Part 16

And now he hurried to his mother's apartment to gather some intelligence concerning his friends; and to his first inquiry about Eliza, the old lady rather pleasantly remarked, "you staid too long--she's married!" Little did she anticipate the effect this communication produced. With an incredulous air, he replied, "you jest. Eliza Newton, married! dead, rather! no, never. But to whom!" "To Mr. Bryant?" At once the fatal truth flashed upon his mind, and pierced his brain like a hot fire-brand. "_Eliza Newton_, so forgetful, so ungrateful, so inconstant, so _deceitful!_" His heart sunk within him. The object which he adored, _unworthy!_ Suddenly his head drooped to his knee, and one convulsive groan told the anguish of his soul. His mother called to him in soothing accents. He lifted himself, deadly pale, his lips all dabbled with blood, a vein had burst, his fiery eyes gleamed with a wild and unnatural glare, and gazing with a piercing stare upon his petrified mother, he shrieked in a thrilling, fearful tone, "impossible, _she_, false! then where is truth?" and springing to his feet, he fell senseless on the floor. His distracted mother just recovered from her alarm, flew for assistance; he was soon consigned to a bed, and a messenger despatched to the village for a physician. He gazed on all with a vacant stare--his old broken-hearted father sat beside him, and he turned himself away. His weeping sisters sat around his pillow, but he knew them not. His temples throbbed furiously, and his blood coursed through his veins in rapid, boiling waves. All feared that his manly intellect had been shivered by this sudden and tremendous stroke. The physician arrived,--and assured them, that he had hopes that his mind was not irreparably impaired, and by keeping him still and quiet, with the help of some cooling draughts, he might yet recover, though his brain was considerably affected. He remained a while to watch the symptoms, and then leaving such directions as his skill suggested, he left this afflicted family. He returned and reported the case and its cause. The report soon reached the ears of Mrs. Bryant--when with a chilling effect, the remembrance of early affection came across her--the ghosts of by-gone joys stalked around her--but no distraction ensued--_tears_ came to her relief, and quenched the fires that seemed to consume her heart. Frequently the stroke which crushes the stout and stubborn mind of man, only bruises the more pliable and yielding intellect of woman, as the storm before which the slender reed bows to the ground, but rises when it is past, tears up by the roots, and dashes to a thousand pieces the gnarled oak. There was one consoling thought, however, which mitigated the pains that Mrs. Bryant felt. There was another reason which calmed her troubled bosom. Whenever there appears an object of pity, or charity, every feeling of woman is enlisted to administer relief; and as the lighter bodies float upon the surface, self, with all its concerns and every other consideration, for the present, sinks to the bottom,--while tenderness, sympathy and kindness, direct every sentiment and exertion in favor of the sufferer. Such was the case in the present instance. Her husband was from home, and Mrs. Bryant loaded with every thing suited to Claiborne's situation, hastened to her father's, and then to Mr. Claiborne's. She was kindly and affectionately received by the family. Pale and agitated, she entered the apartment of her unfortunate Charles. He turned an unmeaning glance upon her, but recognised her not. This she scarcely regretted, as she might administer each healing potion, or bathe his burning temples, without his knowing the hand which did it. For a week or two she remained at her father's, going over every day, and frequently sitting beside his bed through the long silent watches of the night, ruminating with a bleeding heart, upon her own unfortunate situation, all her affection revived for one she had driven to madness, and whom she could never possess--keen despair and biting remorse, her only reward for the part she had acted in this sad tragedy. As memory retraced upon her mind with a burning finger each happy moment of her youth now gone, and her fond hopes disappointed--she cursed bitterly the hour in which she first saw the light. Unspeakable anguish!--Mr. Bryant returned, _and thought her presence necessary at home_. Reluctantly she obeyed, she feared to see his face. She was deceived--she had never rendered him her whole heart, and even that little seemed now to quit its hold. Censure her not, but listen further. With a sharp reproof for her _imprudence_, Bryant suffered her no more to visit her father's. Submissively she obeyed. She endeavored to respect and appear agreeable to her husband. And by her unceasing exertion she partly succeeded, and he seemed reconciled, but from her heart of hearts, his image was excluded. 'Twas true the nuptials had been celebrated, the troth plighted, but it was all a sacrilege, they had never been united "heart in heart." Her affections had never been _wholly_ estranged from Claiborne. Assidiously after his departure, did Bryant urge his suit, but without the least prospect of success: yet the ardency of his love, suffered no denial to frustrate his designs. He however grew apace, in favor with her father; his bland, and agreeable manners, and business habits, made him quite acceptable to the old gentleman. Two years had now gone by, and yet not one word in any shape from Charles. The defeats of Harmer and St. Clair had reached their ears, and probably he had fallen among the heroic officers, who met their fate in those calamitous engagements. So thought Mr. Newton,--if not, he had treated them very disrespectfully. Eliza was loath to think so. But we have observed that she was acutely sensible, and possessed of some of the pride of her sex. She remembered Charles' last words, and began to suspect they were designedly spoken, and that probably he had gone on this expedition for the express purpose, else why would he have staid so long unnecessarily, as she supposed; and not a syllable had he written her, though two years had elapsed. Even to a less jealous mind these incidents would have been strong confirmations. And dwelling upon them, she wrought herself into the belief that Charles had deceived her--and she determined to be independent, and to tear her affections from him, cost what it might. She sighed that it was so, but gave him up without an effort. Had he never returned, she might probably have lived at least a contented life.

