Robert W. Woodruff
Library '
Special Collections
emory university
OR,
TUm ANCHORET RECLAIMER.
A DESCRIPTIVE TALE.
EST0SVS2.1>2, T.
miNTJSD FOR THE AUTHOR BT T, S. HEJSKBI.T,.
1832.
District of East Tennessee, ss.
Bft IT Remembered, that, on this 9th day of July,
1832, Charles W. Todd, of said district, hath
deposited in this office, the title of a Book, the title of
■which is in the words and figures following, to wit:
"Woodville, or the Anchoret reclaimed." The right
whereof he claims as proprietor, in conformity with
an act of Congress entitled, 'an act to amend the sev¬
eral acts respecting copy rights.*
W. C. MYNATT,
Clerk of the District of East Tennessee.
I dislike prefaces In general, but, when a new char_
acter is about entering upon the grand artna, it is du®
his auditory to make a respectful bow.
An author whether good or bad, or between both, is
an animal whom every body is privileged to attack;
/or though all are notable to write books—all conceive
themselves able to judge them. And as it is my first
effort of the kind, the introduction of this work to the
public is accompanied with the depressing fear of a fail¬
ure. But, when it is considered that it is also the first
work of the kind ever published in our State, I am
cheered with the animating hope, that it will meet the
smileb of a generous and enlightened community, as
being the "harbinger of better things."
It does not become me to sajl' what I have done; but
I wish to make a remark by way. of illustration.—The
reader (should this little work hav^ a reader), will ob¬
serve that I have, throughout, avoided mentioning the
names of many places,—and, that I have not given
very minute descriptions of the various towns and vil¬
lages introduced.*—I have intentionally neglected it,
and for this specjat reason—The tale is substantially
true; and all the characters, (save a few of minor con¬
sequence) although F have given them fictitious names,
are real, and most of them are still living. Before I
PREFACE.
began to write the work, I felt it my duty to consult
some of them on the subject, and endeavor to obtain,
if possible, their consent to have it published,—and ac¬
cordingly did so. My request was denied, and some
frivolous objection oOered. The tale was related to me
under peculiar circumstances, and / considered it an
exceedingly interesting one;—so much, so, in fact, that,
notwithstanding the prohibition of some of the actors
in the scene, I felt little inclined fo withhold it. There¬
fore, under such circumstances, it became necessary to
disguise the characters and incidents as much as pos¬
sible, in order to elude detection.; and, I flatter myself
that I have so far succeeded in this, that the individuals
themselves will not recocnizb it as the same. Be this
as it may, here it is. Take it, reader;—examine it, and
be yourself the judge of its moi'its. If it please you, as
well as it. did me, I shall consider myself amply com¬
pensated for the trouble and responsibility I have as¬
sumed in furnishing it for your perusal. Enough;, let
us proceed.
WOOD VIIrfiE.
CHAPTER I.
" The dearest hours of life have gone—have flown
On eagle's wings, returnless; yet they yield
A few bright glimpses, through the past's dark shades,
Like dreams of heaven !"
Airojr.
One fine summer day in the merry month of June, I
resolved to take a trip to the —=— Spring's, about an
hundred miles distant; where a number of persons at
that season of the year generally resort in pursuit of
health or pleasure. Having prepared for the journey
on the previous evening, I started early in the morn¬
ing, and pursued my way as hastily as possible until
noon when I became very much fatigued. I turned
off into the wood some distance from the road in quest
of a pleasant shade where I might rest and partake of
some refreshment. I soon came to a large Maple,
thick with foiiage, in the midst of a grove of trees of
the same kind, though of a much smaller size. After
dismounting and eating some bread and cheese, which
my old grandmother had slipped into my pocket when
about to start, I stretched myself on the grass under
this beautiful tree, to rest awhile before I renewed my
journey. Hither the merry songsters of the wood
had retreated to screen them from the scorching beams
of a mid-day sun, and filled the whole grove with their
delightful music. It was just such a season as is cal-
A
2
WOODVILLE.
culated to call forth my naturally pensive mind into
the field of contemplation. I gave it unrestrained lib¬
erty, and was borne along by fancy in her wild mean-
derings, through a thousand imaginary scenes of plea¬
sure and pain, until exhausted nature yielded to the
gentle influence of her sweet restorer.
When I awoke the sun in cloudless splendor had
sunk to rest, and fair Cynthia, whr se pale beams flow¬
ing through the extensive aisles of the forest, dis¬
pensed a mimic day, was wading in her crescent form,
along her common course through the azure ocean sus¬
pended above.. On rising from my reclining posture
I discovered that my horse had left me, but hoping he
had not gone far, I started immediately in search of
him. After wandering about some time without suc¬
cess I came to a small stream, which wound its way
silently through the shrubbery, and from whose sur¬
face a thpusand beams were reflected in trembling ra¬
diance. In a moment or two I seemed to have forgot¬
ten my situation, for I was lost in a delicious reverie,
and almost unconsciously repeated the following lines:
"Ami now the moon had dimm'd with dewy i-ay,
The few fine flushes of departing day:
High o'er the water serenely she hung,
And her broad lights on every mountain flung."
I had proceeded thus far with my quotation of a
piece of poetry which the scene about me had suggest¬
ed, when this chain of pleasing thought was interrupt¬
ed by a rustling noise in the bushes, which I soon dis¬
covered to be occasioned by my horse walking through
them. I mounted immediately and started as I then
believed towards the road, but it was in quite a differ¬
ent direction. Rambling about some time without any
certain course, and ignorant of the exact situation of
the road, occasioned a very disagreeable accumula-
W00DVILLE.
3
tion of feeling'. Whilst meditating1 on my lost condi¬
tion and the improbability of finding my way before
the next morning, I observed at a considerable distance
a faint, glimmering light, which roused my drooping
spirits and revived an almost extinguished hope of
finding some one who could accommodate me for the
night or give me the necessary directions that I might
pursue my way to the next tavern. I hurried on in a
quickened gait, and a few moments brought me to the
door of a small cottage. I was met by an elderly gen¬
tleman, to whom I related the circumstances of my
misfortune. He listened to my tale, and in a manner
expressing much good feeling invited me in; I accept¬
ed his invitation unhesitatingly. On entering the room
into which he conducted me, the good lady, who was
sitting in its centre, with her little clan gathered around
her, rose and gave me a chair.
A table was presently spread, which was strewed
with the choicest products of the season. Every thing
looked neat and cleanly, and cheerfulness lighted up
the countenance of afrthe inmates of this little palace—
the abode of humble plenty and not inelegant content.
An excellent supper and half an hour's conversation
after it closed the evening. Fancy gilded my pillow
with a delightful dream of those pleasures which I ex¬
pected soon to enjoy. At the first indication of morn¬
ing I departed. The veil of night seemed gradually
to withdraw, and the colouring of the east, as yet
doubtful, by degrees assumed a richer and more deter¬
minate glow; the last shadow of darkness faded on
the west, and dawn awakening from repose, shed her
deep blushes on every object. My spirits too were
worthy the lovely morning that aroused them.
Nothing of consequence occurred during the rest of
4
WOODVILLE.
my journey ; on the evening of the fourth day after my
departure I arrived at the Springs; and as I had
anticipated, happily met with several acquaintances.
Among them was my intimate friend and old associate
Mr. Leland Owen, and a few young ladies. After the
ordinary civilities of the day, some remarks respecting
the weather &c. <&c., Owen and I, with two or
three congenial spirits, retired to a distant private
apartment, and there in chit chat commentary remain¬
ed until the supper-bell summoned us to the hall; this
was an elegant-room, and handsomely ornamented.
The painted walls presented an appearance somewhat
resembling tapestry hanging in beautiful folds. At
the table I was accidentally thrown into a seat be¬
tween two young ladies of the neighborhood, with
whom I formed an immediate acquaintance, and with
whom I afterwards spent much of my time while at
the Springs, together with other acquaintances, much
more agreeahly-thanhad I been entirely among stran¬
gers.
I.became very much pleased with the place; the wild
and romantic scenery in its vicinity, the lofty hills, the
delightful valleys and the rocky precipices. The
residence of our host is situated on an elevated plain,
which commands an extensive and delightful prospect.
You might see farm houses scattered over the coun¬
try as far as the eye could reach, like mere spots on
the earth's surface, rising upon the hazy mists of dis¬
tance. And those large hills rising one above another,
until at last melting from the view, they seem to .hide
their heads in the heavens. On the north side is a very
. large and elegant garden, the remote end of which is
filled with trees, walks and seats for the accommodation
and pleasure of visitors. Over the arched gateway the
blooming honeysuckle formed a flowery wreath, which
woodville.
5
threw a delightful odour many yards around. The cel¬
ebrated Spring, which has attracted so much at¬
tention, pours forth its dark waters from the side of a
huge rock in a neighboring valley.
Miss Julia Saunders, one of the young ladies who
was then on a visit at the Springs, was a daughter of a
gentleman of considerable estate, who resided in an
adjoining county. She was a most be&utiful and high¬
ly accomplished girl, with eyes darting rays of love, or
sparklirfg with the fire of genius. She seemed to be
formed by the hand of elegance; over the graces of
her person was thrown the bewitching veil of timidity,
and her every action was bound with the silken fetters
of decorum. All which seemed to be so happily uni¬
ted as to form truly the most fascinating being. She
possessed a beauty not flattering the senses, but trans¬
porting the fancy into the regions of purity and virtue.
Her outward air and features expressed whatever was
engaging, affectionate and amiable in her inward senti¬
ments and character. O 'tis on objects such as this we
cast our hearts in wild idolatry. No wonder then that
a being so amiable and so beautiful should captivate
my young friend, Leland Owen.
Owen was about the ordinary size, with light hair
and blue eyes. He possessed a brilliant intellect and
an heart too susceptible of every noble impression.
The spring of youth softened the manly graces of iiis
person; and the elegance ofmanner with which nature
had endowed him—together with an air of dignity
which marked his whole deportment, commanded the
admiration of all who knew him. I was resident at
the Springs but a few days before I became convinced
that an attachment existed between them—an attach¬
ment which every interview seemed to increase and
strengthen.
a2
6
WOODVILLE.
Returning' one evening from our usual walk, our
conversation touched upon that subject, when Owen
with that candour which characterized the intimacy
that existed between us, frankly confessed the whole
truth; remarking at the same time, that although his
glowing imagination had often offered up its homage
to the chgrms of woman, his heart had ever as yet re¬
mained untouched; and that "had she been merely
beautiful, happily it had remained sso still: but," said he,
"her, beauty is least to be admired. I have," he con¬
tinued, "had several opportunities of conversing with
her. She discovers an elevated mind, a ready ap-:
prehension, an-1 an accurate knowledge of the vari¬
ous subjects which have been brought into view. I
have not as yet introduced the favorite subject of my
heart; indeed, she seems studiously to avoid any ex¬
pression that might lead towards it: But she must hear
it soon."
They frequently visited this beautiful garden, which
seemed designed as a retreat for lovers, and spent ma¬
ny a long evening in gathering flowers, promenading
the walks, and sitting beneath those large trees, which
spread over their heads a bowery shelter from the hot
beams of the sun. Here the pure air roved, whisper¬
ing through the verdant foliage of the trees, and shak¬
ing fragrance from every flower; and here did the hap¬
py pair delight to linger, rambling over the grassy ave¬
nues, or sitting in some sequestered spot and reading se¬
lect passages from their favorite authors. Mirth and hi¬
larity prevailed, and the moments flew on downy wings,
whilst they traced the beauties of art and nature so lib¬
erally displayed, and happily blended in this charming
retreat.—They retired to this lovely place one evening
after tea, and there in sweet converse remained, un¬
conscious ofthe flying moments, until the moon, lorg
TVOODVXLLE.
7
lingering in the west, and smiling on the scene, at length
sinking beneath the horizon, warned them to depart.
On the morning succeeding this incident, I remember
we were awakened by a violent storm. The rain fell
in torrents, the wind swept over the earth's surface in
hollow gusts, and many old trees were torn up by their
roots. About noon, however, the sun shone forth in
all his splendor between the parting clouds, and in
rocky heaps the tempest rolled away. On the one
hand might be seen the highway which wound round
the base of a neighboring hill, about whose summit a
few remaining clouds still hovered; and on the other a
little skiff scudding along the distant shore of the river,
whilst a slowly creeping zephyr gently curled its broad
and quiet bosom. In the evening we walked to the
spring, and rambled about the wood, ovei; hills and
dales until the lengthening shades of evening closed
around us. We then returned, and when arrived at
the mansion house, ascended a flight of stairs leading to
a long porch which extends from one end of the house
to the other. Here our* tea was brought us—with
strawberries and cream.
Supper over and all seated in a circle, the party uni¬
ted in requesting Miss Saunders to sing, which it had
been suggested she could do most charmingly. With¬
out any of that hesitating affectation of modesty or
diffidence which so prevalently obtains amongst young
ladies, she sang "home, sweet home," very sweetly in¬
deed. • As the la«t notes died away with a tremulous
intonation, Owen unconsciously heaved a sigh which,
vibrating on Julia's ear, seeming to touch some tender
unison, overspread her countenance with a smile and
tinged her cheek with a crimson blush.
8
WOODVILLE.
"When do you expect your father, Miss Saunders,"
Owen asked, partly because he wished to know when
she would leave the Springs, and partly to conceal his
confusion.
She was about to reply, but just at this moment a rap
was heard at the door, and then a footstep, which no
sooner fell on her ear, than she sprang from her seat,
exclaiming, "there he is now!" and hastened down
stairs to greet him.
In a few moments she returned, followed by a grave
personage whom she introduced as Mr. Saunders, her
father. The approach of Mr. Saunders excited a gen¬
eral movement among the company, and a'number of
them withdrew.
"Why, are you here Mr. Owen!" said Mr. Saunders,
"and you too Mr. Morris! I am happy to see you, gen¬
tlemen. Well, is not this one of the most charming
places in the world? What a delightful prospect we
have from this porch! I think I shouldnever be sick, if
I lived at such a place as this," he continued, in a solilo¬
quizing mood.
"Have you been well father? How did you leave mo¬
ther and the children'" asked Julia, all in a breath.
"All well, my love, and very anxious to see you.—
Little Sarah is always asking when sister Julia is
coming home?"
"O the dear little creature, how I wish to see her! Fa¬
ther shall we start home to-morrow?"
"Yes, my dear, if you can be prepared we will."
So saying he rose, and went down stairs to speak
to the Landlord, leaving Julia and Owen alone, for
the rest of the company had already dispersed.
"Let us once more walk in the garden, Julia," said
WOODVILLE.
9
Owen, "before you leave this delightful place, where
we have spent so many happy hours together." Le-
land appeared depressed in spirits—Julia placed her
arm in his, and they walked on in silence. In a few
moments they reached the margin of that beautiful
stream which, skirted by a thousand lovely flowers,
pours its pearly waters through the remote end of the
garden. The moon shed her fullest lustre over the
romantic scenery in the vicinity of the mansion house.
Over the peak of a distant mountain glittered the soli¬
tary evening star—their favorite, guiding star. They
gazed and gazed again, and their full spirits held deep
communion with the star-lit sky, and the mountains,
and the woods, and the soft shadows of the increasing
moon. . Oh! who can describe what the o'ercharged
spirit feels at this sacred hour, when we almost lose
the consciousness of existence, and our souls seem
to struggle to pierce futurity! What heart has not
felt the influence of this hour—the soothing hour of
twilight!—the hour of love, the hour of adoration,
the hour of rest!—'Twas a moment full of holy fee¬
ling, when the spirit drinks deep of the soul of harmony,
and spurns the intermediate office of vain words. They
spake not, but each knew the other's feelings. For oft
at such an hour did they wander along this glittering
stream, and gaze upon the evening star and upon the
tremulous reflection of its beams in the water in wrapt
contemplation. At length that star sank to rest, and
as its last feeble ray faded from the distant mountain's
soltary height, "Adieu, bright star!" they both at once
exclaimed.
10
WOODVJXLE.
CHAPTER II.
"I saw mankind with vice incrusted;
I saw that honor's sword-was rusted;
That few for aught but folly lusted;
That he was still deceived who trusted
In love or friend,
And hither came with men disgusted,
My life to end."
"I often mark the river's course,
And seek its devious distant source;
I love to hear its wildest note,
And echoes that in ether float,
Hike soundsTtf other days-
Sounds heard near S 's winding1 stream,
Where life had many a placid beam!
But rapid as the river's flow,
But transient as the meteor's glow—
The bliss my life displays!"
These few fleeting days of pleasure, however, were
soon to have an end. The time had arrived when we
all should again be separated. The visitors one by one
disappeared, and the place had already assumed quite
a solitary appearance.
The morning after the incidents related in the last
chapter, Mr. Saunders, accompanied by his daughter
Julia, and Mr. Leland Owen, departed.
A general resemblance prevails among all watering
places throughout the world. The same pretext of in¬
firm health,—the same indulgence in frivolous diver¬
sions in order to get rid of that superfluity of time, which
the rich and idle have wandered so far to dispose of—
the same busy idleness,—marks the progress of the
long, listless summer day.
WOODVItLE.
ii
Indifferent acquaintances are endured in such a re¬
gion, in consideration of the brevity of the connexion.
Excursions are planned to enliven the dulness of ill-
assorted society, whose heavy festivities are rarely
borne to ah end, but which are afterwards quoted as
among the unrecallable pleasures ofthe season. Some¬
times connexions the most unworthy are formed in
mere self-weariness, and perhaps stimulated by the
babbling'of calumny into utter shamelessness. Here,
much time and money ere wasted in the acquirement
oftoy&, the baubles of an hour; here a number of ladies,
weary of home and of themselves, are assembled,—two
or three libertines, who can but drink deeper and riot
more loudly, and game more lavishly, in order to refine
upon their usual course of enjoyment,—and last and
worst, and universally, ennui, in the full pomp of his om¬
nipotence: such are the characteristics of a watering
place!
Although partaking to a degree in all these vices, the
obscure Spring of can boast of attractions superi¬
or to those ofits more popular rivals. Its remote lo¬
cality secures it from the incursions of vice—who when
less profusely fed, cares not.to display the ostentation of
her loathsome aspect,—shuns the seclusion of so re¬
mote a region. The romantic scenery, the rocky cliffs
—the buoyant sweetness, the exhilirating freshness of
the mountain atmosphere, &c. &c. &c.—the one as
conducive to health, as the other is agreeable to the
sight. Altogether, it formed just such a picture as a
skilful painter would delight to copy.
For several days after the departure ofthe gay com¬
pany which were assembled at the Springs, my
hours passed slowly and heavily. The face of nature,
though in that region possessing the most romantic
12
woodvilee.
features, seemed to wear an increasing gloom, which
the pleasures of agreeable society can alone dispel.—
"Mine host" had hitherto appeared to me to be too dis¬
tant and reserved in his manner for his station. As yet
however, I had become but slightly acquainted with
him. On further acquaintance this reservedness of
manner gradually yielded to confiding intimacy;—and
I discovered him to be a man of fine feeling and eleva-
vated mind. .He was an athletic, robust man,—a little
above the ordinary height, and somewhat inclined to
corpulency. He informed me that his handsome farm
had descended to him from a wealthy, maternal uncle,
an old bachelor, who, on his deathbed, had bequeathed
him his whole estate. He also told me that, when he
first took possession of this plantation, he lived in a
small log-house about a mile from his present residence;
but owing to the immense crowd of visitors that
thronged the Springs during the summer months, he
found it necessary to prepare for their accommodation
on a more extensive plan. He, therefore, built this ve¬
ry large and commodious mansion. Here he was al¬
ways busily engaged in "the summer,—his winters he
generally spent in hunting, and other amusements.
Mrs. , our kind hostess, was a small French lady,
possessing all the vivacity and volubility peculiar to
her nation. At the table she presided with the most
admirable grace.
There was also another individual attached to this
family of no less consequence (at least in her own es¬
timation) than those we have already mentioned. This
was Miss Judy O'Flannagan, an Irish lady of a
short, thick-set figure and waddling gait, who was
permanently established superintendent of the culinary
department. She also officiated in the nursery, and
WOODVIW-E.
13
directed the exercises, sports and gambols of the char¬
ming little prattlers of our host, of whom there were
three in number.
The company with which the "Mansion House," or
the " Spring Hotel" had been for some weeks
crowded, was now dispersed;—and the landlord, wea¬
ry of the dull routine of daily dccurrences about the
mansion, expressed a desire to take an excursion
through the mountains on a hunting expedition. I told
him, that, if he determined to go, I should be delighted
to accompany him, and added that hunting was an
amusement of which I was particularly fond. Accor¬
dingly, Mrs. having furnished us with cakes, apples
and some slices of cold ham, we set out the next morn¬
ing, just as the sun's first beam glanced above the eas¬
tern horizon. The weather was clear and serene, but at¬
tended by occasional blasts of wind from the north-east-
After hunting with but little success, until the close of
the second day, we felt ourselves very much fatigued.
No house presenting itself, we sought shelter at the foot
of a large hill, the overhanging rocks of which might
protect us from a threatening storm.
"The night will be a bad one I fear," said mine host;
and just as he ended these words, two sharp flashes of
lightning furrowed with shafts of fire, the clouds that
were already borne towards the east with greater ra¬
pidity. We had struck a light, and were preparing to
shelter ourselves as well as we could from the ap.
proaehing storm, under a large rock that jutted out
from the hill, several feet above our heads, ^'hen we
heard the barking of a dog which appeared to be but a
few paces distant.
"Is it possible that we are so near Wcodville's «dt-
B
14
WOODYILLE.
tage? and I knew it not/' said my companion; and he
looked around liim, as if almost unwilling to give credit
to the testimony of his senses. "Fortunate, indeed, if
it be so," he continued, "for Allison Woodville is a man
whom I greatly esteem, and whose house is ever open
to the weary stranger who may have wandered to this
lonely spot."
We hastened, as fast as our fatigued limbs and the
darkness of the night would permit, in the direction
indicated by the barking of the dog. The sudden and
frequent gleams of lightning presently discovered to
our view a small cottage, at the door of which a tall
figure entered, which my companion knew to be that of
his friend, Woodville, followed by a huge spaniel. We
immediately entered the humble domicil, which seemed
to contain as humble inhalitanls; for there were two,
Woodville himself, and a very old negro man. Mr.
Woodville received us with mingled emotions of plea.,
sure and surprise. Pleased to see his old friend, th .'
landlord, who frequently visited him in the winter; bu?
surprized at our late and unexpected visit. He discov
ered a mind, evidently once oppressed by the shackles
of care, disappointment, and distress; but which seem¬
ed now to be emerging from that thraldom of wretch¬
edness, which this world's depravity imposes.
Woodville was a tall and handsome youth with jet
black eyes and hair. His eyes seemed generally to
repose in a languid lustre; but when a little animated
by conversing on an interesting subject, they beamed
with a sparkling brilliancy.
We shared with Woodville his homely but sweet re¬
past, and retired for the night. A number of little
incidents occurred during the evening's conversation,
WOODVILLE.
which tended to excite a desire^to become acquainted
■with his past history. I ventured to express to my
companion, my astonishment, that a man of such fine
acquirements—such engaging- manners, and so great
apparent worth, should thus, "in voluntary loneliness,'
spend a life, which might be made useful to himself and
to mankind.
"Your astonishment is perfectly natural," he replied;
"I was no less surprised than yourself when I first saw
him here about twelve months since. Subsequently, I
became intimately acquainted with him from frequent
visits to this beautiful valley on hunting expeditions;
and I think I can with truth affirm, that there are but
few individuals, whose society I enjoy more than that
af Allison Woodville.
""We were one day last spring sitting together under
:he beautiful arbour, which you may have observed at
he door, regaling ourselves with a bottle of his best
Madgira, with which his servant, who regularly atten-<
ded the market of a neighboring town, had supplied
him."—'"For some time neither of us had spoken. At
length he broke" the silence, and said: "No doubt, sir,
you think it somewhat strange and singular, that one
so young as I, should seclude himself from the world
in this solitary spot." I told him I had often wondered
at it; but that, fearful of increasing the extreme depres¬
sion of spirits, with which he seemed, at times, to be
afflicted, I had never ventured to make any enquiries
respecting the causes, which induced him to adopt his
present mode of life; nevertheless, I added, it would
afford me much pleasure to become acquainted with
them. He then remarked, that he had long intended to
give me a sketch of the principal events of his life, and
m
WOODVILLE.
if I wished to hear them, he would embrace the present
opportunity. I told him I would gladly listen to ail that
he had to say. He then went into the house, and
brought out a box of cigars, and resuming his seat,
commenced.—Many of the circumstances are truly in¬
teresting, and, if you desire it, I will relate them to you.
when we return to the Mansion."
Amidst such thoughts and words we undrest our¬
selves and went to bed, with feelings of the deepest
satisfaction. And whilst the rain and sleet pelted the
roof beneath which we lay, pleasant fantasies softly
conducted us into thekingdom of sleep, and then gave
us up to their sisters sweet dreams, who received us
with open arms, and encircled our reposing" head» with
the images of heaven.
"The morning finds the self-sequestered man
Fresh for his task, intend what task he may."
Early in the morning we were awake and thinking
of the business before us. We arose, and, descending
the stairs, entered Woodville's apartment, where we
found him busily engaged in manufacturing a sonnet to
his dog. During the night the winds had changed, the
weather had become much colder, and the ground was
slightly covered with snow. Woodville urged us to
stay longer with him; but we excused ourselves, and
after a few minutes' conversation took our guns and
departed.
By taking a more direct route, when we left Wood¬
ville's cottage, we were enabled to reach the Mansion
inon'e day. It was quite dark, however, when wear-
rived, and being much fatigued by our long walk, we
concluded to postpone the consideration of Woodville's.
history until the next morning.
woodv1li.e.
17
CHAPTER III.
Oh! lull me, lull nje, charming air;
My senses rock with wonder sweet:
Like snow on wool thy fallings are;
Soft, like a spirit's are thy feet.
Grief who need fear j
That hath an ear?
Down let me lie
And slumbering die,
And change my soul for harmony.
Dutdest.
The next morning immediately after breakfast we
retired to a private apartment, and having seated our¬
selves before a cheerful fire, "mine host" commenced
the narrative, whilst I carefully noted down the prin¬
cipal events. In "writing it out" I have made a little
alteration in the order in which the incidents were re¬
lated to me,—yet the main subject matter is not mate¬
rially changed.
The history of Allison Woodville, said my landlord,
is so intimately connected with that of several other
individuals, that it will be necessary, in order to make
it complete, to give you a cursory account of them all.
In the year 1802, James, William and George Ber-
rington, who were brothers, left England, the home of
their nativity, for North America. During their voy-
Bg they became acquainted with a Mr. John Saunders,
nlso a native of England, who was likewise emigra^-
ting to America, and to whom Mr. William Berring-
tion became particularly attached. There was so great
a similarity in their views, prospects and intentions,
B3
13
WOODVILLE.
that they mutually agreed to settle near each other
after they had reached America, and determined upon
the place of their abode. Accordingly, a short time
after their arrival, they betook themselves to the flour ¬
ishing town of Detroit, in the Michigan Territory, and
engaged in the fur trade. Meanwhile, James Ber-
rington, took a more south-westerly direction in his
travels, and settled in the beautiful village of S , sit.
uated on the river of the same name, and celebrated for
its wild and romantic scenery^ Thither Mr. George
Berrington, the eldest of the-three, accompanied him,
and after spending a few days at this place, resumed
his journey, and went still farther west, and finally lo¬
cated himself on a delightful farm near the town of
h .
At the time of which we are speaking, these gen¬
tlemen, whom we have introduced to the reader, were
ail in the prime of youth and health. A few months
after Mr. James Berrington's arrival at S , he mar¬
ried a young lady of that place: and a short time sub¬
sequent to this epoch in his existence, he purchased the
"village inn," and commenced the business of keeping
tavern. In this business he was engaged about three
years.
One very cold and rainy evening, early in the spring
of 1806, a man, warmly wrapt in a drab great-coat,
rode up to his door, and dismounted. So soon as he
entered the house and James Berrington had an op¬
portunity of viewing him full in the face, he recogniz¬
ed him to be his brother William, from Detroit, whom
he had not seen for nearly four years. The recogni¬
tion was mutual and simultaneous, and they both were
much pleased to meet again, after so long a separation:
WOODVILLE.
19
yet, there occasionally appeared in William Berring¬
ton's countenance a shadow of melancholy, and even
at times when he» seemed to enjoy the finest flow of
spirits, there was still in the expression of .that counte¬
nance, an indefinable something, which sometimes in¬
duced his brother to suspect, at least,]that some distress¬
ing calamity had befallen him. But the fear of harrow¬
ing up his feelings (for Wilfam Berrington was indeed
a man of the keenest sensibility,) prevented his making
the most distant allusion to it, and always checked him
whenever the tenderer sympathies of his nature would
have prompted him to enquire into its causes. With
these causes, if there were any in reality, we will, per¬
haps hereafter become acquainted. However, in the
course of a few ddys, the even temper of William Ber-
rington's mind seemed to have regained its natural as¬
sendency..
He informed his brother James, that at that time he
could command eight or ten thousand dollars, in cash;
—that he had determined to commence the mercantile
business in S , and that he wished tiim to become a
partner in the concern.
Whilst engaged hi keeping tavern, James Berriifg-
ton, by persevering industry and attention to his estab¬
lishment, had accumulated a considerable amount of
money;—nevertheless, he did not much like this mode
of acquiring wealth, and when his brother proposed
the mercantile business he conceived it an agreeable
change, and therefore readily agreed to furnish a capi¬
tal equal to that of his brother, that they might be en¬
abled to commence the business under the most favor¬
able circumstances. James Berrington immediately
disposed of the '-'village inn," and on very good terms.
They both forthwith started to Philadelphia and New-
20
WOODVILLB.
York, and in the course of a few months commenced
merchandising with a very large and splendid assort¬
ment of goods.
After they had been engagedinthe mercantile busi¬
ness some length of time,—probably, about two years,
William Berrington made a purchase of a tract of
land, the title of which he afterwards discovered to be
in dispute. This being the casie, he, feeling unwilling
to relinquish his claim, after having given a very lib¬
eral price for it, rashly determined to take possession
of it immediately by force of arms. Accordingly he
went accompanied by several friends, who, as well as
himself, were all well armed. The individual, however,
who then held it in possession, professed also to have
some claim to it, and being apprised of Berrington's
intention, prepared himself to meet the belligerents.
He closed his doors, loaded his gun and a pairS of pis¬
tols, and placed himself at a window.
When they approached the dwelling, two of the
company were killed instantly, and Berrington himself
was severely, but not mortally wounded. The rest of
the company, relinquishing the contest, removed Ber-
r'tgton to a house not far distant,—where a family from
one of the eastern States then resided. Owing to the
great loss of blood which he sustained, it was with
some difficulty that resuscitation was effected. After
n length of time, however, symptoms of returning life
were discovered, and his senses gradually recovered
their healthful tone. The first sound he heard was thai
of some female's voice, as she sang a most melodious
air, which seemed to renovate his newly awakened
powers. On opening his eyes the first and only per¬
son he saw, was this female,—a most beautiful young
lady, who like some fair spirit from the regions of
WOODVILIiE.
21
bliss, moved softly about the room and ministered
to his wants.
' Berrington felt truly grateful to Miss Elliot, (for this
was the young-lady's name,) for her kindness and at¬
tention. But as he gradually recovered f.om his ill*
ness, his feelings towards her acquired a more interes¬
ting and engaging character. He loved her,—and this
he readily acknowledged to himself, as one day he was
lying on his bed and thinking on the subject. "Yes,"
said he, "I love her, and she must be mine." Shortly
afterwards he made a candid declaration of his senti¬
ments, which proved to be reciprocal, and as soon
as he had sufficiently recovered, he led the object of his
affections to the altar of Hymen.
Berrington, we think, never did succeed in recover¬
ing the land; but he blessed his stars, that, incidentally
through the fatal rencounter which we have related, he
had obtained a mote valuable treasure. However,
there is no one perhaps, even in the happiest marriage
with an object really beloved, who ever found all the
qualities he expected to possess; but in far too many
cases, he has practised a much higher degree of mental
deception, and has erected his airy castle of felicity
upon some rainbow, which owed its "existence only to
the peculiar state of the atmosphere. Whether this
was the case of Mr. Berrington, we shall not stop to
enquire.
The mercantile business had already placed him in
very affluent circumstances. In the course rf a few
years he was surrounded by a large and interesting
family of children; among whom were Matilda, his
second daughter, and Frederic and Robert, their only
sons. Matilda Berrington was a very interesting and
23
WOODVILLB.
amiable girl. She was greatly admired and beloved
by all who knew her, and especially by the Principal
of the Village Academy, at which she had spent sev¬
eral years in studyingthe elementary branches of ed¬
ucation.
The Village of S is situated in a lovely valley,
and immediately on the shore of a beautiful river.—
One fine evening Matilda and one of her schoolmates,
as was their custom after the exercises of the school
room were over, agreed to take a walk along the river
bank, to enjoy the charming scenery which surrounded
this beautiful village. Whilst they were standing on
the summit of a gentle eminence, and watching the
movements of the busy crowd that thronged the shore,
Matilda heard her name called, and turning quickly,
saw her brother Frederic and a tall gentleman in llaclc,
advancing towards them. This gentleman was Mr.
Allison Woodville. Frederic Berrington introduced
him to his sister and her companion, Miss Mary Han¬
son, and they all then returned to the Village. Mr.
Woodville waited on Miss Berrington to her father's
residence, whilst Frederic accompanied Miss Hanson.
Allison Woodville was the only son of an Inn keep¬
er, who lived in a neighboring village; and who, al¬
though very much embarrassed in his circumstances,
by industry and frugality, had been enabled to give him
an excellent education. He had for a short time been
engaged, at a small salary," in the mercantile house of
Mr. Barret, of B——. He was just returning from the
wharf, where he had gone to attend to some business
for his employer, when he was introduced to Miss Ber¬
rington, and accompanied her home.
Woodville was not only remarkably handsome, but
WOODVILIiK.'
23
dignified in his deportment, and accomplished in his
manners. He had embraced every opportunity of im¬
proving himself, had studied all the classics, and most
of the popular works of the day. Matilda conversed
fluently on every subject that was introduced.
"What a beautiful village this is Miss Berrington,"
Woodville remarked; "it^seems as though'nature in¬
tended L to be situated just where it is. The
mountains, the woods, and the river—Oh! how roman¬
tic! What a charming place it would be for the resi¬
dence of a poet! Do you not think so, Miss Berring¬
ton;" "Our scenery is truly magnificent, and Miss
Hanson, (the young lady to whom my brother introdu¬
ced you,) and I enjoy ourselves very much in rambling
through the woods, along the river bank. It is there
that we study our lessons, and frequently spend an hour
in reading passages from this little work;" she said, as
she handed him one of the volumes of Byron's poems:
"but in answer to your question, Mr, Woodville, I think
there are perhaps but few poets who could content
themselves to reside in so remote a region. By the
way, Mr. Woodville, which of the poets do you most
admire?" "O! Byron;" replied Woodville, "don't you
think so?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, I do;" she answered; "however, I do not
admire Lord Byron's character as a man; but as a poet,
I think he has surpassed all others, of the present age
at least. What think you of Burns, sir?" Miss Eerring-
ton asked.
"Why," replied Woodville, "I like Burns very much.
Burns as a poet, is, I think, distinguished for harmo¬
ny of language; by a plaintive wildness, and a tender
simplicity. Without seeming to aim at any thing
24
WOODVIt.LE.
great, he arrests the attention, and influences the feel¬
ings with a gentle, but resistless power; and the heart
almost involuntarily bestows on him the palm, which
criticism would award to some more formally elegant
writer.''
By this time they had arrived at Mr. Berringtori's
gate,—Matilda invited Woodville to walk in, but fear¬
ing that, perhaps, his employer would need his atten¬
dance at the store, he excused himself and returned.—
He half regretted afterwards, though, that he had done
so;—that he.had exchanged the society of a charming
girl, for the dull monotony of calculating profit and
loss in a counting room.
In the ordinary course of the world, in that inter¬
course of flattery and falsehood, where every one de¬
ceives and is deceived, where all appear under a bor¬
rowed form, profess friendship they do not feel, and
bestow praises only to be praised in return, men bow
the lowest to those they most despise. But he who
lives retired from this scene ofdelusion expects no com¬
pliment from others, and bestows them only where
they are deserved. All the insidious grimaces of pub¬
lic life are nothing compared with the inspiring smiles
of friendship, which smooth the rugged road, and
soften all our toils.
Of what value are all the babblings and vain boast-
ingsof society to that domestic felicity which we expe¬
rience in the company of an amiable woman, whose
charms awaken the dormant faculties of the soul, and fill
the mind with finer energies; who inspires us with con¬
genial greatness and sublimity,-who, with judicious pen¬
etration, weighs and examines our thoughts, our ac¬
tions, our whole character, who observes all our foi-
'WOODVILLE.
25
bles, warns us with sincerity of their consequence, and
reforms us with gentleness and affection; who, by a
tender communication of her thoughts and observations
conveys new instruction to our minds; and by pouring
the warm and generous feelings of her heart into our
bosoms, animates us incessantly to the exercise of eve¬
ry virtue, and completes the polished perfection of our
character by the soft allurements of love, and the de¬
lightful concord of her sentiments. In such an inter¬
course, all that is virtuous and noble in buman nature
is preserved within the breast, and every evil propen¬
sity dies away.
Such was the sum of Woodville's thoughts as he
sauntered along the streets on his way to the store.
His walk with Matilda Berrington was a short one;
yet, after, even that short interview, he could not deny
that his heart was touched. Woodville possessed a
most sanguine disposition, but he was by no means a
superficial young man. At one time, and under certain
circumstances, he would seem to be elevated to the lof¬
tiest rapture, and again depressed into the deepest
sympathy. He possessed not that even temperature of
mind which steers clear of extremes: he never could
do any thing in moderation. However different might
become the object of pursuit, the ardor of the chase
with him still remained the same; and the impetus with
which he had rushed on in any direction, the stronger,
when he met with a check, became the recoil in the op¬
posite direction. In short, he was just such a character
as we would expect to be greatly elated by success in
a love adventure, and deeply depressed by a failure.
At the time of which we are speaking, Matilda Ber¬
rington had just entered her sixteenth year. She pos¬
sessed a fine person, a well cultivated mind, and a most
C
2d
WOOIWIIXE.
amiable disposition. She also possessed a susceptible
and affectionate heart, and would have been the orna¬
ment of any situation in life.
Their acquaintance soon terminated in an affection
which was unquestionably an affair of the heart. After
his first interview with Miss Berrington, Woodville
frequently sought an opportunity of seeing her, but
was as often defeated, until nearly two weeks had
elapsed. About this time he was invited to a party
one evening, which was given by a Mr. Moreland, a
citizen of the village, to some young ladies of the Ac ad-
emy who boarded with him. This invitation Wood¬
ville the more readily accepted when he learned that
Miss Berrington was expected to be there. With
heart bounding with the thrilling emotions of delight,
he set cut for Morelsnd's at the appointed hour. When
arrived and ushered in, he cast a hastv glance around
the room; his eyes wandered quickly from face to face,
in search of Matilda;—and when he found that she
was not among the company assembled, his mountain
spirits fell from their giddy height, and bowing to the
company, he threw himself into a chair, evidently in
the most unenviable mood. Every footstep he heard
at the door produced a singular sensation in the region
of his heart. Presently Matilda arrived, attended by
her brother Frederic. As she entered the room, her
countenance beaming with smiles, she looked round at
the company, and (Woodville, from an imagined coin¬
cidence in sentiment and feeling, was'willing to believe
that she w;as looking to see if he were there,) seating
herself near Miss Hanson, engaged in conversation
with that lady.
The season being Spring, the windows of the draw¬
ing room were open, admitting from without the fi a-
WOODVILLE.
27
grance of innumerable flowers and aromatic plants,
arranged in rows on the beautiful lawn which lay in
front of the dwelling. So large and so gay was the
party assembled, that the idea of a dance being inten¬
ded, was instantly suggested to Woodville's mind; and
he was the more conlirmed in this opinion, when he
perceived that the party consisted entirely of young
persons.
Woodville soon left his seat and took one near Miss
Berrington. and entered into conversation. At length
some refreshments were handed round; during which
repast they saw a party of musicians enter at a door
on the opposite side of the room, and seating them¬
selves, began to accord their instruments.
