" Thunderstruck, as it were, at the accusation, for a few moments he was deprived of speech. But at length recovering the use of his tongue, he averred and protested, and affirmed, that he was utterly unconscious of having committed any such outrage; an outrage which he was altogether incapable of perpetrating. This so far appeased the lady's wrath, as to produce an awkward and embarrassing explanation on both sides, by which it was discovered, that the supposed shingle end had been, in reality, the projecting end of a lady's corset bone, unluckily squeezed out of place, in the general pressing and crushing of the crowd. The conference ended in the lady's being satisfied, and in our worthy quaker resolving from the very bottom of his heart, never again to trust himself in any place under the sun, be the temptation what it might, wherein he could not find a safe place, even for his hands!

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SANFORDS.

"Some wild desire, some sad mistake has cast Severe remorse and sorrow for the past; Some former fault shall present solace curb, Or fair occasion lost, his peace disturb; Some fatal chance has ruined every scheme, And proved his brightest prospect all a dream."

About the year 18--, there lived in a populous neighborhood, in the state of Virginia, a lady and gentleman named Sanford. They possessed considerable wealth, which was to be inherited by their only son, whom they called Hugh. The life of this worthy couple, was as quiet and easy as an unruffled stream, save when some slight differences of opinion would occasionally arise, respecting the management of Hugh. But one point on which they always agreed, was, that he should never be thwarted in any wish of his heart.

At the time our story commences, Hugh Sanford was twenty, and had just left college. Whether he ever distinguished himself there, I have not been able to ascertain. However, I know with certainty, that he was by nature gifted with good sense, and he had many fine qualities of the heart. I know not whether the reader will think so, from the sketch I am about to write, but he must bear in mind, that Hugh's natural disposition was so warped by continual indulgence, that not until the fever of youth had subsided, was it truly developed.

A large party had been invited to spend several days at Mr. Sanford's, and his wife had promised them a little dance. We shall pass over the preparations which were made for the party, and which, in the country, always produce so much bustle and excitement; we will even say nothing of the more important business, (to the girls at least) of the _toilette_; but shall follow them all to the drawing room, which was brilliantly lighted.

Among the girls, Mary Linden, was the most commanding; her splendid dress and jewelry, gave her quite a _magnificent_ air. She was the daughter of a _rich_ widower. Ellen Lorval (the only child of a _poor_ lawyer,) was also much admired. Her light muslin dress and simple wreath of wild flowers were peculiarly becoming.

"My dear Hugh," said Mrs. Sanford, "I wish to speak with you a moment before the dancing commences. Does not Mary look beautiful? Do go and engage her as your partner immediately."

"Not so fast mother," said he smiling.

"My son," said she, "I love Mary as my daughter: could I but think that she would be one to me." She looked at him intently, but he appeared not to understand her meaning, and turning the conversation, he went to join a group of young men.

The scene changes. The enlivening sound of the violin is heard; the couples are beginning to take their places on the floor, when Hugh, to the dismay of his parents, is seen leading out Ellen Lorval. Mary Linden is surrounded by beaux, and it seems has capriciously given her fair hand to the least deserving of them, a would-be-wit, whose whole conversation consists of long words and jests, which have been in print for ages. The party went off well, and all seemed to enjoy themselves, except some few unfortunate _wall-flowers_, for whom, however, Mrs. Sanford procured partners towards the close of the evening.

Hugh would probably never again have thought of his attentions to Ellen, had not his mother kept him _in custody_ the next morning, while she spoke _her_ mind on the subject. She represented to him "the folly of falling in love with her, when Mary Linden was in the house;" and she even went so far as to say that "there would be a _great impropriety_ in his falling in love with Ellen."

Hugh was greatly astonished at hearing all this, for the idea of falling in love had never entered his imagination. He was sorry to see his mother pained, but since she had put such notions into his head, he could not but see, that if he could be so fortunate as to fall in love, and meet with opposition, it would give a peculiar zest to the monotony of his country life. So he stalked off to the drawing room, and _began_ to think Ellen very interesting. The few succeeding days were passed as they usually are by a large party in the country. They read, talked, rode and played at battledoor; but at length the guests departed, and Mr. and Mrs. Sanford returned to the enjoyment of their usual tranquillity; but Hugh did not feel quite at his ease, as he was conscious that he had pained his parents, not so much by his attentions to Ellen, as by failing to fall in love with Mary Linden. Weeks passed on;--Hugh continued to meet Ellen at all the dinners and parties in the neighborhood, and to pay her attention. Mr. and Mrs. Sanford had seen all their hopes respecting Mary Linden laid low, and they had fretted themselves into ill humor about Ellen: a calm was now ensuing, they began to look on the bright side of things, and even to fancy that Ellen was to be their future daughter.