Bryant was scrupulously silent on the subject of Charles' absence or his neglect, suffering it to produce its own effects. Yet Eliza loved _him_ not. But since she had loosed her hold on Charles, she seemed to be out on the boundless sea--without a spot on which to cast hope's anchor; and woman must love something--she loves to love. And yielding to the importunities, the frequent suggestions of her father, who thought it would be a very _prudent_ match, and a very agreeable one with a little exertion on her part--she determined to _hazard_ the throw, and granted Mr. Bryant her hand. Would that parents grown prudent with age, and thinking only of _wealth_, would recall for a moment their own youthful sentiments, and not urge their children into engagements against which every feeling revolts--for however small the defect objected to, or how groundless soever each little prejudice, yet they may produce jars and schisms the most disagreeable and painful, and for which no splendor of equipage or name can ever compensate. The nuptials of Eliza and Bryant were celebrated the fall before Charles' return, with considerable eclat for that quiet settlement. And though the bride seemed calm and contented, yet she had lost her former gaiety and buoyancy of spirits. With the exception of a slight ebullition of anger, occasionally, things had glided on smoothly till Charles' return, and thus they stood at that time.

Slowly and gradually Claiborne recovered his senses and health. After three months close confinement he was so far improved as to be able to ride a little on horseback, or take short excursions upon the river in the sail boat. The presence of old scenes revived his memory, and seemed to strengthen his other faculties. Though pensive ever, yet his alienation returned not. After he had fairly recovered, for the first time, he inquired, if they had never heard from him. When told _never_, he said it was mysterious, as he had written hundreds of times, and first from Fort Washington itself. He said a black deed might yet develope itself. And when informed that Eliza had kindly waited on him, until prohibited by her husband, he exclaimed, "deception! I am satisfied. But let me not stay where every scene sends a dagger to my heart." All preparations were soon made and the unhappy Claiborne left his home, his weeping friends, the haunts of his early youth, and the theatre of his only blissful hours, for the territory of Mississippi, where he practised law. He soon became popular throughout the whole country, and was finally elevated to the Chief Magistracy of the state. After having filled his term of office with distinguished honor, he retired to private life; and soon after sunk to an early grave, "unregretting--regretted by all." Like the meteor flash, his career was brilliant, but transient. With his health he never regained his natural gay and lightsome temperament. Gloomy and melancholy he shunned the abodes of pleasure or merriment--lived in retirement, and cherished within his bosom an unextinguishable flame, that "finally corroded each vital part," and sunk him to the tomb.

Not long after Claiborne's departure, Bryant went upon a trading expedition, and for the first time left his keys with his wife, with the charge, that if a certain person called for some money, to let him have it out of his desk. While there for that purpose, her curiosity--I might say her suspicions--led her to examine the contents of the drawers, when in one, oh! blackest deed on memory's record! oh! most base and villainous deception! She met with a large packet of letters addressed to herself and Claiborne's father. Pale and motionless she stood, struck with amazement and horror. She saw herself the _wife_ of a vile hypocrite--the author of all her own misery and sorrow--the demon of the desolation and blight of happiness she had witnessed in an excellent family--the injurer and almost _murderer_ of the noble and generous Charles Claiborne. The idea froze the blood in her very heart. She read Claiborne's repeated declarations of increasing affection in every letter--the irksomeness of all his pursuits uncheered by her smiles,--his kind but touching reproofs for not writing--his marked effort in every line to please and delight--they were all unsealed and had been read by this cool-blooded villain. The blackness of the deed was aggravated by the deliberation with which it was done, and that too, while he perceived the anxiety and painful suspense of the dearest friends of one, whom he was thus so deeply injuring. The poor Eliza had borne up under all but this; and now that she saw her _husband_ a fiend at heart--her anguish was insupportable--her bosom was racked with every conflicting emotion--her eyes swam--her bewildered brain whirled, and she sank to the floor. How long she lay in this state she knew not; but when she recovered, she replaced every thing carefully, and retired. Ten thousand agonizing reflections inflicted their torments upon her mind. She soon resolved upon her course. Erring on the better side, she determined to endure every suffering, to preserve her _husband_ from ignominy, but to cherish her sorrows, which she hoped would very soon wear out the little of life that remained--

But life's strange principle will often lie, Deepest in those who long the most to die.