"Symptoms of a dance," remarked Allison to Matil¬
da; "are you a dancer, Miss Berrington!" he asked.
Before she could reply, she heard a voice call out,
"Matilda! Matilda Berrington! look~here!"
Matilda looked round, and saw Miss Watson beck¬
oning her, to come to her.—She turned round to
Woodville and replied to his enquiry., and then arose
and went to join Miss Watson. As Matilda advanced
towards her, Miss Watson asked in an under tone, but
so loud that Woodville could distinctly hear her, "Ma¬
tilda, what young gentleman is that who was sitting by
you and conversing with so much animation!"
"Now, Maria Watson, did you call to me across the
room, and in the'presence of so large a company, to
ask such a foolish question! Why, I:m astonished at
you. I declare, Maria, you are the rudest girl in town."
Miss Watson appeared somewhat hurt at this re¬
buke, and replied,
33
WOODVILLE.
"Your pardon, dearest?—and now come Matty, pray
tell me who this gentleman is?"
"His name is Woodville," replied Matilda, in a sof¬
tened tone.
"Mr. Woodville!" ejaculated Miss Watson: "O how
handsome he is! where is he from; do you know?"
"Yes; he is from a neighboring village, and is now
employed in Mr. Barret's store in this place."
"Well, tell me, Matilda, where did you ever see him
before?"
"I was introduced to him two or three weeks since
by my brother Frederic—he, you know, is acquainted
with almost every person in town. "We met with Mr.
"Woodville on the bank of the river—he walked homo
with me but I h ave not seen him since till now."
"Doyou not think him handsome, Matilda?"
"Yes;" she replied "I do, and that is not all, he con¬
verses so handsomely, and his manners are so ele¬
gant."
Before Miss Watson had time to say all that she in¬
tended, the musicians struck up a lively air, which
causing a general stir among the company, put a pe¬
riod to their conversation. The whole company were
now crowding through the room and preparing for the
dance. During this scene of bustle and confusion, Alli¬
son lost sight of Matilda; but as being the greatest stran¬
ger he received the kind attention of Mrs. Moreland,
who informed him that the young people were going to
WOODVILLE.
81
Miss Watson went to an outer door, to call a servant,
and Mrs. Moreland returned to the drawing foora. She
went directly to Mr. Roland, and after whispering
something to him, immediately retired.
Meanwhile Woodville still sat where Miss Watson
had left him. Presently Roland came to him, and as¬
ked if "he should have the pleasure of introducing
him to some of the ladies'?"
Woodville acknowledged his kindness, and accom¬
panied him to the opposite side of the room. Being
introduced to several, they at length came to Miss
Berrington; and Roland was about to introduce him to
her, when Woodville thanked him, and, remarking
that he had the pleasure of being already slightly ac¬
quainted with Miss Berrington, seated himself beside
■her, and immediately engaged her to dance with him
the next set.
So soon as the refreshments were handed round, the
music .again commenced and the parties arranged
themselves on the floor.
The manner in which they were now associated, and
the relation which the parties bore to each other, seem¬
ed to be well adapted to the inclination and wishes of
each individual; and smiles of joy and gladness and
satisfaction beamed in every countenance. Thus they
continued .to enjoy themselves until the conclusion of
the dance, when supper was announced.—After sup¬
per they engaged in a variety of amusements which
they continued till a late hour, and then they all dis¬
persed, and returned to their respective homes.—
Woodville attended Miss Berrington.
32
WOODV1LLB.
CHAPTER IV.
But, happy they! the happiest of their kind,
Whom gentle stars unite: and in one fate
Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend.
'Tis not the coarser ties of human laws.
Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind,
That binds their peace, but harmony itself,
Attuning all their passions into love.
Thomson.
In whatever Woodville engaged,—whatever enga¬
ged his special interest and attention, it was ever his
motto, that "diligence in execution is the mistress of
success."—And although his interviews w'ith Miss Ber-
rington, since his introduction to her, had been, "like
angels' visits, few and far between," yet, such was "the
might, the majesty of loveliness,"—so deeply-wrought
was the impression made upon his youthful heart, that
he resolved to act with the utmost promptitude, skill,
and energy. From his first interview with MissBer-
rington, all the tender feelings of his soul seemed to be
blended into one, and that one stimulated and excited tp
the most lofty elevation by the ceaseless contemplation
of its object. He had read Matilda's heart, and knew
that she entertained for him the warmest regard. It
would be difficult, then, to conceive how two such
youthful lovers, impelled, as they were, by the inspira¬
tions of the same fervent attachment, could suffer those
happy moments, which they enjoyed in each other's
society, to pass by unimproved. How they could long
withhold a declaration of that attachment, and an ac¬
knowledgment of its reciprocity.
WOODVILW!.
29
form sets for cotillions, and added that as it was cer¬
tain that a young1 gentleman of his appearance must be
able to dance cotillions, she hoped that he would per¬
mit her to introduce him to a partner.
WoodviUe thanked her ivith his lips, and followed her
mechanically. She conducted him to a distant part of
the room, and introduced him to Miss Watson. He
was not a little chagrined at this, for he had intended
to dance with Miss Berrington. However he suppress,
ed his feelings, and endeavored to entertain Miss Wat¬
son as well as he could, until the sets should be arrang¬
ed, hoping to be blessed with the pleasure of dancing
with Miss Berrington, at least a part of the evening.
The gentlemen led out their several partners, and the
dance commenced. Never did human beings appear
to enjoy themselves more than did Miss Watson and
Mr. WoodviUe. Miss Berrington danced with a Mr.
Roland. , The first sets were not very long on the floor;
long enough, however, for WoodviUe to form a wish
that Matilda might not fall in love with Roland. The
d ance concluded, the music ceased, and the parties re¬
sumed their seats. So soon as Miss Watson was sea¬
ted, Mrs. Moreland came to her and toid her that she
"had a secret to tell her." Miss W. execused herself
to WoodviUe", and remarking that she would return in
a few minutes, quitted the room with Mrs. Moreland;
and, to Woodville's great gratification did not return.
The discerning Mrs. Moreland having observed that
Miss Berrington and WoodviUe were closely engaged
in conversation during the former part of the evening,
End, that, when Woodville discovered whom she had
chosen for his partner, there was an instant change in
the expression of his countenance, saw at once thatslie
was involved in a difficulty, from which she could not
C2
so
WOODVILLE.
easily at that time, extricate herself. ■ She determined,
however, to attempt it, so soon as an opportunity should
offer.
While the first sets were dancing1, she observed Miss
Berrington and Mr. Woodville frequently exchange a
very significant look; which circumstance fully cop-
firmed her in the opinionj that they were not as pleas¬
antly situated as they might be. Therefore, she devis¬
ed the following plan in order to effect a change in the
aspect of affairs.
Under the pretext of having something of importance
to communicate to Miss Watson, she called her out, as
we have seen, and when they had reached an adjoin-
ingroom,
"My dear Maria," she said, "this is the first party of
the kind I have ever had in my house, and really I feel
very much at a loss how it should be conducted. As
you are boarding with us, I know no one to whom I
may look for advice - and assistance with more confi¬
dence than to yourself."
"Certainly, Mrs. Moreland," replied Miss "Watson;
"I would not presume to offer advice to a lady so much
older and so much more experienced than myself.—
However, it would afford me much pleasure to render
you any assistance in my power; but what .will Mr.
Woodville think of my leaving him so abruptly?"
"Ob," said Mrs. Moreland, "leave that to me—UH
attend to that matter."
With this arrangement Miss Watson was apparently
very well satisfied;—but, in reality, her feelings and
wishes were quite otherwse disposed. They parted-
woodvilj.e.
33
On the evening1 of the party at Moreland's, Wood-
ville waited on Miss Berrington home—the next even¬
ing he visited at her father's house. He was met at
the door by a servant, who conducted him into the
parlour, where he found Matilda sitting on a sofa,
reading some work of fiction. When Woodville en¬
tered, she threw down the book and arose to greet him;
whilst her countenance said he was no less a welcome,
than he was an unexpected, visitor.
Woodville enquired for Miss Berrington's health—if
she had recovered from the fatigues of Moreland's par¬
ty, and, after some conversation concerning the thou¬
sand little incidents which occurred there, he proposed
a walk. Matilda assented, and a beautiful spring about
half a mile from the village, was finally determined
upon as the point of destination.
As Matilda left the room to prepare for the walk,
Woodville took up the volume which she had thrown
down, to amuse himself during her absence.
In a few moments she returned with her bonnet and
parasol, already equipped for the walk. After they
had got without the village, winding walks round the
sides of hills led them through all the varieties of syl¬
van scenery, and commanded in all points the most
magnificent views of the surrounding country.
At length they reached the spring, which issues from
the side of a gentle eminence, in the midst of a beauti¬
ful grove, and seated themselves on a large rock that
lay near it.
The sun had now sunk behind the mountains, whose
undulating forms were thrown into dark shadows,
21
WOODVILLK.
against the crimson sky. The thin crescent of the new
moon floated over the eastern hills, whose clusters of
woods glowed with the rosy glories of twilight. And
there sat Allison and Matilda silently contemplating
the glorious scenery before them.
Surely there is nothing in the world, short of the mo6t
undivided reciprocal attachment, that has such power
over the workings of the human heart, as the mild
sweetness of nature. Even the most ruffled temper,
when emerging from the busy haunts of men, will sub¬
side into a calm at the sight of an extended landscape
reposing in the twilight of a fine evening. It is then
that the spirit of peace settles upon the heart, unfetters
the thoughts, and elevates the soul. It is then that we
behold the parent of the universe in his works; we see
his grandeur in earth and sky; we feel his affection in
the emotions which they raise, and half-mortal, half-
etherealized, forget where we are in the anticipation of
what that world must be of which this lively earth is
merely the shadow.
Such were Allison's feelings. In his enraptured ad¬
miration of the scenery, he had almost forgotten that
one of nature's fairest works was seated near him,
when Matilda, who seemed to have been indulging the
same train of thought and feeling, suddenly exclaimed:
"0, Mr. Woodville ! is not this the most magnificent
scenery you ever beheld?"
As in some delicious dream, the sleeper is awakened
from his bliss by the sound of his own rapturous voice;
so was Woodville aroused by these words from his
reverie, and called back to the world which he had for-
gotton. But ere a moment had passed, he was pouring
WOODVIL&B.
35
forth in a rapid voice and incoherent manner, such
words as men but seldom speak. And when he had
ceased, he listened, in his turn/to some small, still
words, which made him the happiest of human beings.
He bent down—he kissed the soft, silken cheek, which
now he could call his own. Her hand was in his—her
head sank upon his breast.
"O, Allison!" she fondly exclaimed.
"O, dearest Matilda! and are you mine!" he asked.
"Allison,she replied, "you know you have my un¬
divided heart."
Woodville gently pressed her hand; and, raising her
head, she looked at him with inexpressible tenderness.
He had neverseen her appear more lovely. The rich
bloom of her cheeks had faded to the softest blush, the
blhe veins of her temples were distinctly seen, and a
languid lustre beamed from her gentle eyes.
Things had remained for some time in this situation,
at once so critical and so delightful, and both seemed
unwillingby a single word, to break the charm which
held them in their places; but the march of human time
goes on, its law is to leave nothing unchanged; and
while the heart would fondly cling to the fragile bliss of
the present, it finds itself left behind, sighing in vain
after what is gone forever.
36
woodv1lle.
CHAPTER Y.
Nature, in zeal fer human amity,
Denies or damps an undivided joy-
Joy is an import; joy is an exchange;
Joy flies monopolists, it callsfor two:
Rich fruit! heav'n-planted! never plucked by one.
Young.
It was now near the close of April. All the young
ladies of the Academy were preparing for the cele¬
bration of May-day; and it seemed that no one among
them could for a moment rest quietly. Schemes were
ever in agitation by which the environs of the village
were to be converted into a second Arcadia. Nothing
was now spoken of but rural theatres, concerts by
moonlight, dances under the shades of the trees, and
other caprices of the same nature.
The plan at last proposed by the girls and seconded
by the citizens was the following:
When the day long looked for had arrived, the young
ladies, arrayed in a uniform of white, their dresses trim¬
med with beautiful festoons of flowers of various hues,
and their heads crowned with wreaths of the rose, the
lilly, and the violet, formed a large procession, headed
by a splendid band of music, and marched, at the ap¬
pointed hour, to a beautiful grove in the vicinity of the
village, where a number of the citizens had for several
days previously been preparing for their reception. It
was a charming day,—cool and refreshing. They
chose a shady path, and in several places, the long
shafts of the lofty trees havingTallen acros the footway,
WOODVILLE.
37
and resting: upon the opposite trees, formed a beautiful
canopy over their heads; the leaves and tender branch¬
es, hanging1 gracefully from the principal stem, being
easily agitated by the slightest breath of air.
As they advanced towards the spot where all was
bustle and noise, the scene seemed to acquire new
charmsl The rustling of the breeze among the long
and slender branches and polished leaves of the trees,
the chirpings of the birds, together with the views of
the distant mountains, and the fields, and the cottages,
which, from time to time, they Caught, through the'
openings of the wood-, excited altogether many de¬
lightful thoughts.
In the grove had been erected an extensive arbour,
decorated with flowers and evergreens, and furnished
with tables which were covered with fruits and wines,
and sweet meats of various descriptions.
After the procession had arrived at the grove, and
had seated themselves on benches which were ranged
around the arbor, the young ladies sang a beautiful
song which had been composed for the occasion by the
'•Village Bard."
Whilst they were singing the concluding verses,
Miss Watson, Miss Hanson, Miss Berrington, and a
number of other young ladies, marched around in a
circle, and crowned Miss Essington, a little lady of
eleven years of age, who stood in the centre of the cir¬
cle, their queen of May.
After an early dinner, a number of ladies and gentle¬
men of the village repaired to this scene of amusement;
and those among them who were still young, or who
wished to be thought so, mingled' with the girls, and
D
38
WOODVILLE.
became companions of the dance. The musicians,
placed on a scaffold of considerable height in the centre
of the. festive group, regulated the steps of each.
Allison Woodville accompanied them, and joined
the gay party in all their amusements. After he had
been for a while engaged in dancing, he seated himself
on one of those benches, which were ranged around
the arbor, near several groups of dancers, to contem-*
plate the merry scene. While thus seated, and looking
upon the joyous throng with a sort .of-vacant, listless
gaze, he received on the shoulder a very emphatic
blow. He looked around and saw Frederic Herring-
ton standing just behind him.
"Come," said he, "will you not join us in the dance?-
We are just about to form a few cotilion sets."
"Yes," said Woodville, "with much pleasure;' and, ris¬
ing from his seat, followed Berrington to a distant part
of the arbor. In passing through the crowd he caught
the eye of Matilda, who was busily engaged in discuss-
ing the merits of a glass of ice cream. He left Fred¬
eric immediately and directed his steps towards her.
"Oh, Matilda!" said he, "I have been looking for you
all the afternoon. Where have you been?
"Why," returned Matilda, "I've been no where but
where you find me."
"And, have you not been dancing?" lie asked.
"No sir," she replied, "not at $11."
"Well," said he, "I'vejust understood from Freder¬
ic, that some of the party are going to dance cotilions;
will you join us!"
WOOPVlLLE.
39
''Certainly sir," returned Matilda.
Just at this moment a "servant almost breathless
came running1 to Matilda, and told her that her aunt,
who was living at her father's was very ill. Matilda,
therefore, accompanied by her brother Frederic, imme¬
diately left this scene of amusement and returned to
the village. When she reached home her aunt was
speechless and in a few hours expired.
Owing to the deep distress which this event occa¬
sioned in the Berrington family, they received no visi¬
tors for several weeks afterwards. About this time
Matilda was sitting in the parlour one evening with
her sisters, Caroline and Elizabeth, when Robert Ber¬
rington, accompanied by Allison Woodville and Doc¬
tor Puzzletrap, entered the room. In the appearance
of this last gentleman there was nothing remarkable,
excepting that the lower part of his face was entirely
lost in an enormous cravat, and that the upper part
seemed to be almost entirely occupied by an immense
pair of eyes, of which nothing more could be said, than
that they were eyes having as little expression of any
kind as any pair of eyes in a human head could be sup¬
posed to possess.
At sight of this last personage, the young ladies
sprang up as if they had at that moment received an
electric shock, exclaiming with one voice, "O! Dr. Puz¬
zletrap! who would have thought of seeing you here ?
we believed you had gone out of town."
"And so I did last night at ten o'clock," he answered;
but here I am to day," he said, "and at your service, la->
dies."
"And in fine preservation, too," said Robert, though
in danger of being lost."
WOODVILLK.
"Bost!" said the Doctor, "lost! how so, Bob'"
"'Why lost in the folds of this monstrous neckcloth!''
returned the other, stroking his hand over the cravat.
"There now, upon honor, can't be quiet Bob," return¬
ed Doctor Puzzletrap, pulling up his cravat. * "But, la¬
dies, we are come to propose a frolic; have you heard
that the great comic actor from the east, is to exhibit in
town to night? What say you aboutgoingto see him?"
£ li9,,y said Caroline, "'why, that I should like it of all
things."
"But dont you know, sister, that we have hot been
out since our poor aunt's death," returned Matilda; "and
it might be thought Improper to make our first appear¬
ance in the theater."
"O!" said the Doctor, "I dont want you to make your
appearance, I want to go incognito, to mob it, you
know, to go in masquerade, and sit in the gallery. Eh,
Bob? Nobody will think of looking lor us there.—
Borrow the servants' bonnets, ladies, and I will wear
an old hat and great coat."
"But what disguise am I to wear!" said Robert.
"O, go in your own character," said Doctor Puzzle-
trap; "you won't disgrace the gallery; no one will take
you for a gentleman when not in gentlemens' company.
Eh, Bob, eh?"
"I shall shoot you, Doctor, as sure as you say that
again," said Robert, laughing.
The masquerade party for the theater was determin¬
ed upon and carried into eflTecl. This same evening,
after the younger members of the family had gone, and
WOODVILI.E.
41
while the rest of the family we're at tea, Frederic came
in, and sat down with them." His mother expressed
some surprise at seeing him, saying that she supposed:
him to have been at the theater.
"No," said Frederic, "I have not been to the theater,
nor do I intend to go."
"Why, my son, did. you not go?" asked Mrs. Ber-
rington.
"Why, madam," returned Frederic, "I assure you it
was not a want of inclination;, but business of impor¬
tance, that caused me to stay at home.
"You were right, my son," said Mrs. Berrington,
"and, moreover," said she, "this is the last time that I
shall give my consent to such doings."
"Why; mother?" asked Frederic; "are not the girls
in good company? Did not I see Allison Woodville
enter our gate this evening about twilight? undoubt¬
edly he came to accompany them."
"And who is Allison Woodville, pray?" asked Mrs.
Berrington, with a sort of supercilious sneer.
"As clever a young man as the town affords," res¬
ponded Frederic; "and my sister Matilda may be
proud of his acquaintance."
"Why, Frederic,", exclaimed Mrs. Berrington, "I
am amazed to hear you speak so!"
"I think as I speak," said Frederic, sullenly.
"Well," said Mrs. Berrington, "I have resolved to
put a check upon schemes of such a nature as have
been allowed to take place this evening. But you
D2
42
WOODVII.L.E.
very well know, my son," continued the mother, "that
your sisters are not to be persuaded on matters of this
kind by me. I would have prevailed on them to re¬
main at home this evening; but as they did not choose
to take my counsel, I permitted them to take their own
course. Woodville's visits are becoming too frequent;
Matilda no doubt encourages them, but I am deter¬
mined to put a stop to it."
Frederic said nothing more, but thought, almost au¬
dibly, "you are too late, old lady," and left the room.
His father soon followed him, and his mother was left
to vent her spleen in solitude.
The secret .objection of Mrs. Berrington to Mr.
Woodville was, that he was a child of poverty. Yet
she was ashamed to offer this objection when conver¬
sing with her son on the subject. She had been endea¬
voring for many years, to cultivate a regard between a
young man of the village of considerable wealth by
the name of Hanson, and her daughter Matilda. But
when she discovered that Woodville was making such
rapid progress in her esteem, she was not a little cha¬
grined to think that all her efforts had hitherto proved
abortive. Young Hanson was a very dissipated char¬
acter, and a man of no principle whatever*. But Mrs.
Berringtod, although professedly a woman of great pie¬
ty, seemed to be impressed with the idea, that by a
connection with this young man, her daughter's hap¬
piness and future welfare would be placed on a firm
foundation. But to return to my story. Early the
next morning, Frederic went to-Matilda's room, and
gave her an account of the conversation which he had
with his mother at the tea-table, and advised her to act
with more caution in future. Matilda wept bitterly,
when she heard what her mother had said, and dread-
WOODVILLE.
43
ed to meet her under such circumstances. Frederic,
however, persuaded her to go down stairs to breakfast
and appear as cheerful as she could. As soon as
breakfast was finished, a regular' attack was made
upon Matilda by her mother.
"Well, Miss Matty, how did you enjoy yourself last
night at the theater?"
"Very well, ma'am," replied Matilda.
"I presume you and Mr. Allison Woodville have en¬
gaged yourselves by this time, have you not?" asked
Mrs. B. with evident contempt.
Matilda saw that a storm was rising, and thought it
best to say little; therefore, after much hesitancy she
replied,
"Mother, I think your question is an unfair one."
"Well! well!" exclaimed the mother, "who would have
thought that things would ever have come to this pass?
A child like you to think of getting married! And to
Mr. Allison Woodville. Miss Matilda Berringron to
Mr. Allison Woodville! That would look handsomely
in print, would'nt it? A Miss Berrington to a Mr.
Woodville, a poor, mean vagabond, .whom Mi*. Barret
has taken into his store for mere charity's Sake. Good
Heavens!" she exclaimed, lifting up her hands and
eyes; "what notions are these for a girl of sixteen!"—>
"Matilda! Matilda, take my advice for once, and get
these whims* out of your head as fast as you can, and
for heaven's sake don't think of such matters."
While this wonderful harangue was being delivered,
Frederic could scarcely contain himself. As soon as
44 YFOODVILLE.
it was concluded, Robert rose from his chair, and cri¬
ed out,
"Hurra for that!", finishing his speech with a whistle,
which set Elizabeth, Caroline, Ann, and Frederic .into
a loud burst of laughter. Matilda burst into tears, and
made no reply.
Frederic now rose, arid addressed his mother to the
following purport:
"Mother," said he, "do calm yourself for a few min¬
utes while 5 speak a word or two."
"That Mr. Woodville is a poor young man I grant;
but that he is such a mean vagabond as you have been
pleased gratuitously, to call him, I deny. Woodville
has been but a short time acquainted with Matilda, and
should this acquaintance terminate in an afiair of the
heart, and should it prove reciprocal, I shall be happy
to call him brother, and my mother may be proud to call
him son. But no; you would have my sister wedded
to an Edward Hanson, a dissipated wretch, a beastly
drunkard; a curse to himself, a disgrace to his family."
Here his mother interrupted him and said,
"Edward Hanson never was drunk in his life."
"Rather say he never was sober," replied Frederic.
"Whereas, Woodville is a young man of fine talents
and good character—he is situated in one of the most
respectable houses in the village,—he receives a sala¬
ry of five hundred dollars a year, is diligent, economi¬
cal and attentive to his business, and I have frequently
heard Mr. Barret speak of taking him in as a partner.
But if you cannot rest satisfied until your gall and
spleen be vented against Woodville, I shall rejoice to
WOODVILLK.
45
see you discharge your venom; fori am always high¬
ly pleased lo behold every one disburthened and happy.
And you may rest assured mother, that when you be¬
come cheerful, I shall be the very last man in the world
to disturb your tranquility."
Had Robert Berrington spoken thus to his mother,
it would probably have been suffered to pass by un¬
noticed. Robert was a gay, frivolous, high tempered
young man. Whereas Frederic was grave, solemn
and much less talkative than his brother. Therefore,
so violent a speech coming so unexpectedly from him
seemed to distress his mother greatly.
The language of resentment is generally more vio¬
lent than the occasion demands, and he who uses it is
of all mankind the least qualified to judge impartially
of its propriety; but those who suffer deeply will ex¬
press themselves strongly; those who have been cruel¬
ly attacked will use the means of resistance which are
within'their reach; and observations, which appear to a
general observer, bitter and acrimonious, may perhaps
wear another character to him who is acquainted with
the circumstances which occasioned them.
• Now, Frederic Berrington was intimate with Alli¬
son Woodville; he knew him to be pleased with Matil¬
da, and he had purposely taken much pains to become
thoroughly acquainted with his character. Wood-
ville's name was scarcely ever mentioned that he did
not say, "that's a fine young man,—how amiable he is,
how pleasing in his manners,—how interesting in con¬
versation," or some such encomium. Frederic believed
that,
"Hebasely injured friendship's sacred name,
Who reckoned not himself and friend the same." .
46
WOODVILLE.
Therefore, on all such occasions being well acquaint¬
ed with the real affection of his mother, he would repro¬
bate the spirit which influenced her to attack the char¬
acter ofWoodville with so much violence.
During this warm controversy, Mr. Berrington sat
near a window smoking his pipe, and reading the frag¬
ment of an old newspaper. After the contest had
ceased, Mrs. Berrington walked out of the room in
great agitation.
tvoodvic.le.
47
CHAPTER VL
Well do vanish'd frowns enhance
The charm of every brighten'd glance;
And dearer seems each dawning smile,
For having lost its light awhile.
Moohe.
Mrs. Berrington and Matilda were sitting in the.par-
lor one evening a few days after, when a rap was heard
at the door, and the next moment Dr. Puzzletrap rush¬
ed in. "Good evening, ladies," he said, and at the same
time made a most profound bow. "A delightful eve¬
ning, ladies."
"Very fine indeed," returned Mrs. Berrington.
After they had been conversing awhile, Woodville en¬
tered and proposed a walk. Matilda looked at her mo¬
ther, and then turning to Allison she made some trifling
excuse. Just at this moment the Doctor enquired for
Frederic, and being told that he was in his room, start¬
ed in search of him. Allison suffered himself to be¬
lieve that Matilda had treated him cooly; and, with¬
out saying another word, took his hat and walked out
of the room. Matilda followed him to the outer door,
and just as he was about to pas's, she whispered him
that she intended to take tea at Mr. Barret's the next
evening. Accordingly, on the next evening, when
Allison went over to Mr. Barret's he found Matilda
there.
After supper they engaged in conversation on the
subject which most interested them—and Matilda re-
48
WOODVJLIiE.
lated to Allison the conversation which, occurred be¬
tween her mother and Frederic, a few days before.—
She told'him, however, that her mother had positively
forbid her seeing h'im again or acting in such a way as
would tend to encourage his-visits.
After Woodville received this information, he rose
from his seat, and walked across the room several
times with hasty steps. He then turned to Matilda, and
said, "Well, Matilda, it is indeed distressing. Yoa
know that many existing circumstances make our im¬
mediate union impracticable; for instance, you have
not as yet completed your education,—probably, after
a short time shall have elapsed your parents may be¬
come reconciled."
"I very much fear," returned Matilda, "that my mo-
tker wdl never become reconciled."
"I know your mother's objection, lull well," said Alli¬
son; "but, dearest Matild.a, the wealth I.require is that
of the heart, forthesmiies of affection alone are riches
to me. And if, when you shall have finished your stu¬
dies, you still entertain the same regard for me, which
you do at present, and your parents continue to object,
will you agree to the consummation of our union not¬
withstanding their opposition? Shall it be so, Matilda?"
he asked.
Wooodville had not observed, till now, that Matilda
was weeping. When he had ceased to speak, she
raised her head, and, smiling through her tears, she ex¬
claimed, "Oh, Allison! I am thine, and thine only."
Woodville attended her to her father's gate, and on
the way informed her that he intended to start to one
of the southern states next morning, where he expect-
WOODVILLE.
49
ed to spend several weeks. Just as they parted at
the gate, he gave her a small case containing his mini¬
ature and the following lines:
"Oh! know'st thau why to distance driven,
When friendship weeps the parting hour;
The simplest gift that moment given,
Long, long retains a magic power.
Still when it meets the musing view,
Can half the theft of time retrieve;
The scenes of former bliss renew,
And bid each dear idea live.
It boots not if the pencil'd rose,
Or sever'd ringlet meet the eye:
Or India's sparkling gems disclose,
The talisman of sympathy.
"Keep it—yes, keep it, for my sake"—
On fancy's ear still peals the sound;
Nor time the potent charm shall break,
Nor loose the spell by nature bound."
Occasional absence and moderate distance are strong
cements to mutual affection; they cover those little
failings which, when the parties are continually togeth¬
er, are apt to interrupt the most heart-felt attachment;
and they seem to improve all those good qualities up¬
on which that attachment is grounded.
After an absence of nearly two months, Woodville
returned. He was riding along very slowly one eve¬
ning, in a thoughtful mood, when Mr. Howard, the
gentleman who had recently married Matilda's eldest
sister, rode up beside him.
When they came within ten miles of S they par¬
ted. As Allison had to call at Mr. Sandford's, about a
mile from the main road, to deliver some letters which
he had brought from the south, he thought it an excel¬
lent opportunity to get riJ of the loquacious Howard.
E
50
WOODVILLE.
On his arrival at Sandford's, he found there Miss
Matilda, Miss McKenzie, Miss Hanson, and Mr. Han¬
son, who intended to start to-S that evening. The
heart is perhaps never so sensible of happiness as after
a short separation from the object of its affections. If
that separation has been attended with peculiar circum¬
stances of distress or danger, every pain that has been
experienced, tends, by the force of contrast, to increase
the emotions of delight, and gives to the pleasure of
reunion an inexpressible degree of tenderness.
When Woodville reached Mr. Sandford's, this gen¬
tleman met him at the door, and conducted him into an
elegant drawing room. Allison seated himself near a
window from which he had a view of the garden. He
saw Matilda traversing the walks in a pensive air, and
at length disappear behind a thicket of shrubbery.—
He instantly started in pursuit of her, and the next mo¬
ment, was at. her side. "And do I once more clasp
Matilda's hand? O! happy hour! O! exquisite mo¬
ment! O! infinite delight!" were the words, or some¬
thing like the words with which he saluted her as they
drew further beneath the shade of the trees.
"This is a most unexpected meeting, Allison," said
Matilda; "'how happened it?"
"I called to deliver some letters to Mr. Sandford,
sent by me from the south," returned Woodville; "when
do you purpose returning home?" he asked.
"This evening," said Matilda; "so soon as we can
get ready. I have just come into the garden to gather
a bunch of flowers to take to little Fi'ances."
As they were leaving the garden, Miss Hanson met
them, "Come, come Matilda," she said, "our horses are
WOODVILLE.
51
ready, let's start.—I fear it -will be late when we get to
town."
In a few minutes they were dashing along the road
as fast as their horses could carry them, and arrived
at the village just in time to escape the violence of an
approaching storm.
On the next Sabbath, Woodville met Matilda at
church, and accompanied her home. After they had
been sitting in the parlor a short time, engaged in con¬
versation, Mrs. Berrington entered the room, and bare¬
ly nodded to Woodville. She took a seat between
them, and began to read the Bible. After making" a
few remarks concerning the sermon they had heard,
Allison took his hat, and departed. Mrs. Berrington's
manner exhibited the most evident contempt; and
Woodville was induced to believe, that, from this cir¬
cumstance, the very worst was to be apprehended.—
Therefore, he resolved never more to visit Matilda at
home; but then, the thought occurred to him, "I know
not how I shall be able to carry on a private corres¬
pondence with her, without making some third person
acquainted with all the circumstances. At length the
following ingenious plan suggested itself:
Mr. Berrington's house was situated on a fine emi¬
nence, two or three squares from Barrett's store.—
There was a beautiful lawn in front, and a delightful
garden in the rear of the building. This yard is divi¬
ded in the centre by a paved walk, leading from the
portico to a gate which opens on the street. On either
side of this walk is a beautiful summer house covered
over with the wild rose and woodbine.
Woodville was sitting one evening at the counting-
room door, gazing about him, in a listless mood, when
52
WOODVILLB,
he caught a glimpse of Miss Matilda sitting at a win¬
dow. "Can that possibly be Berrington's window,"
he thought; "I had believed that his house could be seen
from no point on this street," and at the same time rose
from his seat, to see if he were not mistaken. But a
close examination convinced him that it was Berring-
ton*s house—that it really was a window in the second
story of the house—that Matilda was sitting near it,
reading;—that this window was the only part of the
house that could be seen from the counting-room door,
and that the counting-room door was the only place on
the street, that could be seen from this window.
vtoodvillB.
53
CHAPTER VII.
"Female hearts, though fragile as the flower,
Are firm, when closed by hope's investing power. "
A few days after this discovery was made, Wood-
ville took a walk one evening', along the shore of the
river, where he accidentally met Matilda, and made
her acquainted with the' circumstance. They then
agreed, that, whenever she had anything to communi¬
cate to him, she would place her handkerchief on the
window; by which signal he was to understand she
would meet him the same evening at twilight, in the
remote end of her father's garden; and that, whenever
he wished an interview, he was to place his handker¬
chief on the writing desk which stood near the count¬
ing-room door. Woodville was never seen again at
Mr. Berrington's; their interviews were in this way
conducted so secretly, that every one believed Matilda
had discarded him; and even Mrs. Berrington's mind
became quite easy on the subject. In consequence of
which she resolved to give Matilda a party. Matilda
now seemed, generally, much more cheerful than she
had been for some weeks. And when the party was
spoken of) she seemed to enjoy an extraordinory ele¬
vation of spirits. Berrington's house was now in a
continual uproar. Scouring the floors, rubbing the
furniture, servants running to and fro, through the vil¬
lage, carrying invitations to all her acquaintances; (all
save Woodville, for Mrs. Berrington could not think
of having her pleasure marred by his presence,) deco¬
rating the garden, preparing it for illumination, &c.
£2
54
WOOBVILLfi.
&c. Matilda appeared to enjoy herself greatly in as¬
sisting her mother to prepare the sweetmeats.
At length the evening arrived whi.ch was set apart
fol'Matilda's party. The company assembled. Young
Hanson, who since the report of Woodville's misfor¬
tune, hoped to succeed in obtaining Matilda's hand,
was also present.
The sound of the violin, the clarionet and the flute
was soon heard, and the gay company spent the even¬
ing in mirth, festivity and song. Edward Hanson had
the pleasure of dancing several times with Matilda.
Mrs. Berrington and Mrs. Hanson sat together closely
engaged in conversation, and occasionally made some
remark on the dancers. Mrs. Berrington congratula¬
ted herself on the great skill which she had displayed
in thus associating the different sets in the dance.
"What a fine figure your daughter has Mrs. Ber¬
rington," said Mrs. Hanson, "what a graceful flexibili¬
ty of motion she displays."
"Yes;" returned Mrs. Berrington, "Matilda dances
almost as well as her partner."
"If Edward could succeed in shaking off the very
paralizing weight of youthful diffidence which seems
to fetter his every action, his manners would doubtless
become much more engaging in the society of ladies;
but he is so exceedingly diffident, that I fear he will ne¬
ver acquire sufficient courage to address a lady."
"O," said Mrs. Berrington) "his diffidence will grad¬
ually disappear as he acquires age. He ought to visit
more frequently—he certainly visits very little,-—this is
the first time that I've seen him for several weeks."
WOODVILLE.
55
The dance being concluded, the conversation was
broken off. Immediately after supper the company
repaired to the garden. Matilda and Edward Hanson
walked to the remote end of the garden near the beau¬
tiful grove of mulberry trees, where Allison and Ma¬
tilda had frequent interviews. As they passed slowly
along, Matilda caught a glimpse of a tall figure through
the deep shadows of the grove. Hanson did not seem
to have observed it. Matilda manifested a good deal
of uneasiness. "What a dismal appearance that
grove presents, Miss Berrington," remarked Hanson.
"Yes; it looks very gloomy indeed," replied Matilda,
"suppose we return." And as she ended these words,
they turned, and walked towards the house.
After promenading awhile the walks, which were
.over-arched with wreaths of flowers and evergreens,
and brightly illuminated with lamps, they all met in a
large circle, in the centre of the garden, where Mrs.
Berrington had ordered refreshments.
While the gay group were regaling themselves in
this delightful spot, to complete the scene, the notes of
a distant bugle were heard, as they came floating on
the air. The musician sounded a graceful prelude, and
then struck up, a favorite martial air. Now it rose with
boldness to a lofty, thrilling height, and anon it seem¬
ed to die away in tones of melting softness.
When the company returned to the drawing-room,
Matilda was not among them. No one could tell
where she was.—Mrs. Berrington started in search of
her;—she ran up stairs—she flew into Matilda's room;
but did not find her there. She hastened down a-
gain, and inquired of every one she met, where Ma¬
tilda had gone?—No one could give any information
56
WOODVIIXE.
respecting her. She then ran into the garden, scream¬
ing and calling on Matilda's name; but the voice of
echo was all she heard in answer to her call. Now
the dreadful thought flashed across her mind, "possibly,
she had eloped with Woodville." She left the garden
almost frantic with rage. No one could give any ac_
count of Matilda. She had not been seen for more
than an hour. Mrs. Berrington now called all the ser¬
vants together, and sent them in different direptions in
search of Matilda;—but all in vain.
It will be remembered that Woodville was not invi¬
ted to this party. When the day arrived which was
set apart for it, he certainly expected to receive a bid¬
ding. He thought that common civility, ordinary po¬
liteness would have induced Mrs. Berrington to send
him an invitation, notwithstanding her opposition to
his marrying her daughter. The evening advanced,
still no invitation came. Imagine his surprise, then,
when walking to the counting-room door, he saw a
white handkerchief lying on Berrington's window, the
well known signal from Matilda, that she would meet
him in the garden at the usual hour; this too on the
evening of the party!
Accordingly, at the appointed hour, Allison went to
the garden. Matilda had not as yet come: He sat
down on a grass mound, beneath a tree, and counted
the minutes as they swelled into hours,—still she came
not. He heard the music and the brisk steps of the
dancers, and saw the illuminated walks ofthe garden.
The music now ceased,* and all was still for several
minutes. At one time, hfe feared that Matilda had for¬
gotten her engagement; and again, be thought that,
possibly, she might, accidentally, have thrown her
WOODVILLB.
57
handkerchief on the window. He resolved, however,
to await the issue.
Presently, he heard a number of voices in a distant
part of the garden,—they drew nearer, now he thought
he could distinguish some of them. He had risen from
his seat of tufted grass, and was walking through the
grove with a slow step, when he saw a gentleman ac¬
companied by a lady, whom he knew to be Matilda,
advancing towards him. He instantly stopt, and
while he observed them with a careful eye, he sa\w
them turn suddenly around, and ;quickly retrace their
steps.
Woodville's watchful eye followed them until they
had vanished from his view. He returned to his seat,
and leaned his head against the root of a large tree.—
Overcome by anxiety and the fatigues of the day, he
sank into a short but troubled slumber.
"He fancied himself in a region of great darkness,
saving what dubious light arose from distant fires,—
whose curling flames shed a pale lustre over the scene.
Before he could look round a second time, a glare of
dazzling light showed him a number of beings seated
in a vast circle. The moon from her throne of noon-
night splendor, smiled with peculiar radiance, and the
prospect was gay and interesting. What most enga¬
ged his attention, however, was a fair being, drestin a
robe of bridal whiteness, adorned with golden drapery,
which seemed soft as air. Over her white robe floated
an azure mantle besprinkled with drops of heavenly
lustre. On her head was a chapletof the fairest flow¬
ers he had ever seen. The bloom of youth was in her
countenance, and her majestic form moved with unut¬
terable grace. She was walking with a measured pace,
and light as the radiant footsteps of Aurora, in the cir-
58
WOODVILXiE.
cle formed by this gay company; and while she sang a
wild and lively air, she strewed the ground with flow¬
ers of the richest hues.
The scene was changed. He imagined himself in an
immense hall, surrounded by the same company, but
oh! how altered were their countenances. Some were
weeping, others appeared to be dejected. Here sat an
old man whose protruded eye-balls were swollen with
grief, and whose brows were knitted into a frown
which seemed to ensphere him in darkness, while he
bent his anxious gaze upon a woman, who seemed
frantic with grief and despair. She wrung her hands,
and tore her hair, and in the deepest agony of soul,
cried out, "Oh, my daughter! my daughter! My Matil¬
da is gone—is lost forever!" A loud shriek awaked
Woodville from his dream. He saw Matilda standing
near him,—the light of the moon shone full upon her
face, and the clusters of her dark hair flowed in rich
curls adown her snowy neck. She possessed, indeed,
one of those picturesque forms which exceed the mere
attraction of regular beauty. The movement of her
arm, the turn of her head, were those of the most prac¬
tised elegance. She bent down, and in a gentle whis¬
per said, "Oh, Allison! how glad am I to find you here.