"My son," said Mr. Sanford, "I wish you to consult your own happiness in every thing. You love Ellen; you have now the consent of your parents to address her."

"Really father, I----." He stammered out something that was unintelligible.

"Say no more, I see you are embarrassed."

"Hear me father----."

"Not a word more at present; good bye."

There is an old saying, that "competition is the life of trade," and I think it is no less true, that "opposition is the life of love," or of something that is frequently mistaken for it by _greenhorns_, and very young ladies just from school. Now that all opposition was at an end, Hugh was somewhat surprised to find himself entirely OUT of love with Ellen; and indeed, he shrewdly suspected he had never been IN love with her. The gentle girl had seemed pleased with the attentions of the handsome Hugh Sanford, though she acted with the most perfect delicacy, nor have I ever found out whether she imagined him to be serious. I am sorry to say, that the utmost partiality cannot throw a veil over the conduct of Hugh in this instance; and many will say that he does not deserve the title of a _hero_. "Pshaw!" says a little girl, "I thought all heroes were perfect!" And so they are, in English novels, but not in Old Virginia!

Mrs. Sanford had a widowed sister living in the southern part of the state. Her name was Harrington, and she was the mother of two daughters, who were dashing belles and beauties. Thither Hugh now went, to pay a visit. On a bright evening, he came in sight of his aunt's dwelling. It was situated on a smooth green hill, which gradually sloped to the river ----, which was not very wide here. A tiny canoe was presently visible in the middle of the stream, and much to his surprise he perceived in it a single female figure. "Can that be one of my cousins?" said he; "what mad freak could induce her to go alone?" But, when he arrived at the house, he found both of his cousins and his aunt sitting together. They received him cordially, and while he was answering their inquiries, a light step was heard in the passage, and an eager voice exclaimed: "Oh, Mrs. Harrington, my pigeon flew away from me to the other bank, and I was so much afraid of losing it, that I went over for it by myself." The speaker entered the room, holding the bird triumphantly in her hand; but perceiving a stranger, she was retreating, when Mrs. Harrington recalled her, and she was introduced to Hugh by the appellation of Amy Larone. She was bright as a sunbeam, and beautiful as the roses of spring. Her hazel eyes were large; a delicate carnation bloomed on her cheek, and her brown hair was parted over her smooth brow, and gracefully twisted at the back of her head. She was below the middle size, and the plainest suit of mourning was neatly fitted on her slender shape. Hugh's interest was strongly excited by the air of mystery with which he fancied she was surrounded, and he seized the first opportunity to inquire who she was. Her simple story was soon told. She was nearly sixteen, and was the orphan child of poor and obscure, though honest parents. Her mother died when she was four years old, and she was left to the care of her father, an illiterate, although well-meaning man, who had no idea that education was at all necessary: if he could see his daughter neatly dressed, and hear the neighbors say how beautiful she was, he cared for nothing more. Her beauty and modesty were talked of by rich and poor. Her father had not been dead more than seven or eight months; and Mrs. Harrington pitying her forlorn condition, had taken her to her house. Maria and Theresa Harrington were kind to her, and were anxious to repair somewhat the total neglect of the education of the warm hearted Amy. She was grateful, but as her taste for study had not been formed in childhood, it was with reluctance that she now attempted the _drudgery_ of learning, and, so far as concerned herself, she wished that the makers of books had never existed.

She seemed, however, to possess an instinctive knowledge of what was right and proper to be said or done, even on occasions that were perfectly novel to her; and when a subject was started of which she was ignorant, she acted _wisely_, and said _nothing_; or if in the course of conversation a few errors were committed by her, her transcendent beauty was sufficient to atone for all. True, her beauty was not of the spiritual kind, "the rapt soul _beaming_ in the eyes;" but it was just such as is always admired by enthusiastic young men.

