Part 12

When a man has had his hat in his hand, and with a wo-begone countenance has risen to make a final adieu, under the impression that he is utterly discarded and despised, and suddenly resumes his seat with such evidences of change of purpose; we generally presume he has obtained the liberty of hanging his hat up, which is tantamount to obtaining the liberty of the domicil, and is what I should call the gentleman's setting his hat, in contradistinction to the lady's setting her cap.

Day after day, go when you would, and peep into that passage, you would find Tim's new beaver hanging upon the same hook, and these two young innocents sitting side and side, cheek and joke, feasting on each others' eyes.

Tim would sometimes talk of the future, and develop his little schemes for their mutual happiness; but if ever he touched upon that most delicate of all subjects, the ascertainment of the period when their two hearts were to be linked indissolubly together, all the delicacy of the female character would instantly be aroused, and little Molly, in a playful mood, would sing out "time enough yet, time enough yet."

Matters remained in this unsettled condition, our friend Tim still enduring the same uncertainty, living in that half delightful, half vexatious state which totally unfits a man for any occupation, unless it be "breathing soft music through a mellow pipe." Our friend thought more than once 'twas time these scenes should be ended: accordingly he determined to inform his good mother of his happy prospects, as a prelude to his future movements. Many ineffectual efforts were made, but it was a delicate business. How to commence these soft narrations has puzzled more heads than one. He had given the old lady repeated chances to help him out, by sly hints and inuendoes, but she would never perceive what he was driving at. The truth was, she had selected in her own mind a most eligible match for her son, and she could not believe he was so blind as not to discover its advantages. Money was the foundation upon which that edifice was to be erected; but Tim, poor fellow, belonged to an ill-fated family. Not one of his ancestors had ever married other than a poor girl, from the remotest antiquity, and he had a sentimental notion of such affairs, that would forever exclude the idea of his marrying a rich one, whatever other qualifications she might possess.

At length, Tim succeeded in getting his mother safely cornered, the door shut and no one else present. Walking backwards and forwards for a minute or two, he stopped suddenly, as if he was about to commence. The old lady was knitting away by the fire. Instead of commencing, Tim walked to a chair as if he was about placing it close along side and stating the whole case like a man; but turning about, he deliberately sat the chair in the corner and folded his arms.

"Mother," said Tim, and then he cleared his throat. "What, my son?" "I have been thinking whether it would not be better to have our old house painted?" This was a new idea, one that never had crossed Tim's mind till it was uttered, and as it happened, 'twas not an inappropriate one. "But, my child, it will answer very well as it is, for such an old body as I, and if you begin to paint, you will be compelled to furbish up every thing else." "But, mother, suppose I should think of courting some young body?" "Oh, if you will fall in love with my little favorite, you can afford to paint and furbish too." That was a chord Tim had heard struck before to-day. "Suppose _she_ wont love me, and somebody else will." "Faint heart," said his consoling mother, "never won fair lady." The old lady was off upon the old track; but Tim having fairly begun, was not to be so easily baffled this time--so taking up his chair, he walked deliberately to the fire and seating himself, placed his feet upon the fender.

"Mother," said Tim, "it is time I should tell you that"--rap, rap, rap,--tantarara, bang--rang the old brass knocker at the outer door. "See who is there, my son." Hang all the world thought Tim--shall I never have an opportunity of telling the old lady? Tim took no candle with him to the door. "Who's here?" "Harry, sir." "Well, uncle Harry, what do you want?" "Mass Tim, Miss Mary send her complements, and tell me give you dis letter." Tim ran his hand into his pocket and gave old Harry a bit of silver. "I reckon," said Harry, who began to think Mass Tim and he were old cronies, "I reckon young Missus dont send letters to young Massa for nutting." "Wait for an answer a moment, uncle Harry," said Tim kindly. "Who's at the door, my son?" said the old lady, as Tim returned, holding an open letter in his hand. "A servant, madam," was the reply. "What," said Tim to himself, as he walked to the candle, "does my Mary want?"

Good reader, while old Harry is waiting at the door in the best humor in the world, because he had the good fortune to be the bearer of a _love letter_ as he shrewdly suspected, from his young mistress to so good a young gentleman, and while the good old lady is knitting away and thinking how to induce her son to fall in love with _her_ favorite, if thou wilt follow my example, thou mayst perceive what is going on for thyself. Thou seest that I am about to take a sly peep over friend Tim's shoulder, and if thou wilt peep over the other, thou mayst discover what otherwise thou wilt never have an opportunity of perceiving.

"_Saturday Evening_.

"MR. TIMOTHY WILBERFORCE.