I feared that you had left the grove in despair of seeing
me. After much pain and anxiety I have at last esca¬
ped from the society of one whom I detest: whose vile
flattery disgusts me.
' Matilda had now seated herself beside him. Wood¬
ville raised up from his reclining posture, and turning
to Matilda, asked her what noise was that which he
had heard. "'Twas my mother, Allison, calling me
So soon as she discovered my absence, she became
WOODVILT.E.
59
much alarmed—she has sent all the servants in search
of me—she fears—she suspects,
"That we have eloped, I presume," said Woodville.
"Ah, Matilda! I once thought myselfhappy;—and am I
not happy now, and fortunate too, beyond the common
lot of mortals, in the possession of such a heart as thine]
I never tasted the sweets of power,—I never truly in¬
dulged in gratified pride, till I was enabled to lay its
trophies at the feet of the woman I loved, and to dele¬
gate to her hand the mastery of my every affection.
"Would you could learn how lightly she hath taught
herself to hold all human distinctions."
"I would, not learn it, Matilda; for are they not the sole
gifts in which I can boast a preeminence over herself;
or which have yielded me the power of marking to¬
wards her the deference of affection? Even now,
dearest, 'tis for your sake alone I prize that which will
aid me in the gratification of your sweet wishes—of ev¬
ery caprice of your fancy. God hath not gifted me by
birth-right with wealth and station, and with capacity
to render them available; yet scarcely had dawning
manhood aroused my intemperate restlessness, and
taught me to consider such distinctions insufficient for
happiness, when a being as gentle, as fair, as highly
gifted as my wildest visions had suggested, consents to
share my proud obscurity, my humble Jot, which, with¬
out her presence, had not sufficed for enjoyment; but
which, when blessed with her society, forms a paradise
brighter than the Eden of the eastern climes! Pardon
my self-gratulation, Matilda; forgive my egotism; when
you remember, that it hath been the day dream of my
life to possess myself of a pure and unsullied heart;—a
heart whose pulse had never quickened under the gaze
of another—whose tide had never warmed till my own
60
WOODVU.LE.
voice waken.ed it into life and love-—and bethink thee,
dearest, that, despite the rarity of such a blessing1, I
have made it my own?"
"But perhaps I am indulging feelings, and forming
schemes which may be blasted;—perhaps hope has in¬
truded her delusive beams to glow but for a moment,
and then withdraw forever;—perhaps she merely smiles
for the present, reserving her frowns for the valedic¬
tion. Even now, Matilda, these bright hopes and sun¬
ny prospects seem to withhold their smiles, and nought
but clouds and darkness hover over my destiny.
By such allusions—such dark forebodings, did Wood-
ville mar the enjoyment of many an hour, which had
otherwise passed away in the peaceful interchange of
affection; and check and discourage that dawning con-
infidence, which time and patience might have ripened
into a feeling precious as that of which he had been be¬
guiled, and which he still believed himself to possess
within the bosom of his Matilda. In these western
wilds, where "transport and security entwine," love
might have revelled in a bower of bliss as sweet as any
that hath blossomed since the days of earth's simple
childhood; and even with the self-conviction that prey¬
ed upon Matilda's mind, and even with the apprehen¬
sions of discovery which imbittered her happiest hours,
she was prompt to acknowledge to herself that her
days had never passed so quickly away, as since her
betrothment to Woodville; and that the devotion of
the heart we are permitted to call our own, is at once
the most holy and the sweetest of earthly blessings.
Her whole character seemed gradually to have un¬
dergone a mighty change, and to have been tempered
by the vicissitudes through which she had been destin-
WOODVILLE. 61
ed to pass. The low buffoonery of Hanson, the frac¬
tious disposition of her mother—the cold indifference
of her father, and the cruel sarcasms of her sisters,
had subdued her mind into that deep and humble sense
of the transitory nature of human happiness, and the
uncertainty of life, which is perhaps the best safeguard
of present enjoyment. And now that a new source
of bitterness and undeserved affliction was opened to
her taste, she felt that her lessons of sorrow had not
been learned in vain. She dashed not the chalice from
her lips in peevish despair; she refrained not from the
draught in wayward discontent; but humility, and
meek submission armed her soul to quaff' misfortune's
bitter cup. Gentle, humble, grave, and self-reproving,
she resolved to bear much at the hands of those from
whom she expected reproaches. Sentiments such as
these,—so purely, so delicately feminine,—although
they united to sadden her joyous smile, and to add a
yet more reserved grace to her endearing gentleness,
did but serve to render her more lovely, and more pre¬
cious to him unto whom her cares were directed.
They parted. Matilda returned to the parlor, and,
finding that the party had dispersed, passed up
stairs, unobserved, to her own apartment, and retired
to rest. Mrs. Berrington, after a night of sleepless agi¬
tation, arose early in the morning, and went to Matil¬
da's room. Matilda was still asleep.—Her mother, de¬
lighted to find her safely lodged in her ovvn room, turn¬
ed softly away; and, gently closing the door behind
her, returned to her chamber.
F
G->
WOODVILLK.
CHAPTER VIII.
Arc not the mountains, -waves and skies, a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion? Should I not contemn
All objects, if compared with these? and stem
A tide of suffering, rather than forego
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below,
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow ?
byiiojy.
When the family met in the parlor, not a word was
spoken; no, not even a whisper, respecting the last
evening's mystery. All, however, looked upon Matil¬
da suspiciously. After breakfast, when all had gone
forth to their several occupations, Matilda, with & quiet
step, followed her father to the door,
"Father!" said she, gently detaining* him, "dear fa¬
ther! you know that I have no secret thought which
I desire to conceal from you. Yesternight, Allison
Woodville visited me; I met him in the grove in the
garden, that I might not risk to anger you by seeing
him within the wails of your house. Reprove me, if
you will, that I have disobeyed you in this thing;—but
as surely as I will never consent to become the wife of
another, so surely will I never wed tvilh Allison Wood¬
ville, unless sanctioned by my father's blessing.
Berrington looked gravely, but not angrily, upon tho
child of his affections. "You have done well to u>e
this frankness, girl: for know, that not even the duty
of a ohild can precede the tender vigilance of a father.
WOOD VILLE.
63
This morning' as I walked in the grove, I marked the
track of strange feet on the path which winds beneath
the mulberry trees,—and I also found smaller foot¬
prints, even your own, beside them on the path. On
a grass mound, beneath one of these trees, I found this
handkerchief. Judge then whether you have done
wisely in dealing honestly with your father."
Matilda perceiving with the tact of womanhood that
her parent was not displeased with what had occur¬
red, neglected not the opportunity of enlarging upon
"VVoodville's prospects, and to acquaint him more par¬
ticularly with the expectations of jher lover. It is true
he did not consider the case in the same flattering point
of view as did his daughter, for the blood of three¬
score years ebbs languidly from the heart; but the san¬
guine girl was satisfied when he terminated his obser¬
vations by saying, "Go to your work, my child! go;
nor let these idle hopes relax your diligence. No doubt
Woodville is a worthy young man, but your mother
has other schemes in her head."
Matilda, gratified by her father's commendation of
the beloved of her heart, and supported by the consci¬
ousness of a firm and mutual affection, left him much
relieved in her mind; and resigned with confidence the
developement of her destiny, to those mighty hands
which had hitherto dealt mercifully with her submis¬
sive soul. She bore the sarcarms of her sisters upon
midnight assignations, and their arch comments, with
gentleness and forbearance,
Mrs. Berrington, vexed to find that all her scheme^
had failed to accomplish the desired end, now regarded
Matilda with a watchful eye. And whenever the
family were all assembled, she made it a point to
say something about disobedience to parents, and ri-
64
WOODVILLE.
diculcd Matilda's notions. ' On all such occasions, how¬
ever, Matilda always manifested such gentleness of
spirit, that her mother found herself obliged to invent
some new scheme by which to thwart her designs.—
Accordingly, after a length of time, by an artful course
of conduct, she managed to exert such an influence
over her husband as to induce him to agree to send
Matilda to the town of L , to complete her educa¬
tion. This place certainly afforded much greater ad¬
vantages, than did the retired village of ; and
therefore Mr. Berrington could not offer a single rea¬
sonable objection to this arrangement.
When Matilda was made acquainted with this plan,
she immediately recognizedits object. It alarmed her
ffears amazingly. She retired to her room, and gave
vent to her feelings in silent grief. Ultimately, howe¬
ver, her entire confidence in the strength of Allison's
aifections, and the conscious rectitude of her own con¬
duct tended to calm her troubled spirits.—One after¬
noon, escaping from the turmoil of her home, she took
her solitary way up the hill side towards her father's
farm, which was but a short distance from the village.
When she reached the place, she sat herself down on
the stone steps of the garden-gate, and sobbed bitter¬
ly.—This garden incloses a number of acres; a large
portion of which is allotted to the cultivation of the
grape.
It was the month ofMay; and the balmy air played
through the swelling vines. The young- shoots of a
pale downy green, were springing tenderly from the
knotted stems of the vines, and gave a floating vapory
softness to the outline of the hills around. Here and
there, interplanted at regular intervals among the vines,
appeared rows of peach-trees. The birds were wheel-
W00DV1LLE.
65
ing through the soft; air as though it were ajoy to float
upon its bouyant sweetness; the butterflies were flut¬
tering among the vines, as if waiting the unfolding of
their honeyed bloom; and the cuckoo, that "winged
voice," was heard from among the maple trees far in the
valley below.
Matilda was roused from her fit of despondency, as
these and other sweet sounds forced themselves upon
her observation. It is so diilicult to despair when
Heaven's resplendent light is shining around us, when
nature's lovely promise is bursting into reality beneath
our eyes.
The past, with its images of the lost and the dead,
and the estranged, is not with us then; it is the future
—the flattering future, bright with fitful dreams and
fancies, which rules the hour. Despondency should
hide its head in the dark, stagnant dens of the city; the
hill side hath a breeze which quickens the blood into
action; the fragrant fields have a music of their own,
which overpowers the ominous croak of its augury.
It is difficult, as I said before, to despair when nature's
smile is reflected from the objects around us; and it
could scarcely fall more bright than under Matilda's
gaze, upon the mountains which veil the course of the
river. The whole landscape was unfolded before her,
like a page of the choicest poetry.
The sweet girl arose, cheered and comforted, from
the perusal of its characters; and immediately bent her
way towards the brow of the hill, where a small sum¬
mer-house lifted its humble head among the trim vines.
A low bench stood near it. Here Matilda knelt down
and breathed a fervent prayer to heaven, for guidance
and protection. Long did she kneel upon the spring¬
ing grass; and patiently and sweetly did she smile
F2
60
"WOODVILIiE.
when she rose from her orisons. As she turned to¬
wards her homeward path, a most unwelcome com¬
panion advanced to meet her. And one too, whom her
own conscious disgust had long taught her to look up¬
on as a presuming and distasteful suitor. It was Han¬
son!—-Vexed at the untoward chance which had brought
him thither at such an hour, Matilda was well aware
that the little manoeuvres with which she had hitherto
parried his attacks, must prove unavailing in this lone¬
ly interview. She could not, in the still seclusion of
the garden, affect blindness or deafness, as she had been
wont to do in a large company. All her innocent man¬
agement of village coquetry was at fault;—Matilda
saw it wquld be useless to gaze vacantly upon the dim
distance as if unconscious of tiie smiles that were bent
ppon her lovely face; or to hazard with affected uncon¬
cern a casual observation, when words of pressing and
fervent courtship were ringing in her ears.
"You are well met, sweet one," said Hanson, joining
her side with alacrity. "It is becoming a rare sight
even to look upon you, Miss Matilda,—much more
to be indulged in the happihess of a solitary ramble
by your side. You saw me advancing towards you,
when you prolonged your walk this evening. Is it
not true, dearest?—say so, and bless me with the con¬
fession."
"So little true," replied Matilda with indignation,
"that had I dreamed ofthe-possibility of meeting you,
I would have—"
"Hush! hush! Words of course,—a fitting show ol
maidenly decorum. Trust me, I can appreciate the
delicacy of yourreserve. Well, Matilda, it seems that
your father intends to send you to the Academy at
L——, when do you expect to start? It would appear
TTOODTILLE.
67
that the prospect of leaving is grievous to your feel¬
ings; your eyes are even now red with weeping. But
cheer up and look for brighter days, sweet girl. Nay,
turn not away,—you cannot escape me. The occa¬
sion is a favorable one, and you shall hear all I have
to say; you shall know that, notwithstanding my bril¬
liant prospects, I am resolved, Matilda, without further
delay, to make you my wife. It is true your village
breeding will scarcely fit you to preside over the house
ofaHanson; but still, under my instructions, I do not
despair of forming you to better things."
"Mr. Ilanson," replied Matilda, indignant at the tone
ofsuperiorty he had assumed, and which so ill became
a suitor, "I have still and eVer prayed you to forbear
such instances and declarations as these seeing that
they are altogether unwelcome and unavailing.—-
Thank fortune my father intends to send me away!
The hour of my departure will be greeted with joy."
"No, matilda, no!—you will think better of it, I am
persuaded. You will not refuse to bless a heart that
loves you, to live and die in the village wherein ybu
were born;—and this too, for the sake of a beggarly
Allison Woodville, who hath nothing to endow you
withal save his poverty."
"Nothing!" replied Matilda, in a voice of emotion.—
"Nothing! Is an honest heart nothing? Is a brave, up¬
right, generous mind nothing? Is it nothing* to have
gifted the poor with the hard-earned fruits of patient
industry?—Go!—go!—those who rise by creeping, who
wax prosperous through cunning, and intrigue, and
speculation, are nothing—less than nothing. A man
of Mr. Woodville's character is worthy of infinitely
greater esteem than one who spends his days in loiter-
63
WOODV1LLE.
ing idleness, and his nights in gambling and dissipation.
"What could a young lady promise herself in marrying
such an abandoned wretch? The thought of thus cast¬
ing one's self away is more than patience may endure."
Matilda had determined from the first, that she would
not enter the village in friendly companionship with
one whom she so little affected as Hanson; as soon)
therefoi'e, as they came in sight of the smoke that curl¬
ed in many wreaths, she paused abruptly to enquire
which path it was his pleasure to take, in order that
she might select another.
Hanson expostulated with her upon this ungracious
declaration; enforcing his remonstrances by taking her
resisting hand within his own, and setting forth, with
more explicit detail, the splendors about to accredit
his temporal prosperity; and his earnest hope and in¬
tention of sharing them with herself—her beloved and
lovely self.
"Mr. Hanson," replied Matilda, withdrawing her
hand from- his pressure with more of self-command
than was implied by her tremulous voice, "I should
feel inclined to blame myself for the freedom of your
present address, did I not well remember that from
the first hour you came glozing and fawning to my fa¬
ther's house, I expressed my unequivocal opposition to
your views. You spoke not indeed openly of your
will towards me, nor named the name of love; but so
far as you could indicate your passion, without com¬
mitting your prudence, you showed me your intentions,
and I acquainted you with mine. Nay, more;—to spare
you the pain of hearing my plain opinion in plain
words, I over stepped the reserve of a woman's heart,
and told you that I loved another. And now, sir, I tell
WOOEVIELK.
69
you plainly, and once for all, that I decline accepting
your proposals, and that henceforth you may relinquish
the hope of success."
After Matilda had labored through this firm repulse,
she sat down on a log that lay near the path, and, cov¬
ering her face with her handkerchief, gave vent to her
feelings. Hanson stood at a little distance, and sur¬
veyed her with features contemptuouslydistorted.
"Poor, infatuated girl! Yet she is a lovely creature,"
he said, and slowly turned away.
70
•WOODYILLE.
CHAPTER IX.
"With what n leaden and retarding weight
Does expectation load the wing of time."
When Woodville heard that her parents designed
sending Matilda 'to the town of Ij , a distance of
nearly three hundred miles, for the jproftsscd purpose of
completing her education, he conceived the idea of
leavingS— immediately, and of returning to his na¬
tive village, that he might correspond with her with¬
out detection. His father was now very aged and in¬
firm, his domestic affairs were in a very disordered
condition, and during the past three months he had
frequently written to Allison, pressing him to return
home to his assistance. All that now remained to bo
done was to settle his business with Mr. Barret, tho
gentleman with whom he had been living for the last
two years; during which time Woodville had been
very industrious. He had diligently applied himselfto
the business of his employer; and when he communica¬
ted to him the intelligence he had received from his fa¬
ther, Mr. Barrett gave him some wholesome advice,
and reluctantly discharged him from his service.
Allison now felt like an uncaged bird. He flew to
the embraces of his aged parents, with a joyful heart.
Oh! who can describe the tender emotions which thrill
the heart of an aged mother, when, after a long absence,
she once more clasps to her bosom the only child of
her affections! A thousand questions are asked a thou¬
sand times. Again and again did Allison rehearse
WOODVILLE.
71
every little incident which had occurred during his ab¬
sence. How glowingly did he describe his beloved
Matilda,—the cruelty of the mother, 'the stern vigi¬
lance of the father, and the shameless importunity of
the rival lover.
After spending several days in this delightful socie¬
ty, in relating, and listening with pleasure to a narration
of all the particulars in the history of each individual
during their separation, and the various feelings which
the rapid change of circumstances had excited, Alli¬
son sallied forth one morning, in company with his fa¬
ther to visit his old friends and acquaintances. Just as
they left the door, they saw an old lady advancing to¬
wards them. "Here comes old Mrs. Ferguson, Alli¬
son," said Mr. Woodville; "no doubt she has heard of
your arrival, and is coming to see you."
"And are you still alive, mother Ferguson?" asked
Allison. "Good morning ma'am!"
"Oh, my dear Allison! how happy am I to see you!
How have you been this long, long wThile?" she askedf
and without waiting for a reply, went on to congratu¬
late Mr. Woodville on the return of his son. She then
passed on to see old Mrs. Woodville, while Allison and
his father continued their walk.
Before Allison returned in the afternoon, he had clo¬
sed a contract with a merchant of the village, agreably
to which they were to enter into partnership immedi¬
ately, on the condition of Allison's advancing a small
amount of money. .
Mr. Woodville was highly delighted to find thathls
son was now permanently settled in his native village.
72
WOGDVILLE.
Think not. however, that in his hours of social glee,
or in the transient snatches of prosperity, which now
revived his buoyant hopes, Allison had forgotten for a
single hour, the beloved of his heart. Often in imagin¬
ation was he borne back to that beautiful grove in the
garden, where he had frequently met her; and where
'•the gentle tone, the fond caress intelligibly spake af¬
fection's language."
And frequently, when reflecting-on the subject, the
dark uncertainty of its issue spread a fearful gloom over
his desponding spirits. But again would the syren
hope intrude her delusive beams into his sanguine
mind,—dispel those gloomy fears, and fill his heart with
the lover's raptured joys.
He knew that by this _ time Matilda had left home,
forL , and had probably reached that place. He
therefore resolved immediately to commence a corres¬
pondence. In his letter, he acquainted her \Vith all the
circumstances which are detailed above. He inform¬
ed her that the deranged state of his father's business,
and his advanced age required the attention of some
more youthful person; that he had commenced the
mercantile business in connection with Mr.'Heming¬
way, a merchant of the place; and concluded his epis¬
tle by requesting her to write, and give him an account
of the incidents of her journey.
I have neglected to inform you that, while living in
S , owing to the very many difliculties which he
had to encounter, the opposition of the Berrington
family, &c. &c. "Woodville found it necessary to
make some third person acquainted with the whole
affair. He selected a young man, whose name was
Albert Graham, as one in whose integrity he might re-
WOODVILLE.
73
pose the greatest confidence;—and one too, who would
cheerfully render him any assistance in his power.
In a few weeks, Woodville received the following
letter from Matilda.
"L , Dec. 7tb, 18—.
" 5
Your's of the 30th came to hand last evening, and
at your request I hasten to reply, but doubt whether
you can_ discover any beauties in my epistles sufficient
to compensate you for the trouble of reading them.
After you left S , A. Graham and Edward Hanson
became very intimate. I am rather fearful of G's fidel¬
ity. They both accompanied us ten or twelve miles
the first day. No doubt this was a concerted scheme.
I was highly pleased with myjourney, particularly
the passage down the river;—and would have been
still more so, had Allison been with me, to understand
and share the feelings created by the scenes of na¬
ture, with their ever changing variety. Even in this
short time, I feel that I have learned something new.—
Travelling in public stages, or in steam-boats, although
they have many inconveniencies, yet, are fully repaid
by the variety of character and incident one is sure to
meet with; and the former, to me, is often a more plea¬
sing study, than the most interesting book.
"Wte were very fortunate in some of our company.
One I have taken a greater interest in than I thought it
possible from the rough and uncouth exterior, he at first
presented. Genius, however, under any form, is my
passion; and he possesses it to such a degree, that I
forgot all the peculiarities which, when I first saw him,
G
74
TtVOODVILX/B.
absolutely shocked me. He is going1 to reside in this
state, though to my regret, not in L . But lest you
should think I have fallen in love with him, I will
change the subject.
I am much pleased with L , with my teachers,
and associates. I am boarding with Mr. Hunter, one
of the trustees of the academy.. His residence is in the
suburbs of the town, situated on a beautiful eminence,
which commands-a fine view of the town, the river,
and surrounding country.
Miss Davis, a young lady from the south, my sister
Caroline, and I room together. The teachers and
trustees of this Academy are much more strict than
those of the old school at S . We have but little
time to devote to pleasure. No girl is permitted to re¬
ceive visits from ^ young gentleman, or to be seen in
the company of gentlemen, unless some one of the of¬
ficers be present. Some of us. however, transgress
these rules occasionally. Some of the girls, and a par¬
ty of College students have at this time a project on
'hand, which will be delightful, if they can succeed in
accomplishing it.
It is this:—We intend to give our temporary guardi¬
ans "the slip," as we girls call it, and take a ride on the
river, one of these beautiful moon light nights. The
girls say that "they have rare sport sometimes, when
they can invent some pretext to escape the observa¬
tion of the officers of the institution."
I have spent my time very pleasantly since I've been
here, but when I retire to my room,—when the voice of
senseless glee is hushed and silent; at mid-night, when
the waning moonbeam sleeps upon the river's unruffled
W00DV1LLE.
75
surface, and I feel sad and depressed, my thoughts
are carrried back to those happy, happy hours, which
were spent in the sweet society of those, now far away,
whom my heart holds most dear. No, I nevur shall
forget them. Tbey form "the greenest spot in mem¬
ory's waste."
I have recently heard of the death of my brother-in-
law, Mr. Howard; also, that my sister's health is still
declining.
I wish you to visit L shortly, if you can make it
convenient to leave home. As I am in a land of stran¬
gers, nothing could afford me greater gratification, than
to see you. I still have you with me in miniature, but
that only increases my desire to have you with me in
person. Enclosed you'll find a lock of hair.
Yours truly, MATILDA."
R , Jan. , 18—.
Deakest —: ;
Truly the lover's path is strewed with many thorns.
He wanders in a maze of doubt and fear, and continual
apprehension. I had anticipated a rich repast, Matil¬
da, in reading your letter, and when it arrived, I tore
it open with all the eagerness which such anticipation
inspires. Imagine then what my feelings must have
been, when its first sentence expresses a doubt respect¬
ing the sincerity of my professions of attachment.—
Not in direct words'tis true; but I think it is remotely
intimated when you say, you think that the pleasure of
reading your letters, will not be "sufficient to compen¬
sate me for the trouble."
"The trouble of reading thenr!"
Believe me, Matilda, the most interesting novel that
76
avoodville.
Sir Waller has ever written could not afford me half
the pleasure that the reassurance with which your letter
concludes doth yield me.
You express some suspicion respecting the fidelity
of Graham. I hope your fears are groundless; never¬
theless, I shall be more guarded in future. The affair
is so generally known in S , however, that I should
not apprehend any serious consequences from a change
in his sentiments and feelings.
I am happy to hear that you are so well pleased with
your new home. No doubt you will be much more
pleased as the circle of your acquaintance becomes
more extensive. Some years ago I visited L on
business. It was then quite a small town. Within
the last few years, however, it has grown with the most
unparallelled rapidity. From the last accounts I un¬
derstand it contains upwards of twenty thousand in¬
habitants. This great mass of population is collected
from all parts of the world,—of every language and
nation. In truth it may be said to present a miniature
of the world. The scenery, too, is as fine as any that
I've seen. Those rolling hills along which the most
beautiful and majestic stream of which our country
boasts, pours its big waters,—and the thousand little
hamlets, which, at irregular intervals, decorate its mar¬
gin; and whose smiling aspect redeem this beautiful
section of country from the charge of monotony, are
calculated to delight the traveller's eye.
As I expect to see you soon, I shall cut short this
communication. You may look for me about the first
of March.
Yours, affectionately,
ALLISON WOODVILLE "
Miss Matilda Berrington.
WOODVILLK.
77
We have described Woodville as being a young
man of a sanguine disposition, and the most ardent
feelings, let those feelings take what direction soever
they might. When any subject deeply involves the
interest of such a character, the mind, we believe,
generally experiences the most anxious solicitude.—
Such anxiety is clearly seen in the commencement of
the above letter. What would have been considered,
by any one else, nothing more than an exhibition of
female modesty and maidenly reserve, seems to have
awakened in his mind a fear, that she doubted the
strength of his attachment.
It is an obvious truth, that mutual affection requires
to be preserved by mutual endeavors to amuse, and to
meet the wishes of each other; but where there is a to¬
tal neglect and indifference either to amuse or oblige, it
cannot be Wondered if affection, following the tenden ¬
cy of its nature, becomes indifferent, and sinks into
mere civility.
The sequel of Matilda's letter, however, seems to be
the overflowing of an affectionate heart, and appears
to have exerted a salutary influence upon the mind of
Allison.
Time and absence, it is said, extinguish the flame of
love; but we think that occasional absence, and moderate
distance are the strongest cements to mutual affection.
Who is there that in absence clings not with increasing
fondness to the object of its idolatry, watches not every
mail, and trembling with alarm, anxiety, and suspense,
reads not again and again every line that the hand of
love has traced?—Is there a fault that is not pardoned
in absence? Is there a doubt that is not harboured or
G2
78
woodville.
believed, however agonizing? yet, though believed, is
it not at once forgiven? Every feeling but one is ex¬
tinct in absence—every idea but one image is banished
as profane.
Such was the state of affairs in regard to Matilda
and Allison, and such were the feelings of each.
TVOODVILbK.
79
CHAPTER X.
Variety's the very spice of life
That gives it all its flavor.
Cowper.
L , March 20th, 18—.
Your last communication was received two or three
weeks since; but several circumstances have prevented
an earlier reply. First of all, I expected to have seen
you here before this time, and again, you know, that
owing to the strictness of the rules of our school, it is
only at some stolen moment, that I can have an op¬
portunity of writing to you.
The reading of your letter, which seemed to be a lit¬
tle tinctured with your occasional depression of spirits,
brought to mind a few very pretty lines of a writer,
whose name I do not now recollect; and as they very
•aptly express my own feelings, I will here introduce
them.
"0, Edwin! while thy heart remains sincere,
Th' assaults of doubt and discontent repel;
Dark, even at noontide, is our mortal sphere,
But let us hope,—to doubt is to rebel,
Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well."
•A few days ago I was blest with the charming socie¬
ty of the famous (infamous) Mr. Hanson. He was on
his way home from New Orleans. He requested the
pleasure of corresponding with me. Under any other
circumstances I might, probably, have granted his re¬
quest; but, fearing he would consider it an encourage¬
ment on my part, and invitiDg advances on his, I excu-
80
tVOODVILLE.
sed myself by informing1 him that the regulations of the
Academy prohibited it.
I know, Allison, that nothing but sickness, or your
newly engaging in business, could possibly have pre¬
vented your fulfilling your promise to visit L during
the present month. I still hope to see you shortly; and
when you come it will be necessary to observe the
greatest caution in regard to yourinquiries concerning
myself, else the extreme vigilance of the officers of the
institution will prove an insurmountable obstacle to
the enjoyment of our anticipated interview.
Adieu; yours truly.
3IATILDA.
Matilda had judged rightly; for several days previ¬
ous to the reception of her letter, Woodville had been
confined to his room by a severe attack of the influen¬
za, at that time a prevalent epidemic. At the arrival
of every mail, however, he regularly sent his servant
to the office to enquire for letters; and, until now, was
as often disappointed.
Owing to such repeated disappointments, together
with the wasting influence of the disease, he had be¬
come pevish and fretful.
■''Ned! Ned! I say, Ned! are you asleep? Wake up5
you old scoundrel."
"No, sir;—not asleep, I neber sleeps in day-time;"
growled the surly black, whose half-closed eyes belied
his endeavoring wakefulness, when Woodville's un¬
wonted energy of voice aroused him from his slum¬
bers.
"No, sir; I've no 'casion to sleep in day-time,—today
WOODVILLE.
81
ho how; fur kase I slept so sound last night, when I
once got at it. When I once got at it I say, Massa Al¬
lison; fur little Molly, you knows little Molly, my only
datter, tree years old last Christmas. Oh! de little dar-
lin chuck! but de little baist kept sich a squallin dat I
couldn't git to sleep till a'most midnight; but when I
once got at it, as I said afore, I tell you what, the way
I snored was the right way. And, while I slept, I
dreampt a dream, and what do you think it wuz?"
Woodville could no longer endure this infliction of
hi^ servant's garrulity. "Cease your prating, Ned, and
answer me.—Has the mail arrived?'
"Well, dat is what I would be talkin about, if you'd
give me half a chance. No sir; de mail haint come
yit, nor wont be here deseY two hours. De clock jist
struck tree ez I come in, dat I knows haint been more
ner ten minutes ago, and de mail neber comes afore
five. Well, ez I wuz gwoin fur to tell you 'bout de
dream I had las night, I'll now begin agin at de place
whar I stopt at. Now, Massa Allison, what I dreams a
body may 'pend on; fur I neber had a dream in all my
born days dat didn't come jist ez true, ez any thing dat
parson Farrington eber said.
"Las night, arter supper wuz ober, I went to Sally,
and, sez I, Sally, sez I, now you try to git little Molly
asleep, while I go and see how Massa Allison comes
on."
"Well, well," sez she, "go long and see de poor lad,
I'm mighty afeared he aint long fur dis world;" (but I
oughtn't to a told you dat part fur fear o' makin you
solemncholy.) "Den she seemed to slide into one o'
her moralizin ways, and if I had stopt to listen, she
83
WOODTILLB.
mout a preached half o' one o' parson Farrington's
garments, fur what I know.
"But to quit de main subjick, and come back to whar
I started frum, I leaves "Orator Sal," ez I sometimes
calls her in fun, (meanin no disparagement, howsomev-
er, to her speakin powers,) to preach de rest o' person
Farrington's funeral sarment to de dog-irons, or to sing
psalms to little Molly ez she thought most fit, and I
comes up stars to see de poor lad, as Sally sez. I finds
Massa Allison in a fine sleep, snorin bravely, and
sweatin same like as if he'd been workin hard all day.
As ebery thing wuz gwoin on so well ober head, I
goes back, down stars agin, and goes to bed, but debil
a bit could I sleep fur dat ar brawlin brat, little Moll.—
She hollered eben ahead till she couldn't holler no
longer, den she quit, and so I dropt asleep and dreampt
what I'm gwoin fur to tell you. I dreampt, Massa Al¬
lison, I dreampt dat de mail come, and fotch you a let¬
ter; and, ez it wuz comin into town, de driver blowed
his horn so loud dat it a'most wakened me; but I tho't
I'd finish my dream first, as it begun so good.
Well, I went to de post office, and fotch you de letter,
and 'twuz sich a purty one dat it a'most made you
well."
"Hist! hist! Ned, I hear the driver's horn this mo¬
ment!" exclaimed Allison, in a quick tone. "To the
office! Ned, and bring me the news."
"Now Massa Allison, I reckon you'll be arter scoklin
de old feller fur lyin, if de letter haint come. Well, if
de letter haint come dis time, I'll quit dreamin, so I
will; but I neber had a dream yit dat didn't come true."
VPOODVILLB.
Although Woodville's superstition did not extend to
a belief in the literal fulfilment of a dream, yet the cir¬
cumstances which his servant had just related so far
comported with his present feelings as to induce him
to hope, at least, that one might be in this instance.
In a few minutes Ned returned. And as he entered
his master's room, a joyous smile animated his swar¬
thy features. It could be easily seen that he endeavor¬
ed to restrain his feelings, which seemed, at every mo¬
ment, ready to burst forth in a torrent of congratula¬
tion, and to assume an air of gravity as he approached
his master, and handed him the letter with a most pro¬
found inflexion of the body. He handed him the let¬
ter with his left hand, while with his right he made
such a ludicrous gesticulation that it completely upset
"Woodville's gravity, and seemed at length to produce
a corresponding effect upon the mind of his sympathis¬
ing domestic.
Divers antics followed this inroad upon the reserve
with which Woodville was accustomed to act to¬
wards his servant. Ned strutted across the room,—
examined the attitude of his hat in the mirror, buttoned
up his coat, and adjusted his cravat.
"Now, Massa Allison," said he, "can'tl out dream de
Jews? What's de news, sir? What's de news? Good
news or bad, 6ir?"
These questions ■were asked in quick succession,—
and with the most consequential air. Previous to the
reception of this letter, Woodville had been much de¬
pressed in spirits, the natural consequence of debility
and repeated disappointment in regard to the mails; it
cannot be wondered at then, if the reception of a let-
81
WOODVILT.E.
ter, at such a time, and that too from Matilda, effected
an agreeable change in his feelings. Such being the
case, he felt more disposed to indulge, than to check,
the happy humour of his slave.
"Very good news, Ned! very good news! excellent,
excellent indeed."
"5 know'd it,—I know'd it.—"What did my dream
say, Massa Allison'? What did de old fellow tell you?
Aint it jist as I said? I know'd whateber I dreampt
would come true. You mind old nabor Shannon, dat
died in town here dis last summer? Why, sir, I dreampt
he would die two weeks afore he took sick, and sure
'nough he did die too".
It is not known to what length Ned's discourse upon
the strict fulfilment of his dreams would, have been pro¬
tracted, had he not been suddenly interrupted by a rap
at the door, which announced the approach of the vil¬
lage physician.
"Good evening, Mr. Woodville; good evening, sir.
How do you feel this evening?" enquired the Doctor, all
in a breath, as he approached the bed of the invalid.
"Goodevening, Doctor Demijon.—Ned, hand a chair.
Take a seat, Doctor. Why, sir, I'm happy to inform
you, that I feel at least fifty per cent better, than I did at
the same hour yesterday. The medicine which I took
last night produced a fine perspiration; but the Tartar
Emetic nauseated me most intolerably."
"You have no fever at all, at this time:—the circula¬
tion appears to be more equalized. Do you feel any
oppression about the chest; any difficulty in breathing."
"No sir; none at all."
WOODVILLE.
"Did you expectorate much during the forenoon?"
"Yes sir; very freely, indeed."
"Have you much cough, now?"
"Very little, sir."
"I wish you to take a bolus of Calomel, in combina¬
tion with a few grains of squills, to-night. It will be
necessary to pay strict attention to the state of your
bowels,—live abstemiously—avoid cold and whatever
may increase a feverish habit. I think you're in a fair
way to recover in a few days, Mr. Woodville, if pro¬
per care be taken."
"In a few days!" echoed Allison, in a scarcely audi¬
ble tone of voice. This circumstance fretted him a
good deal. The bare idea of being confined to his
room two or three days longer, when Matilda was
looking for him every hour, was likely to jeopardize
his patience.
"Curse this fickle climate of ours," he said; "we have
weather here of almost every season in the course of
a week. Think you, Doctor, that it would be impru¬
dent to take a little ride tomorrow? Just received a
letter fromL ; obliged to visit that place, sir, as soon
as practicable, on business of importance."
"Now, Massa Allison!" exclaimed Ned in a hurried
voice, and elevating both his hands, as he advanced a
few steps. "Now, Massa Allison! dat minds me o' de
rest o' my dream, dat I forgot to tell you 'bout."
"Be silent, Ned—be silent," returned Woodville, in a
commanding tone. "What were you going to say,
Doctor?"
H
86
WOODVII.I.K.
"I regret to say, Mr. Woodville, that such a step at
such a time would necessarily preclude all hope of re¬
covery."
"Good God! Doctor, you alarm me," exclaimed Al¬
lison. "No cause of alarm, Mr.Woodville, no cause
of alarm, sir. There is great reason to be patient,
however;—keep close to your room a day or two, and
take the medicine, I've ordered, regularly;—do this,
and you need apprehend no danger. Let me see,—this
is Monday. You may start to L on Thursday."
After Doctor Demijon had repeated his charge again
and again, he look his leave, and departed. The influ¬
enza was, at the time of which we speak, very preva¬
lent, and owing to carelessness and imprudence, in
connexion with the malignity of the disease, had in
many instances, proved fatal. This circumstance
alone was a sufficient warning to "Woodville. He obey¬
ed the Doctor's injunctions most implicitly, though not
without much reluctance and impatience.
Two days after this interview with his physician,
Woodville set out for L—-, much revived in spirits.—
Ashe travelled on his way, he'alternately formed and
rejected plans to obtain an interview with the beloved
of his heart. And when he reached the place of his
destination, lie attended several places of public wor¬
ship, frequented those of amusement, & walked the most
public streets of the town; but invariably returned to
the Inn without seeing Matilda, disappointed and de¬
pressed in spirits. He had been thus situated several
days, when a strolling company of players arrived in
town, and scattered their handbills in «very direction,
announcing that the commencement of their perform-
WOODVILLE
87
ances would take place the following evening. One of
those advertisements fell into his hands, and when be
had read it, he determined to go to the Theatre. He
went: his anxious eye searched the assembled multi¬
tude in quest of Matilda; but his search was in vain;
he could no where see her. As no other motive bro't
him here than to see-Matilda, vexed and fretted by an¬
other disappointment, he was about to leave the house,
when he heard a well known voice call out, "Caroline!
Sister! come here!" Allison turned quickly, and for the
first time discovered his beloved Matilda looking stea¬
dily at him. A single instant was sufficient to bring
him to her side.
"Oh, Matilda! dearest!" exclaimed he, in a suppres¬
sed tone of voice; "and have I found you at last," he
said as he gave her hand a gentle pressure. "I was
just about to leave the house, Matilda," he continued
"in despair of seeing you, when words sweeter than
musrc fell on my ear."
"I saw you, Allison, when you entered the Theatre,
and fancied that I saw depicted in your countenance
and manner, a great anxiety to find some one in the
Theatre, who I had the vanity to believe, was myself,
and endeavored, by coughing, and by making a slight
noise with my foot, when every thing else was silent, to
attract your attention to this spot. Failing in this, I
wa£ greatly tempted to call you, but modesty forbade.
Just as you were about to leave, the happy thought of
calling Caroline entered my mind. How long have
you been in the town, Allison? have you been well?—
Both these questions she asked without waiting for
Woodville's reply.
88
TVOODVILLE.
"I've been here three or four days, Matilda, and all
the while engaged in watching at every corner, and
endeavoring to discover your place of residence. In
regard to my health, I'm happy to say, it is much better
now, than 'twas some weeks ago.1'
"What, Allison! have you been very ill?"
"My illness was severe, Matilda; but of short dura¬
tion."
"Have you seen Frederic?" Matilda asked.
"■Frederic! no; is he here?"
"Yes; didn't you know that? He is a student of the
University. He and Mr. Hunter brought us here."
They continued in conversation until the play con¬
cluded, when Woodville, on account of the presence
of Mr. Hunter, who was one of the Trustees of the fe¬
male Academy, found it necessary to deny himself the
happiness of attending her home. On the next eve¬
ning, however, a lucky incident occurrred, which, obli¬
ged this honorable personage, to relinquish, for a time,
his "precious charge." The old gentleman was greatly
afflicted with periodical visitations of the gout. This
evening he was destined to experience a return of that
distressing disorder. Matilda had left; the apartment
of the invalid, whither her sympathising heart had led
her, and was gazing, in a pensive mood, upon the star¬
ry firmament, as she sat in the portico, which fronted
the building, when some one gently touched her shoul¬
der; and as she turned her head she discovered Fred¬
eric standing at her elbow with his hat in one hand and
her bonnet in the other.