And she _did_ live, to be chained yet longer to one she could but hate--she lived to receive the abuse of one who by a hell-engendered artifice seduced her from the sheltering, peaceful roof of her father--she lived to see him a beastly slave to intoxication--she lived to see her whole family reduced to want and misery by becoming sureties for this now unprincipled spendthrift--she lived to see the just retribution of heaven poured out upon the defenceless head, of this serpent, which wound his way into Paradise and brought its inmates to shame and poverty--she lived to see him die in want and disgrace, raving with the agonies of despair. And she herself survived but a short time, a pensioner upon the bounty of a few friends, who received her into their houses, to cheer, if possible, the approaching close of her painful and wretched existence;--which blind, presumptuous man, ignorant of the wise designs of Providence would fain pronounce too severe a fate, for a flower so tender and beautiful in its first buddings.

_Lovingston, Virginia, March 25, 1835_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE OF A NOSE.

BY PERTINAX PLACID.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.--_Byron_.

The story which I am about to relate may by some be considered extravagant. I shall not argue the point; but content myself with the reflection that mankind have never yet been unanimous in their opinions in relation to any subject which admitted of a question. There are two special merits which I claim for my story, viz: that it is _brief_, and that it has a _moral_. Such as it is I offer it to the consideration of the reader.

It was a beautiful night in July.--The noble steamer "Dewitt Clinton" was speeding her way through the moonlit waters of the Hudson, thronged with passengers. We had left Albany late in the afternoon; already we had passed the majestic Cattskill, and were entering among those gorgeous scenes of nature which have been celebrated by an hundred pens.--Julia and myself had escaped from the crowd below, to the upper "round house" or roofing of the boat, which commanded an unobstructed view of the objects on either side of the river, and where we were secure from interruption, the myriads below being too busily engaged in contending for berths, and preparing for their night's lodging, to seek out our retreat or participate in the enjoyment of the beauties we were contemplating.

After paying due homage to the magnificent scenery around us, our conversation took a more common-place turn, and, as we had met that day after a long separation, during which Julia had paid a visit to some of our old friends in the north, she detailed to me the many happy meetings and amusing incidents of her excursion. She had gone through a long narration of the sayings and doings of aunts and cousins, and had given me a full list of new members of several families which we remembered in their simple elements, when the fathers and mothers were girls and boys, innocent of all thoughts of matrimony, and ignorant of its joys and sorrows. She enumerated the births, deaths and marriages of a whole village, in each individual resident of which we had felt more or less interest in our early years, and detailed their various changes of fortune and situation. In fact she brought up many years' arrearages of information, to me of more importance than the result of the Kentucky election, or the fate of the prime match on the Union Course between the best horses of the north and south. The private history of the old associates of my youth, as thus narrated to me, might have afforded a moral to adorn a tale of much higher interest than this I am now writing.

"And you saw my Aunt Deborah," said I. "Pray how does she look, and what did she say? I remember the eccentric old soul, as if the ten long years since I have seen her had been but as many months. Many a lecture did she utter on the extravagance, the impetuosity, and the recklessness of my boyhood; and much did she preach to me of prudence and moderation, I fear, in vain. Does she still remember my wild pranks?"

"Oh yes--but her censure of your wildness was so mingled with praises of your good qualities, that I doubt whether she would have permitted another person to speak ill, even of those points in your character which she blamed the most."

"Kind old woman! It was so when I was a boy. She was perpetually lecturing, and yet she was most kind to me. And somehow, in spite of her irksome admonitions, for which I had then no great relish, I soon discovered that I was a favorite with her."

"On one point she was particularly urgent. She questioned me whether you had as yet learned the value of money, observing, that in your younger days you had been a good-for-nothing little spendthrift."

"I hope you did not deceive the good old lady. It would be but fair that she should know that the prudence with which I was not born, has failed as yet of obtaining a lodgment in my head. It would have been a pity to deprive her of the glorious consolation of knowing that her predictions of my improvidence have been fully realized."

"Well, I did not think it necessary to inform her of the full extent of your delinquency; but I admitted to her that you had not the gift of _saving_, which she admires so much."

