Part 9

"Hail! pleasing harbingers of spring, Who in the ponds so jocund sing; And with a merry roundelay Do usher in St. Patrick's day; Some think your music rather hoarse, Nay that 'tis altogether coarse; Others ever fond of joking, Swear your singing is but croaking. Yet I declare it is to me A pleasing, perfect harmony. For in your varying notes I trace The counter, treble, tenor, bass. Should _some_ reply too _base_ indeed, Such rude sarcasms pray don't heed, But in your old accustomed way Still celebrate St. Patrick's day; Whether to hail the saint you sing Or joy for the returning spring, Which doth your tribe from jail release, Let not your annual tribute cease."

Although the merit of this poem lies much below mediocrity, in subject it is delightfully grotesque. Her style was varied and her pen strangely moody, judging from her productions extant. The following _jeu d'esprit_ was written at the beginning of Jefferson's administration:

"AN EPIGRAM.

"Says William to Thomas I'll hold you a bet, That the French are confoundedly frighted; They thought that our Federal ships had o'erset, But they find that they staunch are, and righted.

"They slighted our Pleno's and made a demand That we a shameful tribute should pay them, Or else (as they plundered at sea) on the land Neither Rapine nor Murder should stay them!

"But those who are born in the woods can't be scared By the croaking of Bull-frogs in ditches. Nor will we of Frenchmen at all be afraid, A people who're _sans_ honor, _sans_ breeches.

"They've taken our coats from our backs, and say too That they will have our shirts and our smocks, sir; But faith if they try it the project they'll rue, For we'll give them some flesh-burning knocks, sir!

"They've tried every art which deception could frame, But our Congress too wise were to heed them, They've Heaven defied, and have put aside shame, And have gone all lengths the Devil would lead them."

Among her poems are some pleasing verses, entitled "A Whim." These also appeared in _The Time Piece_, unsigned, and we have nothing to show whether they were a copy or the child of her own muse:

"I gave--'twas but the other day-- My Kate a ticket for the play, 'Tis love such tricks imparts; When holding up the card to me, She laughed and said, the emblem see, And show'd the Knave of Hearts.

"Amaz'd I cry'd, what means my dear? A knave will lie, will steal, will swear; I pray, your words define. She smiled and said, nay never start. He's sure a knave that steals a heart, And you have stolen mine!"

There was one yearly occasion when the world of Amboy did not flock with acceleration to the Kearny Cottage, and that was the anniversary of Michael Kearny's death. Mrs. Kearny was always fond of writing epitaphs to embellish the tombstones of departed Amboyites, but as the years progressed she developed a very morbid strain. To commemorate the demise of her husband she wrote poems of several hundred verses and then assembled her satellites to weep with her. Woe to the indifferent ones whose tears of sorrow were dry. They were pretty sure of indignant visits from her, or, worse still, her far-reaching pen was capable of dealing them swift retribution. She never spared the most loyal of her friends. When one of the distinguished men of the city came to her under the effects of toddy, she celebrated his fall from grace by lines which must have always rankled in his breast.

Mrs. Kearny longed to have her work admired for its worth alone, and, like Miss Burney, who visited the bookseller Mr. Lownes as a chance purchaser of "Evelina" to learn his opinion of its author, "Pinderina" was in the habit of calling upon her friends with her manuscripts, coyly reading them, and then requesting their criticism on the latest compositions she had copied from the _Gazette_. Tradition says that this plan did not always meet with pleasant results. Descending upon a Mrs. Golightly, a new-comer to Perth Amboy, with a batch of her poems, she was told that the productions were far from those of a genius and must have been written by some very foolish female. Pinderina, placidly awaiting praise, was astounded at the intelligence. Recovering herself, she informed the unfortunate woman that her own pen had given birth to the verses, and left her house in high indignation.

A new book was an event in the Perth Amboy world at the beginning of the century. When Simeon Drake, who received the mail from Woodbridge three times a week, brought a packet to the door of Mrs. Andrew Bell, the wealthiest member of the circle, a flutter of envy arose in every breast. What anxious hours were passed before it started on its round from house to house. Ofttimes an impatient dame sent her little Abigail to gaze through the low windows of Mrs. Bell's study, where the lady usually sat reading, to see if she were nearly through with the volume. When the first month of its Amboy life was over, how it had been discussed! The golden urns and garlands of roses which decorated the cover were already worn. To-day high up in the dust of dim attics the books of old Amboy are content to rest neglected and forgotten. The love that was given to them was stronger and truer than that bestowed upon their modern kindred. Through the long years of summer suns and wintry rains they had been happy in the thought of a mission fulfilled. When the wind creeps through the cracks in the casements and stirs their musty pages, one can almost fancy that they are whispering to the ghosts of the long ago.

A letter written by Mrs. Kearny to Mrs. Bell has been preserved:

"I am much obliged to you Madam for your Books. The scriptural essays are very good; the author seems to have been fully inspired by his subject. Rather enthusiastically so (I think) when he prefers the story of Ruth to that of Lavinia. I have long thought that Mr. Thomson had taken that sacred history for his model but had no idea that any one would say--the Paraphrase is inferior to the original. The story of the unfortunate lovers, very interesting--Carolina but so, so quite middling; I read it through without being able to approve of it. Allow me to mention a few remarks I made when reading it--It, in my opinion, wants two essential qualities Style and Reason; qualities which you know are capable of making any story pleasing--interesting, however fictitious we suppose the circumstances to be.