TVOODVILIiE.
89
"What means this, Frederic?" she asked, a little star¬
tled by the interruption of her reverie.
"Come, come, Matty, no time for chat now, he said
in a gentle whisper. "I wish you to go with me to the
Theatre. Here—here's your bonnet; put it on. I fear
the play has already commenced.
"How did you leave Mr. Hunter?" she enquired,
anxiously, as she adjusted her bonnet.
"Fast asleep, thank heaven! and peace be with him,
I say: come, let's be off!" *
"Frederic! have you seen Allison?" she ask, as they
walked along the streets.
"Allison Woodville! no—is he in town?"
"Yes; did not you see him last night at the Theatre?''
"No—yes;" he replied, as if endeavoring to recollect.
"I saw a gentleman engaged in conversation with you,
and thought at first 'twas he; but, Matty, he looks so
deadly pale."
Frederic had scarcely ended these words, when a tall,
commanding figure, was seen issuing from the dark
shadows of the buildings, and advancing towards
them.
"Why, Allison!" ^exclaimed Frederic, for he now
discovered who he was:—"Why, Allison! my dear old
friend! is this you? how are you, how are you?"
Woodville had been hunting Frederic BerringtoH
all day; but had not succeeded in finding him. After
supper he left the Inn, and, walking the streets in a
II2
90
WOODVILIiE.
desponding' mood, without any special object or de¬
sign, unconsciously directed his steps towards the res¬
idence of Mr. Hunter; and, as we have seen, had the
unexpected pleasure of meeting Frederic and Matilda.
He bowed to Matilda, and exchanged the most cor¬
dial salutations with Frederic.
"Well, Allison, we are just on our way to the Thea¬
tre; will not you accompany us?" asked Frederic, earn¬
estly;—and if Matilda did not join him in this invita¬
tion, in words, she did in h§art; and this her counte¬
nance fully expressed.
"Yes; with pleasure," Responded Woodville; "and
bless the favoring stars for conferring such happiness,"
he added, as they pursued their way. A pause ensued.
"'When did you hear from S-—, Matilda?" asked
Woodville.
"I received a letter from Miss Hanson, a few weeks
since, sir;" answered Matilda.
"Courting you, for Edward, I suppose," observed
Frederic: "did you answer it, Matty?" >
"Oh, yes, I answered it of course," replied Matilda,
indifferently.
"You have certainly heard from home, since you re¬
ceived that letter, Matty?" said Frederic.
"Oh, yes; I had forgotten that Mr. Sullivan arrived
the other day; he brought no letters, however. Jlpro-
fos, Frederic, are you going to the party tomorrow
evening, at Mr. Allen's? I saw Emily Sullivan today,
WOODVILLE.
91
she endeavored to make me promise that we would be
there."
"I expect to go, Matty. Allison, I suppose you have
but few acquaintances in town. With your permis¬
sion, I will procure you an invitation also. The party
in question is given to Mr. Sullivan and his sister Em¬
ily. You know them both. Miss Emily has just com¬
pleted her education, and is about to return to S ."
"Thank you for your kindness, Frederic; but I would
not have the Sullivans know that I am here, for a
kingdom. You know their character, Frederic; you
know their character. So soon as they could reach
home, every gossip tongue in S would be set
a-wagging. Do not insist, Frederic; you know my
reasons."
"You are right, you are right, Allison; I had not tho't
of that;" replied Frederic.
By this time they reached the Theatre, where they
greatly enjoyed themselves. And what afforded con¬
siderable accession to their amusement, Richard the
Third, one of Shakespeare's deepest tragedies, was, by
the ill success of some of the performers, converted
into a most laughable farce.
92
W00DV1L6E.
CHAPTER XI.
'How intricately woven is
The mystic web of life.'—Ajtoh'
"Good evening, Matilda;" said Woodville, as ho en¬
tered Mr. Hunter's parlor, where he found Matilda two
days after the occurrences of the last chapter.
Matilda looked dejected. She was busily engaged at
a piece of needle work, and appeared to be so intent on
completing it, that she seemed to be scarcely conscious
that any one had entered the room.
"Good evening, Miss Matilda," he repeated, as he
advanced a few steps towards her. "I've just come to
say farewell. I must be off tomorrow morning."
"Is it you, Allison?" she asked, as she raised her
head. "And why do you leave so quickly."
"It must be so, Matilda, dearest;" he replied, "but
why are you so dejected?"
"Just received a letter from my father, Allison. He
requests and urges me to have nothing at all to do with
you. From which I presume, he has heard that you
are here. He informs me that he will be here in the
course of a few days."
"Did you go to the party given to Miss Sullivan,
Matilda?" asked Woodville, as he seated himself.
"Yes, sir;" she replied. "And while there, Frederic
TVOOHVILLK,
93
brought me a letter. When I opened it, I was so as¬
tonished and vexed to find that it was from the unfortu¬
nate Edward Hanson, that I threw it upon the floor
with the utmost violence. Some of my school mates,
•who were present, instantly took it up and read it."
"Suppose the Sullivans tell Hanson, Matilda?" ob¬
served Woodville.
"That is what I did it for," answered Matilda. "I
knew they would start home this morning, and that he
would hear it so soon as they arrived. I have endea¬
vored to get rid of that offensive fellow, Allison, by all
modest means. All having failed, however, I fondly
hope, that this wilj prove effectual."
After taking a tender leave of Matilda, Woodville
departed; and on the next morning at an early hour,
left Ij——. From one of the many little villages thro'
which he passed on his way home, he addressed a letter
to Matilda, requesting her to inform him in her next, of
all her father did, and all he said respecting himself.—
A few days after his return home, Woodville was un¬
der the necessity of visiting S on business. He
dismounted at the Village Inn, and called for a private
apartment. In a few minutes Albert Graham called
on him, and informed him of what had taken place at
L , in regard to Hanson's letter. Woodville, at
first feigned to know nothing of the matter, (as he was
a little suspicious of G's. fidelity,) until he said,
"The general impression, Allison, is, that you have
been the cause of it. Hanson is in quite a rage about
it."
"Mr. Graham," replied Woodville,—"I will ac¬
knowledge that I am acquainted with all the circum-
94
WOODVILL3.
sfances of the recent affair, as they occurred at L ;
to this I will add, however, that I had no agency ha
procuring Mr. Hanson his mortification; but since I
have been accused with interfering, I'll take this oppor¬
tunity of expressing my entire approbation of Miss
Berrington's conduct. I think her perfectly justifiable
in ail she has done in regard to this letter affair; and I
hope, moreover, that Mr. Hanson will see the proprie¬
ty of being very guarded in his remarks on the subject
hereafter; for, so far as I am concerned, I'm resolved
they shall not pass unnoticed."
Graham appeared to be somewhat offended at these
remarks, and left the room abruptly.
On Woodville's return home, he found thefollowing
letter in the office from Matilda:
L , May 8th, 18—.
1 9
Just received a letter from my sister Elizabeth of
S . She severely reprimands me for my conduct
towards Mr. Hanson. She accuses me of having en¬
deavored to induce Mr. Hanson to write to me, and
then, of showing his letters. She says there is consid¬
erable excitement about it in S , and that Hanson is
accusingme of beingfickle. He says, that, at one time
I would induce him to believe that I loved him, by
wishing him to write to me; and that through your in¬
fluence, I would show his letters without reading them.
I have answered my sister Elizabeth's letter, and
complained somewhat of her havingso little confidence
in a sister, as to believe her guilty of actions so base$
and denied having ever requested, or even remotely
intimated to Mr. Hanson, a desire that he should write
WOODVILLE.
95
to me. Moreover, I told her, that if such a letter -was
in existence under my name, it was a forgery; and re¬
quested her to make some enquiry, and inform nje of all
the particulars.
My father has been here, Allison, but he never men¬
tioned your name to me once. He had frequent con¬
versations, however, with Mr. H. and I suspect, con¬
cerning you and myself. I asked his permission to re¬
turn home, but he gave me a. harsh refusal. I verily
believe, Allison, that all my friends have forsaken me.
Nevertheless, the possession of your affections, will
ever be a source of happiness to me.
Since I commenced writing, the following letter from
sister Elizabeth was handed me by Mr. Hunter.
S , May 1st, 18—.
"My Dear Sister:—-
It is with feelings more easily imagined than de¬
scribed, that I now address you. It makes me happy,
dear sister, not only to exculpate you in the late disa¬
greeable transaction;—but at the same time, highly
to approve your independent course. On the other
hand, however, it grieves me to think that the female
character should be so debased as to be guilty of the
critne of fraud. Doubting not, for a single moment,
that you ar^ anxiously waiting to hear the facts con¬
cerning this unpleasant affair, I shall now proceed
to give you a detail of those facts as they have occurred;
and by the time I get through, I think you will concur
with me in the opinion, that the project of villainy
might be more appropriately attached to the Dame
of Satan, than to that of an accomplished female.
WOODVILLE.
I presume, Matilda, that you will distinctly recollect
having written a letter to Miss Mary Hanson, some
time ago, in answer to onefroin her. At the time she
received this letter, Edward was standing by and ask¬
ed her the news; to which Mary replied, "Good news
for i/ou,~Edward." This answer excited Edward's cu¬
riosity. Mary, however, refused to let him see the let¬
ter then; but promised him a perusal of it at some other
time.—Mary retired to her chamber soon after, and
took her pen and added the following postscript:
"P. S.—Tell my dear Edward that nothing on earth
oould afford me greater pleasure than to hear from
him."
When Mary saw Edward again, she handed him
the letter to read, and told him, the reason for not show¬
ing it to him before, was "that she liked to plague a man
in love."
When Edward, some time afterwards, discovered
how he had been duped by his own sister, he, unhesita¬
tingly, made the whole affair public. How extremely
foolish was the conduct of Mary! Instead of further¬
ing the views of her brother, she has forever, I think,
blasted his prospects. I hope all other sisters will pro¬
fit by the bad example of Mary, and avoid that shame
and guilt of conscience which must necessarily attend
all such transactions.
I think my health is still on the decline, • and in all
probability you will never see me again. Then, O! my
dear sister, let me exhort you, for the last time, to pre¬
pare in your youth, for the trying and solemn hour of
death. This, however, is a subject upon which I cannot
dw«s!l. May your days in this world be peace and
WOODVIH.B.
97
happiness! and your conduct %uch as will lead you in
the narrow way to a better.
Yours, affectionately,
ELIZABETH M. HOWARD."
Thus you discover, Allison, Elizabeth's letter solves
the whole mystery, if such it may be considered.
Yours, as ever, truly;
MATILDA.
Woodville immediately replied to Matilda's letter,
and congratulated her on the happy termination of the
late unpleasant affair, and seemed,' from the tenor of
his letter, to consider it a favorable omen of his ultim¬
ate success in obtaining the consent of her parents.
rJu , June 20th, 18—.
A few weeks ago your last was received; since
that time Mr. Graham of S has been here. At the
time of his arrival I was on a visit at Col. C's. a short
distance from town. He came out to see me, and on
taking a walk, presented me with a letter from Ed¬
ward H. which he said was only explanatory of his
reasons for writing before. I refused to receive it,
and told him that I had heard it all. He insisted that
I should receive it; but I remained firm, and he at
length dropt the subject.
Mr. Graham still professes great friendship for you,
but this I'm, more than ever, disposed to doubt, and
was not backward in telling him so. For else, why
would he be so zealously engaged in behalf of Hanson.
I
93
WOODVII.I.K.
I think it would probably,be best to suffer Mr. Graham
to take his own course, and have nothing more to do
with him.
You seem tq think that the termination of the late
unpleasant affair at S will have a happy effect
upon the minds of my parents.
In regard to my father, I cannot say how it will be.
I believe, however, that my mother will always remain
firm in her opposition; and I -fear that the influence
which she may exert over father, will prove a formi¬
dable obstacle. Let these matters be as they may Al¬
lison, you will ever occupy the highest seat in the af¬
fections of MATILDA.
Matilda soon received the following answer:
R—i—, July 1st, 18—.
Dearest Matilda;^—
Since the reception of your last, I have visited
S , where I saw Mr. Albert Graham. He inform¬
ed me that he had been at L , and had seen you.
He seemed to be so much more friendly than usual, that
I scarcely knew what to make of him. He seemed to
be willing to <io any thing that I would propose. At
length, however, I told t he fawning hypocrite, 'that
I had no farther use for his services.
I expect to start in a few days to Philadelphia and
New York for a fresh supply of goods. So soon as I
return you may expect to see me. Until then, adieu.
ALLISON WOODVILLE.
A day or two after Woodville addressed the above
WOODVILLE.
99
note to Miss Berrington, he started on the proposed
journey. On his way to Philadelphia, he was obliged
to pass through a very thinly settled section of country.
He sometimes travelled several Jiours in succession,
without seeing a single house, save now and then a
few little huts built by settlers for temporary use. One
day in particular, he was apprehensive that he would
not succeed in reaching a place of lodging for th e
night. About the middle of the afternoon, however,
he saw at a short distance from the main road, a small
cottage. Thither he directed his course in order to in¬
quire the distance to the first house of entertainment.
"Good evening, sir," he said to an old man, dressed
in home-spun, as he rode up to the door: "how far to
the next tavern, sir?"
"Which way are you travelling?" asked the man, in
differently.
"Eastwardly, sir," replied Woodville; "how far to
the next tavern?"
"Where are you from, stranger?" asked the man:—
"Oh, dont be in a hurry," he said, as he folded his arms,
and yawned lazily.
Woodville grew impatient, and resolved to answer
him as Dr. Franklin did his Yankee questioners.
"I'm a merchant of R , sir," he replied; "a small
town about two hundred miles west of this. I'm now
on my way to the eastern markets to purchase goods.
Can you tell how far 'tis to the next tavern, sir?"
"To the next tavern!" echoed the man; "why, yes; I
reckon its 'bout 25 miles."
100
WOOBVIIiLE.
"And must I travel 25 miles farther before I get my
supper?" enquired Woodville.
"Yes sir; you must so," he answered: "without Major
.Sanders 'lit ake you in. They say he sometimes takes
in travellers."
"How far to Major Saunders's, sir?" asked 'Wood¬
ville.
"He lives 'bout fifteen miles from here, sir; in a big
brick house, on the left hand si4e of the road. If you
ride right fast for two or three miles, you'll have com¬
pany the rest o' the way. An old gentleman just pas¬
sed by, going that way. I don't think he'll git further
than Major Saunders's no how. He looked like he was
'most broke down when he come by here."
Woodville scarcely heard the latter part of his in¬
formant's communication; for so soon as he received
the information he wished, respecting the distance, he
put spurs to his horse, and started off in a' Canterbury
gallop. He travelled on speedily; but did not succeed
in overtaking the person of whom his informant spoke.
About an hour after dark, he reached Mr. Saun¬
ders's. When he arrived, a beautiful young lady was
standing in the porch.
"Good evening, Miss," he said, as he rode up; "can I
be accommodated with lodgingfor the night?" he ask.
"My parents are not at home, sirj they both went to
spend the evening with our neighbor, Mr. Jones, and
have not yet returned. They left sister Ann and my¬
self alone with the servants, and charged us not to take
in any travellers that might call for lodging."
WOOOVfLLE.
101
Woodville "felt a little vexed, bat endeavored to
restrain his feelings, as a most beautiful girl stood be¬
fore him.
"I feel much fatigued," he said, "and but little dis¬
posed to fwoceed anjr farther. Ten miles, I think, to
the next house."
"Wait a moment, then, sir, and 1 will consult my
sister," she said, as she entered the house.
"Sister, the handsomest young man you ever saw is
at the door "and wishes lodging for the night. What
shall vve do? Shall we'takc him in?"
"I do not know, indeed, Julia; it's contrary to our fa¬
ther's orders, sister. You know he charged us to take
no one in, for fear of some accident."
"Yes; IknoYvlie did, Sister; but he's so handsome,
and he looks so tired."
"Well; toll him to 'light, and ring the bell for the ost¬
ler. We may as well take him in, as this old man we
took in just iioyv. And indeed, I should feel less ap¬
prehensive of danger Yvith such company, .than if we
Yvere alone." ,
Woodville still sat on his horse, and in such a posi¬
tion as enabled him to yy'itness this intervieYV betYveen
the sisters through one of the windows which was
boisted. He did not, hoYvever, hear their remarks.—
He saYV Miss Julia looking up in her elder sister's face,
her beautiful countenance animated with smiles, and
her soft hair, Yvhich vied Yvith fl^e raven's plume in
blackness, hung in l'ich curls about her neck, forming
a delightful contrast with its whiteness. His thought'.
12
102
WOODVLLLB.
were almost unconsciously borne back'to Matilda.—
What a striking resemblance!" he thought, as Miss Ju¬
lia returned, and said,
"You can stay to night, sir; but remember—we are
alone-*-if, indeed, I except an old gentleman, who ar¬
rived about an hour since."
Woodville smiled at this appeal to his honor by a
timid female, and replied:
"Fear nothing, Miss; for should any beast of prey in¬
trude upon the precincts of this house where so much
beauty dwells, while Woodville rests beneath its roof,
he will be the foremost to defend its innocence."
Major Saunders has already, been introduced to the
reader as the gentleman to whom Mr. Berrington be¬
came so warmly attached during their voyage to Amer¬
ica. After residing in the United States some two or
three years, he had married a Miss Roberts, a young
lady of small estate, who made him an excellent wife.
He now possessed considerable "wealth, consisting
chiefly in landed estates, and lived in splendor on an
extensive farm, having every thing around him that
could contribute to his comfort and happiness. His
daughters, however, those lovely jewels, he considered
his greatest treasure.
On the evening that Woodville arrived, Mr. Saun¬
ders and his lady had gone on a visit to one of their
neighbor's, who lived about a mile from his own resi¬
dence. After some solicitation on the part of their
neighbor Jones, and his good housewife, Mr. Saunders
and lady agreed td! i'emain with them until the next
morning. About dark he sent a note to his daughters,
informing them of his determination, and charged them
WOODVILLE.
103
in an especial manner, not to receive any travellers that
night. Mr. Saunders had been sometimes much an¬
noyed by a class of reckless, dissipated characters,
who infested the neighborhood; which circumstance
fully justified his charge to his daughters. The*girls,
whose course of conduct was always guided by the
discretion of their parents, intended to comply with
their father's injunction to the very letter; but, under
existing circumstances, how could they?—How refuse
to receive the applicants for accommodation? About
dark the old gentleman in question rode up, and called
for lodging; the young ladies did, at first, refuse; but
he advanced such weighty arguments—professed to
be afilicted with such a multitude of maladies, among
which, fatigue from riding, appeared to occupy the
most prominent place, that they at length consented to
admit him, Thus the old man's eloquent appeal to
their sympathies probably effected more than Wood-
ville's would have done, had he arrived first, and, per¬
haps, prepared the way for his reception likewise.
When Woodville dismounted, he was conducted in¬
to a large room, where he found the gentleman, so
often alluded to, sitting at the table, and making a most
magnificent display of his masticating powers, over
what seemed to be the remains of a turkey; but, in its
present mangled and half-devoured condition, it was
difficult to determine what it had once been. It ap¬
peared from their present activity, that his maxilarie3,
at least, had rested from their labours during his lohg
ride. This old man, whom we shall call Dr. Riggles-
worth, tor as such, he introduced himself to Woodville,
was a short, thick-set figure. He had a large head;
his hair, bleached by the frost? of many winters, hung
in fleecy locks upon his broad shoulders, between
TVOOftVILLR.
whicli, and his bead, there was no visible connection.
His long eye-lashes, by a periodical elevation, discov¬
ered two small grey eyes peering above his prominent,
cheek-bones. The centre of his profile exhibited a
huge aquiline projection, a little reddened by riding in the
sun, which served him as a nose; but, which Ned would
probably have mistaken for a gobler's snout. He was
dressed in a suit'of fine grey cloth; and, to complete,
the picture, his feet were encased in a pair of loose
shoes, secured by large buckles.
"Good evening, stranger!" said Woodville, as he
entered the apartment: "good evening, sir, I've over¬
taken you at last it appears, and find you well em¬
ployed]".
"Yes, sir;" replied J)r. Rigglesworth, as distinct¬
ly as a mouth full of eatables would allow. "In good
business, sir; won't you join me?"
"Yes, sir;" responded Woodville: ' with all my heart."
"Those provoking girls!" continued Dr. R., "'twas a
long time before I could prevail on them to let me stay."
"Well, well; they understand making coffee, any
how; and that's the great desideratum with a hungry
traveller: Come, come; take a seat, and join me."
Woodville deposited his cloak, slightly wetted by a
fleeting shower, into the hands of a servant, and sat
down to a well served meal, beside his jovial comrade,
whose communicative faculties had been somewhat an¬
imated by a glass or two of Holland gin.
"Egad! stranger," exclaimed Dr. Rigglesworth?
"this is excellent fare for this back-woods country.'.'
WOODVILIjB.
105
"'Twould'nt disgrace the United States Hotel of New
York. Here, sir, join me in a glass to our better ac¬
quaintanceship.' '
"With flowing glasses,
We toast the lassies:—
^-The lassies that live out the Inn.
Along, long life,
And a merry, merry life,
To the lassies that live at the Inn,"
Said the Dr. as he turned off his glass and drained
its contents.
"May he who refuses his protection to a defenceless
woman never taste the blessings a woman can be¬
stow," rejoined Woodville in a toast.
"Which way do you travel tomorrow, stranger."
"Eastwardly, sir."
"I am travelling in the same direction myself, and
am, happy of your company."
Woodville professed to be much pleased with the
prospect of having company the rest of his journey, as
he looked at the old man with an ironical smile, which
seemed to say "a precious scatter brains you are, ne¬
vertheless."
Supper over, they agreed to adjourn to separate
apartments for the night. Woodville retired to bed,
but could not sleep; probably owing to his being so
much fatigued, or, perhaps, on account of the pleasing
train of thoughts into which his mind was drawn, by
seeing a young lady who bore so striking a resem¬
blance to Matilda. About midnight, when every
thing had become still, he heard a slight noise in an ad-
106
WOODVILLE.
joining room, and a moment or two afterwards, a ruf¬
fian-like figure opened his robm door, and entered.
Before going to bed, Woodville had taken his pistols
from their holsters, and laid them on a table that stood
near his bed. When this man entered the room, he
was still awake, and, gently extending his hand to the
table, took one of the pistols. Whether the man ob¬
served this movement or not, Woodville did not
know;—he instantly retreated, at all events. Wood¬
ville immediately sprang from the bed, and hastened
after him.
"Stop, villian! stop! he cried, as he left the room-
His call, however, was unheeded. The man, who
ever he was, escaped from his view, down a long,
winding flight of stairs.—Woodville, though, followed
on, and just as the ruffian, on reaching the outer door,
looked round to see if he were still pursued; he fired his
pistol;—the ball passed through the man's breast, and
he fell dead instantly without a groan. The report of
the pistol roused the servants, and they came running
in to see what was the matter. Woodville related to
them what had taken place, and with one accord they
all hastened up stairs, in order to discover what depre¬
dations the villian had committed. To the room in
which the young ladies slept, the one in which Wood¬
ville heard the disturbance, and through which he
chased the fellow, they first directed their steps. And
when they entered the apartment, Great God'
what a spectacle! they saw those young ladies, the
pride of a father's heart, and who would have added
new charms even to a prince's palace, lying in bed to¬
gether with both their throats cut, and weltering in
their blood!
WOODVILLE
107
By this time Doctor Rigglesworth made his appear¬
ance, and, aroused by the noise and bustle, Miss Julia
was awake' and silting1 up in the bed when the Doctor
entered, and approached to examine their wounds.—It
appeared that the instrument with which the wounds
had been inflicted was so exceedingly sharp, that the
yillain was enabled to execute his bloody purpose
without disturbing the slumbers of the fair subjects of
his brutal violence; and he would doubtless have made
his escape had not Woodville happily prevented it.
After Dr. Rigglesworth's examination, he declared
that Miss Ann, the eldest of the sisters, had received a
mortal wound. The large blood vessels of the neck
were cut entirely asunder, and had bled so profusely,
that very little animation remained. The incision in
Miss Julia's throat, however, was not so deep. It
seemed to have been made hastily, and was not consid¬
ered at all dangerous by the Physician. After many
unsuccessful efforts to restore the sinking frame of
Ann, Doctor Rigglesworth closed the incision in Julia's
throat, and secured it by a strip of adhesive plaster.
Woodville and the Doctor then retired, and, leaving
the lifeless Ann in charge of her sorrowing sister, and
the servants, went down stairs to examine the deceased
murderer. The Doctor ordered a servant to wash the
wound, and to put the body in a litter until morning,
while he and Woodville walked the porch as sentinels
the balance of the night.
Next morning when Julia descended the stairs, to
superintend the breakfast table, "Good Heavens!" she
exclaimed, as she looked upon the body of the lifeless
murderer; why its our neighbor, Mr. Davenport."
108
WOODVILliE.
Woodville and Dr. Rigglesworth looked at her and
at each other enquiringly.
"Well* well!" she continued, "the whole matter is
now explained."
"What matter, Miss Saunders?" they both asked.
"Why, gentlemen," said she, "this man and my fa¬
ther have a suit in court concerning an extensive tract
of land, of some thousand acres, and my sister Ann
and I were the most important of-my father's witnesses.'
"Yes; that solves the whole matter," said Wood¬
ville.
"Well, well;" added the Doctor, "the devil has got
his due, any how."
In a few moments the breakfast bell summoned them
to the table. Miss Julia, although greatly disqualified
by loss of rest, presided at the morning meal. After
partaking of an excellent breakfast, Woodville and the
Doctor, when about to renew their journey, approach¬
ed Miss Julia, and profered flo discharge their bills, but
she would receive nothing. Woodville then presented
her with a handsome gold ring which his mother had
given him, and took an affectionate leave of her and
departed. Early in the morning Julia had sent for her
parents; but they did not arrive until after Woodville
and Dr. Rigglesworth had started. The servant who
had been sent for them, went in such haste, and seemed
to be so much agitated when he reached the residence
of Mr. Jones, that he could not relate what had taken
place with sufficient coherence to be distinctly under¬
stood by his master. From all he could gather, how¬
ever, Mr. Saunders was induced to believe two travel"
WOODVILLE.
109
lers had passed the night at his house, and that some
terrible accident had happened there, and, as soon as
practicable, started with his wife, homeward.
When he entered his daughter's apartment, there sat
Julia, leaning upon the bed and weeping bitterly over
the corpse of her beloved Ann. The silence of death
reigned in the room uninterrupted, save now and then
by the sobs of the weeping Julia. Yes; Ann was now
dead. That voice, onee so sweetly tuned to love and
sisterly affection, mute forever; never, never to be
heard again. The last faint traces of animation had
now receded;—the pale rose had vanished from her
cheek; her coral lips had resigned their bloom. Those
limbs, once so graceful and agile, were touched by the
icy finger of dissolution, and presented a beautiful
wreek of the fairest work of creation.
"i>Iy dear child, did not I charge you to receive no
one that might call last night?" exclaimed Mr. Saun¬
ders, in a tone of bitter remonstrance, as he entered the
room with his wife.
"O my father! my mother! and have not you
heard it all yet? You are mistaken. The villain, Da¬
venport did it; and had it not been for the kind stran¬
gers who passed the night here, what would have be¬
come of us heaven only knows."
"Davenport!" exclaimed Saunders in surprise:
"and did the scoundrel escape?"
"No sir; one of the travellers, the youngest of the
two, shot him through the heart, and killed him just
as he was making his escape. The other stranger,
J
110
WOODVILLE.
who was a physician, endeavored to restore my sister
Ann to life, but as you see, could not succeed."
"Did you learn the names of these strangers, my
daughter?"
"The Doctor's name, I think, was Rigglesworth,
I forget the other gentleman's name, or else I did not
hear it. Just as they were about to start, thejT wished
to pay their bills, but I would not receive any thing.
The young gentleman who killed Davenport, then
presented me with this ring which I .have on my
finger."
"I wish they had waited 'till we arrived."
"I presume they staid as long as they could conven¬
iently; for they did not start 'till after breakfast."
"Well, it was truly fortunate that they happened to
be here," continued Mr. Saunders. "Davenport
thought, no doubt, that if he could get you and Ann
out of the way, he might very easily establish his
claim .to my land; but, thank heaven! an overruling
providence has put an end to his maliciols projects.
"I wish I could find out the name of that young man.
If ever I see him I will make him a present of half that
tract of land.
On the next evening the beautiful and amiable
Miss Saunders was buried, and the body of her mur¬
derer was sent to his own late residence, there to be
interred. After the funeral of his daughter, Maj. Saun¬
ders travelled some distance in the direction wThich
Woodvillehad come, and enquired at every house on
the road for his name, but no person could give him the
information he desired.
WOODVILLB.
Ill
Meanwhile Woodville, in company with Dr. Rig-
glesworth, pursued his journey. When he reached
Philadelphia he found a letter in the post-office, pur¬
porting to be from Miss Matilda Berrington, in which
6he discarded him, without assigning any reason what¬
ever, for so doing, lie suspected it to be a forgery,
either of Hanson or of so: le young man at L . Let
that matter be as it might, he determined not tore-
ply to this letter until he returned home. After making
such purchases as he designed, he prepared to return
home, with the intention of calling on Maj. Saunders
on his way; hut, for the sake of company, he finally
concluded to take a different route. When he arrived
at home, finding no letters in the office from Matilda,
he became very uneasy, and started off to L , im¬
mediately. When he reached that place, he heard
that a Mr. Davis from the South was courting Matil¬
da. This information greatly increased his uneasiness,
and he now began to fear, though it pained him to be¬
lieve that Matilda had really written the letter which
he had received, while at Philadelphia,
A few days after his arrival at L , Woodville
took a walk one evening, in company with Mr. C »
a young man of his acquaintance, and a citizen of the
place. During their walk, they passed the residence
of Mr. Ilunter. It was a fine evening, and a number
of young ladies were sitting in the piazza:—among
whom were Miss Matilda, and Miss Caroline Ber-
rington. Just as they passed by, Woodville heard
Caroline say; "sister, there goes Allison Wood¬
ville." He bowed to Caroline; but did not observe
that Matilda noticed him.
Next day he was standing in the store of a friend,
112
WOODVILLE.
when Matilda and another young lady came into pur¬
chase some articles. He offered her his hand, but con¬
ceived that she accepted it rather coldly, as she did not
even call his name. At first, he determined to attend
her from the store, but her apparent coldness caused
him to decline doing so, and the ladies at length re ¬
tired alone. Deeply depressed in spirits by so many
circumstances concurring to establish the authenticity
of the letter, he left the store, and wandered along the
shore of the river, until he reached the bridge. "While
there, meditating on his unhappy and truly romantic
situation, lo! here came Miss Matilda and several
other young ladies, accompanied by Mr. Davis.
Woodville thought, that, as the party passed to a dif¬
ferent part of the bridge, Matilda appeared to be a lit¬
tle confused at meeting him there. In a few moments,
she left her companions and went alone to another
window, and, after viewing the beautiful river for a
few minutes, she turned to Woodville, who still re¬
mained stationary at an opposite window, and askedf
"Do not you think our favourite S , at home, a,
much more beautiful stream than this, Mr. Woodville?'
"Yes, Miss;" replied Woodville, as he left his sta¬
tion and joined Matilda. " "I admire S , and the
scenery about it much more than I do this, with all the
accession of beauty which art has bestowed. My ad¬
miration of that stream, however, may probably be
owing to the many delightful associations which its
memory awakens."
"Allison, you appear dejected; what's the matter?"
asked Matilda, in a softer tone.
"Ah! Matilda, I'm the most unhappy man on earth!
WOODVILLE.
113
but time is precious:—name the hour when yon can
grant me an interview tomorrow."
"Allison, that is utterly impossible! but I'm permit¬
ted to walk in company with one of the trustees, on
sabbath next, and every sabbath evening. If you
wish an interview, come at that time to Mr. Hunter's,
where we may converse a few minutes, without inter¬
ruption. Mr. Davis now came up, and Matilda intro¬
duced him to WoodviJIe.
"The young ladies have commissioned me to inform
you, Miss Berrington, that they wish to return," re¬
marked the pompous Davis, as he offered Matilda
his arm. Matilda bade Woodville "good evening,''
accepted Davis's arm, and, as they turned away from
Woodville, Davis contrived to throw'his features into
a most gigantic expression of contempt. Woodville
stood as if rivctted to the spot, until they were entirely
out of sight. Then he cursed the day that brought him
to It , to behold, as he thought, his beloved Matilda,
as it were, in the a/rns of another. The proud heart is
the first to sink before contempt—it feels the wound
more keenly than any other can.—Oh! there is nothing
in language that can express the deep humiliation of
being received with coldness when kindness is ex¬
pected—of seeing the look, but half concealed, of
strong disapprobation from such as we have cause to
feel beneath us, not alone in vigor of mind and spirit,
but even in virtue and truth. The weak, the base, the
hypocrite, are the first to turn with indignation from
their fellow mortals; and whilst the really chaste r;nd
pure suspect with caution, and censure with mildness,
these traffickers in petty sins, who plume themselves
on their immaculate conduct, sound the alarm bell at
J2
114
"WOOIWILLK.
the approach of guilt, and clamour their anathemas
upon their unwary and cowering prey.
Woodville could' not conjecture why it was "impos¬
sible" for Matilda to grant him an interview the next
day. He thoqght it must be on account of a prior en¬
gagement with Davis. He was left to doubt every
thing. If Matilda did not love him, why did she call
to him across the bridge, merely to ask his opinion
about the river? If she did love him, why, when he
told her his unhappyH frame of mind, postpone an in¬
terview with him five or six days, and then grant him
only a few minutes conversation? He retired to the
Inn dejected and disconsolate,—could take no sup¬
per,—went to his room and threw himself into a chair,
near a window; where he sat, gazing upon the dim dis¬
tance, until the grey light of morning awakened him
from his painful reverie.
Next day he made young C , a merchant of
L , acquainted with all the circumstances of his
late courtship, and requested C , to accompany
him to Mr. Hunter's on the ensuing sabbath. C
agreed to do so, and th6y accordingly went. On ar¬
riving at Mr. Hunter's they found Matilda, Caroline,
and a number of other young ladies of the Academy,
in the parlour. C , agreeably to previous engage-
mentbetween himself and Woodville, proposed a walk.
The company unanimously agreed to walk, and a
Sulphur spring, about a mile from the town, was deter¬
mined upon as the place of destination. When they
arrived at this place, Woodville was much disappoint¬
ed to find that the distance was so short; for, as yet he
had not had an opportunity of conversing with Matil¬
da on the subject which most deeply interested him.—
WOODVILLE.
115
The penetrating C. soon discovered that Woodville's
object was not attained, and proposed eontinuing.their
walk a little farther.—To this the company all agreed,
except Mr. Hunter, the trustee. "His little son was
along, and complained of being tired." C. then pro¬
posed that Mr. Hunter should remain with his son at
the spring, until the party returned, to which the old
trustee finally agreed. As they started on, C. laugh¬
ing, whispered to Woodville, and said, " Ka! ha! Mr.
Woodville, the old fox is taken in for once, any how."
Woodville replied only by a significant nod, and join¬
ed Matilda in the rear of the rest of the company.-
Thus situated, an opportunity soon offered, and Wood¬
ville showed Matilda the letter he had received while
in Philadelphia, purporting to be from herself. So soon
as she read it,
"Allison!" she exclaimed, "it is a piece of vile forge¬
ry."
"Why did you not write to me, Matilda? What is
the cause of your long silence?"
"It may not be attributed to disinclination, Allison;
but to prudence, that I was so long silent. One even¬
ing some months ago, I retired to my room, and sat
down quietly to write to you, when the cry of "Fire!
fire!" was heard. I ran out of the room, leaving my al¬
most finished letter lying upon the table; and in the
hurry and confusion which the fire (which was close
by) occasioned, I entirely forgot it. Before I returned
to my room, Miss one of our female instructors,
who now boards at Mr. Hunter's happening to pass
through my room, discovered my letter lying on the
table, and took possession of it. This lady then told
116
ftOODVILIJS.
me that Mr. Hunter had charged hep to keep a strict
watch over me for some time in regard to my corres¬
pondence with you, and to inform him qf any thing
that took place—adding,moreover, that it was the spe¬
cial command of my father that she should do so. I
then determined to write to you no more, until an op¬
portunity of private conveyance offered; and, when
such opportunity offered, to write to you to come and
take me away from a place, which" my unhappiness
has taught me to detest."
"Oh, Matilda! dearest! and why did not I receive this
happy command?" enquired Wood.ville, anxiously.
"Be patient, Allison, and you shall hear all. A short
time after I came to this determination, the infamous
Hanson came to L, and visited the Academy. He
came into the room where all the girls from L. were,
and spoke to all except myself. While here I over¬
heard him tell my sister Caroline, that you were en¬
gaged to he married, shortly, to a young lady of R •
This statement, altho'made by a man, whom I could
not but despise, almost chilled my blood. This,
taken in connection with your long silence also,—shall I
tell it, Allison? caused me to doubt your sincerity.
"Wdiy, dearest, did you receive me so coldly, the day
we met in Mr. C 's store, as not even to mention
my name, and that too the first time we had met for
some two or three months?"
"The young lady who was with me was Mr. Hun¬
ter's daughter, and your name has become so exceed¬
ingly familiar in that gentleman's family, that I did
not mention it at that time from motives of policy,
rather than from coldness towards yourself?"
WOODVIIXE.
117
"The evening before we met in the 'store, I passed
by Mr. II's in company with Mr. G. and heard Caro¬
line tell you that I was passing: but you did not deign to
notice me, Matilda?"
11 remember the circumstance," replied Matilda,
•'and would have spoken to you; but MisS our
instructress, of whom I've spoken, the same who saw
my letter, was standing in the door."
"Why was it impossible," Matilda, for you to grant
me an interview on the day after we met at the bridge?"
"For this plain reason—after I saw you in the store,
I became so uneasy, and unhappy, that I violated the
express rules of the academy by walking-in "school
hours" without leave, hoping to meet with you some
.where, and as you know, fortunately, had the pleasure
of seeing you at the bridge. Having thus transgress¬
ed the laws of the Academy, in order to see you, I knew
that the school mistress would be so enraged, that any
attempt on your part to obtain an interview the next
day would be fruitless. Therefore, foreseeingthe con¬
sequences, I postponed it till to-day, though With much
reluctance, I assure you. Come, come, Allison, I think
you are too particular—too jealous. I have some char¬
ges against you also, which jealous love has almost
wrought into crimes."
Here Woodville entered into an explanation of his
conduct, giving as a reason for his long silence, the
reception of the forged letter in which she discarded
him. This Matilda admitted to be satisfactory.
During this conversation, the generous C — had
led the party two miles from town, down the river.
They had now reached a point on the margin of the
118
WOODVILLE
river, which commanded a beautiful view of this noble
stream where it makes a short turn, and for a distance
of some several miles, takes a straight course through
a collection of hills whose giant forms throw a perpet¬
ual gloom upon its tranquil bosom.
While gazing upon the quiet river, a small skiff" ap¬
peared gliding from among the cliff's, a few rods be¬
low the point were they were standing, and on the op¬
posite side of the river. The party hailed the negro
by whom it was guided, for a passage up to town-
The robust black answered their call, and, propelled by
afresh exertion of his muscular energies, the little boat
shot like an arrow across the stream-. When the skiff
reached the. 'point' where the party were stationed,
they descended the rocky precipice to the water's edge,
and entered it. The waterman then, with (he assistance
of one of the gentlemen, rowed the boat with its pre¬
cious burden up the river to the suburbs of the town,
where the party debarked, and resumed their walk
homewards.
"Matilda, it has been suggested to my mind, that this
Mr. Davis is the author of the letter I showed you.
Wliat is your opinion about it?"
"I have the utmost confidence in Mr. Davis' honor,
Allison; and I believe him to be a man of too noble a
nature to be guilty of an action so base."
"Ah! Matilda, did not you observe that dark frown
which rested upon his brow—the supercilious sneer
which lurked beneath that frown, when you took hi*
arm and left me standing on the bridge?"