"She often told me that I would never acquire it."

"Oh, now I remember, she charged me to deliver to you a renewed admonition to prudence and economy. 'Tell E----,' said she, with great solemnity, made still more solemn by the huge pinch of snuff which she disposed of at the moment, 'that he must look forward to the future, and now, while he is prosperous, prepare for a less plentiful time, which may come. Tell him that, unless he studies prudence and economy, sooner or later, _his nose must come to the grindstone_.' I hope you will profit by the exhortation."

"I wish I could, I hope I may," said I, with something like a sigh interrupting for a moment the laugh, which I could not resist, at the expense of my good-hearted aunt Deborah.

Some further conversation occupied us for a short time, when we were admonished by the comparative quiet which had taken place of the bustle below, that it was time to seek such rest as we might find among the crowd.

Those persons who have not travelled in a "night-boat," as a steamer is called which performs its trips during the night, are probably not aware of the kind of lodgings which it affords when the number of passengers is large. The disposal of five hundred lodgers on board a steam boat is no trifling task. The berths are of course limited in number, and when crowded, the floors of the cabins are covered with sleeping contrivances of various descriptions. Settees, cots, and a kind of oblong box, having thin mattresses spread over them, with a sheet and blanket perhaps, are wedged together, each calculated to hold the body of a human being, by the most scanty and economical measurement. The berths are first exhausted by those who are most prompt in looking after their own comfort; and then comes the scramble for the cots, settees, &c. In this contest high words often occur, and in some instances I have heard of serious conflicts for the possession of one of these miserable dormitories.

On this occasion I had enlisted the good offices of the younger Captain Sherman, who promised to secure me a lodging, and when I entered the cabin it was pointed out to me. Numbers had been less fortunate, and unable to procure a place of rest below, had accommodated themselves upon benches, chairs, &c. above,--or wrapped in cloaks, had stretched themselves on the deck. Clambering over those who had already retired, I stretched myself on my pallet. In doing so I awoke my next neighbor, a gigantic Kentuckian, who lay cramped up in his scanty cot, like a stranded leviathan among a shoal of porpoises.

He cast his eyes upon me, and with an ineffectual attempt to extend his limbs, muttered, "Close stowing this, stranger."

I assented to the truth of his remark; but he seemed in no mood for conversation, and was soon fast asleep. The heat was suffocating from the effusions of so many human bodies lying in rows, almost touching each other,

"Thick as the autumnal leaves which strow the brooks In Vallombrosa."

I found it impossible to sleep. The feverish state of the atmosphere, and the tumult around me, scared the drowsy god from my pillow--[I had no pillow by the way, but made my great coat serve as a substitute for one.] The thundering and crashing of the engine,--the dashing of the paddles in the water--the stamping of feet above our heads--the uproar of many voices, heard at intervals when some order was given to the crew--the _banging_ of the wood upon the planks, at it was transferred from the pile to the engine-room--the rumbling of ballast-boxes, as they were occasionally transferred from side to side, for the purpose of _trimming_ the steamer--the harsh rattling of the tackle, as a boat was lowered, to land or take off passengers by a _tow line_,[1] and the simultaneous rush to the gangway of those who were to go on shore, while the subtile fluid which gave motion to our floating caravan, being partially restrained, emitted a wheezing and uncomfortable sound.

[Footnote 1: This method of landing and taking off passengers was practised for many years on the Hudson, but finally abolished by law, on account of its risks, several fatal accidents having been caused by it. The steamer was not brought to during the operation; but a tow line attached to the small boat, was out from the steamer, and drawn in by the machinery with great velocity.]

But who shall describe the varied and terrific music of the steam engine? I do not attempt it, not doubting that in the march of improvement, the poet will hereafter make it a special theme; and that some American Mayerbeer or Mozart, will consider the composition of a passage by steam from Albany to New York, as affording facilities for expression and contrast, equally sublime with the March in Saul or the Battle of Prague.--Occasionally we came to a dead stop at some principal landing place. For a moment the engine was hushed, as silent as death; then a feeble whistle was heard from the steam pipe, (sweet, shrill and almost plaintive,) followed by a roar of the imprisoned element, fiercely exulting at its recovered liberty, as it was _let off_ from the engine, and rushing forth with such gigantic impulse as to shake every timber in the vessel.--Gradually the roar subsides; slowly, slowly, until a humming sound succeeds, as though all the bees of Hybla were swarming around our heads. Suddenly it ceases, and for a moment the steam is silent. Then again, the hoarse thunder of the machinery commences, the paddles dash the water from beneath them, with giant strides, and the motion of the vessel is distinctly felt, as she rushes onward in her course.