"Ovid's metamorphoses are not more wonderful than some of the turns of fortune in the history of Carolina. I will instance the sudden and total transformation of the Count of Wolstein. That one who nature had designed for a tall and well proportioned man should by a few months' studying become hunchbacked--and by having a scar on his face, one eye lost, and a limp in his gait, should be so deformed as to be called a monster! and that Carolina a young lady who had been two months at court and likely had some idea of politeness should when introduced to the Count instantly hide her eyes with her hands, give a piercing shriek and disappear like a flash of lightning at midnight is demanding too much from our credulity. We know pretty well what effect the loss of an eye, the scar, and the limp might have had but we cannot otherwise account for his other deformity than by supposing that he sat in a remarkably uneasy posture, or studied much more intently than any of our modern statesmen do: not one of whom, I believe, have broken their backs by studying politics however their minds may be deformed by it. Don't you think that the Canoness should have been totally deaf, as well as nearly blind, whilst the Pavilion was building in her garden?

"I can't for my part see the necessity of obliging Carolina to HAVE it built; as, had it been already there. In adding the embellishments would have been a sufficient surprise to her dear mama. In short, I am of opinion that the author did not require his readers to have common sense. Excuse the liberty which I have taken with your Book and believe me to be much obliged to you for the favor.

"Yours, "E. K."

The close of Mrs. Kearny's life was blighted and narrowed by adversity. Money matters estranged her from many of her old intimates, and she wrote pathetically to each member of the circle after a lawsuit with Richard Stevens: "Have you too entered the lists against me?" Unlike Mrs. Montagu, of whom Wraxall recorded that she wore glittering jewels to dazzle those her reputation failed to astound, Mrs. Kearny's last years were tinctured by the plaintiveness of homespun.

In the fall-time of the year 1799 the Amboyites who wandered past the wide lawns of Franklin Palace often saw by one of the windows of Kearny Cottage a figure bent low over a writing-table. It was Mrs. Kearny working industriously. Soon the rumor went abroad that Pinderina was completing her works for publication. No one dared question her. Covert glances were bestowed upon her when she entered her pew in old St. Peter's on a Sabbath morning. The thoughts of their former leader were to be handed down to posterity in print. Betsey Parker, one of the sisters at the castle who had scoffed her effusions in secret, decided to call at the cottage as soon as etiquette would permit. Feuds over money matters seemed trivial things after this great news.

Pinderina's star was again in the ascendancy. She smiled fondly on the pages of finely-written manuscript she was putting together. A glorious triumph seemed near at hand. One morning Mr. Freneau was seen leaving Kearny Cottage. After him trotted a black boy, bearing aloft a heavy bundle. Curious eyes watched him from behind the partly closed shutters of many a sedate-looking building facing the green. The gossips felt sure that the fruit of Mrs. Kearny's genius was being borne away for the approval of the New York publishers. They circulated the tale industriously. The élite of the town had not been so excited since the day an irate Mrs. Franklin broke all the mirrors of the palace on finding that her husband had been made a prisoner of war.

Three times the "Liberty" sailed into Amboy. On each occasion bevies of ladies found it necessary to transact business near the wharf. A case of fine nabobs, which had lain at old John's for a fortnight, was suddenly discovered. Captain Goelet had brought home some necklaces of Indian sea-shells. Anything plausible was used as an excuse to parade along the water-front.

And after all the weary watching Mr. Freneau arrived by coach. A gray mist enveloped the roadway that night, as if to keep his return a secret. But it was decreed that he should be observed. A member of the circle, who lived close by the cottage, chanced to bring out on her balcony a plant thirsting for rain. She recognized the figure which alighted from the mud-bespattered vehicle before Mrs. Kearny's door. The wind spread wide his great-coat. Its fluttering folds guarded from view the package of manuscript which had been rejected by the lords of New York's Printing House Lane. The woman on the balcony saw him enter the house; then she ran into her own dwelling. It took but a few moments to find the Hanway umbrella and the lantern. Excitement overcoming her timidity, she hurried out into the night to share her news with the neighbors.

An hour later a few courageous souls were wending their way to Pinderina's. Each carried some peace-offering. A bowl of white jelly, an ounce of Mr. Stebben's snuff, an orange that had colored in some sunlit Amboy window were hidden beneath wet garments. Before the worn door, which the darkness and the rain made grim and sinister looking, they huddled together. Suddenly there was a noise inside. A thrill went over the company as it swung back and showed Pinderina holding a candle aloft in her hands. "I know why you are here," she said, gazing at them mockingly. "It is not true. The villains have refused my work." Some faithful member of the circle started to speak, then stopped. "As the poetess of Perth Amboy I have lived, and as the poetess of Perth Amboy I shall die," she continued. There were smiles in the darkness,--the smiles akin to tears.

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Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation mistakes have been corrected. Page 131, missing opening quotation mark added before "Close along the..." Page 221, illustration caption: "Andre" changed to "André."

End of Project Gutenberg's Through the Gates of Old Romance, by W. Jay Mills