"Indeed I did not observe it, Allison; he may have
WOOJDVILLE.
119
written the letter, but I never would have thought it.
When you showed it to me, I thought at first, and still
think, that Hanson wrote it, 01* at least dictated, and his
sister Mary wrote it. The hand is very much like Ma¬
ry's, although she has tried to imitate mine. You know
I told you, Allison, that Edward was here a few
months since. He might have mailed the letter here at
that time."
"It matters not, Matilda, who wrote it—since you've
declared it to be a forgery. I have always believed it to
be such, and have anxiously looked forward to this in¬
terview to calm the fears which such an occurrence is
calculated to excite. And I am happy to say, that no¬
thing could be more satisfactory to my mind than the
explanation you have given. And now, Matilda, I am
prepared to take that step which my circumstances
have hitherto prevented—am ready to execute the pur¬
pose with which you once intended to charge me, but
was prevented by some unforeseen event. I regret to
think, bowover, that this must be without the consent
of your parents."
"My affections are too firmly fixed, Allison, to be toss¬
ed about by any wind that blows. I hope my parents
will ultimately see the propriety ofthe course I take."
"Well, Matilda, so soon as you can make the neces¬
sary arrangements, let's be off*. When can you be rea¬
dy, dearest?"
"'All that I have to do, Allison, is to arrange a few
articles of clothing. That can be done in an hour or
two, and without incurring even the suspicion of any
one."
120
WOODVILLE.
"Well, well, tomorrow night, Matilda, tomorrow
night;—where will you meet me?"
"There is a beautiful cedar tree in the remote end of
Mr. Hunter's garden;—thither I will repair a little af¬
ter dark. From this garden, which is enclosed by
pales, a postern gate opens into a back street."
"Enough! enough!" exclaimed Woodville; "you
may expect me at the hour you name," he added, as
they emerged from a thick cluster of underwood within
a few rods of the spring, where they had left Mr. Hun¬
ter and his little son. The young couple had expected
that the old gentleman would, ere this, have become
wearied of waiting for their return, owing to their pro¬
tracted stay, and have left the spring. The latter part
of their conversation was delivered in a tolerable ele¬
vated tone of voice; but, whether Mr. H. heard it
or not, they could not guess from the expression of his
countenance. The rest of the company was several
yards behind Allison and Matilda. When they all ar¬
rived and gathered around the spring, the old gentle¬
man gave them a gentle reproof for going so far, and
the dark frown which clouded his features told how
harsh that reproof would have been had not others
been present, besides the young ladies under his care.
He then said,
"I hope your w-alk was a pleasant one, ladies?"
They all nodded positively, as Woodville replied;
"Very pleasant, sir, very pleasant, indeed."
The old gentleman looked at Woodville, then* at
Matilda, and shook his head very significantly as he
turned away, and said,
"Come;—let's return to town!"
WOODVIIXE.
121
CHAPTER XII.
"The hour is come !—Delay not thou ;
Clouds have o'erpassed my wasting brow,
The same in Faith, in Hope, in Love,
To thee on earth—to Heaven, above.
Dearest ! the time is brief—delay
Steals half our mortal joys away,"—
When men have once resolved upon a difficult and
dangerous enterprise, no time seems so tedious, as the
space between the determination and the execution.—
^Tever had one day seemed to pass so slowly to the
pnind of Woodville, as the present. All his business
arranged,—every preparation made for his nocturnal
elopement with Matilda,—he satin his room at the Inn,
and thought upon the many little incidents which had
occurred during his protracted courtship. He remem¬
bered his former poverty and obscurity, and the conse.
quent opposition of Matilda's parents. And now, that
he had, by his own untiring diligence, emerged from the
vale of adversity—had become comparatively wealthy,
and that, notwithstanding the continued opposition of
her parents, the hour was near which was to place her
in his arms, he considered it the consummation of his
felicity. Yet such was Woodville's character, that
even now,—in his happiest moments,—a dread hung
upon his mind: he seemed to experience a constant ap¬
prehension that something might take place, which would
blight his blooming hopes. He rose from the chair
where he had been reading listlessly the fragment of
an old newspaper, and with folded arms and down cast
eyes, traversed the apartment in a slow and thoughtful
K
122
WOODVILLB.
mood. He seemed lost in tliat vague and painful rev¬
erie, when the mind, too agitated to dwell on any one
subject, crowds past sorrows and future fears upon the
over-burthened present. He again sat down at a win¬
dow; and whilst he surveyed a lovely landscape that
reposed beneath his gaze, and contemplated the scene
before him, in connection with his project of elopement^
his mind gradually acquired a serenity which it had
not experienced for several days, and which much re¬
sembled that calm in nature, which succeeds a violent
storm. Woodville had indeed passed a dreadful,—
moral storm. For a length of time, his feelings had
experienced the most tumultuous agitation. But now
that he stood upon the very threshold of matrimonial
felicity, the clouds, which had so long obscured his
moral sky, seemed to roll away, and discovered to his
enraptured gaze, the long-sought haven of his rest.—
Faintly coloured like a dream of bliss, the rain-bow of
hope hung upon the departing storm, half-formed only,
however, as if fearful of yet giving promise of peace.
The ringing of the tavern-bell, announcing supper,
awakened him from his reverie. When he entered the
Hall, he imagined every eye was turned upon him, and
verily believed that every person, who eyed him rather
inquiringly, knew all qbout his intentions. He supped
lightly, returned to his room, and resumed his seat at
the window. He had been sitting here nearly an hour,
and the shades of night had begun to obscure the more
distant objects, when his faithful old domestic, Ned,
who now journeyed with him in the character of cha¬
rioteer, rapped at the door.
"Who comes there?" asked Woodville.
"Oh, ho! have I found you at last, Massa Allison 1
WOODVILI.E.
m
"Why, I've been a-hunting uv you eber since supper-
time, and nobody couldn't tell me whar you went," be
said, as he opened the door and entered the room with
an awkward grin.
"Now Massa Allison, what I'm gwoin to tell you, you
may pend on, it's' true as I'm a livin critter, for I seed it
wid my own eyes."
"Saw what, Ned ? Tell me," said W'oodville:
"I saw him, sir, ride up to de door down here, and git
off his horse. I know it's him;—you knows I've seed
him a many, a many a time, and ought to know him
well as any body knows any odder body. It's true,
sir; true as if preacher Farrington had a said it."
"Whom Ned ? whom did you see ?"
"Why, who else, but Mr. Berrington."
"Psha ! Ned, no such thing,—impossible,—Mr. Ber¬
rington is full three hundred miles from here; you've
been asleep and dreamed it, surely."
"No, sir, I didn't dream it; but if I had a dreampt it,
'twould a been all one;—for you knows my dreams al¬
ways comes true. No, sir; oh no, sir; I didn't dream
it."
"Did you speak to him, Ned?" asked Woodville,
smiling at his servants earnestness.
"No, sir, I didn't speak to him, I don't believe he seed
me; and you know you told me not to be a talkin to
ebery body, for fear I'd say soinethin datl oughtn't to.
And den you know I'd let 'de cat out o' de wallet. No,
sir, I didn't speak to him. After he got off o' his horse*
124
WOODVIIXB.
here come a little old lookin man, drest in a green frock
coat and brown trowsers, running -cross de street, and
he shook hands wid Mr Berrington like he was mighty
glad to see him. Dey bofe den went to de corner o' de
street, and stood dar talkin togedder a good while. I
didn't know who de udder man wuz, nor I didn't hear
what dey talked about nuder; but I speck de old man
wuz tellin Mr. Berrington somethin about you, and I
was so afeared dat dey would capsize all o' your pro-
jekins, arter all, dat I thought I'd better come and tell
you 'bout it."
"Well, well Ned, let them epilogue as much as they
please. Gro you to the stable;—harness the horses, and
remain there quietly till I come."
As Ned departed to obey the orders of his master,
Woodville felt rather despondingly. The information
he had received, at first so indifferently, now seemed
to have acquired greater importance in his estimation;
and he found it necessary to rally his spirits preparato¬
ry to the execution of his contemplated project. As he
descended the stairs, he felt much at a loss to know
what apology to make his landlord, for so abrupt a de¬
parture, and at so late an hour. With such feelings he
entered the bar-room, and seating himself beside his
host, asked him if a traveller by the name of Berring¬
ton had arrived since supper.
"No, sir," replied the host; "no person has stopt
here this evening. I saw a horseman stop at the Inn
on the opposite side of the street just now, however:
but I do not know who he was."
'This did not at all remove Woodville's uneasiness;
but tended rather to increase it. Under the influence
WOOBVU.I.E.
125
of stich various emotions, he put his hand into his pock¬
et and drew out a letter. It happened to be one that
he had received while at Philadelphia from his father,
in which the old gentleman informed him that his mo-,
ther was quite unwell.
"A letter from home, Mr. Woodville?" inquired his
host. This inquiry of the landlord respecting the let¬
ter, was a fortunate circumstance;—it suggested to
VVoodville.a happy idea, and as the event will show,
tended greatly to relieve the anxiety of his mind.
"Yes, sir; a letter from my father," responded "Wood¬
ville.
"Does it bi'ing you any .news, sir?"
"Yes, sir, bad news,—very bad news indeed. My
father states in this letter, that my mother is very ill. I
must start home this night, sir, without delay. Can't
tarry, sir; must be off to night." said Woodville, as he
rose from his seat, and looked around with a hasty air.
The celebrated moralist, Mr. Paley, would probably
say, that Wbodville, in his reply to thelandlord's inqui¬
ries, had committed a breach of truth. His own con¬
science, however, did not accuse him of the commis¬
sion of such a crime.
Having thus extricated himself from an unforeseen
dilemma, he settled his bill with "mine host," and with
' 4 7
a light heart and quick step, bent his way to the stable.
"Come, come, Ned," said he, as he entered the stable,
I verily believe Berrington is in town, and if so, I fear,
me, we shall meet with some difficulties. Therefore
what we do, must be done quickly. Ned, come, come,
K2
f26
WOODVILT.B.
boy; hurry! hurry! The night advances,—it's now
quite dark,—come, let's he off!"
"Well, now, Massa Allison, which way shall I drivel"
asked Ned, as he mounted his seat in front.
^Take the road, we came, Ned, until you reach the
commons, where I'll give you further directions."
Meanwhile Matilda anxiously awaited the hour of as¬
signation and her contemplated elopement. The young
ladies of the Academy,—those who had been with her
the evening before during their peregrinations, and had
observed Woodville deliver to Matilda for perusal, the
piece of forgery which he had received from 3u ,
while at Philadelphia, now firmly believed that all their
former conjectures concerning Matilda and Woodville
were erroneous;—that Woodville was Hanson's confi¬
dential friend, and that in this character he had become
the bearer of the letter, which they saw him hand Ma¬
tilda, from that gentleman. And, moreover, Mr. Han¬
son's having visited L a few months previously,
tended greatly to strengthen this opinibn. The girls
ardently sought Matilda's pardon of the many sarcastic
remarks they had made in allusion to the subject, and
congratulated her on the reception of a letter from her
beloved.
"How is Mr. Hanson, Matilda?" asked some of them:
"When do you expect Mr. Hanson, Matilda ?" asked
others:
Pleased with the deception, Matilda, with admirable
tact, turned it to her own advantage, and gave curren-
' cy to the opinion which they entertained.
"My dear Edward, the charming youth, is very well,"
WOODVILLE.
127
she would reply to their inquiries; "very well indeed,
and informs me that he expects to visit L shortly."
Thus did Matilda divert the minds of her young asso¬
ciates. She passed the day with strangely mingled
emotions. She looked forward to its close with trem¬
bling anxiety. She feared that something migh£happen
—that Woodville would in the hurry of the moment,
neglect something of importance, that ought to be at¬
tended to particularly. She went frequently to the
window of the school-room, and looked out without
objector design. With every little noise heard in the
streets, her timid heart experienced an intermittent at¬
tack of Bob DermonVs bumpings. At the usual hour, the
girls dispersed to* their respective homes. Like some
fair being from a purer clime, Matilda wandered up and
down the long avenue, in front of Mr. Hunter's dwel¬
ling, with an assumed, air of pensiveness, but really
with the most agitated feelings. Whenever an object
met her view to which she felt peculiarly attached—a
particular tree, for instance, on which she had carved
her own name, and the initials of another, dear to her
heart; or, a favorite rose-bush, or bed of flowers, she
would stop for a moment and gaze upon it, as if loath
to leave"it behind. "Lovely trees! beautiful shrubbery!
and sweet, •sweet flowers ! Farewell, farewell!" she
said in a sorrowful tone, and as she said it, she stooped,
and plucked from its stem a penciled lilly, and placed
it in her bosom. "There rest thee, beautiful thing i
nearest Matilda's heart, until thy withering, drooping
petals shall emblematize her withered heart, her cruel
destiny!"
Although Matilda had no ties of a social character to
bind her heart to L , yet, so enthusiastic was her ad¬
miration of the wild beauties of nature, which so emi-
128
tVOODVILLE.
nently characterized its vicinity, that the contemplation
of her departure, always cast a shade of sadness ovpr
her mind.
Ever since her earliest betrothment to Woodville,
she had regarded the continued opposition of her pa¬
rents, as an insurmountable obstacle to their union. As
a dutiful child, she had ever promised her father, that
she would never marry without his consent. Wood¬
ville, however, possessed the most unlimited influence
over the object of his love; and his irrepressible anxi¬
ety and impatience, had led him to exert that influence.
Thereby as we shall see, she was induced to take that
step, which her own jndgment, undel different circum¬
stances, would have disapproved. And even now, on
the very eve of her elopement, notwithstanding she en¬
tertained the highest regard for Woodville's honor,
yet, such was her sense of filial duty, however influ¬
enced by motives of ambition and avarice her parents
might be, that, when reflecting on the subject, she seem¬
ed to have some prelusive intimation, some gloomy
foreboding, that a transgression in this instance, would
be attended by a tragic termination of the affair.—And
again, since she had resigned herself to Woodville's
care, the thought recurred, perhaps, some luckless inci¬
dent might happen to prevent their escape; and then}
the insulted vanity and pride of her mother, might goad
her on to the direst extremes. This fearful apprehen¬
sion of Matilda, is clearly implied in her language to
the lilly, which she placed in her bosom. Yet her faith
was pledged to Woodville, and her purpose remained
unshaken.
Such were her feelings as she entered her chamber,
where her sister Caroline, and Miss Davis, her room-
WOO»VIJL,LE.
129
mates, were sitting1. The present, was a time for ac¬
tion, rather than deliberation with her; She had not
courage to communicate her feelings and intentions to
Caroline, even had she desired to do so. She sat down
at the table where the girls were studying, and took up
a book, and appeared to be diligently employed in pre¬
paring the recitations which had been assigned her for
the next day. There she sat with her elbow placed upon
the tablet and her head resting upon her hand, and ap¬
parently as much composed, as though nothing had
ever happened to disturb the tranquillity of her mind,
until her associates had retired to bed.
She now rose from her seat.* She put on her bonnet,
and wrapping herself in a light cloak, crept stealthily
over the floor, lest a treacherous echo should betray
even the light tread of her fairy footsteps to the sleep¬
ing household; and the creaking door of her chamber
having yielded silently to her careful hand, she found
herself in safety upon the external staircase of the
house,—paused only to gird her shoes more tightly on
her feet, and stole quietly down into the yard below.
■"What will not woman,' gentle woman, dare,
When strong affection stirs her spirit up?"
In another moment Matilda was at the cedar tree, the
place appointed to meet Woodville. The bright star¬
light rendered every object distinctly visible. When
she reached this tree, she paused a moment to look,
around her, and collect her thoughts. The heavens
were cloudless and serene, and a death-like stilless rest¬
ed on every object. Not even the sighing of a passing
breeze;—not the rustling of a falling leaf interrupted
the awful silence. "Has he betrayed me said Matilda?"
and, as she spoke, she started, for a step approached
130
TVOODVILLB
her; and as she turned her head, Woodville himself) in
all the pride of manly beauty, and all the-exultation of
triumph, stood before her.
"No, no, dearest!" he exclaimed, "he has not betray¬
ed thee! Let us tarry not,—time flies. Come, let us
also fly." The coach awaits us," he said, as he seized
her by the hand, very unceremoniously, owing to the
agitation ofhis feelings, and led her to the postern gate,
through which they passed, and entered the carriage.
"Drive on, drive on, Ned! Fly for your life, my faith¬
ful old fellow," exclaimed Woodville, as the carriage
wheeled along the streets with all imaginable velocity.
And now with the most unbounded joy did their
young hearts leap within their bosoms.—
"So through the livelong night they held their way,
And 'twas a night might shame the fairest day,
So still, so bright, so tranquil was its reign,
They eared not though the day ne'er came again.
The moon high wheel'd the distant hills above,
Silver'd the fleecy foliage of the grove,
That fair-faced orb alone to move appeared,—
The rattling wheels, the only sound they heard.
Oh ! when all Nature sleeps in tranquil smiles,
"What sweet, yet lotty thought the soul beguiles.
There's not an object, 'neath the moon's bright beam,
There's not a shadow dark'ping on the stream,
There's not a star that jewels yonder skies,
Whose bright reflection on the water lies,
That does not, in the lifted mind, awake
Thoughts that of love and heaven alike partake ;
While all its newly waken'd feelings prove
That Love is Heav'n and God the soul of Love.
In such sweet times the spirit rambles forth
Beyond the precincts of this grov'ling earth;
Expatiates in a brighter world than this,
By fancy- consecrate, a world of bliss."
So felt our lovers, as they sat in the carriage, sailing
along the smoothe road, beneath the moonbeam's love-
WOODVILLE.
131
ly smile;—while the postillion drove them at a rapid
rate, by a diligent application of his whip to his noble
steeds. Never had they experienced such unmingled
pleasure, since their earliest acquaintance,—never had
that enjoyment seemed to be so far removed from the
grosser realities of life. Woodville gazed with ineffa¬
ble delight upon the fair form and lovely features of
Matilda, as the cloudless moon shone full upon thenij
and the lustre of her sparkling eyes spoke a language,
which he alone could interpret.
"How far have we cornel" enquired Woodville:
"Ten miles, sir," answered the jovial black :
"Now, dearest, we are safe," said Woodville to Ma¬
tilda: "and I care not where my lot may be cast, so
thou art safe, and I with thee."
"Ah, Allison, I fear me that something yet may hap-:
pen, to blast all our fondly cherished hopes; but that
fear shall not mar my present enjoyment. Since we
have a few snatches of pleasure vouchsafed unto us,
let's not abuse these happy moments, by the admission
of causeless fears."
"Yes," replied "Woodville; "causeless indeed is
every fear at such a season as this."
Thus passed the night with all the raptured joys that
fill a lover's heart. Alternately they conversed, and
gazed upon the sky, studded with stars, and upon the
scenery which they illuminated, in silent contempla
tion. Matilda listened with wrapt attention to Wood-
ville's remarks on the beauties of the scenery, and his
soft tones of love, pure as angels' thoughts, stole on her
willing ear like sounds from heaven. Such holy collo¬
quy,—such delicious musings were the prominent char-
132
WOODVILLE.
acteristics that alternated the scene we have attempted
to describe. And the heart-cheering anticipation of
their nuptials, which they expected to take place at a
village in their route about noon the next day, contrib¬
uted largely to their present happiness. How then, oh,
how, can it be told, that their happiness was transient!
Joy is but for a moment; happiness is like the electric
flash, which lures our spirits to soar for an instant in
other regions, and then all is midnight darkness: such
is the destiny of man—such it has ever been I
The morning mists were slowly rising from the dull
plain through which they, were posting, as Allison and
Matilda were whirled along the road; and when the
thin grave veil of vapours was slowly updrawn, a clear
bright-eyed morning seemed glancing from beneath it.
The last wreath of mist had now disappeared, and the
beautiful hills displayed their undulating outlines upon
the clear blue sky. The lovers were not insensible to
the beauties of the opening morning: Matilda wel¬
comed the mild spicy breezes, as they streamed thro'
the rich foliage of the trees, pouring their snatches of
welcome freshness upon the fevered forehead, whilst
Woodville silently contemplated the charming scenery,
and gazed with intense admiration upon the eastern
sky, as it began to be illumined with transitory streaks
of inimitable splendour. They had now passed the dull
plain of which we have spoken, and were slowly as¬
cending a hill by a winding road, which commanded a
fine view of a lovely valley below, when, as the postil¬
lion endeavoured, by a dexterous movement, to pre¬
vent the carriage striking a stump which stood in the
road, a long cracking noise was heard beneath it.
"Stop, stop, Ned, instantly : or we are all lost," cried
woodville.
133
Woodville, hurriedly. "See what's the matter, boy
something is broken, surely*"
The driver checked his horses and examined,
"By my horses' hoofs, Massa Allison, the linchpin is
broke right in two, and I'm mightily afeared deres no¬
body 'bout here, dat can mend it agin. Its jist one mile
to de next house; but how'l we git dare ? dats de ting,"
said Ned, with unaffected solemnity.
"Come, Ned," said Woodville, as he leaped from the
carriage,—"this will never do boy,—no time to tarry.
We must try to fix it in some way, until Ave reach the
pext house."
■ In a few moments the broken pin was taken out, and
another made of solid maple, for temporary use, sup¬
plied its place. Woodville took his seat, and they
slowly pursued their way till they arrived at the tavern.
"Is there a blacksmith's shop in the neighborhood
sir where I can have a linchpin mended?" inquired
Woodville, of the landlord, as they entered the house.
"None nearer than three miles ahead," replied "mine
host."
As Matilda was now much fatigued from the inordi¬
nate exertion of the past night, and felt it necessary to
take some rest before proceeding any farther; and as
there was no other house of entertainment within less
than fifteen miles, Woodville concluded that on the
whole, it would be best to remain here, until Ned should
go to the blacksmith's, and have the pin mended.
"Go boy," said he to Ned : "make haste Ned,—take
134
•WOODVILLR.
one of the carriage-horses, and lose not a moment.—
Tell the blacksmith to mend it as quickly as possible,
and return you in all haste."
"Stay! stay!" said the landlord; "stranger, if you
are in a hurry, let the boy take one of my horses while
your's are feeding."
"Thank you, sir," said Woodville j "thank you for
your kindness," and turning to Ned, "Go boy,—do as
the landlord says, and do it quickly."
Breakfast over, Matilda retired to a private apart¬
ment, to seek that rest which she so much needed :—
And Woodville, after lying on a bench in the porch for
nearly an hour, arose from his recumbent posture, and
was not a little fretted and vexed, to find that his ser¬
vant had not yet returned. Impatient on" account of
his protracted stay, he left the tavern, as Matilda now
reposed serenely beneath its roof, and strolled along
the road, in the direction which his servant had gone.
He had walked probably a mile, when he turned round,
and from an eminence, looked back at the tavern he
had left, and saw several horsemen ride up to the door
and dismount. "Surely we are pursued," he said, des-
pondingly, and quickly retraced his steps. He ran,—
he leaped with all the agility of a mountain antelope,
and all the agony of despair.
WOODVILLE.
135
CHAPTER XIII.
Misfortune, like a creditor severe,
But rises in demand for her delay;
She makes a scourge of past prosperity,
To sting thee more, and double thy distress.—Young1.
It appeared that Mr. Hunter had actually over-heard
the latter part of the conversation of the young couple
as they issued from the thick growth of underwood, in
the vicinity of the spring, on Sabbath evening; and
although he could not gather any thing from it of a de-
Unite character, yet he thought the ground sufficiently
substantial, upon which to rest his suspicipns, and to
warrant a greater degree of watchfulness. However, he
forebore to mention this to Matilda, as he had that day*
unknown to her, received a letter from her father, stating
that he would be at L , in the course of a few days'.
The person whom Woodville's servant saw closely
conversing with Mr. Berrington, in low whispers* a*
the corner of the street, as the reader may perhaps al¬
ready have conjectured, was Mr. Hunter. So soon as
he heard of the arrival of Mr B. he hastened to commu¬
nicate to that gentleman the intelligence, 'thatWood-
ville was in town,—to make him acquainted with the
circumstances which had taken place since he had been
there, and his consequent suspicion, regarding the issue
of the affair. The news of Woodville's abrupt depar¬
ture had not as yet reached either of these gentlemen.
Mr. Hunter assured Mr. Berrington that his daughter
was still at his house; that she was strictly watched by
himself and family, and that he doubted whether Wood-
136
"WOODVILIiE.
ville would attempt an elopement that night, as he had
hitherto seen no particular symptoms of it. Satisfied
with this, Mr. Berrington remarked that, as he was
much fatigued from riding, he wott'd defer visiting his
daughters until the next morning.
It was a tolerably late hour when Mr Hunter return¬
ed home, yet he could not think of retiring for the night
without, in the first place, sending to the young ladies
the pleasing intelligence of the arrival of their father.
The servant girl, who was sent to bear this news, not
knowing that the young ladies had retired to rest, flew
into their room in so precipitate a manner, as to awak¬
en and alarm them amazingly. "Miss Caroline, Miss
Matilda," said the servant, "young ladies, my master
has sent me to tell you that your father is in town, and
that he will be here early in the morning to see you."
The girls were so much frightened by being awak¬
ened so suddenly, and receiving Mr. Hunter's message
.so unceremoniously, that they both uttered a loud
scream.
"Where is my sister, Edith?" asked Caroline, ad¬
dressing .the maid.
"Your sister, Miss Ben-ington?" responded the maid,
enquii-ingly ; "your sister is in bed with you, and fast
asleep, surely,—where else ?"
"No, she is not here," said Miss Davis; "we left her
sitting at the table, reading, when we came to bed."
"Heavens !" exclaimed Caroline, as the awful truth
flashed across her mipd; "my sister is gone, and, I sus¬
pect, has run off with Wood ville."
DVOODVILLB.
137
By this time Mr. Hunter was aroused by the uncom¬
mon noise, and ran up to the head of the stairs and call¬
ed to the servant.
"Halloo! Edith, Edith!" he cried: "what's the mat¬
ter there, girl."
"Miss Berrington, Miss Matilda Berrington, sir, is
gone,—is run off with that gentleman," the girl replied,
as she issued from the room, which was now all alarm,
consternation and fear.
"Tell the young ladies to come down stairs, Edith,"
Mr. Hunter said ; "and we will enquire into it."
"Come, come, Caroline, dry your tears," he said, as
she and Miss Davis entered the parlour, weeping, "and
tell me how this lamentable occurrence has taken place
and in so quiet a manner ?"
"Indeed I do not know sir," she replied, as distinct¬
ly as her afflicted feelings would permit. "Miss Davis
and I went to bed early and left my sister sitting at the
table, preparing her lessons for tomorrow. I know
not where she is gone; but I fear me she has eloped
with Mr. Woodville."
"Did she say nothing to you about such an intention!"
"Not a word, sir."
"Nor to you, Miss Davis?"
"No, sir."
"Nor to you, Edith?"
"No, sir, she did'nt say nothing to me about it. As I
L2
138
WOODVlLTiE.
come in the house about dark, I thought I saw one of
the young ladies go out the back door; but it was so
dark that I could'nt tell which one of 'em 'twas.
That's all I know about it, sir."
"The affair is perfectly plain,—she is gone, and I
have no doubt that Woodville is her fellow-traveller:
but; mark me girls', I now go to tell her father of the
circumstance," he said, as he took his hat and started
towards the door; "and these eyes shall not be closed
in sleep until we hear some tidings of the unfortunate
girl, whether those tidings be good or bad. Go back
to your room girls, and let not this freak of your rude
sister disturb your mind, Caroline." The old man de¬
parted, the girls, however, did not take his advice;
but as every restraint was now removed, they yielded
to the feelings which the late occurrence had excited.
"Mr. Berrington,—Mr. Berrington,—softly spake
the old trustee, when he had reached Mr. Berrington's
lodgings, as though afraid of alarming him, by awaken¬
ing him too abruptly.
"Mr. Berrington!" he exclaimed in a more elevated
tone:
"What do you want?" asked the half sleeping, and
half waking worshipper at the shrine of Morpheus.
"Come, Mr. Berrington, rise and put on your clothes,
and then I'll tell you what I want."
"Is it you, Mr. Hunter? and why do you come at so
late an hour, sir?" "Berrington asked as he rose from
the bed.
"I come, sir, to bear you the most afflicting tidings."
WOODVILLE.
139
"Dear me! dear me!—say no more, sir, I understand
you perfectly,—I comprehend it all. I've long feared
it would turn out so, yet, Matilda pledged her word
that she would not elope with him,—would not marry
him without my consent.
"We have no time to lose Mr. Berrington. They
have already considerably the start of us. We must
be in pursuit of them as soon as possible, or relinquish
all hopes of overtaking them. The night is fine.—
the road excellent. I have a first rate riding horse,—
we can certainly travel faster than Woodville's car¬
riage, and will, no doubt, overtake them before noon
tomorrow. I will borrow a horse of my neighbor, Mr.
Hamner, for your daughter to ride back if we are suc¬
cessful. I will also get your landlord to accompany us,
who will cheerfully render any assistance in his
power."
"Do you know what direction they took?"
"No sir, not certainly; but it is presumable that they
took the most direct road to R . Come, now we'll
go down stairs and waken the landlord, and while he
is ordering the horses I'll step across the street to the
other tavern, and make some inquiries respecting
Woodville's route."
"Mr. Perkins," said Mr. Hunter, addressing the
landlord; "tjiis gentleman's daughter has run off with
a young man from R . We are about to start in
pursuit of them, and wish you to accompany us."
"With pleasure, sir;—with much pleasure. My ser¬
vices are at your command, Mr. Berrington. How
long since your daughter set out, sir?"
140
TVOODVILLR.
"Indeed I do not know, sir," replied Eerrington, and
at the same time looked at Mr. Hunter, inquiringly.
"They must have started, sir, about nine o'clock,"
Mr. Hunter rejoined.
"I was just observing to Mr. Eerrington, Mr. Per¬
kins, as we were coming down stairs, that while yon
were ordering his and your horses, I would go to the
tavern across the street, the house at which Mr.
Woodvilie boarded during his stay in town, and make
some inquiries respecting his route." -
"Do sir, do;" said Mr. Perkins, "and you, Mr. Eer¬
rington, take a seat and wait till he returns. In the
mean time I'll go and order the horses."
"Has not Mr. Hunter returned, Mr. Eerrington!"
asked Perkins, as he entered the bar-room.
"No, sir; I cannot think what detains him."
"Gentlemen, I fear I have wearied your patience,"
•aid Mr. Hunter, as he entered a moment after; after
going to the tavern where I received the desired infor¬
mation, I went home to get my horse, and neighbor
Hamner's poney. Now gentlemen, if you are ready
we will start."
"Did you hear which way Woodvilie went, Mr.
Hunter?" asked Eerrington, as they left the door:
Yes sir,—his landlord told me that he had taken the
direct road to 11 ."
WOODVILtE.
141
CHAPTER XIV.
"But it is ever (thus with happiness,
It is the gay to-morrow of the mind
That never comes."
Matilda was awakened from her slumbers, by the
loud talking of a number of voices below stairs, at the
tavern where they had stopt to rest, while the necessa¬
ry repairs of the carriage were being made.. She was
not a little alarmed and surprised when she distinguish¬
ed among them the deep, guttural tones of her father's
voice.
"Good heavens !" exclaimed the frightened girl: "by
what strange and mysterious Providence is he brought
hei*e at such a time 1 I believed him to be at home.—
He made not the remotest intimation of an intention to
visit L in his last letter to me" she said, as she arose
from the bed.
"Miss Berrington, your father is down stairs," said
her hostess, as she entered the room:
"I know it, Madam," she replied, despondingly.—
"And where is Mr. Woodville?" she asked.
"I do not know, Miss; I saw him about half an hour
ago walking down the road. I suppose he's gone to
meet the servant."
"My God ! what is now to be done," said Matilda to
herself, almost audibly: and, as she said it, she looked
sorrowfully upon her hostess, and motioned her to
142
tVOODVILT.R.
leave the room. The good lady, being entirely unac¬
quainted with the circumstances, and consequently feel¬
ing herself unable to administer consolation, silently de¬
parted, leaving the unhappy girl to her own gloomy re¬
flections. At one time she hoped that the discretion of
the landlord would be exerted in their favour, and that,
by remaining quiet for a I ttle while, her father would
probably leave the house without finding her.- But the
next moment she heard him demand in an elevated tone,
"Where is my daughter?"
Matilda had now risen and was standing near the
window, awaiting the result in anxious, trembling sus¬
pense, when those words fell on her ear. Terrified to
the utmost extreme, she stood as if her feet were nailed
to the floor; and the purple current of life seemed to
creep, drop by drop, along its faded course.
In a few minutes the door opened and her father fol¬
lowed by Mr. Hunter, entered the apartment. She
made an effort to recover herself, and as her father ad¬
vanced, drenched in a torrent of tears, she threw her¬
self on the floor before him ; and her dark curls waved
over his feet, while she entreated his forgiveness, and
to be restored to his favour.
"Dry your tears, girl," said Berrington, harshly :—
none of your romantic capers here. Rise, and get
ready to return to L- , instantly."
"Oh! dear father, do wait till Mr. Woodville re¬
turns," the trembling girl implored, as she arose.
"No: not one minute will I wait on Woodville. lie
merits no such attention. So, prepare to start without
further delay."
"Dearest father, what earthly objection can you or
mother have to Mr. Woodville? If wealth be your ob~
WOODVILLE.
143
jeot, be can command at this time a capital equal to
your own. Since he left Ia , he has been engaged
in
"Let me hear no more of if; but do as I bid you, in¬
stantly. Come Mr. Hunter let's go down stairs and
take a luncheon before we set out," said Berrington, as
they left, the room.
The .unhappy girl, now finding that all further re¬
monstrance with her father would b^ perfectly useless,
resolved to submit to his will without another murmur.
What untoward circumstance induced Allison to leave
the Inn, and what could possibly detain him, she could
not conceive. She remained in the room until her fa¬
ther had sent for her two or three times, hoping that
Woodville would soon return and put a stop to his pro¬
ceedings. But Woodville caine not; and at length
she was obliged, though with a reluctant step, to de¬
scend the stairs and join her father and his fellow-trav¬
ellers below.
When she entered the room where they were sitting,
she felt like on arrested criminal. In a few minutes
they were all mounted and on their way back to L .
How altered were Matilda's feelings and prospects
from what they were when she travelled this road
which she now so reluctantly retraced. Then, she ex¬
perienced all the happiness which a successful under¬
taking is calculated to inspire :—now, all was midnight
darkness to her soul. The future, to her, seemed to be
enshrouded by an awful gloom, to which not one solitary
ray of hope lent its benignant smiles. Her father had told
her that in a few days he intended to return home and
take her sister Caroline and herself with him. From
her mother she expected nothing but reproaches of the
144
WOODVILLB.
most bitter character. In addition to this, the cruel sar¬
casms of her former associates, and, then, the addresses
of Hanson wouldtif possible, become more importunate
than ever. And now, that her timid soul was rendered
more sensitive by her recent defeat, she could not look
upon it but with the most fearful apprehensions. When
she reached the top of the hill before mentioned,, she
turned her head and looked back in the direction which
Woodville had gone, and said to herself, "Farewell
Allison, welcome disappointment and despair !" About
noon the next day they arrived at L . Berrington
immediately wrote to his wife, told her what had
taken place, and urged her to send his carriage speedi¬
ly to L , to take his daughters home.
A little while after they had left the Inn, Woodville's
servant, Ned, who had been sent to get the linch-pin
mended, arrived. Let the reader imagine his utter con¬
sternation and confusion, when the landlord related to
him the incidents which had occurred during his ab¬
sence.
"Well, I reckon the vile knaves, the hard-hearted
monsters hadn't the impudence to take my master pris¬
oner, too? Did they?"
"Your master! no; your master was not here at the
time, nor has he been here for the last two hours."
"Why, I wonder whar he went to !"
"I do not know indeed, where. My wife says she
saw him walking down the road this morning, a little
while after you started, but no one knows where he
went."
Ned listened in wonder and amazement to this rela¬
tion of the Inn-keeper, and when he had finished,
WOODVILLE
145
"Well, well; massa, give me a good drink of the
critter, and I'll go and hunt for him. O, the poor lad!
what new sorrows are kept in stpre for my poor,
wretched massa."
"Here's to Massa Allison's good luck in time to
come," said Ned as he turned up his glass and drained
its contents.
"What, Ned, does all this mean ? I dont understand
it. Did your young.Master run off with this lady ?"
"Yes, sir, he did so, and we travelled hard all night
for fear dey would overtake us. But it all would'nt do,
sir. Dey cotched up wid us al ter all. Wuz de gals
daddy along?"
"Yes."
"I knowd it, I knowd it. I told Massa Allison dat
Mr. Berrington wuz in town, for I seed hirn wid my
own eyes; but he wouldn't believe it. I knowd datde
old man would be arler his datter as soon as he heerd
she wuz gone."
"What is the reason Berrington is so much opposed
to your master's marrying his daughter?"
"Massa Allison aint rich enough for 'em, sir, aint rich
enough. The Berringtons look high, sir. Can't look
upon dere equals wid any sort o' placency. Dey want
de gal to marry Ned Hanson. May be you knows de
man ?"
"No, I don't know him, Ned."
"Well, I thought a'most ebery body knowd him: for
he's mighty well knowd in ebery grog-shop in S——.
M
146
WOODVILLE.
Dey say he's gone to Fillydelphy now, to larn how fur
to be a Doctor. Well, sir, dat's de man dey want de
gal to marry, jist fur kase he's rich."
At this moment Woodville entered the room.
"What detained you so long, Ned?" he asked as he
walked in.
"What retained me! Why, Massa Allison, I got
here afore you did, sir."
"I'd better ax what retained you, sir: or, what on urn
der de sun took you away at sich a time ?"
It appeared that Woodville, when returning to the
Inn had taken the wrong road. A road much broader
and plainer than the one leading to the tavern; but be¬
ing in a very depressed and thoughtful mood when he
traversed it in pursuit of Ned, be had not observed it.
Thus was he deceived, and led off some two or three
miles from the Inn, in a very different direction, before
he discovered his mistake.
"Why, sir," continued Ned, "Mr. Berrington and
some udder men come while we wuz gone, and took
the gal away."
"Good God," exclaimed Woodville, "and they were
the men I saw from the top of the hill two or three
hours ago. Yes, I expected; but that accursed road
deceived me, and now I'm undone, undone! What did
I say? Undone! No; not until she herself discards
me will I give up the chase.' Ned! I say, boy! Go
bring out the horses, and let's be off in pursuit of them.
And did the sweet girl go without a murmur?" asked
Woodvile, as he turned to the landlord.
WOODVILLB
147
"No, sir, she begged her father to wait till you return¬
ed ; but it all wouldn't do. Not one moment would he
wait."
"O, the sweet creature! I'll overtake them this night,
or kill my horses in the attenlpt."
"Do calm yourself, Mr. Woodville, for a few minutes,
and hear me. I think I can convince you of the impro¬
priety of such a course. Mr. Berrington, to judge from
what I've seen of him, is a haughty, arbitrary man.—
Add to this he is armed. He has a high sense of the
laws of parental duty, and influenced by them, he might
be tempted, should you make an attack upon them, to
commmit a deed which would forever destroy the hap¬
piness of her you love."
"I know the laws of honour, sir;—the best of all the
code is to defend the oppressed. Matilda is oppressed
—most cruelly oppressed and ill-treated by the very
guardians which nature has given her. Say nothing
more, sir, for go I will, were the road on either side
lined with tigers and hell-hounds."
"Mrs. , the landlady, entered the room at this
moment.
. "Is this Mr. Woodville?" she said, addressing her
husband.
"Yes;" replied the landlord, "he is the gentleman."
"Here is a letter, sir, that the lady left with me when
she started, and directed me to give it to you." Wood¬
ville broke the seal and read as follows:
"Dear Allison :
I scarcely know how to address you. My feel¬
ings at this moment may be more easily imagined than
described. It need not be said that they are painful;
148
WOODVILLE.
for you know that they are most ^superlatively so.—
Nevertheless, while my father is waiting- below, I hasten
to trace a few lines. By an inscrutable Providence, it
appears that I am destined to return to L , immedi¬
ately.—Since my father and Mr. Hunter arrived, I have,
and perhaps foolishly, wished your return. Perhaps
it is best that you are not iiere.