"Can Mr. Wilberforce forgive and forget one who has injured him much? Oh! how I reproach myself for having given you hopes, my friend, that can never be realized. Mr. Wilberforce, you must forget me; and oh, can you not attribute my strange conduct to my youth? I am so young and thoughtless. Indeed, I would not willingly give you pain. Can we not continue friends? I hope we may, but indeed you must forget the promises I have made you, and if possible forgive me. I find I do not love you as I ought. Let us be friends, but nothing more. MARY."

Tim had seen his mother watching his countenance while he was reading: so putting on a smile, "Is that all? Pshaw, I thought it was something important," said he, going to the outer door. "Harry, there is no occasion to wait--no answer is necessary." Slam went the door. The bolt rang with a double turn. The letter was wadded in his breeches' pocket. "Who was that letter from, Tim?" said his mother. "A young friend has asked me to go serenading with him," replied honest Tim. Down he sat, with his feet upon the fender, and his arms folded over his breast. Then seizing the poker,--punch, punch, punch--you would have sworn it was freezing. Every coal was upturned--the room was filled with dust and smoke. "My son, it is not very cold to-night." Tim kept stirring the fire. "Did you desire to have the old house painted, Tim? If you wish it, my son"--"madam?"--"You were saying, Timothy, that you were about to tell me something?" "Did I?" Down went the poker, and Tim paced the apartment.

My good friend, were you in such a situation, what would you do? Only think of that rap at the door at such a moment--of the contents of that _love_ epistle--of that dear uncle Harry! For my part, I shall ever believe as long as I live, that there is something in names, and that none but a very old Harry Scratch himself could have been charged with such a scrawl. What would you have done? Tell the old lady the whole matter? What! with all those contending, conflicting feelings--passions--hopes--blasted and utterly destroyed! As for me, I think a man would be _almost_ excusable if he had walked premeditatedly to his razor case and cut his throat. Tim did no such thing. He walked to--bed.

Will you be so kind as to explain to me, why little Mary--our sweet, innocent, flaxen-haired little Molly, who was as much in love as ever lassie was, should have acted thus strangely? You who pretend to fathom the profundity of human motives and to ascribe proper causes for every action, will you unriddle this enigma? But the day before, she was as kind, as affectionate as usual, and in every way the same to Tim. From this time forward, too, she was as friendly as any other friend; and yet, as indifferent as if their hearts had never beat in unison--as if their eyes had never read the inmost thought of each others soul--as if their lips:--to me and to Tim, it is utterly inexplicable.

Time--old father time--flies with his mowing scythe. This is the account the ancients give of the matter, but I have a notion that we should as well exclaim, time--old doctor time--flies with his healing balm, cicatrizing every wound; for if it was not for doctor time, Cupid might be more appropriately represented with his sickle gathering in his harvest; but time with his "balm of Gilead," or some pleasing draught, manages to cure many a bleeding heart. I thank thee, good doctor, thou hast come "with healing under thy wings," more than once to me.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY CLASSMATES.

By the author of the "Extract from a Novel that will never be published."

There were two among my companions at College with whom my intimacy was particularly close. They differed much from each other, as I did from them, in character and mental powers, but we were from the same state, viz. Virginia, although from different parts of it; and the presence of each of us spoke to the others of our distant homes, and formed a tie that bound us closely together. There is besides, a strong local attachment, separate and distinct from national feeling, (a peculiar one, as far as my observation extends, in our country,) pervading the native born inhabitants of that state, particularly the eastern and southern section of it, which draws them like brothers together when abroad. However reserved a Virginian may be to others, his heart immediately opens to one who possesses the same birthright with himself; and for him, if called upon, he will encounter pecuniary inconvenience and personal risk. I have known many instances of this feeling. But to my tale. The elder of us three, by name Morriss Heywood, was one of those beings on whom has been bestowed the fearful--almost fatal gift of genius. He stood pre-eminent among us all, towering in intellect, piercing the veil of truths hid from our dimmer eyes, revelling in the gardens of imagination barred to our dull and every day capacities. While we with pigmy steps and slow, crept along the paths of knowledge, urging our toilsome way with many a groan, he pressed forward with a giant's stride, and left us a sightless distance in the rear. His disposition too was noble as his mind. Generous beyond the bounds of prudence--brave to the verge of rashness--ever ready to afford assistance to those who required it--to promote their welfare, and to condole with, and partake of their grievances. Like most persons of extraordinary powers, his temper was unequal. At times gloomy and abstracted, shunning all communion, avoiding all recreation, abstaining from exercise and almost from food,--he would bury himself in the seclusion of his chamber, devoting day and night to intense application; then sated for a time with his "deep draught" at "the well spring of science," he would come among us full of life and gaiety, the soul and promoter of every frolic, breathing into us the spirit of his own warm heart, robing common things with the hues of his own bright fancy, and lighting up the very regions of dulness with the quick and brilliant flashes of his wit. The grave professors regarded him with amazement, and some of them even with fear; for sometimes in the spirit of mischief, he would sport with their heavy and useless learning, and puzzle them sadly with the subtleness of his inquiries,--leading them unconsciously into the mazes of metaphysical absurdities, and then leaving them with a quibble or a jest to pick their way out as they could, floundering at every step, and conscious of the ridicule they incurred. My other friend, Charles Drayton, had no peculiar characteristic that calls for present description. He had ordinary intellect, great application, a kind but not a warm heart, and a disposition to submit to legitimate authority; for all which, when we were graduated, he was rewarded with some fifth or sixth rate honor. The busy pursuits of life soon separated me from them after our departure from college. They commenced the study of the law, while I doubting my powers to succeed in the learned professions, and naturally inclined to an active life, turned my attention to commerce, and in the course of business, was called on to leave "my native land" to sojourn in a far distant one, and my return was not until after an absence of many years. During those years of labor and various fortunes, my time and talents devoted to one ruling object, the acquisition of wealth, (but not, I trust, influenced by sordidness, or ever induced to employ unworthy means,) my communications with home had been very rare, and of my early friends I had received no tidings; but often after reposing from the toils of the day, when the bustle of occupation was hushed, and the wearied mind revolted from following up the many schemes of aggrandizement that so constantly taxed it, memory would roll back to those halcyon days of my youth, and the images of Heywood and of Drayton would be mirrored in freshness to my fancy, while I busied myself in conjectures as to their probable fate and fortunes. Were they still among the living? Had Heywood fulfilled the promise of his early youth, and climbed with vigorous step