Company came in, and Hugh obtaining a seat near Amy, entered into conversation with her, in which to do her justice, she supported her part quite well. He rallied her upon her excursion after her truant bird. She replied--"It was the last thing my father ever gave me, and I love it for his sake."

Several weeks had been passed by Hugh at his aunt's, and he had become deeply interested in the orphan. Amy appeared dejected, and very rarely joined the family party in the sitting room. This conduct only strengthened Hugh's interest. He was now really in love--"fairly caught," as the young ladies express it. Walking out one evening by himself, he encountered Amy unexpectedly, and a gleam of joy lighted up his handsome features.

"Miss Larone," said he, "why have you deserted us; the time has been too, too long since we met."

"Three days, sir," said Amy, slightly smiling.

"I can hardly believe it possible," said he, "for it seems almost as many months to me."

Amy assumed a look of coldness, and said she did not understand him; but her countenance betrayed that she did.

They walked on in silence to the bank of the river, and Hugh looking on the beautiful stream and its romantic banks, said, "Could I but think that you would walk here after I am gone, and think of me--Amy, I will confess that from the first moment I saw you, I felt the strongest interest in you. Nay more, that I do now love you most ardently. Will you give me your heart?" She remained silent and agitated, and at length tears came to her relief. "Oh, why do you weep? Say to me Amy, that I may at least hope you love me!" She raised her mild tearful eyes, and that glance betrayed that her heart was his.--"Now, heaven bless you Amy, let us record our vows, and you will be my bride ere long." "Mr. Sanford," she said, "'tis true that I love you, but yet I can never be yours. Your parents would never receive me as their daughter." "Hush Amy," said he, "my parents love me too well to withhold their consent." Struggling with her emotion, she said, "There are other weighty reasons why I cannot be your wife. No, no, it cannot be." "Amy, you distract me; whatever those reasons are, they _shall_ be overcome." She shook her head, and darted off from him ere he was aware of her determination. Hugh was bewildered; but he resolved to seek another interview with Amy. The next day he entreated her as a last favor, to walk with him. So _reasonable_ a request could not be refused. He told her that unless she changed her determination, on the morrow he would depart, whither he neither knew or cared. Her _compassion_ was so much excited, that before their return to the house, she had permitted him to hope. He told her he would set off directly for his home, and that he would return in a few weeks,--adding that he would write to her immediately. It was not until after much entreaty, that she consented to receive his letters; but when he requested her to _answer_ them, her agitation knew no bounds. Poor Amy!

The next day he took leave of all; and ere long, a letter fraught with expressions of the most tender regard, was handed to Amy. _She did not answer it._ Another soon followed, gently chiding her for her silence. After this, _all were answered_. Mrs. Harrington and Maria _were in arms about the match_. His parents yielded a reluctant consent; and at the appointed time they were married. Hugh wrote to his mother to apprize her of it, and to appoint a time for their arrival at the home of his childhood--he now thought himself perfectly happy. The _honey-moon_ was nearly past, when, one day as he was gazing with rapture on the loveliness of his young bride, Mrs. Harrington entered, saying, "Here is a letter directed to 'Mrs. Hugh Sanford,' from my sister, I think." She handed Amy the letter, with a look of peculiar significance. Amy broke the seal mechanically, blushed deeply, and bent her eyes on the ground.--"Amy," said Hugh, "why do you not read my mother's letter?" She sank down, and could only say, "Forgive me--oh, forgive me!" "For what, dearest? You that never in thought or word offended. Look up, Amy," said he, smiling, "you have no need of forgiveness." "Oh, you do not know; I--" She could scarce articulate; but at length came the terrible confession, that she could scarcely read, and _could not write!_

We have mentioned the total neglect of her education, and the "_weighty_ reasons" which she told Hugh would prevent her from marrying him. All is now explained. But how, you may ask, did she manage to answer his letters, when she was unable to write? She made Theresa Harrington her confidant; and _she_, without thinking of the consequences, answered them in Amy's name. The deception was cruel; but Amy's conduct is not entirely without some palliation. Her love of Hugh, and the shame of her ignorance, combated fiercely in her bosom; and _she did refuse him--partly_.