From my intimate acquaintance with your disposi¬
tion, I know that, so soon as you return and hear what
has happened during your absence, your whole soul
will be set on fire. I know that your noble spirit, now
bowed down by another disappointment, will almost
be coerced to seek its proper level by revenge. I very
well know how to appreciate the feelings and motives
which would prompt you to pursue us; but oh, my dear
Allison! for my sake, if not for your own, let me en-
treat you to pursue us not. My father Is now so enrag¬
ed, that any attempt of the kind, would be unsuccess¬
ful. Therefore I pray you to return home, and remain
there quietly, until the dreadful storm is past.
Frequent, disappointments have humbled my proud
heart, and taught me resignation to the divine will.—
And I now feel prepared to bear all that may be impos¬
ed upon me. 31y father told me just now that he in¬
tended to set out for S , with sister Caroline and
myself in a few days after our arrival at L .
Comply with my request, and remember, that, while
all is not lost, all is ultimately retrievable. Adieu.
Yours truly,
MATILDA."
WOODVILLK.
149
"5>ince Miss Berrington gives me the same advice
that you have Mr. , that is to give up their pursuit,
and presents to my view the impropriety of it, in so
strong a light, I feel more inclined to continue my jour¬
ney homeward."
"Do so, sir, and, my word for it, you will never re¬
gret it."
'•This is indeed a-strange world. Pleasures of short
duration seem to present themselves only to punish us
with regret for their departure."
"Your remarks are justified by the experience of the
world, Mr. Woodville. I admit it does seem to-be as
you say; but whether it is really the case, I'm some
times disposed to doubt.-—Hope, of all passions, most
befriends us. Without the excitement of hope, w^
would be the most miserable creatures in the universe
of God. What, think you, sir, would be your state of
mind at this time, were not your spirits, in some measure
at least, animated by the hope of ultimate success?—
Most pitiable indeed! But there is a medium in all
things. Persons, whose minds are of a sanguine cast,
are sometimes so transported, so elated by this inspir¬
ing principle;—and a certain combination of circum¬
stances, appears to render every thing so certain, that
they are unwilling to admit the slightest apprehension
of failure. And it often happens that, with such per¬
sons, the loquacious exultation- of anticipated success
proves to be the most powerful obstacle todts attain¬
ment.
On the other hand, there are persons who, however
elevated their hopes maybe, are so extremely cautious,
so exceedingly fearful of doing wrong—of taking
M2
150
WOOimCLE.
some unfortunate step which would ruin their prospects
in life, that they seldom do right. As I saicf before, sir,
there is a medium course to be pursued in all things;
and if we are so fortunate as to adopt it, we need fear
nothing; for the mind is then prepared for whatever
may befal it."
Woodville nodded assent to the incoherent disserta¬
tion of his kind and sympathising host.
"Well, Massa Allison," said Ned, as he re-entered,
in a tone of voice which seemed to be modulated to an
accordance with his master's feelings, "Well, Massa
Allison, de horses are ready,—I've got de linch-pin well
mended, and I don't tink it'll break agin soon. Will
you please to start now, sir?"
"As the day is so far advanced, Ned, and I feel so lit¬
tle. disposed to travel at this time, I believe I'll postpone
leaving until to-morrow morning. You may return the
horses to the stable, boy. I've concluded to give up
the pursuit, and to continue my journey homeward."
"Very well, sir, I'll do as you bid me,—you know
what's best," he replied as he walked out.
iyoodvilie.
151
CHAPTER XIV.
' "The firmest heart will fail
Beneath misfortune's stroke, and stun'd depart
From its sage place of action."
"Let me know all; and thou
Shalt give thy plaudits to my self-renouncement,
And willing sacrifice."—Fletchev.
Next morning at an early hour Woodville was on
his way home.
A few days after the occurrences of the last chapter,
the Misses Berrington set out for their native village}
in company with their father. Mrs. Berrington, as Ave.
have seen, was already made acquainted with the at¬
tempted elopement by a letter.from her husband. So
delighted was she at Woodville's ill-success, that she
sent for Mrs. Hanson immediately, to communicate to
that lady the happy news, concerning which she
doubtless felt deeply interested.
"Good evening Mrs. Hanson," said Mrs. Berrington,
as the former lady entered the apartment. "Good even¬
ing Madam. I have the finest news for you, Mrs.
Hanson, you ever heard in your life. Here, Madam,
just read this letter if you please," she said, as she hand¬
ed her the letter which she had just received from her
husband.
"That is really fine," remarked Mrs, Hanson, folding
up the letter after she had finished its perusal. "But
how narrowly, Mrs. Berrington, must your daughter
woodville.
haveescaped. She and Woodville had proceeded so
far on their way, before they were overtaken."
"Yes, narrowly indeed; bat thank heaven! she is
now safe. Moreover, my husband'will now, no doubt,
compel the naughty girl to receive the addresses of your
son Edward.
"Do you really think so, Mrs. Berrington ?
"Indeed 1 do Madam," she replied:
"And shall I see my son, Edward, united in marriage
with your daughter, the fairest, the most amiable of her
sex? Oh! too much happiness !"
Thus would the two mothers cajole and flatter each
other, little regarding the happiness of the unfortunate
•Matilda. Just at this moment, Mrs. Hanson's servant
entered and handed her a note, which she hastily read.
"Oh! Mrs. Berrington, Mrs. Berrington!" exclaimed
Mrs. Hanson, rising from her seat; "my dear Edward
has just arrived from Philadelphia. He has completed
his medical studies and is now ready to commence the
practice. I must hasten home and tell him the glad
news which you have just placed in my possession.—
Oh! how it will delight his heart! Orood evening, Mrs.
Berrington, and do call to see me more frequently."
"My visits at your house, Madam, are always attend¬
ed with the greatest pleasure, and I have often regret¬
ted that the multiplicity of my domestic concerns, ow¬
ing to the absence of my daughters, has hitherto pro-
vented my visiting more frequently. However, mj
daughters will be at home shortly, and will share with
me the domestic toils. Then, madam, I hope to enjoy^
AVOODVILLE.
153
in a greater degree, the pleasures which visiting always
affords me. Tell your son, Mrs. Hanson, that 1 should
be extremely happy indeed to receive a visit fromhiin
—that my doors will always open spontaneously to re¬
ceive such a guest.. However, I presume he would
prefer postponing his visit until the young ladies return,
rather than subject himself to the pains of spending an
hour in the society of a disagreeable old lady." The
ladies then shook hands very cordially as they parted
at the doori
Two or three weeks, probably, after this visit, Mrs.
Berrington was sitting one evening in her parlour,
when a rap was heard at the outer door, and a moment
after a servant opened the parlour door, and ushered in
Mrs. Hanson attended by her son Edward, now Doc¬
tor Hanson. I must acknowledge my inability ade¬
quately to describe the scene which followed. Many
"were the endearing epithets, employed by Mrs. Ber¬
rington, in addressing herself to Doctor Hanson, which
Avere artfully mingled with a due proportion of disguis¬
ed compliment. She commented at great length on
the advantages of a city residence,—the polish of man¬
ners, and the many personal accomplishments which
even a temporary residence in the city of Philadelphia
is calculated to bestow. ::And I am happy to find,"
added the lady, "that my dear Edward has availed him¬
self of the advantages of his situation."
She then digressed into a discussion of the merits of
the L • female Academy, and anticipated the rapid
progress which her daughters had indeed made in their
studies.
"I've understood through my mother, that you expect
the young ladies home, shortly," remarked Hanson.
154
■WOODVILXiE.
"Yes, sir;" answered Mrs. Berrington, "I've been
looking for them to-day, but I suspect they'll hardly
reach home before to-morrow."
She had scarcely ended these words, when the car¬
riage drove up to the door.
"There's the carriage! there they are now!" she ex¬
claimed, as she rose from her seat, and hastened to the
door to give the girls a welcome kiss. Mrs. Berrington
received both her daughters with the most unaffected
marks of maternal regard. Mrs. Hanson arose and
met the girls at the parlour door, and after kissing them
both, she turned to Matilda and said,
"How happy am I, my dear child, to see you returned
in safety and in health to your father's house!"
"And most unhappy am 1," thought Matilda; but she
forbore to express her feelings.
Owing to the general bustle, Doctor Hanson had
hitherto remained unobserved by the girls. He now
advanced and bowed most profoundly. He was dress¬
ed in the newest fashions of Philadelphia, and present¬
ed such a ludicrous appearance, that Matilda, notwith¬
standing her present feelings, could not help smiling as
she received his salutation. To this smile Mrs. Han¬
son and Mrs. Berrington were pleased to annex their
own interpretation.
"Surely her father's threats, else his persuasions have
wrought a happy change on her mind," thought Mrs.
Berrington. "And I'm very happy to see it," looked
Mrs. Hanson.
After ten thousand how d'ye do's addressed to the
young ladies, and as many congratulations offered Mrs.
WOODVILLE.
155
Berrington,—Mrs. Hanson and son - departed,—not,
however, without urging Mr: and Mrs. Berrington, and
daughters to take tea with them the next evening.
Matilda and Caroline then went up stairs to their
own rooms to put off their riding habits, whither their
mother soon followed them. Matilda, so little was she
acquainted with the human heart, that she could not
conceive what could have occasioned such an agreea¬
ble change in the feelings and conduct of her mother
towftrds her. Hitherto her manner had been harsh
and repulsive;—but now it was quite the reverse. She
had expected that reproaches, for her recent conduct,
would have been showered upon her,—whereas, noth¬
ing of the kind occurred. It all seemed to be enveloped
in mystery. The fact is, Mrs. Berrington had repeat¬
edly tried what menaces would effect, and found them
to be unavailing. She, therefore, resolved to adopt a
different course, and try what could be done by per¬
suasion.
"Well, hlatilda, dearest," she said, as she entered
Matilda's apartment, "your old beau has returned, it
appears, and oh, how altered he is ! He's not like the
same being. He is so much improved,—his manners
are so fine, so polished, so accomplished, And
could you but be engaged in conversation with him
for half an hour, you would be completely fascin¬
ated. Why, my dear, all the girls in the village
are "setting their caps for him. And happy indeed
w.ill be his envied bride. But his mother has hinted to
me that he intends to address you. Now, do, my dear^
for your poor mother's sake, do encourage him. Just
consider how it will delight your poor old father's heart.
Do my love; comply with my request, and I am cer-
156
W00DV1LLE.
tain you'll never repent it. Will you my dear!" Af¬
ter a few moments of silence, which was interrupted
only by an occasional sigh from Matilda, the unhappy
girl replied,
"Mother," she said in a solemn tone, "my father and
I had a long conversation the other day as we were
riding along in the carriage on this subject. He told
me that, if another attempt to elope with Mr. Wood-
ville was made, I would incur his everlasting displeas¬
ure; and that, if I did riot accept Mr. Hanson, coercive
measures would be adopted. He also reminded me of
a promise I made sometime ago, never to marry with¬
out his consent. I told him that my warm affection for
Mr. Woodville had,completely obscured my judgment
■—I implored his forgiveness, and repeated the promise
of which he had reminded me. He seemed to be sat¬
isfied, and nothing more was said on the subject. But
oh, my dear mother, what shall I do, when filial duty,
on the one hand, commands, and the affections of my
heart tenderly, yet not less strongly incline me to the
other? The path of duty is plain, mother; plain as I
could wish it, and I will try to pursue it. I will sub¬
mit: yes. I will submit, and, as cheerfully as I can, to
my parents' will. I will comply .with your request,
mother, I will encourage Mr. Hanson's visits,—will
even give him my hand; but my heart he can never
have."
"Thank you for that, my dear," said her mother smil¬
ing : "If you are now willing to bestow upon him your
hand, I know that his fascinating manners and the con¬
sideration of his altered character, cannot fail to win
your heart."
"If I am destined to spend the rest of my life with
woodvillb.
157
him, that would indeed be a happy circumstance; but
the remembrance of the past can nevef be erased from
my mind," Matilda replied.
"The memory of the past!" repeated Mrs. Berring-
ton; "to what do you allude, my dear ?"
"To his dissipation, particularly, mother."
"Fie, fie, Matilda," she said, good humoredly; that's
all a fabrication. And, even" if it were once true, it is
not so now."
"Perhaps not," added Matilda, despondingly.
"Come, come-my love, cheer up, and do not look so
down-cast. You have a long life before you, and many
happy days."
"I do not know indeed mother,—my prospects ap¬
pear rather gloomy at present."
And thus the conversation ended. Early next morn¬
ing a servant entered the parlour and handed Mr. Ber-
rington a note, which he opened and read aloud to his
family, who were all sitting around the table.
"Mr. and Mrs. Hanson send their compliments to Mr
and Mrs. Berrington, and request the pleasure of their
company, and that of their amiable daughters, this eve¬
ning at tea. As your daughters and my son have just
returned home from a long absence, we have deter- ,
mined to give them a party, and will invite all the young
people- of their acquaintance."
"We]l done," said Mr. Berrington when he bad con¬
cluded. "How do you like that, wife ?"
N
158
vrooDviixB.
"Oh, admirable ! Nothing' could please me more.-^
What a noble, generous creature Mrs. Hanson is 1"
•■'Will you go, girls?" Mr. Berrington asked:
"Certainly, sir;" they both replied.
"Well wife, its time you were preparing for it; for
you are generally taken by surprise in such matters."
Berrington's house was all bustle and confusion until
the hour arrived for them to join the party at Hanson's.
Berrington ransacked his store in. search of ribbands
and laces to equip his daughters.. At length the ap¬
pointed time rolled round and away they went. When
arrived at Hanson's they found a large and gay com¬
pany already assembled. Many interesting little inci¬
dents occurred during the evening, which we will not
take time to relate. Suffice it to say, that the evening
was spent pleasantly, and that, the characters present,
—I mean those who have hitherto acted the most con¬
spicuous part in our tale, were, to use a trite and vulgar
phrase, "on their p's and q's." But Matilda, poor girl,
could not at all enjoy herself. It appeared that nothing
about her could avail to remove the impenetrable gloom
which spread itself over her mind.
The party at Hanson's was succeeded by another at
Berrington's. And thus did one party succeed another
until nearly every family in the village had given one.
A short time after this, Matilda was one evening sit¬
ting at a window, (her windowj, up stairs, and musing
as [she gazed about listlessly, when she saw a tall
young gentleman enter Barrett's store. In a few mo¬
ments he returned to the door and kissed his hand to
WOODVILLE.
159
her. ■ He then turned round again and took his hand¬
kerchief from his pocket and placed it on the desk.
"Thjs must be Allison,'1 thought Matilda: "yet I am
almost certain he is not in town. If it be he, this move¬
ment surely intimates a desire to see me. He has not
forgotten his old manoeuvres yet, I* perceive. Well,
I'll go to the grove at all events."
Yes, it was Allison, and Matilda met him in the grove,
but not as'formerly. Here, even here, in this lovely
place, where they were tvont, in by-gone days, to re¬
peat again and again their holy vovvs as they came
warm and fresh from the heart, was destined to be the
spot, where they were to part forever.
Allison, unobserved, saw Matilda approaching him,
and was about to leave the tree behind which he stood
concealed, and advance to meet her, when he caught a
glimpse of Her countenance, whose death-like paleness
startled him, and caused him to hesitate. In another
moment he grasped her hand and pressed it to his lips."
"Oh, Matilda, dearest! and am I once more blessed
with seeing thee."
The expression of Matilda's countenance, was re¬
pulsive, as she said,
"Mr. Woodville, speak not thus to me."
"Why, Matilda 1 Did not you tell me in your letter,"
"Allison, hear me. This is doomed to be our last
meeting," she said with firmness :
"And have I been so long deceived by you, Matilda?
That ancient elm can attest my own sincerity. Have
160
tVOODVILLE.
you thus designedly duped pie, and betrayed my confi¬
dence?"
"No, no; dear Allison," you wrong me. Matilda is
what she .has always seemed to be. She loves you
still,—loves you ardently as ever the heart of woman
loved, but thine she can never be."
"And why?"
"Because the laws of filial duty forbid it."
"Filial nonsense!" added Woodville, contemptuous¬
ly. "Your regard for filial duty has suddenly become
vastly scrupulous. Ah! Matilda, some other reason
lies concealed beneath that you offer. Ned Hanson has
returned, Matilda; and is 'mightily altered too, they
say;"—said Woodville with a bitter smile.
It is our nature, when we do not 'know what may
happen to us, to fear the worst that cah happen; and
hence it is that uncertainty is so terrible that we often
seek to be rid of it at the hazard of certain mischief.
"Oh! Allison, why do you talk so?" asked Matilda
sorrowfully;
"Why do, I talk so? Why, girl, it's the common
theme of every gossip in the villgae. It's as plain as
the light of day,—clear as yonder cloudless moon rid¬
ing in the heavens, and vainly endeavoring to out-shine
the brilliancy of thy sparkling, cruel eyes. I under¬
stand it all. Heaven's and Woodville's curses rest
upon thee«" he said, and as he said it, he turned from
Matilda and plunged into the grove, and was no longer
seen through its darkness.
WOOJDVUXE.
161
"Stay, stay, Allison!" exclaimed the unhappy girl;
"do stay, and hear one word more before you go but
Woodville was now beyond.the reach of her feeble
voice.
Doctor Hanson embraced the first opportunity to re¬
new his suit, and Matilda was compelled to receive the
offer. The day was soon fixed for the celebration of
their nuptials, and for some weeks previously, the two
families were employed in making extensive prepara¬
tions. All, to J;he eye of a superficial observer, wore
the aspect of happiness unalloyed, of joy, and earnest
congratulation; but Matilda, whenever she beheld the
bridal hour in perspective; experienced an inconceiva¬
ble horror.
The morning at length dawned; the sun rose splen¬
didly, and was soaring in a sky unchequered by a cloud,
and the birds were singing cheeringly, as sporting
gracefully amidst the clustering foliage of woodbine
that shaded the window of her apartment, they seemed
in chorus to hail the bride elect, with blessings the most
auspicious; while beneath, earth's surface presented a
scene at once animated and beautiful; flowers of varie¬
gated hues, and the richest tints shed a fragrance alike
sweet and refreshing. At any other period, Matilda
would have regarded a scene so radiant in grace and
beauty, with sensations of delight; but the thought of
being on the point of sacrificing her felicity at the shrine
of filial duty and affection, intervened and occupied her
mind with ideas equally painful and anxious in their
nature. With all the native delicacy of her character,
she shrunk from the contemplation of. her own pur©
heart, and buried in its inmost recesses her heaven-bora
affection for Allison Woodville.
K2 '
162
VOODVILliR.
At the appointed hour, reckless of the splendid para¬
phernalia in which she was arrayed, she suffered her¬
self to be conducted mechanically to the foot of the
stairs where Hanson met her, and led her into the Hall.
The appearance of the young couple created a general
bustle among the crowd assembled. A few moments
of awful stillness succeeded, and all was over. Matil¬
da was now the envied bride of a detestable and de¬
tested groom. Her doom was sealed irrevocably; and
dark, and deep, and changeless was the gloom wThich
possessed her soul. Under existing" circumstances
many incidents were constantly occurring to perplex
and torture her mind.—But what was all this, compared
with the unexpected estrangement of Woo'dville?—
What she had been to him,—how kind, how conciliato¬
ry, how fprvently faithful,—what she had trusted to
find him to herself in her hour of need,—tender, and
firm, and encouraging,—what she now beheld him,—
stern and indifferent;—these were the contrasts which
occupied her heart; which pprplexed, and grieved, and
bewildered her comprehension; till she coldly with¬
drew her faith in earthly excellence, and turned sick¬
ening from the empty hollowness of the world. Could
she have received at this time but one kind word from
Allison, one approving smile, it would have contributed
greatly to her support under her present trials. But
that was impossible.
W00DVIL1E.
163
CHAPTER XV.
"The heart may languish, and the eye may weep,
For those whom heaven has called from life and care;
Yet there's an earthly pang than these more deep,
Which sharpens sorrow, and which brings despair,
Which wrings the heart, and lays the bosom bare.
Yet 'tis.not death; each living man must die,
Death culls the sweetest flow'r, the form most fair;
The one deep cloud, which darkens every sky,
Is changed affection's cold averted eye."—Anon.
It appeared tliat Woodville had misinterpreted the
conduct of Matilda towardshimself. He was strangely
impressed with the idea that some untoward circum¬
stance had occasioned a revolution in her feelings.—
From several sources he had learned that Hanson, since
his return, was an accepted visitor at Berrington's
houset This in connection with what Matilda told him
in thegrove, he thoughtXyas evidence sufficiently satis¬
factory, and without investigating the subject farther,-
rashly bade her an eternal adieu. Had Matilda dis¬
carded him, his course would have been justifiable.—
And we see no reason why he should not be justified at
any rate; for he certainly believed it to be so, and con¬
sequently experienced all the bleeding cares of a re¬
jected suitor.
Woodville and Mr. Hemingway, his partner in the
mercantile business, who had accompanied him to
S ' ■, did not utter a word as they rode homewards:
but frequently exchanged looks of mournful import-
Hemingway was as yet unacquainted with the result of
Woodville's visit. It needed notf telling; for it was
well understood from the deep and earnest anguish
164
WOODTILUE.
which overspread, as a pall, the countenance of poor
Allison.
"And was it for this she professed to love me—and
was it for this I thought of her day and night—and
would the Almighty suffer an unholy love to enter the
heart of such a girl as Matilda, who looks more like an
angel than an earthly woman? Oh, Matilda! Matilda!
I can never see you more! Hemingway, my good fel¬
low, don't sport with my feelings! I'll go to sea; I
can't remain at home,—must travel somewhere."
"Do you propose a dissolution of our mercantile con¬
nection?"
After a moment's pause Woodville replied,
"Yes, sir; I reckon 'twould be best to do so, as il Is
very uncertain at what time I shall return."
"And are you really in earnest, Woodville?" asked
Hemingway.
"I am, sir; I've always desired to take a trip to sea
and have always intended to do so, if this project (you
understand me) proved unsuccessful."
"What will become of your old parents, if you leav
them ?"
"You do not suppose that I never intend to return I
hope, Hemingway ? Oh, no; that is far from my In¬
tention. My purpose is to spend a short time in foreign
regions. I think a change of scenery and climate will
probably make an agreeable change in my feelings. J
will endeavor to persuade my father to give up the tav¬
ern and purchase a small farm, a short distance from
WOODVlLLE.
165
the village. He is now too old to give his attention to
the management of an Inn, and I think a quiet and re¬
tired life would be much more agreeable to my mother's
feelings. So soon as I can get these matters arranged
in a manner most pleasant to all parties, I shall set out
for one of the eastern cities, whence I shall embark for
Europe." -
Woodville and Hemingway agreed to dissolve part¬
nership, and in two weeks from the time of which we
are speaking, he had effected the change he desired in
the situation of his parents, had settled all his business,
and was ready to depart.
On the morning that he commenced his journey, his
father entered his room and addressed him in a sorrow¬
ful tone,
"Well, my son, do you leave us to-day V' he asked.
"Yes, sir," replied Allison :
"Well, my dear boy, it grieves my poor old heart to
see you go; but if you think it will relieve your aching
bosom, I will not urge you to stay. Go, my boy, and
may God bless you. If I live to see you safely return¬
ed, I'll tell you a tale which you will like to hear; but
now I cannot do it."
Allison did not appear to regard this remark of his
father at the time; for it was a custom with the old
man, in Allison's younger days, to spend many a long
winter evening, when his other business would permit,
in entertaining him and his young associates, with sto¬
ries of the earlier settlers of the western country.—
Whether this promise of his father imported any thing
166 woonviLUJ.
of greater consequence, the sequel will develope. Al¬
lison took an affectionate leave of his aged parents and
started;
"And many a blessing followed him,
The day he went away."—Burnt. .
"W00DT1LLB
16?
CHAPTER XVI.
"Such "were those prime of days."
There are few faults so unpardonable or so unpar¬
doned in a writer as that of dullness; and throughout"
the story with which I am presuming to weary my rea¬
ders, I confess I have felt "accountant for as great a
sin." I have roused myself,—rallied my drooping
mind, reproved my flagging pen,—but without success.
Yet it is no fault inherent in the scene or personages of
my tale which has thus "sicklied it o'er with a pale
cast." Without violating the unities of time or place,
I might have animated its prosy details by more novel
and inviting descriptions.
Our western world affords a thousand landscapes
among which, at another time, I should have delighted
to revel; (and, at no distant day, I hope to enjoy this
pleasure, provided I be blest with the sweet society of
my gentle reader): but here I have suppressed the ex¬
its and entrances of a thousand minor actors of the
drama, who might have been the cause of wit in others,
and have afforded at the same time very original speci¬
mens illustrative of western character and manners
and individual comedy. For whenever I have medi¬
tated such an entree, or such details, my spirit hath
shrunk rebuked by the impulse of its own levity.
My story is « true one; true as far as regards its prin¬
cipal facts; and it, therefore, shuns such adventitious -
ornaments as grace the more lively imaginings of Ac-
168
WOODVILXE.
tion. If it is consequently rendered too cold and mo¬
notonous for the taste of those unto whom it is ad¬
dressed, let them lay it aside;—I feel myself incapable
of amending* my fault.
The morning that Woo Iville commenced his journey
was passing beautiful. The birds sang merrily as they
skipped from branch to branch among the trees that
skirted the road, as if endeavoring to beguile him of
his misery; but nought could avail to awaken in his
bosom a single tone ofunisonor sympathy. To Wood-
ville's restless and afflicted heart every thing about him
looked uninteresting; and all the uses of this world
seemed as flat and unprofitable, as they have done to
every victim of discontent from the days of Hamlet
until now. A thorn was in his heart;—and never more
painful than wjhen striving to assume a tone of merri¬
ment with such persons as travelled with him an occa¬
sional mile or two, in the vain hope of disguising the
secret anguish of his feelings. He often looked back
upon the lost paradise of his innocent boyhood,—those
glorious hours, when the clear and unruffled river of
his life mirrored the cloudless heaven of his hope.—He
remembered the pride he-had taken in Matilda's distin¬
guishing and lavish affection;—the fervour with which
he had watched over her happiness;—the deep joy
with which he had recognised the superior purity of
her mind;—the trust—the ardour with which he had
anticipated his marriage hours!—and shuddered as he
contemplated his present frame of feeling.
O, how darkly come the grievous clouds of suspicion
and distrust over the fair heaven of youthful love!—
With what profound disunion may a word,—a look,—
an inference,—sever the ties of copfiding affection,—
those sweet and boly hoods wbich, of all human im-
WOODVILLE.
169
pulses, appear the worthiest of immortality. The pee¬
vishness of an idle hour will overcome the remem¬
brance of years of untiring* patience and exclusive de¬
votion ; and like the son of Thetis, Love himself is
doomed to perish by a puerile wound, however bravely
he may have resisted fiercer attacks,—however strong
his buckler may have proved against a more heroic
enemy.
"Yes," thought Woodville as he rode along, "my lot
is indeed a hard one. Yet, I know not that I ought to
blame Matilda. Her parents have treated her so cru¬
elly. It would not at all surprise me if they have forced
her to marry this Hanson. I love Matilda;—yes, I can
say I love her still. I love her tenderly,—truly,—against
my own judgment,—against my very will;—but still,
with a changeless affection. I dream not that the love
of years can be rooted out in an hour,—that feelings
which have engrossed my whole heart, my whole ex¬
istence, can be blown away by a blast of angry breath.
No, no; I love .Matilda,—and yet, I hate her too. It
pains my very heart to think she would ever have be¬
trayed my confidence. No; 'twas not herself,—I can't
believe it. Then I must exculpate her, and cast all my
animadversions upon her infernal parents."
Such were Woodville's feelings when he reached
the city of New York. He sometimes blamed him¬
self,—sometimes Matilda,—and sometimes her parents.
At New York he was detained several days, having
some business of ancient date to settle.
So soon as he got on hoard the vessel in which ha
was to sail, and was quietly seated in his cabin, he ad¬
dressed a few lines to Matilda, (now Mrs. Hanson), ex-
O
170
WOODVlIiIiE.
pressive of his feeling's, and subjoined the following
little poem, somewhat altered from the original which
It is said was written by a lady of England, on a simi¬
lar occasion:
"Ah! 'within my bosom beating,
Varying passions wildly reign;
Love with proud resentment meeting,
Throbs by turns with joy and pain.
Joy! that far from foes I wander,
Where their taunts can reach no more;
Pain! that my fond heart grows fonder,
When its dream of bliss is o'er.
Love by fickle fancy banished,
Spurn'd by hope, indignant flies;
Yet, when love and hope are vanished,
Restless mem'ry npyer dies.
Far I go where fate shall lead me,
Far across the restless deep;
Where no strangers' ear shall heed me,
Where no eye for me shall weep.
Proud has been my fatal passion,
Proud my injured heart shall be;
Whilst each thought, each inclination,
Still shall prove me worthy thee.
Not one sigh shall tell my story,
Not one tear my cheek shall stain;
Silent grief shall be my glory,
Grief that stoops not to complain.
Let the bosom prone to ranging
Still by ranging seek a cure;
Mine disdains the thought of changing,
Proudly destined to endure.
Yet, ere far from all I treasured,
Dearest, ere I bid adieu!
Ere my days of pain are measured,
Take the song that's still thy due.
Yet believe no servild'passipns
Seek to charm thy vagrant mind;
Well I know its inclinations,
Wav'ring as the passing wind.
I have loved thee, dearly loved thee,
Through an age of worldly woe;
How ungrateful I have proved thee,
Let myj mournful exile show.
WOODVILLE.
171
ThrCfe long years of anxious sorrow,
Hour by hour I counted o'er;
Looking forward till to-morrow,
Every day I loved thee more.
When with thee, what ills could harm me,
Thou couldst every pang assuage;
But when absent, nought could charm me,
Every moment seemed an age.
Often hast thou, smiling, told me,
Wealth and power were trifling toys;
When thou fondly didst enfold me,
Rich in love's luxuriant joys.
Fare-thee-well, ungrateful rover,
Welcome, Europe's distant shore;
Now the breezes waft me over,
Now we part to meet no more."'
The voyage was performed with safety and cele¬
rity; and the vessel was soon anchored off the city of
Dublin. From thence he went to Edinburgh, where, he
received great civilities from many eminent persons
and distinguished families, having letters of introduc¬
tion from his numerous friends and acquaintances in
New York, lie then travelled farther into Scotland;—
he visited Aberdeen, and some of the northern lakes:
the Highlands also, and some of the western Islands.
He returned to Edinburgh, after a long but not unpleas¬
ant journey, where he spent a few days more and then
set out for London. Here he attended the theatre, the
hall-room,—the operas. Week after week rolled away
in one incessant round of amusement, until three
months had expired. Thus did he endeavour by con¬
stant diversion to ease the melancholy pang which
g-oaded his bosom. To Hath, the celebrated watering
place;—the seat of elegance and fashion;—the great
resort of persons of rank and fortune, both for pleasure
and health;—to Bath he next directed his steps. There
he spent but a few days, and returned to London, and
then went to York in the North of England, which is
173
TVOODVJIAB.
the winter residence of a great number of gentry of
those parts. And thHs he dashed about from place to
place, tasting, drinking of) indulging in one cup of pleas¬
ure, then dashing it from his lips and taking another
with all the caprice, the wayward folly and fickleness
of a petted beauty.
At York he spent the rest of the winter as pleasant¬
ly as could be expected under existing circumstances.
The habit of dissipating every serious thought by a
succession of agreeable sensations is as fatal to hap¬
piness as to virtue; for when amusement is uniformly
substituted for objects of moral and mental interest,
we lose all that elevates our enjoyments above the scale
of childish pleasures; each individual learns to con¬
sider himself as the sole spectator of the great drama
of life; and he sits and beholds, laughs and mocks, en¬
joys or yawns through a worthless existence; then
sinks into the grave despised and forgotten.
This Woodvillefelt, and felt it keenly. He therefore
resolved to abandon his present course. He did so;
and, in company ofseveral young Englishmen ofnoble
descent, set out for Greece, to assist those worthy de¬
scendants of'Miltiades, Epaminondas and Thrasybulus,
in their struggle for liberty and religion.
Greece was once the glory of the world, the deposit
of all that is excellent and useful in the Arts, Literature
and Science. Her generals, her statesmen, her phi¬
losophers, her historians, her orators and poets, still
shine the most brilliant luminaries in the splendid con¬
stellations of heroes and sages; and still continue to
attract the eyes of the world in delightful retrospect to
that small spot on the maps of ancient Europe, over
■WOODVILLB.
173
which the splendour of her fame is spread dazzling as
the lightning's glare.
Greece, the ancient land of liberty, where Homer
and Pindar sang*, where Socrates and Plato taught,
and where the thunders of Demosthenes overwhelmed
the boasted projects of. the tyrants. The American
youth derive their very nourishment from her breasts,
their understandings are instructed by her sages, their
imaginations cultivated by her bards, their noblest
ambition fired by her glories, and their taste fashioned
after her purest models. The elegant scholar, the pro¬
found statesman, the finished orator, and the interesting
historian, are proud to acknowledge their debt of grati¬
tude to the inexhaustible resources of Grecian litera¬
ture.
Greece, the ancient land of Republics, happy under
the reign of mild and wholesome laws, administered
by rulers of her own choice, long continued safe from
foreign aggression, in the wisdom of her councils, and
in the prowess of her heroes and patriots; and the bat¬
tles of Thermopylae, of Salamis and Platea, still pub-
lish.to the world what the courage of freemen can ef¬
fect against the deluging millions of the slaves of des¬
potism. But why should we speak of her ancient glory?
It serves only to render more conspicuous the Stygian
gloom in which she has been for ages enveloped.—
There, barbarism has surpassed herself in horrid cru¬
elty and merciless slavery. Under the gloomy influ¬
ence of Mahometan abominations, the lights of intel¬
lect have been extinguished, the noble feelings of the
soul degraded, the moral sense completely disorgan¬
ised, and the base principles of the heart ripened into
nlaturity.—The arts and sciences have been swept
02
174
WOODVILI.E.
away before the overwhelming torrents of barbarous
hordes; those laws from which the most enlightened
nations of the world have copied much of their juris¬
prudence, have yielded to the nod of a Turkish despot
—and the glorious institutions of the son of God, to the
base fabrications of the impostor of Mecca. Long in¬
deed before the period of her total overthrow, Greece
had been rapidly declining from her ancient dignity
and splendour. The savage hordes which had come
down from the north on the plains of Italy, sweeping
before them the monuments of Roman learning, had
long been spreading their frosty influence over the
classic fields of Greece; and the Heaven-born religion
which the Apostle of the Gentiles taught and preached*
when he unfurled the banners of the cross over the
cities of Macedonia, had lost much of its virgin purity
from the contaminating influence of superstition, yet
still Christianity had extended its triumphs to the very
palace of the Eastern Csesars, and the most powerful
monarch of the age, Constantine the great and. the
good had bowed before the Christian's God. Alas! the
triumphs of Christianity were but short. The throne
of the Christian king was overturned, and the city of
Constantinople which had so long defied the power of
the Saracens, was irretrievably subdued by the arms of
Mahomet the second, and the religion and liberties of
the Greeks were trampled under the polluting feet of
the Moslem invaders. The horrid cruelties which
were then practised, are a specimen of the tyranny
under which Greece has ever since groaned. After
the dreadful consternation and havoc which immedi¬
ately succeeded the storming of the city, hud in some
measure subsided, and the barbarians had rushed in¬
to the churches, palaces and private edifices, youth
WOODVILLE.
175
and beauty became the plunder of the invaders—the
male captives were hound with cords,—the females
with their veils and girdles; the prelates were joined
with the porters of the church; and the young men of
the plebeian class with noble maidens.—In this common
captivity the ranks of society were confounded, the ties
of nature cut asunder, and the inexorable soldier was
careless of the father's groans, the tears of the mother,
and the lamentations of the children! In this single
instance sixty thousand of the devoted population,
were driven off like domestic animals, and sold as
slaves, throughout the different provinces of the Otto¬
man empire. Alas! how that exalted nation has been
degraded; once, the legislators of the world, since,
groaning under the most brutal subjection; once the
sueqpssiul vindicators ofour holy religion, since, forced
to kneel before the crescent of a blasphemer; once at
the summit of national dignity, since, confounded
amongst the barbarous hosts of savages, born to be
slaves. Lost to all the feelings of humanity, her sons
became scullions and pages, and her daughters, the
lovely nymphs of poetic song, were driven by their
merciless eunuchs to grace the harams, and to minister
to the abominable lusts of a Turkish despot.—Thus did
Greece fall from tier ancient splendour and glory.—
But oppressed humanity, when driven to the last ago¬
nies of suffering, can sometimes effect miracles. Greece
arose in her might—she shook off her fetters,—rushed
to the rescue of her sons and daughters, and broke the
spear of their oppressors.
There can scarcely be a more glorious object pre¬
sented for the contemplation of angels or men, than a
nation struggling in the birth-place of national exis¬
tence and national independence. Alan, the noblest
176
■WOOimLLE
work of God, was born to be free, and that ereet pos¬
ture and noble dignity of person, as well as the more
noble faculties of the soul, which ally him to heaven,
refuses the dominion of the despot, and spurns the
chains of the tyrant.—We are shocked at the spectacle
of personal cruelty, and are impelled by the feelings of
our nature to succour an oppressed individual; but
when the number of individuals swells into a nation,—
when souls, which are under the shivering terrors of
multiplied oppressors, begin to expand to a sense of
their high-born destiny;—when a mere handful of indi¬
viduals, feeble as may be their resources, resolve to
tear asunder the chains of slavery, to aspire to the do¬
minion of reason and religion, however formidable the
overwhelming obstacles;—in short, when they resolve
to sacrifice their lives on the altar of freedom, or enjoy
them with all the blessing's of national liberty, we can¬
not witness the struggle without pouring out prayers
for their success into the bosom of the God of nations
and the God of battles: without raising into anxious
hope all the high-born energies of the soul, and hush¬
ing into lasting silence the selfish feelings of our nature.
WOODVILLE.
17t
CHAPTER XVII.
"Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere,
A uoon, an offering heaven holds dear,
'Tis the last libatnu libel ty draws
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause."—Jlloorc.
The spirit of liberty which had been infused by as¬
sociations of Grecian patriots, who had been awaken¬
ed to a sense of their wrongs by repeated and insup¬
portable aggressions; and which had prompted the un¬
fortunate Suliotes to a resistance which had drawn up¬
on them the sword and flame of extermination—had
become general throughout Greece.
The noble attempts of Czerni George, and of Galeatl
in 1317, to liberate their country, though unsuccessful,
had opened the eyes of their countrymen, increased their
ardour for liberty, and stimulated them to a more vig¬
orous and a more united effort to obtain it.
In the'spring of 1321, Ypsilanti, Cantacuzene and
JLuzzo, brave soldiers and accomplished men, raised
the standard of revolution. Luzzo was a young Greek,
who by his bravery and address, had so ingratiated
himself with the Porte, that he had been appointed
viceroy of Moldavia. Prince Cantacuzene was de¬
scended from an illustrious Greek family, and had
greatly distinguished himself as a commander, and al¬
though much superior in age and rank to Ypsilanti, yet
he magnanimously volunteered to serve under him.—■
Prince Alexander Ypsilanti was the son of the viceroy
of YVallaehia, and was a major general in the service
of Russia. He had been bred a soldier from his boy-
178
WOODYILX-B .
hood, had acquired a high reputation in the campaign
of 1812, and lost his right arm in the battle of Culm.—
He was bold, generous, honorable and patriotic. To
him as their leade»"> and to his brother chieftains, the
Greek patriots had confided the issue of their cause.—
The plan of the Grecian commanders was, under ex¬
isting circumstances, the best that human wisdom
could devise; and, had not the selfish and perfidious
policy of Russia prevented, must have resulted in the
most complete success. The Grecian patriots had
been secretly assured of the co-operation of that power
in effectuating the independence of their country.—.
Ypsilanti had determined on commencing 'offensive
operations beyond the Danube; Ruzzo was, at a pro¬
per time, to declare himself openly, and lead the Mol¬
davians, as well as the Servians, who were now in a
state of revolt, to his aid;—at the same time, a conspi¬
racy was set on foot at Constantinople, the explosion
of which, it was believed, would shake the Ottoman
empire to its centre.