"The hill, where fame's proud temple shines afar?"

Had the perseverance of Drayton won for him wealth and respectability in his profession? More he could not attain to. And amid their busy struggles, did they ever recur to the friend who was absent, with the same deep feeling that dwelt in his heart for them?

After many efforts, sometimes crowned with success, and often, very often marked by adversity, fortune at last smiled upon them, and placed me in a situation (as I was alone in the world,) of comparative wealth. I wound up my affairs as speedily as possible, and embarked for home. My voyage was prosperous: once more I trod the free soil of the United States of America, and bent my way without delay to the town of ----, where first I drew my infant breath. It was evening when I reached it. I found it much altered, enlarged and improved; but around me were many a memorial of the times gone by;--and as the slanting rays of the setting sun threw their purple and gold on the broad summit of the well remembered hills, and played in ever changing beauty on the ripple of the chrystal stream, I seemed borne back from the present, when Time had furrowed my brow and sprinkled his snows upon my hair, to that past, when the smooth forehead and the curly locks, the long loud laugh, and the joyous leap, were tokens of the happy boy. In passing along the main road leading to the town, I had observed at some little distance from it, a very large and handsome brick edifice, in the midst of highly cultivated grounds, where formerly there had stood a very indifferent wooden building, on a neglected farm, the property of an idle and dissipated gentleman. It was very foolish to do so, and yet I uttered a half sigh at the change; for although the present state of things was infinitely more agreeable to the eye, it struck coldly on my heart and jarred the chord of cherished associations. When I had fairly established myself at the "best inn," and answered as I pleased, all customary inquiries as to who I was, whence from, where going to, and numberless other impertinencies, I commenced querist in turn, and the information I then and subsequently obtained from other quarters, I am now about to lay before the reader. Both of my college friends after obtaining their licenses, had removed to my native town, which then offered the best field in the state for the practice of the law. Heywood had, as I was sure he would, commenced his career at the bar with signal success. His very first appearance, his maiden speech, had given him a station far beyond his youthful competitors, and indeed among the foremost ranks of those who had grown gray in their vocation. He had been entrusted, with others, in the management of a case of great difficulty, and involving property to a large amount; and in the examination of the witnesses, had exhibited a knowledge of human character, and a power to discover and elicit truth, that in one so young and so unpracticed, seemed absolutely marvellous; while his familiarity with the abstruse points and technicalities of the law, appeared as close and intimate as if he had spent years in acquiring it. He was regarded as a prodigy, and indeed he was one. I have seen many men in many climes, but never have I met with Heywood's equal in native genius; and then the godlike mind with which he was endowed, was set forth and enhanced by a corresponding face and figure. His stature was tall and his bulk in proportion, but there was no clumsiness. His limbs were

"Heaped with strength, and turned with elegance;"

His presence was lordly, with his statue-like brow, crested with short dark curls, the Roman nose, the sharp cut lips, and the full large pellucid eye, in which "the lightning played." His was

"A combination, and a form indeed, On which, every god had seemed to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man."