Ypsilanti attired his troops in a mourning habit, in¬
dicative of the afflicted state of his country: and as¬
sumed as a banner, the figure of a phoenix rising from
its ashes, in token of her regeneration. He issued an
energetic proclamation, addressed to his countrymen,
calling upon them to shake off the Turkish yoke, to
follow the standard of the cross, and to join him in the
great and glorious work of emancipating Greece; as¬
suring them that the court of Russia was also ready to
punish the infidels for their repeated perfidies and
cruelties.
The effect of this proclamation was electric. The
appearance of Ypsilanti in the field, and the assurance
TVOODVILLE.
179
of the aid of Russia, gave such spirit and alacrity to
every class of the people, that they flocked in great
numbers to his standard. The plan ofthe commanders
was so well executed, that Ypsilanti was, in a short
time, master of all Moldavia and Wallachia.
The plot at Constantinople, which was no less than
to arm the Creeks in that capital, to fire the arsenal,
and to seize the pei'son of the Sultan, was in a favora¬
ble train; and all things seemed to promise a speedy
and auspicious issue to the measures of the Greeks ;
when a manifesto of the Russian court, disclaiming all
participation in those measures, and denouncing Ypsi¬
lanti as a rebel and incendiary, fell like a thunderbolt
on him and his compatriots.
The Moldavians, who had relied on the succour of
that faithless court, soon began to waver, and Luzzo
was obliged, for safety, to retire across the Danube.—
The plot at Constantinople miscarried, when at the
point of successful completion, by the misconduct or
treachery of one of the individuals, to whom it was
entrusted.
Notwithstanding all these discouragements, the he¬
roic Ypsilanti awaited at Bucharest, the approach of
the Turkish grand army, against which he was resolv.
ed, weak and dispirited as were his troops, to hazzard
a general battle, as the only possible means left to re¬
vive the spirits of the revolutionists, and to save the
country. But his design was unfortunately frustrated
by the treachery of one of his principal officers, and
the defection of part of his army.
In consequence -of this disaster, he was obliged to
make a hasty retreat with the remnant of his army to
ISO
1VOODV11.1.K.
Tergovist. a city in the centre of Wallachia. The
Turks soon entered Bucharest, having on their march
thither, made a general slaughter of all the Greeks that
fell into their hands. Multitudes of both sexes were
empaled alive; crowds of defenceless women were
driven into monasteries, and there burnt; and hundreds
of little children were hanged up by the feet along the
public roads. The Turkish army, after these horrible
atrocities, set out in pursuit of Prince Ypsilanti. Ho
called a council of war, and after a hasty deliberation,
it was determined to risk a battle. The Prince posted
his little army as advantageously as circumstances
would permit; and had hardly finished the necessary
dispositions, when the Turks commenced the battle.—
This was on the morning of the 17th of June 1821. The
Turkish infantry rushed forward with loud shouts, but
were repulsed with the bayonet. A second discharge
was rep.elled with equal intrepidity, and the fortune of
the day seemed to incline to the patriot cause. At this
fatal moment, Cavavia, the commander of Ypsilanti's
cavalry, with his squadrons, gave way, and most
shamfully fled. The corps of Nicholas Ypsilanti, bro¬
ther of the prince, followed the example, in spite of
the authority of their leader. The whole army was
immediately thrown into the utmost confusion, and not¬
withstanding the greatest efforts of the prince and the
other chiefs to restore order and to rally the troops,
they broke their ranks and fled in every direction.
To this shameful conduct, there was, however, a glo¬
rious exception and contrast exhibited in the devoted
heroism of a corps commanded by Giorgaki. This
corps was composed of young Greeks of illustrious
families, who had been educated at the universities of
Christian Europe, and who now left them and repaired
to the standard of Ypsilanti.
WOODVILLE. 181
They formed a band of five hundred, and their zeal,
patriotism, and union, had procured them the title of
the Sacred Band. Preferring a glorious death to dis¬
honour, they stood firm and collected amidst the con¬
fusion and flight of the panic-stricken army. Hoping,
by the sacrifice of their livOs. to wipe away the reproach
of the day, and to produce an impression favorable to
the cause of liberty, and to the character of their coun¬
trymen, they resolved to sell their lives as dearly as
possible. With their intrepid leader at their head, they
maintained the field against the whole Turkish army.
The human mind cannot conceive a spectacle of more
interest or moral sublimity. The flower, the hope, the
glory of Greece were there offering themselves up, a
voluntary oblation on the altar of her freedom. After
performing prodigies of valour, they sunk beneath the
overwhelming force and numbers of the enemy; and
their devotion and deaths have rendered the plain of
Oltan equally illustrious with those of Marathon and
Thermopylae.
•'They fell devoted, but undying.
The very gale their names seem'd sighing:
The waters murmur'd of their name;
The woods were peopled with their fame;
The silent pillar, lone and gray,
Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay;
Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain,
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain;
The meanest rill, the mightiest river,
Rnll'd mingling with their fame forever.
Despite of every yoke she bears,
That land is glory's still and theirs!
'Tis still a watch-word to the earth:
"When man would do a deed of worth
He points to Greece and turns to tread,
So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head:
He looks to her, and rushes on,
.Where life is lost, or freedom won!"—Byron.
Ypeilanti, left without an army and without hope in
P
182
WOODVILLK.
that quarter, hastened to Trieste, to embark for the
Morea, in order to join his countrymen who had raised
the patriot standard in that province. On his way
thither, he was arrested by a mandate of the Austrian
court, and thrown into the dungeon of Mongatz, in
Hungary! No cause was ever assigned for this fla¬
grant act of outrage and injustice!
Early in the spring of 1821, Woodville and his young
companions arrived at Joannina, the most considerable
city in the west of Greece. Here, foreigners, whose
sentiments were not known to be favourable to the
Greek cause, were treated with great hospitality. Joan¬
nina gives its name to the whole district, and its situa¬
tion, exactly in the centre of Epirus, is commanding
and important. It was the residence of Ali Pashaw.
It stands on the west side of a lake of the same name,
which is about ten or twelve miles in length, and two
or three in breadth. From this lake flows a river, call¬
ed Limnas, which falls into the gulf of Arta. The lake
of Joannina is one of the most beautiful sheets of water
imaginable. Its margin is skirted on the west and
north by the city, and by a succession of beautiful
groves, gardens and verdant plains, which extend along
its whole length; and on the east by a range of lofty
mountains which rise precipitately from its bank. In
the centre of the lake is a charming little island, whither
the grandees of the Pashaw's court resorted in the heat
of summer for recreation. The lake is, in the evenings
of summer, frequently covered with little boats passing
to and fro: and nothing could exceed the loveliness of
the scene viewed by moonlight. The groves of orange
and lemon, fanned by the air, and imparting.to it their
balminess,—the city lying in all its beauty, its snowy
edifices reflecting the silver rays of the moon, and its
WOOBVlIitR.
183
lofty towers, minarets and pinacles, seeming to pierce
the clear blue canopy,—the rugged mountain with its
dense and towering forests,,—the lake reposing at its
foot, and spreading its tranquil and amber waters, gild¬
ed by the trembling moon-beam, and ruffled only by the
dipping oar, wherewith some gondolier propelled his
glidingskifl', while he broke the stillness with his mid¬
night song:—all these together exhibited a spectacle
most enchanting and glorious, and fitted to raise emo¬
tions of sublime delight; not, however, without an alloy
of regret, that in the bestowing of favours on that
charming land, the hand of liberty had been so much
less munificent than that of beauty.
"Oil! who could, even in bondage, tread the plains
Of glorious Greece, nor feel his spirit rise
Kindling within him? who, with heart and eyes,
Could, walk where liberty had been, nor see
The shining foot-prints of her deity,
Nor feel those godlike breathings in the air,
Which mutely told her spirit had been there?"—Moore,
After spending a few days in this delightful place,
Woodville, and his comrades, Harwood, Yertner and
3Xanson repaired to Missolonghi. About this time a
number of Greek officers had arrived from various parts
of Europe and the Islands, in order to join the patriots
in their noble enterprise.
Among the most dfsttnguished of these officers were
Demetrius Ypsilanti, a younger brother of the captive
prince, from whom he bore a commission, constituting
him generalissimo of all the military forces in Greece.
A younger brother of Prince Cantaeuzene, who ac¬
companied Ypsilanti; Constantine Colocotroni, who
had served both in the British and Russian armies, and
Prince Mavrocordato, a man eminent for his talents
and elevated character.
184
WOODVILLE.
At this time Missolonghi was in possession of the
Greeks, and Prince Mavrocordato and Marco Boz-
zaris with their troops, were stationed there, when our
young friends arrived. Vertner, Manson and Har-
wood had all served in the British army and were well
acquainted with military tactics, and the generals of
Missolonghi, pleased with their zeal for the cause of
liberty which induced them to leave home, country and
friends, bestowed upon each an office of importance,
Woodville, however, although a lieutenantcy was of¬
fered him, chose not to accept it; but volunteered as a
private. He and Manson joined the regiment of Marco
Bozzaris, and Vertner and Harwood that of Norman,
a German officer of distinction, who commanded a
company of European volunteers, composed wholly of
officers who had served with reputation in the armies
of Europe.
Exasperated by the continual successes of the Greeks
in the Morea, the army of Iteschid Pashaw set out for
that peninsula, in two divisions. The one was to trav¬
erse eastern Greece, and raise the siege of Corinth: the
other was to descend through western Greece, reduce
Missolonghi, thence to cross the gulf at Patras, and the
two divisions were to rendezvous before Tripolitzaand
attempt the recovery of that city,—then in possession
of the Greeks- Prince It!nrvocoi'dato accompanied
by Marco Bozzaris, marched, with a body of troops,-
from Missolonghi, to check the progress of the Turkish
army. The enterprize was unsuccessful, and they
were forced to retreat before superior numbers. In
this expedition, the battalion of European volunteers
(of which we have spoken) commanded by General
Norman, a gallant and veteran officer, with some Ceph-
alenians, formed the advanced guard of the army.—
WOODVILLR,
185
This guard being, by some mischance, separated from
the main body, was suddenly attacked and surrounded
by the whole Turkish army. A display of heroism
ensued, not perhaps, surpassed in military history.—
Recollecting their former noble achievements, and in^
spired with sentiments of glory, these brave men dis_
dained to surrender, but maintained their ground for
several hours against the overwhelming force of the
enemy. They fell gloriously on the field, after per¬
forming prodigies of valour. Rprwood and Vertner
were also slain, in this, the first battle in which they
were engaged in Greece; and their heroic leader alone
escaped with a severe wound. This battle was fought
near Arta towards the close of the year '21. Immedi¬
ately after the bloody slaughter of the battalion of vol¬
unteers, the Turkish army pursued their way to Misso-
longi and besieged that city.
Meanwhile Ypsilanti had blockaded the castle of
Napoli di Romania, the strongest fortress in all Greece,
and after a long and close seige it was obliged to agree
to terms of capitulation.
The generous Ypsilanti, to preserve the lives and pro_
perty of the garrison, had agreed to an armistice of
forty days, that they might gradually retire by sea with¬
out molestation from the Greek soldiery. But this
compact was frustrated, and the entire destruction of
Greece threatened by the sudden appearance, in Thes-
saly, of an army of thirty thousand Turks arid;
nians, under the cpmjnand of Maqhipoud, jPaslt^l^j
whicl} poured down like a (Jeluge, through Thessaly,
sweeping all before it in its desolating ,course.
To stem this torrent was impossible, in the broken
P2
186
WOODVILI.E.
and dispersed state of the patriot army. A considera¬
ble portion of the Greek force, under Marvocordato,
and Marco Bozzaris, was blocked by the Turks, at
Missolonghi. Colocotroni with a few hundred men,
Was before Patras. Ypsilanti, with an inconsiderable
force, was encamped before Napoli di Romania; and
Ulysses and the other partisan leaders, with a few light
troops, occupied the passes of Bcetia. In this slate of
danger and general dismay, Ypsilanti and Colocotroni
raised the sieges of Napoli di Romania and Patrasj
aud rendezvoused with their handful of troops in the
plain of Argolis. Meanwhile, Machmoud had forced
his way through all the passes of Bcetia, committing
ip his march, ravages unparalled in savage warfare.—
A wide-spread scene of havoc and desolation marked
the track of the vindictive barbarian.
He at length penetrated to Corinth, where the con¬
gress was sitting. The members escaped on board a
Greek squadron that lay in the gulf of Corinth, after
investing Ypsilanti, Colocotroni and Mavromichalis,
with full powers, and committing to their hands the
destinies of their country.
Unable to cope with so overwhelming a force in the
field, the Greek captains distributed their troops into
small bands, and taking advantage of favourable posi¬
tions, hungupon and continually annoyed the flank and
rear of the advancing enemy. The peasantry and
mountaineers of the circumjacent country, came forth
and joined the ranks of their defenders; and the crops
on the plains of Argos were destroyed to prevent their
-affording sustenance to the enemy. The Turkish gen¬
eral soon found himself and his army in a most deplora-
condition. Harrassed continually by the Greek
WOODVILLE.
187
scouts, weakened by famine, and wasted by a mortal
disease which began to prevail among them, this formi¬
dable army was soon compelled to retreat. Nicetas,
posted in the defiles of Argos, and Colocotroni pressing
their rear, made havoc of the retiring army. Of an
army of thirty thousand men, seven thousand only
could be mustered before Corinth, and these were so
reduced by hunger, sickness and fatigue, as to be almost
incapable of resistance. In this dreadful situation,
Machmoud received a fresh order from Seraskier, cen¬
suring his retreat, and commanding him to advance
again into Argos, and relieve Napoli, which Ypsilanti
had again invested. A new effort of Machmoud, in
obedience to this unreasonable and unfeeling mandate,
completed the entire destruction of that army, which a
short time before, threatened utter ruin and extermina¬
tion in Greece.
In the summer of '22, the brave Kanaris put to flight,
by means of his fire ships, a formidable fleet that had
come to the relief of Napoli; destroying the ship of the
eapudan pashaw, and every soul on board. The gar¬
rison of Napoli, sorely pressed by famine, and despair¬
ing of relief, soon after capitulated, and were trans¬
ported to Asia Minor. In the spring of '23 a nocturnal
assault was made on Missolonghi, but gloriously re¬
pelled by Mavrocordato and Bozzaris. The morning
light discovered one thousand Turks lying dead before
the walls. The Greek loss was only fifty in killed and
wounded.
After this engagement Bozzaris employed himself
in strengthening his forces and disciplining his men.-—
In three or four months from this time he set out for
Karpenitza, on the frontier of Acarnania.
TVOODVIIXE.
He arrived at that place on the 19th of July 1823, and
that night he surprised and cut to pieces, with two thou¬
sand men, the whole army of Mustapha Bashaw, con¬
sisting of fourteen thousand.
During the engagement, however, Bozzaris himself
fell: to the inexpressible grief of his country, and has
left behind him a character, which will command the
esteem and admiration of mankind as long as sterling
virtue and true heroism are approved and valued.
"He died as*hearts like his should die,
In the hot clasp of victory."
Immediately after this battle, the regiment of Bozza¬
ris returned to Missolonghi, where Mavrocordato> who
-had, in the mean time, been reconnoitering about thro'
the country, soon joined them. This brave comman¬
der was much distressed to hear that Bozzaris, his in¬
trepid companion in arms, had fallen at the battle of
Karpenitza, yet he was delighted with the news that,
in that battle, a formidable host of the Turks were de¬
stroyed. He appointed a day for a regimental drill,
when he intended to select a commander to place at
the head of the 2nd Regiment, to occupy the vacancy
occasioned by the death of Bozzaris. The whole bat¬
talion was marched to a beautiful plain before Misso¬
longhi for this purpose. Mavrocordato was mounted
on an elegant Arabian horse, and rode along the ex¬
tended line of soldiery. He then rode several paces in
front of the army to the summit of a gentle eminence,
whence he could have a more conspicuous view. A
servant stood beside him and held by the reins,.another
horse, that Mavrocordato.had ordered out for the indi?
vidual whom he Intended to appoint coramanderef the
2nd Regiment. The Prince had long before made up
WOODVJLLE.
189
his mind on that subject. He had frequently witnessed,
and admired the manly deportment and intrepid bravery
of young Manson, the British officer and companion of
Woodville's peregrinations, and he it was, upon whom
he intended to bestow the command. Just at this mo¬
ment, while all was suspense, and every eye bent upon
Mavrocordato, the attention of the army was suddenly
directed towards an object which seemed to be ap¬
proaching with great rapidity from the cloud of dust it
raised in the air. The excitement which it created
among the troops caused Mavrocordato to look around.
"The Turks! the Turks!" exclaimed a thousand
voices; "the Turks are coming, prepare for battle!"—
The Prince still gazed in silence on the volumes of dust
that rose in the air. Presently a horseman was seen
issuing from the clouds of dust, and riding towards the
Grecian army, as fast as his steed could carry him. A
few moments more brought him before Mavrocordato.
"Are you the Prince Mavrocordato]" asked the
equestrian:
"I am," the Prince -replied. "Bear you any news
concerning the patriot cause]"
"JVo-sin; but I bear a commission from Marco Boz-
zaris, constituting me commander in chief, of the 2nd
Regiment, formerly commanded by himself."
"And who are you, pray]" asked the Prince.
"I am an American, sir;—my name is Edward Han¬
son, and hither have I come to join you, sir, and to lend
my feeble aid in freedom's cause."
"You talk well,—these Americans are brave fellows.
190
W O ODVI1LE.
Give me your hand, my friend; but stay,—let me see
your commission."
"Here it is, sir;" said Hanson, handing him a folded
paper.
The Prince opened and read it. "This is Bozzaris'
hand write, I know he wrote it; but I thought he was
slain at the battle of Karpenitza.''
"Not slain, sir, but severely wounded. I was on my
way to join him at that battle; but lost my way, and
was consequently detained. While i was rambling
through the forest, the groans of a dying man caught
my ear;—I went to him quickly, and found him in a
mangled condition. . One arm was sundered from his
body, which was most horribly gashed by a thousand
strokes of the scimetar. I was moved with compas¬
sion, and took him to a cottage which stood on the fron-
, o
tier of Aearnania. By the assistance of an old man
and his wife who administered some cordials and re¬
freshments, he was soon restored to his senses; but it
was only to a sense of greater pain. After learning
my name and country, and my business here, the ven¬
erable patriot loaded me with thanks and gave me this
commission. Then he leaned his head on my brc^&t,
and, after an hour or two of the greatest agony, ex¬
pired; and with his last breath he exclaimed, ".Liberty
forever!" The Prince gave Hanson a hearty welcome
and after a short address to the army, proclaimed
him commander in chief of the 2nd Regiment.
Nothing could possibly exceed Woodville's astonish¬
ment at hearing this proclamation, unless it might be
the actual presence of Hanson himself.
WOODYILLB.
191
"Could it be he? What untoward chance has brought
him here? Wltere has he left Matilda?" for he had
heard that they were married. These and a thousand
other thoughts passed through his mind in an instant.
Content to leave him to his perplexities, we will, in
the next chapter, return to the United States and in¬
quire into the circumstances which brought Hanson to
Greece.*
*The leading facts related in this chapter are taken from a narrative
of the Greek revolution. They are somewhat altered from the original,
however, by the colourings of fancy.
192
WOODVILLB
CHAPTER XVIII.
"Life I hold but idle breath,
Where love or honour's weighed with death."
For a few weeks after Woodville left the United
States, the passion, which had so long disturbed the
peace of Matilda, was hushed by lasting repose; but
It was the repose of the land where the whirlwind has
passed,—dreary and desolate. From the moment that
she resigned her faith and her destiny into the hands of
Hanson, she flung from her sight all records of early
attachment, and diligently refrained from even a tran¬
sient indulgence in recollections of the past. Do you
believe it, gentle reader? It may appear strange, but
it is no less strange, than true.
Notwithstanding all that has been said and sung in
honour of the retentivememory of Dove, and the paeans
which have been hymned in celebration of his constan¬
cy, I am little inclined to believe in his inexorcizeable
properties; against which Lethe and the Red Sea are
supposed to be equally profitless.
Experience teaches that to the wise and resolute the
act of forgetfulness is one of mere volition;—that Love,
nncherished and unsupported by the sweet food of
Hope, dies of famine;—and that those images which,
in good faith, we strive to banish from our hearts, will
soon relinquish their importunate hold upon our imagi¬
nation. Were our minds less mercifully framed for
fickleness and levity, many a fate would close in dark-
WOODVILLE.
193
ness which a wiser dispensation recalls into the sun¬
shine of newer hopes; for few are the human beings
who, in the course of their earthly existence, jarei not
compelled by duty or wisdom, or circumstances, to re¬
nounce some cherished connexion, some warmly prized
attachment.—Love, if immortal, would be the worst of
friends.
Matilda had learned to look upon the gift of affection
as one of no mean value; and the prospect of» finding
her future happiness dependent upon one who seemed to
hold it so precious as did Hanson, cheered and consoled
her mind, and inspired it with many grateful thoughts
"I fear me," thought Matilda, as she entered the beau¬
tiful little dwelling prepared for ber reception, ''that
my versatility of feeling aflbrds a powerful evidence
of the desolation of my existen ce; and that the regard
I am learning to entertain/or Doct. Hanson, forms a
bitter accusation against those who should have stood
by my helplessness with better courage, and been the
very last in the world to have caused me such unhappi-
ness. But po matter! Let me but learn to love him,
and I care not through what rude channel the feeling
may flow; let me but acquire the influence to subdue
his untamed spirit into the gentle charities of life, and1
my days will brighten, and my heart forget its afflic¬
tions under the mastery of holier feelings."
Doctor Hanson, as we have somewhere remarked,
was a high spirited and intemperate character; but,"
with all this, he had some good qualities. And there
was an indefinable something about his person and
manners that seldom failed to excite admiration where-
ever he went. But he also possessed a restless and te-
Q
194
woodvillk.
nacious spirit of jealousy. Hence he could not have
endured to seek his happiness in the possession of a di¬
vided heart; but, on this occasion, the intensity of his
desire to make Matilda his wife overcame every other
consideration.
Well acquainted with the character and disposition
of her husband, Matilda, under existing circumstances,
relied but little on her own strength. Her delicate and
feeling rpind could ill-support to know itself the object
of suspicion and contempt, even to the lowest of her
fellow-creatures. Therefore^ she sought assistance
under every trial from that exalted source whence she
had always received it in the hour of need. But all
her firm resolves and endeavours were fruitless; for
she felt herself unable to contribute in the least to the
happiness of her husband,—at least to that degree
which he seemed to require and expect. Nor did he
deserve it, as the sequel will clearly show.
Immediately after his marriage, Doctor Hanson com¬
menced the practice of medicine. His professional du¬
ties frequently called him from home, and he always
contrived to make his absence as long as his'respect for
public sentiment would allow. And as every restraint,
which the prospect of obtaining Matilda's hand had
hitherto imposed, was now removed, he became more
dissolute than ever in his habits and manners.
Frequently would he return home, after an absence
of several days, so intoxicated that he scarcely knew
what he said or did. He would use language the most
indelicate, and often utter vague and reproachful hints
respecting Matilda's connexion with WroodviIIe. As
time rolled on, he continued thus to act. And twelve
months after his marriage found that fortune, which had
WOODVILLE.
195
been his boast, expended, and himself completely pen-
nyless. And in addition to this he wa's also greatly in
debt. .
Owing to some interruption of the mails it was not
until about this time^that Matilda (I cannot-oall her
Mrs. Hanson,) received the letter that Woodville ad¬
dressed her from New York, just before he set sail
for Europe. When she received "it,—she innocently
opened and read it in the presence of her husband, who
happening to see the signature, broke out in a volley
Of the most vehement execrations.
"Out on you! fiend,—reptile that I have warmed
within my bosom, away from me! You correspond
with the miscreant Woodville! I thought he had gone
to Europe. Who knows that he has not been lurking
in this region ever since his supposed departure?—
Where is that letter from?"
"From New York, sir;" she replied, in an agitated
voice, and was going to mention the date, but he inter¬
rupted her.
"May Heaven's eternal curses rest on him and you!"
Oh, Jealousy! thou accursed spirit! the terror of thy
name can put to flight the tender images of hope and
can induce despair at a moment when the sweetest im¬
pulses of nature have kindled the torch of joy! After
Shis storm of passion was over, a calm succeeded; but
it was a calm which an individual experiences from a
fixedness of purpose. This gloomy, this desperate and
disgraceful purpose was to leave his wife forever,—to
seek out Woodville, and, if found, to kill him. Nor
was he slow to execute it, at least the former part of it,
196
TVOODVII.LE.
—to leave his wife. Matilda had left the room but a
few minutes when he took his hat, walked out the door,
and was never ag-ain heard of until—but 1 am antici¬
pating1 my tale.
The night, for it was in the night that he framed and
executed this purpose, so unworthy of day-light, was
considerably advanced by the time he started. Yes,
he started in the night, and thus escaped the detection
of his numerous creditors.
He had heard Matilda say that the letter was mailed
at New York. From this circumstance he supposed
Woodville to be there, and thither he directed his
course.
It is not to be supposed that circumstances so pecu¬
liar,—so unprecedented,—as those which have been
narrated, could fail in giving employment to the thou¬
sand tongues of rumour in a country village where so
little incident occurs to task their idleness -as S
Causes the most absurd and the most dishonouring
were invented, and reports the most disgraceful were
diligently circulated by the village gossips.
And how did that lonely sufferer bear up against these
accumulated trials,—how support the last and worst—
renouncement by the being upon whom she had lavish¬
ed her affections?—How endure the daily torment of
dwelling among scenes and persons that had been so
recently viewed through the deceptious atmosphere of
happiness—how school herself to meet the scornful or
mistrustful eyes of every one around her?—All that res.
olution could effect,—all that patience, humble, religious
patience—could ensure, was done, and borne, and suf¬
fered without a murmur. But as a finely-toned instru-
WOODVILLg.
197
ment will break when wrought beyond its stretch of
power,—as a young plant will wither when the protec¬
tion of the lofty tree, under whose branches it has been
fostered, is suddenly withdrawn,—so withered the
mind,—so broke the heart of Matilda.
For many days succeeding the departure of her hus¬
band, a strange restlessness seemed to inspire her
frame and accelerate its movements. With fevered
cheeks and haggard eyes she wandered to and fro
through the house, having nothing to console her save
her infant daughter whom she fondled with an all-en¬
grossing intensity of delight. At length the little nurs¬
ling, her only remaining comfort, forsook her, was torn
from her boSom by some infantile disorder. Like a
beautiful rose-hud, which seemed to be allured into ex¬
istence by the dewy freshness of the morn, but toofraii
and tender to endure the scorching beams of a mid-day
sun, withers, droops and dies,—so perished Matilda's
lovely charge; and she was, now, more desolate than
ever.
"As a fair flower,
Which meekly bends in gentlest loveliness;
And in its bending, 'scapes the sweeping storm."
Meanwhile Dr. Hanson,—whose infuriated temper,
unsubdued by the influence of principle—unregulated
by education—untamed by deference to the world's
opinion,—selflsh, haughty and uncompromising,—
prompted him to such a disgraceful course of conduct,
—bad reached New York. Here he made a most dili
gent search for Wood viile; but no one could give him
any satisfactory information.
Exasperated by the disappointment, in a phrenzy of
desperation, he, recklessly, threw himself into a vessel
q2
198
WOQDVILLK.
bound to France. After a long: and boisterous voyage
he arrived at Paris. Here, in this dissolute capitol, he
met with many a congenial spirit as abandoned and de¬
graded as himself. He had been taught the language
some years before by a vagabond Frenchman who was
strolling through the United States, and, therefore, had
no difficulty in his intercourse with the natives. He
spent a few months in Paris,—then embarked for Italy.
A quick passage brought him to Naples, where it might
be supposed that the beauties of the "sweet, sweet
south,"—the natural wonders, and particularly the local
loveliness, and sublime splendors of the bay of Naples,
would have tended to induce some softening impulses,
and suppress and moderate the fury of his passions.—
But, no: such was not the case. Not even the remem¬
brance of Matilda in her lowliness and loveliness could
effect a change in his mind. With him, the sentence of
the world, and the vulgar clamoursof society. appeared
to weigh no more than the feeble whistlings of the wTind
among the branches of a mighty oak. At times there
might be seen in his eyes a terrible expression of stern¬
ness of purpose, and irrevocability of resolution. And,
stimulated by the perversity of his mind, or perhaps by
the consciousness of his unfitness to mingle in better
society, he always sought out the most degraded be¬
ings, and made them his companions. By an uninter¬
rupted course of dissipation the small amount of money
which he brought with him would, undoubtedly, have
left him without a sous, had it not been for his aston
ishing success at gaming. At Naples he spent nearly
a year in the coarsest excesses of licentiousness. From
this place he went to Rome, and pursued the same
course there. He still sometimes flattered himself that,
in his wanderings, his path might cross that of AHison
W00DV1LLE.
199
Woodville; and however well aware that he had no
grounds on which to declare his animosity, and demand
satisfaction, he would have sought no dearer indul¬
gence for his ferocious hatred, than that of crushing his
rival into dust by any means however dark,—however
deadly. Such was Hanson!—such were the evil pas¬
sions which natural perversity, and an unsubdued tem¬
perament had let loose upon the wild wastes of an un¬
tutored mind.
About this time rumors were continually reaching
Italy of the brilliant achievements of a band of volun¬
teers who were fighting in the Greek cause. Inspired
by ambition, Hanson set out for Greece with a determi¬
nation of rising to the summit of fame as a military
chieftain. To have the entire command of a whole
regiment in so glorious a cause was the height of his
ambition, and this he determined to obtain by means
fair or foul, as might best.subserve his purpose.
As we have seen, the battle of Karpanitza was
fought in the night,—the night that Hanson had expect¬
ed to join the army. In this engagement, after receiv¬
ing several severe wounds, the noble Bozzaris, com¬
mander of the 2nd Regiment, fell, but did not die in¬
stantly. He laid in an almost perfectly insensible state
for sometime after the battle. When he recovered,
in some degree, his senses, tortured by the most excru¬
ciating pains, he dragged himself some distance from
the battle ground into the deep forest, where his groans
brought Hanson to his assistance, who had lost his way
in attempting to reach Karpanitza. As we have be¬
fore related by the mouth of Hanson himself) Bozzaris
was taken to a neighbouring cottage on the frontier of
Acarnania, where its old inmates, with the medical ad-
200
WOODVU.LK.
Tics of Hoct. Hanson, made use of many remedies for
his recovery, but all proved unsuccessful. Just before
the death of the warrior, he thanked Hanson for his
attention, and wrote a commission constituting* Man-
won commander in chief of his regiment. This name
Hanson converted into Hanson, by scratching out the
M, and substituting H, the first letter of his own name.
Thus, by an act of the basest fraud, was Hanson consti¬
tuted,—or rather constituted himself, commander in
chief of that portion of the Grecian forces, which vras
formerly commanded by Marco Bozzaris. Man eon t
the young Englishman, of whom we have spoken as
the comrade of Woodville, and to whom the commis¬
sion, of right, belonged, was necessitated to retain his
lieutenancy.
After the commission was read and Hanson was
proclaimed Major General, both regiments,doffed their
hats simultaneously, and a cannon was fired as a salute,
and as a token of acquiescence. Then, accompanied
by Mavrocordato, Hanson rode along the lines with his
hat off) and bowed to each individual. He had not as
yet become acquainted with the fact that Woodville
was so near at hand. Woodville, however, was aware
of his approach. As Hanson rode along the lino in
which he was standing, Woodville's face was turned
kt an opposite direction to that in which Hanson was
approaching, and seemed to be attentively listening to
something that a fellow-soldier was communicating.—
When Major General Hanson got within a few paces
of Woodville, he caught a glimpse of his side-face, and
with wonder and astonishment recognized him instant"
ly. As he advanced, he endeavored to prepare a look
of the mostineffable contempt; but, as W ood ville turned
round, never did a convict under the gallows look hplf
WOOBVILLK.
201
•o meanly as did Hanson, when he encountered the fury
of his glance. All his crimes, although unknown to
Woodville, yet, by the power of association, seemed to
stare him in the face. For an instant he seemed to re¬
coil upon his saddle, as if fate was about to seal his just
doom; but .he sooq recovered himself and passed on to
the end of the line.
This scene did not pass unobserved by those in the
immediate vicinity; for many were the inquiries which
Woodville's comrades made respecting this unknown
individual, and many were the conjectures respecting
his supposed connexion with Woodville. Many sug¬
gested that, probably, he had descended from heaven,
just at a time when a bold and daring commanding offi¬
cer was most needed, to fill the vacancy occasioned by
the death of the lamented Bozzaris.
In answer to these inquiries, after endeavoring for
a long time to evade them, Woodville found ititecessa-
ry to give his fellovv-soldiers a history of Hanson's life
and character, from Alpha to Omega. This took wing
immediately, and, as it journeyed through the army,
gradually acquired greater importance; and Hanson,
finding that certain reports were operating against
him, resolved to put a stop to it. He knew that such
slanders, (as he was pleased to call them, but which
were really truths), must have been started by his an¬
cient rival, Woodville. In a day or two Woodville re¬
ceived a challenge from him, which he readily accepted.
The day arrived,—they exchanged shots,—and Han¬
son fell.
202
"lYOODVILOE,
CHAPTER XIX.
''Time eures every wound, and though the scar may remain and
occasionally ache^yet-tW-earliest agony of its recent infliction is felt
no more."—IValter Scott.
After the fatal rencounter related in the last chapter,
in which Woodville had the misfortune to kill his com¬
manding officer, he was obliged to fly from Greece; for
there was little doubt that the whole severity of military
discipline would be exercised upon him il he remained.
Woodville had now been absent from home, more
than three years. During this time a very great change
had taken place in his feelings.—His character, such as
we have attempted to describe it, owed its prevailing
colour to the master-impulse of his mind,—to Hope!—
warm, sanguine, buoyant Hope!—The teachers of our
faith aver that the A Imighty Creator hath been pleased
to withhold, since the revelation of the Christian faith*
that manifestation of himself which he vouchsafed
unto his people in earlier ages. The light of the divine
countenance is indeed denied us;—but say,—ye blind
guides! what else but a Heavenly presence irradiates
our hearts, when hope springs like a sun-beam through
the darkness of our sorrow?—what else but "the Di¬
vinity stirs within us" when, with renewed strength,
we cast off our heavy burthen of despair;—apply, our
hands, as was the purport of their creation, unto the
uses of the world; and wiping the tears from our eyes,
direct our eager gaze anew over the vast wilderness of
life?'
W00DVILI.E.
203
As he pursued his homeward way, for thither he re¬
solved to go on leaving1 Greece, Woodville felt—hum¬
ble and grateful—that his heart had been fashioned unto
good, and his evil fortunes redeemed, embellished, and
prospered through the inspirations of a cheerful, san¬
guine temprament, which despair had never yet sub¬
dued. It may have sunk for a season under the press¬
ure of distress, but only to rebound into a brighter at¬
mosphere; and admit.the obscurity of affliction's most
devoted day, he had never forgotten that its morrow
must be improved by his own. exertions. The surface
of the heart, like the face of nature, hath many shadows;
but through the darkest by which both are obscured,
the brightness of the colouring beneath is still discern¬
ible. They form no blot—no blemish;-»-their darkness
is as of the night,—it passeth away, and all is smiling
as before.
After taking an affectionate leave of young Manson, to
whom, the mutual participation of many privations and
difficulties had caused him to -be warmly attached, he
departed. He journeyed nearly the same route home¬
ward, that he did in going to Greece. For several days
towards the conclusion of his voyage across the At¬
lantic, he walked the deck of the packet, in which he
sailed, and gazed upon that dark spot on the horizon
where liberty's goddess supremely reigns.
Who, that has not experienced them, can con¬
ceive of the joys that thrill the bosom of the weary ma¬
riner,—or the thousand delightful images that play
around his heart, when the lofty mast first rises above
the intermediate waves, and discovers to his enraptured
gaze the long lost home of his heart. All his perils
and hazards are lost or forgotten in the one delightful
thought of "Home, sweet home!"
204
TVOODVU.I.E.
So felt our Woodville as fie walked the deck, and, in
imagination, was borne to the bosom of his family.—A
few days more brought him to New York; and he was
again upon his native soil, breathed his native air, and
with a buoyancy of soul, and an elasticity of spirits,
which he had not for years experienced, he pursued his
way towards home. He was again approaching
R , and this time with feelings of the deepest inter¬
est. He began to count the hills and valleys anxiously,
as they were left behind him in the homeward track,
which still divided him from hearts beloved and loving.
At length, after several days of wearisome travel, the
beautiful valley in which reposed the village of R ,
in all the sweetness of seclusion, lay extended before
him.
So deeply was his heart affected, that, as he proceed¬
ed, he did not lift his eyes from the path until he reached
the precincts of home.
Home! eould it indeed be home,—his own inhabited
home,—which now burst upon his view! When the
front of the house became visible, a feeling of alarm
checked him. He had been long absent from home,
both his parents were quite old when he left; they
might perhaps have been called to the congregation of
the just. He paused, and gazed on the house, as if he
had hoped to form some conjecture from the outward
appearance concerning the family within. The doors
and windows being all closed and no one stirring, his-
sinister forebodings were rather strengthened. He re¬
gretted that he had mot made inquiry before he left the
inn. But it was now too late; so he hurried on, eager
to know the best or the worst which he could learn.
His gloomiest fears were soon realized. His dear old
WOODVILLE.
205
mother was dead, and his father in a state of extreme
illness. He was met at the door and ushered into his
father's apartment by his old and faithful domestic, Ned.
Time, whose conquering1 banners wave triumphant
over this changed and changing world, had left his deep-
wrought records upon his features. Ned was greatly
altered;—so much so, that Woodvillefor a moment did
not recognize him. His advanced age seemed to have
added to his manner and the expression of his counte¬
nance a considerable degree of dignity. There was
none of that playful exhibition of joy, which Ned was
Wont to make in "by-gone days" when any occurrence
took place which was calculated to produce it. And
thus the time which had elapsed since his departure
seemed to form an unoccupied space in Woodville's
mind. A momentary pause ensued when they met at
the door, during which they both steadily looked each
other in the face.
"Does not Mr. Woodville reeide here?" asked Alli¬
son with some agitation:
"Sure he does. Why, Massa Allison, have you forgot
de old feller. Sure I'm gittin right old,—you been gone
long time,—and de Lord has sent a heap o' trouble on us
all since you went away. I'm mightly altered by it, I
reckon; but I thought you would ha' know'd old Ned
any how.
"Why Ned, is this yop? Really I did not recognize
you. You've altered very much indeed. But how are
my father and mother?—where are they?" he asked in
a hurried and elevated tone.
"Hush! hush! make no noise, Massa Allison."
E
206
WOODVILLE.
"Why, what's the matter, Ned?" he enquired as he
slept back with a feeling of alarm.
"Ah, Massa Allison! great deal de matter," he re¬
plied, as he cast his eyes on the floor, and shook his
head with very significant solemnity. "Great deal de
matter, Massa Allison," he continued. "De old feller
hates to tell you any ting dat's bad news, but you knows
God A'mighty will hab his own way in ebery ting."
After much circumlocution, Ned at length imparted
the information which Woodville so much desired,
and yet feared, to hear. He was then conducted into
the chamber of his dying father, where he found the
village physician, and the Reverend Mr. Farrington,
Rector of the parish, of whom we have incidentally
made mention on a former occasion, sitting beside him.
Old Mr. Woodville was extremely ill indeed.
The easy-chair filled with cushions, the extended
limbs swathed in flannel, the wide wrapping-gown and
night-cap, showed illness; but the dimmed eye, once so
replete with living fire, the blabber lip, whose dilation
and compression used to give such character to his ani¬
mated countenance,—all these sad symptoms evinced
that he was in the melancholy condition of those in
whom the principal of animal life has unfortunately
survived that of mental intelligence. He gazed a mo¬
ment at Allison as he entered the ropm, but then seemed
insensible of his presence.
Allison seated himself at a window, and zealously
prosecuted a Mohegan silence. Every circumstance
of his life he beheld at one view in retrospect. Deep
and overwhelming was the effect produced in his mind
WOODVILLE,
207
by the late unexpected and unhappy events in his fa¬
ther's family; and in a measure tinctured with self-re¬
proach and regret, that he had so long absented himself
from home. He drew the physician aside and con¬
versed with him concerning his father's illness and the
state of his domestic affairs. He learned from this gen¬
tleman, who, by the way, was his old friend, Dr. Demi-
jon, that his mother had died the last winter,—that his
father's health had been delicate for two years, but that
his illness was not considered at all dangerous until
about the time that his mother died.