One thus gifted was eagerly sought after, and while business poured on him from all quarters, his society was every where courted. The presence of Heywood was an indispensable requisite to any meeting whose object was pleasure. Nor did he refuse it, or hold himself aloof from the amusements sought after by others. He could be gay with the gay, and sedate with the grave, and without an effort; and even in the midst of what may be termed dissipation, none had cause to complain that their affairs entrusted to his care were not faithfully attended to and ably managed. Thus did he go on increasing in usefulness and reputation, and men looked forward to the time when he would rank among the master spirits of the day, and perhaps reach the highest honors his country could bestow. Indeed a new career had now been opened to him, which promised to lead to such a result. He had been chosen to represent his county in the state legislature, and there as at the bar, his success was immediate and brilliant. To him it truly seemed

"an easy leap, To pluck bright honor from the pale faced moon;"

and, (to follow up the quotation,) he might fairly hope

"To wear without corrival all her dignities."

Such then was Morriss Heywood; in years a youth, a man in wisdom--the possessor of genius, health, reputation and beauty; his career as yet unchecked by a single obstacle--his hopes undimmed by the shadow of a fear. There resided at that period in the county of ---- an individual, who, by a long course of unremitting industry and the most grinding parsimony, together with less honest, if lawful means, had amassed an overgrown fortune; and having money at command, had contrived by lending it to the neighboring farmers, (generally improvident men,) and exacting high interest for its use, taking mortgages on their estates as security, to make himself the real if not nominal owner of half the landed property of the county. Having it at his will at any moment to strip many of their possessions, he was vested with a power that (although in their secret hearts all men detested him, and execrated his very name,) challenged opinion, and made dangerous as regarded him its public expression. It so happened that one of those gentlemen on whom his gripe was fixed, and whose debt, from an originally small sum, had swelled with usury until it covered his whole estate, had been a patron and valuable friend of this man, who was originally his overseer--had established him in the business with which he commenced his career, and aided him both with money and his name. It is a well established maxim, which hard experience has gathered from human intercourse, that you insure yourself an enemy when you bestow a benefit on a bad man. A noble mind may find an obligation burthensome, and be galled by the sense of dependence created by it. This feeling, however, does not destroy gratitude to the benefactor; but the mean and unprincipled hate those who give to them, from the consciousness that there is an utter dissimilarity of character between the giver and themselves. It grieves them that any should possess a virtue which they have not; and the performance of a good action, even although they themselves are its object, is gall and wormwood to their souls, from the secret knowledge that they are incapable of doing the same. This violence of hatred which the wicked, without apparent motive, entertain for the good, is forcibly pourtrayed by Shakspeare, (nature's magician, who applied his "Open Sesame" to that dark cave the human heart, penetrated its recesses, and explored its most secret nooks,) when he makes Iago give as a reason for desiring the death of Cassio,

"He hath a daily beauty in his life That makes me ugly"----

The feelings engendered in the heart of Willis, (for that was the name of the usurer,) by the kindness of his benefactor, were envy and bitter hatred. Envy, that he possessed the means to be generous; hatred, that having them he was so. But his heart rejoiced when he reflected that this very generosity would betray itself; and as he counted his own increasing gains, and became acquainted with the diminished and decreasing resources of his friend, he foresaw the time would come when their relative situations would be changed--when the patron would in turn become the suitor, and be dependant on his former menial's bounty. The time did come. A small loan was requested, and granted with cheerfulness. "The spider" as Heywood afterwards said, "had spun his first line." Then came a demand for a larger sum, which was raised with a pretence of great difficulty. Another thread was wrapped around the body of the victim. Slowly, silently, cautiously, these tiny lines were drawn, with a touch so light, that they were not felt until the web was fully formed--the prey secure--fluttering and struggling in the toils,--but vainly struggling; for those little threads had been plied and twisted into a cord of strength to bind the unshorn Sampson.

Of all the galling miseries that man is heir to, the most intolerable, the most debasing, the most corroding to the heart, the most destructive to the mind, is the consciousness of debt without the means of payment. Oh! what days of humiliation, what nights of nervous wakefulness, or else of dreaming horror, does he abide, on whose oppressed spirit is laid the load of payments he cannot meet, of obligations he cannot cancel. For him, though the sun shines abroad, there is no beauty in his beams. The earth is clothed with verdure, and a thousand odorous flowers are scattered in his path. He heeds them not; their perfume is wasted on him. The moon rides in liquid lustre, and the myriad stars break forth in light, and the whole heaven is clothed with exceeding glory; but there is a darkness in his soul no light can penetrate--a grief at his heart no beauties of nature can assuage. His energies are dead; they fester beneath the pall of despair.