A day or two after Allison's arrival, his father, the
first time for two weeks, experienced a lucid interval;—
his rationality was restored for the spaee of half an
hour. The duration of these occasional intervals of
rationality was gradually increased until his death.
A few hours before the old gentleman died, he called
Allison to him, and, when Allison had seated himself
close to his bed-side, addressed him as follows:
"It affords me much pleasure, my son, to see you once
more before I leave this world; and I only regret, that
you dill not arrive at home sooner, that your poor old
mother might also have been blessed with seeing you
again, for she was exceedingly anxious to see you be¬
fore she died.
"I presume you will remember, my son, that I told
you before you went away, that, when you returned, I
had something of importance to communicate to you.
"Believing this information • to be of the greatest im¬
portance, to you at least; and fearing that I might die
before your return, I committed it to writing. This
208
WOODVrLLE
manuscript you will find in a small trunk in your room.
And as it contains all the information that I can give
you on the subject, I need not weary myself with a ver¬
bal communication, for I feel that my end is drawing
nigh."
It is easy to imagine Allison's wonder and astonish¬
ment at hearing this. A subject at which we hinted in
concluding the fifteenth chapter, and to which he then
paid so little attention, seemed now to have acquired
the greatest consequence in his estimation. He could
not conjecture,'---could not form the most remote idea,
what it could be.—-On that day Mr. Woodville died,
and on the next was buried beside his wife.
And now Allison retired to his room in order to ex¬
amine his father'&manuscript. He opened the trunk in
which it had been carefully preserved, took it out and
read as follows:
"R . Oct. 18 .
"My dear boy:
Should you ever see this paper, you will, doubtless,
be very much surprised to become acquainted with the
facts which it contains. You may, perhaps, think that
I have erred,—that I have acted improperly in with¬
holding them from you so long; but I hope, that the ten¬
der care with which I watched over your infancy, and
the anxious and affectionate solicitude with which I
warned you to shun the temptations of vice in your
riper years, will plead the purity of the motives by
which I was actuated in thus withholding from you cer¬
tain information, which might, perhaps, have destroyed
your happiness. This reflection has always, hitherto,
WOODVILLE.
209
deterred me from giving- you the information of which
I speak; but feeling that I cannot live a great while
longer, I believe it to be my duty now to do it, before I
depart this life.
With these introductory remarks, I shall proceed to
relate to you, in detail, the facts to which I have alluded.
I was born near the city of London, in England, in
the year 1776. In "97, my 2Lst year, I took a tour thro'
Ireland. During my peregrinations through that coun¬
try, I became acquainted with a Miss O'PlannUgan, a
beautiful Irish girl of 18 years of age. I became very
much enamoured of her. She received my addresses
with a willing car, our love proved to be mutual, and
we were soon married, My wife possessed considera¬
ble wealth, which, added to my own patrimony, consti¬
tuted an ample fortune. Immediately after my mar¬
riage I determined to travel a while before I should set¬
tle myself ibr life. I had long wished .to visit Italy!
and, at this time, a merchant vessel, bound to the East
Indies, and the islands of the Mediterranean, was
about to sail from Dublin harbour. So soon, therefore,
as I could arrange my business I embarked, with my
young wife, on board this merchantman, for Naples.
We had readied the Mediterranean, and had sailed
along unclep a prosperous breeze, until we had got in
sight of Naples, when, one clear and beautiful night,
three ships were seen, at some distance, approaching
us. It proved to be some of those piratical vessels,
which, at that time, ihfested this sea, and which the
dauntless Decatur has since completely exterminated.
Our feeble creAV, consisting ol* only three hundred
men, could do nothing, comparatively, to oppose such
R2
210
TVOODVI1XE.
an overwhelming force. After bravely resisting them,
until every energy was exhausted we were obliged to
surrender*. During the engagement I received a very
severe wound in my left shoulder, and a violent blow
on my head. Exhausted by the great profusion of
blood which flowed from these wounds, I sunk into a
long, deep swoon.
When T awoke to sense and reason 1 found myself
I knewr not where. I was lying in a comfortable
bed, in. a very handsomely finished room. I arose, and,
though in a very debilitated state, walked to a window,
and saw a most beautiful and flourishing city. While
gazing about and wondering what city it could be, I
heard some one open the door and enter, and, turning
around, discovered it to be the Captain of the vessel in
which I had sailed. I asked him where I. was? He
told me that we were at an Hotel in the city of Naples.
I then anxiously inquired for my wife, and for the first
time received'the shocking intelligence that she was
killed on the night that the pirates captured our vessel.
The Captain then related the events as they occurred.
He told me that 'the pirates, having killed and thrown
over board two hundred and seventy men together with
most of the women and children—were about to
plunder the vessel of every thing that was valuable,
when an unexpected object burst upon their view. It
proved to be several English vessels, which had been
lying in the bay of Naples some two or three days.—
With the aid of their glasses they had witnessed our
distress, and were coming to our relief.
So soon, therefore, as the pirates discovered their sit¬
uation, they made all haste td escape. They fired our
WOODVILLE.
211
v^ssel^ knocked down and kicked over board several
more of our crew, and then took the rest ofthe women,
who were not killed during- the engagement, aboard
one of their vessels, and made their escape. Although
the darkness, occasioned by the smoke, was so great
that I could not distinctly see the features of the womea
whom they qarried off, yet, from two or three circum¬
stances I am almost certain tjhut your Jady was not
among them. For, during the engagement, I observed
her standing a few paces distant when you fell. She
witnessed your fall, and,for*an instant of time, seemed
to hesitate whether to run to your assistance, to retreat
into her cabin, or to take part "in the fight. The next
moment, however, her countenance seerried to have
acquired a desperate sternness and decision of purpose.
She flew" to you and snatched Up the sword that had
'fallen from your bond, rushed upon the pirate who had
knocked you down, and with one blow severed his head
from his body, sir. My conclusion is that she was mur¬
dered, and, with vthe rest -of the corses, buried in the
depths of the sea. The English vessels luckily reached
u§ before our merchantman was much injured by the
fire, for those of us whose lives had been spared, and
who were able, made a desperqe- effort to extinguish
the flame, and, in some measure, succeeded.
All our freight,—.all that escaped the depredations of
the pirates was removed to one of the vessels that came
to our assistance. After we all got aboard this vessel,
we placed you on a pallet, and the surgeon dressed
your wounds. As soon as we reached Naples I had
you brought to this hotel where the surgeon will regu¬
larly attend you until we shall leavfe. I have orderhd
that your trunks and other baggagebe carefully depos¬
ited in another part of*the house.'
212
tvoodvillk.
So soon as the necessary repairs were mhde to the
vessel in which we had sailed, the Captain and the re¬
mainder of the crew who had escaped with their lives
pursued their way to the Indies. Meanwhile I, being1
deeply afflicted by the loss of my wife, and in a very
debilitated state, determined to remain at Naples, and
await their 1'Qturn, in order to recruit my health. And
it was truly fortunate fo» me that I did not accompany
them, for they never returned. It is believed that their
vessel was again attacked, and captured by the pirates.
When my health was sufficiently restored I returned
home by land with a s^d and afflicted heart. Shortly
after my arrival at home I disposed of all my property,
and embarked on board an American vessel, in which
a number of young emigrants were about ta sail for
America. This was in the year 1802. When I arrived
at New York, I was employed as clerk in a mercantile
house of that city for eighteen months. At the expira¬
tion t>f this time I left New York and went to thetowd"
of Detroit in the Michigan Territory. Near this place
I purchased a small, but beautiful and fertile tract of
land, and built upon it a neat little dwelling which stood
about half a mile fromihe town. I then married a se"
cond time, and engaged in the mercantile business and
the fur trade in Detroit on a very extensive plan; I spent
my time chiefly in the bosom of my family, on my little
farm, in reading and hunting, and superintending the
business of the plantation, while all my business in De¬
troit was thrDwn into the hands of clerks and other'
agents, who regarded my interests with the strictest
"e^re.
I seldom visited the town and had formed very few
acquaintances there. My business in its every branch
WOOOVILIiE.
213
moved on with the most uninterrupted prosperity for
fifteen or eighteen months. About this time my with
bore me a son who never opened his eyes upon the
light of day—who never breathed the breath of lite.
A few months subsequent to this event, one of a more
appalling nature occurred. It was this: Through the
carelessness or design of certain individuals a fire
broke out in Detroit. Great exertions were made to
extinguish it, but all proved unavailing. The flames
continued their ravages until the whole town was laid
in ruins.
Not a single house was left,—all tvere burnt to ashes.
This was in the year 1805. Accompanied by one of my
clerks I had taken a hunt through the woods a mile or
two from Detroit, and was returning when we beard the
noise and bustle and saw the wreaths of smoke curling
above the tops of the trees. We hurried on as fast as
we could to assist the alarmed inhabitants in extin^
guishing the flames.
When we reached the town the roof of my own store
was just falling in. We made a desperate effort to
check the progress of the fire but could not succeed.—
This was a heavy blow to me as well as to all the in¬
habitants. A few hours before I was worth about thir¬
ty thousand dollars; but now, the only property that I
owned on earth was the small farm of which I have
spoken. I was returning from Detroit, or rather from
the place where Detroit had been, to my residence with
a sad and desponding heart, when I discovered, in my
meadow, beneath a shady tree, a little infant boy>
whom I supposed to be about eighteen months old, ly¬
ing on a blanket asleep; and near the stem of the treo
was a very small trunk. Believing them to have been
214
WOODVIIXE.
carried thither by some bf the unfortunate inhabitants
of Detroit, in order to place them beyond the reach of
the fire, I took charge of them, and carried them to my
house, there to remain until the parents of the child
should call. I had not been at home more than an hour,
when a rap was heard at the front door. Supposing it
to be some one who had called for the child, I took the
little boy in my arms, and my wife and I arose instantly
and walked into the passage which led to the front door
to see who was there. And oh! my dear boy, it is in¬
finitely more difficult to describe, than to imagine what
my feelings were at this awful moment! Will you be¬
lieve me, Allison, when I tell you that the individual at
the (icci1 my former wife? As firmly as I believe
in my own existence, do I believeTt was my own dear
Judith, whom I believed to have been lost in the Medi¬
terranean. Although the expression of her counte¬
nance was somewhat altered, yet a single glance was
sufficient to recognize her—to convince me it was she!
She looked at me with sternness, and I heard her
mutter, "It is hf!" And, when she had said it, she utter¬
ed a wild and terrific scream, and then rushed from the
door and fled to the woods. From that day to this I
have never seen nor heard of her more. Whether she
was the mother of the child or no I knew not, nor do
I now know. Of this fact, however, I am certain,—
that I was not his father, because the time does not
agree. I have formed divers conjectures about it. I
have supposed that, perhaps, she may in some way or
other have escaped from the pirates and returned to her
native country; that, believing me to be dead,—to have
been killed in the Mediterranean, she married again
and with her husband emigrated to America. But here
a difficulty suggests itself. Ifthis child were her's why
WOODVILIjE.
215
would she throw it upon my care? Could seeing1 me so
suddenly and so unexpectedly have produced such a
wonderful evolution in the tender feeling's of a mother?
To me it all appears to be involved in the greatest ob¬
scurity."
When my landlord of the Spring hotel got to
this part of old Mr. Woodville's letter to his supposi¬
titious son, I could not help interrupting him by asking
whether it were possible that Miss Judy O'Flannagan,
who lived with him, was old Woodville's first wife? He
told me that "the thought had never occurred to him,
but, since I had suggested it, he remembered now, that
whenever he made mention of Woodville, the ancho¬
ret, in the presence of Miss O'Flannagan, a shade of
melancholy always overspread her countenance, and
she invariably left the room abruptly."
I then asked him if he thought it wrouId be improper
to request her to give me an account of the leading in¬
cidents of her life? He replied that "he thought that
her exceedingly refined sensibility would make it ex¬
tremely improper."
"Meanwhile, my wife seemed to entertain a different
view of the subject. She thought that the parents of
the child must have been citizens of Detroit; and that,
from the style in which the child was dressed, they must
have been possessed of considerable wealth. She fre¬
quently urged me to make some inquiries through the
neighborhood, and endeavor to discover the parents of
the child; and I as often left home with that intention,
but so completely was I astounded by seeing my former
wife,—so powerful was the effect which it produced on
my mind, that my thoughts could dwell on nothing else*
Hence I was totally disqualified to make a diligent
21 <5
woodville.
search,—an active inyestigation of the matter. I inva¬
riably returned to my residence as ignorant as I had
leftit. Thus six months passed away and we had not
received any information concerning the child's parents.
Where they were, or who they were. This being the
case we determined to adopt the little boy as our own
child. We did so; and called his name Allison Wood-
ville, for myself.
About this time my wife opened the little trunk that
I found under the tree in the meadow, and found it to
be full of the richest clothing for the infant. At the
bottom of the trunk she also found a small fancy box,
containing a most beautiful, gold finger-ring, which she
carefully preserved, and, when you had grown up
gave it to you. You will, doubtless, remember the cir¬
cumstance. When my wife opened the trunk she
hoped to find some article that bore the name of the
family to which you belonged. She turned over, and
examined again and again every piece of clothing, but
her search was in vain.
This is all the information I can give you, my dear
boy, in relation to your origin. I dislike exceedingly
to give you this information without being able to tell
you who your parents are. But this I cannot do, for I
know them not. I hope, Allison, that you will notsufier
this intelligence to distress you,—that you will not feel
hurt that I have not made you acquainted with these
facts sooner. I am certain that a moment's reflection
will convince you that my reasons for withholding them,
from you-and from the world, (for no one besides your¬
self is acquainted with them), are good.
Immediately after the destructive fire at Detroit I de-
WOODVILIiE.
217
termined to leave that country and move to the South
so soon as I could dispose of my little farm. I did not
succeed in doing this, however, for nearly two years.
When I had succeeded in selling my property I remov¬
ed to this village—to the village of R , which yori
have always been in the habit of considering the place
of your nativity, and established myself in the '•Village
Inn," where I have, as you know, resided until now.
I am now quite old, and, in view of death, I rejoice
in the hope of glory. It is doubtless hard to die; but it
is agreeable to know we shall not live here for ever,
and that a better life will put an end to the troubles of
this. If we were offered immortality on earth, who is
there would accept so melancholy a gift? What re¬
source, what hope, what consolation would there be
left us against the rigour of fortune, and the injustice
of mankind? None whatever. 'Tis the hope of an
happy immortality beyond the grave alone, which af¬
fords us any consolation,—which enables us to pass
over this earth's wide wilderness, regardless of its
thorns, ever remembering that when these low and mo¬
mentary pangs are over we shall inherit a better rest.
And oh! my dear boy, as I expect never to see you
again in this life, let me give you one parting word of
counsel. You are young, and about entering upon the
wide sea of life, Allison, in a trim and gallant vessel;
may I then, who feel so deeply concerned about your
welfare as your own father could feel, presume to bid
you beware, ere you leave the port? I would not tell
you of rock or shoal,—of shifting winds, Allison, or
treacherous harborage; for these you have judgment
to shun. 'Tis against yourself)—against the bark's
wavering pilot,—that I would forewarn you. Distrust
your own timidity,—vindicate your own claims;—and
S
218
WOODVILLE.
let not a conciliatory policy lead you to procrastinate
the consideration of present peril. Be you hencefor¬
ward sterner "of purpose, as you would be happy, and
confer happiness. And remember, that a man can
never be respectable in the eyes of the world or in his
own, except so far as he stands by himself and is truly
independent. He may have friends, he may have do¬
mestic connexions, but he must not in these connexions
lose his individuality.
I hope, my dear boy, that you will also remember the
many lessons of religious instruction which I have
given you, and God grant that they may exert a happy
influence upon your heart and lite.
The paths of virtue, Allison, though seldom those of
worldly greatness, are always those of pleasantness
and peace. And man, in whatever state he may be
considered, as well as in every period and vicissitude
of life, experiences in Religion an efficacious antidote
against the ills which oppress him, a shield that blunts
the darts of his enemies, and an asylum into which they
can never enter. Christianity teaches us the endurance
of misfortune: it encourages its votary to triumph in
adversity, and inspires the soul with joy in the hour of
affliction. In every event of fortune it excites in his
soul a sublimity of ideas, by pointing out to him the
just Judge, who, as an attentive spectator of his con¬
flicts, is about to reward him with his inestimable ap¬
probation. Religion, even in the darkest tempest, ap¬
pears to man as the Iris of peace, and dissipating the
dark and angry storm, restores the wished for calm,
brings him to the port of safety. Oh! my dear Allison,
let me hope that you will consider these things while
an opportunity is offered by a kind and indulgent prov-
WOODVILLE. 219
idence. Farewell, and may the son of righteousness
rise upon your soul, may he pour his splendors around
you, and illumine your path to heaven, to happiness,
and to God.
Your's affectionately,
ALLISON WOODVILLE."
220
WOODVILLE
CHAPTER XX.
"I am not
As in the days of boyhood.—There were hours
Of joyousnes's, that came like Angel shapes
Upon my heart—but they are altered now,
And rise on Memory's yiew like statues pale
By a dim fount of tears.—And there were springs,
Upon whose streams the sweet young blossoms leaned,
To list the gush of music—but their depths
Are turned to dust.—There too were holy lights,
That shone, sweet rainbows of the spirit, o'er
The skies of new existence, but their gleams,
Like the lust Pleiad of the olden time,
Have fallen from the Zenith, and are lost
'Mid the cold mockeries of Earth!
Alone—
I am alone!—the guardians of my young
And sinless ye^rs have gone and left me here
A solitary wanderer.
*Well—be it so!—
There is a silent purpose in my heart,
And neither love, nor hate, nor fear shall quell
My own fixed daring. Though my being's stream
Gives out no music now, 'tis passing on
To its far fountain in the Heavens, and there
'Twill rest forever in the Ocean tide
Of God's immensity. I will not mourn,
Life's shrouded memories. I can still drink in
The unshadowed beauties of the Universe—
Gaze with a swelling soul upon the blue
Magnificence alone—and hear the hymn
Of heaven in every starlight ray—and fill
Glen, vale, and wood, and mountain, with the bright
And glorious visions poured from the deep home
Of an immortal mind."—Anon.
I am unable to determine whether or not Allison was
more astonished to receive the information which the
above letter communicated, than was the old gentle-
WOODVILLE.
221
man at seeing his first wife after he had married the
second time. He had always believed old man Wood-
ville and his wife to be his parents, and, heretofore, had
never received the slightest intimation to the contrary.
So soon as he had read the old man's letter he threw it
down upon the table, arose from his seat, and for nearly
an hour walked the room in the greatest agitation. He
readily acknowledged to himself that the old man's
motive for withholding this information from him till
now was a good one; yet, the bare thought of being
thus left in total darkness on the subject,—of being
perfectly ignorant of his parents, and of his own real
name, bewildered, and perplexed and fretted him, ex¬
ceedingly. But when he reflected that he was now the
only man living, who was acquainted with these facts,
his mind became somewhat composed. He left his
room, and went to the village to see Mr Hemingway,
his former partner, who was still engaged in the mer¬
cantile business in R , and the rest of his friends
and acquaintances.
Hemingway, as well as all his friends, was delighted
to see him safely returned home improved in health as
in every other respect. Woodville, on the other hand,
was much pleased to find that all, except his guardians,
were still alive and enjoying the finest health, though
many of them were considerably altered. He spent
many delightful hours in the society of Mr. Heming¬
way and that of others of his acquaintance. Yet,
even in his happiest moments, the thought, most cutting
to his pride, of being a "nameless wight," intruded itself,
and mingled with his joys an alloy of sadness, which
cast a deep gloom upon his spirits. When he first be¬
came acquainted with the facts contained in the letter
of his supposed father, he resolved to go in quest of his
S3
<*>o
WOODVILLE.
parents, and never to give up the search until he had
found them; but now, he knew not how to go about it.
He possessed no clue that might enable him to resolve
the difficulty. He knew not where to begin. Should
he begin here at home by making inquiries concerning
his parents, it might give his enemies occasion to slan¬
der him, and to stigmatize him with illegitimacy.
During Woodville's long absence from home, on his
European tour, his former treacherous friend, (if I may
be allowed the expression), Mr. Albert Graham, had
become £o extremely odious to his most intimate ac¬
quaintances, that he was obliged to leave S . He
removed to R , where, through the influence of his
father, he succeeded in getting employment in the mer¬
cantile house of Mr. Hemingway.
This man, Graham, although he always professed to
Woodville to entertain towards him the greatest re¬
gard, was deceitful, hypocritical and treacherous; and,
as we shall presently show, endeavored to gratify his
malicious disposition,—his inveterate hatred, by aiming
a blow at his character, which, in this dotard world,
would have a tendency to blast him forever.
Woodville was sitting in Hemingway's counting
room, and had given him an account of his travels,
when Hemingway turned to him and asked him if he
had seen Albert Graham? Allison replied that he had
not. "He is now living with me," remarked Heming¬
way:
"Ah! indeed; how came that to pass," asked Wood¬
ville;
"Being well acquainted with his character, while he
WOODVILLE.
223
lived at S , I disliked exceedingly to take him in;
but his father was so very urgent that I at length agreed
to do it. He has been quite diligent and attentive to
his business since he has been here."
"Where is he now?" asked Allison:
"Indeed I do not know,—he stepped out a few min¬
utes ago," replied his friend:—And he had scarcely
ended these words when Graham entered the counting
room.
"How are you, how are you, my dear old friend?"—
asked the fawning sycophant, as he approached Alli¬
son, and extended his hand to him. "I am really hap¬
py to see you indeed," he continued. "I am just re¬
turned from your father's late residence, where I had
gone to see you. I met at the door an old negro man
who told me he thought you were in your room, and di¬
rected me to it. I went, accordingly; but not having
the pleasure of finding you there, after waiting a few
minutes, I returned to the village. How wqre you
pleased with your tour, Mr. Woodville?" he then asked.
Woodville replied, that he enjoyed it very much, and
then went on to make some enquiries concerning his
old acquaintances in S .
He learned from Graham certain facts, with some of
which the reader is already acquainted. Graham told
him that Hanson became much more dissipated after,
than he had been before, his marriage;—that the treat¬
ment which his wife received from him was harsh and
cruel in the extreme:—and, that after spending the
whole of his large estate and deeply involving himself
and father-in-law in debt, he had left home and had
never been heard of since. He also informed him that
2U
WOODVILLE.
Matilda was still living, and enjoyed fine health and
spirits; and, that she had succeeded her mother, who
had long since paid the debt of nature, in the superin¬
tendence of her father's domestic concerns.
Graham then told Allison that "he thought he ought
to renew his suite at Berrington's."
Woodville replied that "he had not the most remote
idea of ever visiting S- again."
After a few minutes' conversation of a desultory
character Woodville took his hat and departed.
So soon as he had got out of hearing Graham came
to Hemingway and said:
"Mr, Hemingway, did you ever hear that Allison was
an illegitimate son of old Woodville?"
"IVo, sir, I never did; and if I had, I should not have
believed it."
"Ancl why?" asked Graham:
"Because I've known Allison Woodville ever since
I was capable of knowing any thing. We are near
the same age—we were born and raised in the same
town, and were school-fellows and class-mates. I have
as much evidence to believe, sir, that I am illegitimate,
as that Allison Woodville is. Such evidence does not
exist, I defy any man to produce it."
"Mr. Hemingway," replied Graham, with a sarcastic
smile, "such evidence does exist, and can be produced.
I saw it with my own eyes, not an hour since. And,
if you will listen to me a few minutes, I will tell you
how it happened.
WOODVIIXE.
225
"I went to old Mr. Woodville's late residence this
morning- to see Allison. I entered his room and found
that he was not at home. Supposing that he had just
stepped out and would be back shortly, I seated myself
to await his return. While I was sitting there I ob¬
served a manuscript lying upon the table. I suspected
at first that it was a poetical effusion of Allison's on the
death of his father, and hence curiosity led me to ex¬
amine it. But imagine my astonishment, sir, when I
found it to be a letter, from old Woodville to Allison?
informing him that his wife had never blessed him with
any children, and that he, Allison, was his illegitimate
son by his house-keeper."
"'Tis a lie," replied Hemingway; and, as he said it,
his eyes flashed with the fire of indignation:
Tis a lie," he repeated emphatically, "which you
have fabricated for the purpose of injuring Woodville:
and, sir, I very well know your object. I know, sir?
that the beauty of Mrs. Hanson has captivated you,—
that you are deeply enamored of her, and that you
would sacrifice every thing to obtain her hand. I know,
moreover, that you are well acquainted with all the cir¬
cumstances connected with the.engagement, which for¬
merly existed between that lady and my friend, Allison
Woodville; and, that, since he has returned, you are
fearful that he will renew his suite.
"Is not this true, sir? Have I not described your feel¬
ings and intentions? Is it not your object to injure the
character of my friend by circulating some false ru¬
mor? Deny it, if you dare."
Graham uttered not a word, but his countenance grew
pale as death, and every limb trembled like an aspen-
226
WOODVILLE.
"Woodvfile is my friend," continued Hemingways
"and I feel bound to resent any thing I hear derogatory
to his character. And now, sir, leave my house: away
with you! Begone! I say, and never let me see your
face again."
A man that hath not virtue in himself ever envieth
virtue in others; for men's minds will either feed upon
their own good or upon other's evil; and who wanteth
the one will prey upon the other; and whoso is out of
hope to attain another's virtue will seek to come at even
hand by depressing another's fortune.
Such was precisely the character of Graham, and
Mr. Hemingway guessed rightly in regard to his views
and feelings. He did indeed love Mrs. Hanson, and
nothing but his ignorance of the fate of her husband
prevented his courting her.
An injury sharpened by an insult, be it to whom it
will, makes every man of sentiment a party; and es¬
pecially is this the case when such offence is offered to
a friend. Hemingway could not endure to know his
friend Woodville the object of such gross detraction.
And when he told Graham that he lied, guilt showed
itself in the expression of his countenance. He knew
that he had lied,—knew that the version he had given
of the matter, was most egregiously false. He imme¬
diately left Hemingway and went to the "Village Inn,"
where he waited a day or two for the stage to return
home to & . However, he did not spend these few
days idly; but on the contrary was diligently employed
in circulating this false report. And as there is always
to be found in a little village such as R , a class of
persons who are ever ready to receive and to magnify
a report concerning a neighbor whom they dislike, so
WOODVILLE.
227
it was in this instance. They are ever in quest of some¬
thing new and marvelous to task the idleness of their
gossip tongues. Some said "they never thought that
young Allison favored Mrs. Woodville much;—no more
than one human being resembles another, from their
being of the same class of animals." Some would re¬
late tales concerning it, whilst others yrould listen, and
then go away and repeat them. Several old women
declared positively, that "they remembered now," since
this report had suggested it, "that Allison was not born
inR ; that he was two or three years old when old
"Woodville moved to R , and purchased the "Vil¬
lage Inn."
While these illiberal rumors were being circulated,
many individuals, whom Allison had hitherto consid¬
ered his warmest friends,—even old Mrs. Ferguson^
who was still alive, seemed somewhat disposed to be_
lieve them.
■ "0 breath of public praise.
Short liv'd and vain! oft gained without desert,
As often lost, unmerited: composed
But of extremes:—Thou first beginn'st with love
Enthusiastic, madness of affection: then,
Bounding o'er moderation and o'er reason,
Thouturn'st to hate, as causeless and as fierce."
It has ever been the fate of virtue to be beheld, by cer¬
tain individuals, either with silent or abusive envy. It
makes its way like the sun which we look upon, with
pain, unless something passes over him that obscures
his glory. We then view with eagerness the shadow,
the cloud, or the spot, and are pleased with what eclip¬
ses the brightness we otherwise cannot bear. Thus
stood Woodville amid the malicious crowd of those,
around him. Yet even amongst these he had one true
friend;—one whose sympathy and whose counsel might
228
WOODVILLE.
have been of great advantage to him under existing
circumstances, had he not become sick and disgusted
with the world,—with mankind and eyery thing about
him. This man was Mr. Hemingway. Whenqver he
heard an individual making any enquiries concerning
these tales, he always declared them to be false. At
length, however, they ran to such a height that, Hem¬
ingway, although he could not,—although he disliked
exceedingly to give them the least credit, yet, fearing
they would seriously injure the character of his friend,
determined to go and ask him, whether or not there
was the faintest shadow of truth in them. He did so;—
He went to Woodville's and found him in his room.—
When he entered the apartment, Allison appeared to
be very much dejected; for the reports of which we
have spoken had already reached him. He was walk¬
ing the room with a depressed and down-cast look.—
So soon as he saw Hemingway he burst into tears;
yes, he wept bitterly.
"To weep he blushed not! well it suits his woes,
For pity's tear from valor's fountain flows."
Hemingway could scarcely summon sufficient cour¬
age to make him acquainted with the object of his visit.
At length he did it, however,—and the very utterance
of the words seemed to have wrought a most wonder¬
ful change in Woodville's feelings: for so soon as Hem¬
ingway spoke, the deep gloom which spread itself over
his (countenance vanished away. He turned to Hem¬
ingway, and his lofty air, and manly features were
thrown into an expression of the most sublime con¬
tempt and proud despite as he said,
"Every man, Mr. Hemingway, has in his own life
follies enough—in his own mind troubles enough—in
WOODVILLK.
2-29
the performance of his duties deficiencies enough—in
his own fortunes evils enough-—without being curious
about the affairs of others,"
Hemingway's naturally tender feelings were deeply
wounded by Woodville's harsh reply, although he
knew that Allison would not have used such language
to him under different circumstances. He immediately
withdrew, without saying another word, leaving him
to the solitude of his own thoughts, and returned to the
village with the consolatory reflection that the niotive
which induced him to make the visit was a purely dis¬
interested one.
Happiness is a theme on which all delight to expa¬
tiate. Those who have power or wealth frequently
endeavor to impress others with the conviction that fe¬
licity is conferred by the possession: they are prompt¬
ed to be disingenuous on the subject in order to excite
envy, for to little minds envy is flattery. But how many
wear the exterior of gaiety while the heart is corroded
by anxiety! Mankind are sensible of this, yet, by their
conduct, seem to doubt the fact. They exhibit a delu¬
sive picture, and try to fancy truth has held the pencil,
but increased experience only shows that the deception
is real. The chief constituents of their pretended hap¬
piness are restless pride without gratification—ostenta¬
tion without motive or reward—professions of friend¬
ship without sincerity—ceremony without comfort-
laughter without joy—smiles which conceal rancor—
and approbation alloyed with envy. How false is the
estimate made of human happiness! Some are as much
mistaken in their pursuit of happiness as others are in
judging of their enjoyment from their exterior. Indeed
they are strangers to happiness! The immortal mind
T
230
WOODVILLE.
is not thus constituted. The glitter o f dress—the splen¬
dor of apartments—the loftiness of houses—the beauty
of equipage, have all the potency of their charms from
the supposed admiration they excite in the eyes of
spectators; and even here their vain possessors are
grossly mistaken; for more than half that admiration
is most unlovely envy. The brilliance of all these
things strikes the eye, but carries no pleasure to the
heart; and, in the midst of all these baubles, the mind
of man indignantly retires within itself, and refuses to
be consoled with a portion no better than what falls to
the fowls of heaven, and the beasts of the earth.
Such was the train of thoughts that passed through
Woodville's mind as he traversed the apartment where
Hemingway had left him. His mind gradually became
calm and seemed to be drawn into a sort of moralizing
mood. Still he was discontented and unhappy. He
saw that in this world of flattery and falsehood, every
one deceives and is deceived in turn, and that all moved
under a borrowed form. He saw that whatever pretext
was advanced, whatever visor was assumed, self-in¬
terest prompted every act and guided every design.—
The mask that veiled mankind was scarcely to be pen¬
etrated by wisdom, or to be set aside by enticement:
interest was riveted in the human heart, and tainted all
its emanations. A mind less delicately constituted
would perhaps have little regarded the vain bablings
of its envious and malicious fellow-creatures, but, on
the contrary, would have gone forth to meet them, and
dared them to their utmost. In this situation, however,
circumstances were constantly occurring to afflict, and
distress, and torture the feelings of poor Allison: until,
at last he turned, sickening from the world and disgust*
ed with its vain and foolish maxims.
W00DV1LLE.
231
Oppressed by these accumulated evils of his fortune
he resolved to abandon the world forever: no, not to
abandon the world, for his moral sense was not so com¬
pletely disorganized as to lead him to commit suicide;
but to 'withdraw himself from society, and to lead, the
rest of his days, the life of an anchoret.
During Allison's more youthful days he was passion¬
ately fond of deer hunts; and, accompanied by two or
three of his most intimate acquaintances, he would
frequently spend weeks at a time among the mountains
in this delightful sport. It was at this time he became
acquainted with the wild, and beautiful, and romantic
region in the neighborhood of the Springs; and
thither, actuated by the mastering impulse of his mis¬
anthropic feelings, did he resolve to go and hide him¬
self from a world that he hated, in the cavern of some
gloomy rock. .
Very early on the morning after tlemingway's visit
he packed up his clothes and provision sufficient to last
him three or four weeks, and commenced his journey.
He took Ned along to assist him in making such ar¬
rangements about his hermitage, as convenience and
comfort required.
About noon the first day. there arose a most violent
storm. The rain beat upon them with so much vio¬
lence, that they were obliged to seek shelter in the
woods. They went to a very large Maple tree which
was so thickly covered with foliage that the rain could
hot reach them at all.
It continued to "pour down with so much vehemence
that they dared not leave the tree until near sunset,
when the storm measureably ceased. They then re-
232
WOODVILLE.
newed their journey, but it was quite dark before they
reached a house of entertainment".-
When Woodville had taken his supper he drew up
his chair near his host and engaged in conversation
with him." After they had been talking awhile the
landlord turned to him, and enquired his name? And O
how humiliating to poor Allison's pride was the reflec¬
tion that he knew it not. If his determination to seclude
himself from the world had not been fixed,—had that
determination required any additional strength this was
sufficient to confer it.
"My name is," and he hesitated;
"Is what," asked his host:
He again stammered out, "My name is," but could get
no farther.
"What did you say, sir?" the landlord again asked,
as he drew nearer; "speak louder if you please," he
said, "for I'm a little hard o' hearing."
"Is not this too much," thought Woodville, "My
name, sir, is Allison Woodville," he replied peevishly.
"Ay, ay; Well, I used to know some folks of your
name, a great while ago, when I lived across the big
waters; but I reckon they aint no kin to you, sir?" re¬
joined his host:
"No, sir; I presume not," replied Woodville.
He then retired for the night, and the next morning
scarcely waited till the dawn of day, before he started,
so great was his haste to get beyond the reach of the
inquiries of the curious, and the remorseless malice of1
woodvlliih.
233
liis enemies. Within three or four days from thS date
of their departure from home Woodville and his ser¬
vant, Ned, arrived at the point of their destination.—
They immediately went to work, and made the cavern,
which Allison had determined to make the place of his
future residence, quite a comfortable habitation. They
dug about the entrance of the cave, cleared away the
rough rocks that were lying around it, removed also the
bushes and old logs, and then cut some posts and rafters
and made a beautiful arbor in front. The inside of the
cave was cool and pleasant. At the bottom was a large
smoothe rock, which extended from one end of the cave
to the other, and formed not an unhandsome floor.—
The rocks in the sides of the cave were so arranged as
to form shelves answering all the purposes of a closet
and a library, Our foresters then cut a large poplar
tree, and made of it some stools to sit upon.
This cave is situated about ten miles from the village
of P . By the time that all this work about the
cave was completed the day had nearly expired, and
our misanthropic hero, unwilling to return to the busy
haunts of men, kindled a fire,- and, with the assistance
of his servant, prepared their homely meal. This they
eat with the greatest satisfaction, for their appetites
were considerably sharpened by the inordinate exer¬
cise which they found themselves obliged to take.—
"When this necessary duty had been performed, each of
the foresters stooped and took a long and, happily,
grateful draught, at a silent solitary spring, .which is¬
sued from the base of an aged elm. They then spread
down their great coats, upon which they reposed their
fatigued limbs in the sweetest sleep, until the matin
songs of the mountain birds awakened them from their
slumbers. They arose, refreshed and invigorated by
t2
234
TV OODVILLE.
a rest, rendered more sweet and more luxurious by
the toils of the previous day.
When they had partaken of their morning meal
Woodville turned to his servant and addressed him as
follows:
"Well, Ned, my dear old fellow, you have been an
obedient and faithful servant to me, and, to show you
that I know how to appreciate your former services, I
shall now discharge you. You may henceforth con¬
sider yourself free, and at perfect liberty to go where
you please. But, Ned, I do not intend to cast y ou off
from me upon the wide world to shift for yourself. No;
far from it. Return you to R , and take possession
of your old master's little farm, near that place. Live
upon it, and consider it your own;—it is your's—I give
it to you,—it will yield you an abundant support."
^0 ito, Massa Allison," responded Ned in a sorrow¬
ful tone, "O no, sir, I cannot leave you here by your-
selfin dese dark woods, whar nobody neber comes. If
Sally had a' lived I might do as you tell me, but as Sal¬
ly's dead and gone, and all my childers is dead and
gone too, and left poor old Ned here in dis bad world
by his self I cannot do it. Do let me stay here, Massa
Allison, and live and die wid you. I care nothin 'bout
4e farm,—I'm gitten old now, 'twont do me no good.
Sure I can't work now like I used to could in my young
days, but if you'll let me stay here wid you, I can do a
heap o' things fur you dat you couldn't do yourself.—
You know you mout git sick, and den I could 'tend on
you and be great 'vantage to you; and if you want to
buy any thing dat you haint got 'way here in de woods,
I can go to P—, and fetch it to you. O no, Massa
WOODVILLB.
235
Allison, I don't want to go. Whar you go, I'll go,'—
whar you stay, I'll stay, and your cave shall be my
home."
The old negro appeared to be so much affected that,
Woodville agreed finally to let him remain.
"Well, well, Ned," said he, "you shalL do as you
please. If you would rather stay, do so; for I shall not
force yon away from me. However you must return
to R , immediately;—I wish you to take a letter to
Mr. Hemingway. Go now and get your horse."
Ned was highly delighted that his master had agreed
to let him stay with him, and he obeyed his orders with
great alacrity.
While he was employed in getting his horse that had
been turned loose to graze, Woodville was engagedin
writing a letter to Hemingway.
When Ned got back to the cave his master met him
at its entrance and handed him the letter.
"Here, Ned," said he, "give this letter to Mr. Hem-,
ingway, and if he. ask you where I am, tell him not;
and be sure that you tell no one else. I have requested
Hemingway in this letter to sell the farm together with
all the household and kitchen furniture and send me the
money by you. You must wait there until he gives,
you the money, and, as spon as he does, this, return you
without delay."
"Very weH> sir, I'll do as. you bid me. But aint dere
nothjn else dat you want me to 'tend to fur- you?"
i.
"No, I believe not, Stqy, stey; yes, bring rpy dog,
m
WOODVUiLE.
old Trajan, with you, and the cart. We will, probably
have use for them both."
"Very well, sir, is that all?"
"O, you must bring the rest of your clothes, of course;
and bringa trunk of books that you will find in my
room. Go now, and stay not a moment longer than
you are necessarily compelled to stay."
Ned started off briskly, and was soon out of sight.
Hemingway immediately complied with Woodville's
request, and carefully deposited the proceeds of the
sales in Woodville's trunk of books that Ned was to
take to him.
Ned also, on his part, obeyed implicitly, the injunc¬
tions of his master. He carefully gathered up all his
old clothes, and stowed them away in the cart with his
master's trunk; and, as he drove through the village,
he sang and whistled merrily as a lad 'of fifteen.—
Twelve or fifteen days after Ned's departure he re¬
turned to the cave. By this time Allison began to ex.
perience the many inconveniences of living in a cave;
and, when his'servant got back, he determined to build
him a house. They went to work without delay, and,
in a short time, completed a neat and comfortable cot¬
tage. Through his servant Woodville then procured
bedding and bedsteads, and every thing else that he
needed, from the neighboring village of P .
He rises every morning at the dawn of day, and,
takes his gun and dog, to which he is greatly attached,
and rambles through the woods, or reads'or writes till
breakfast. After breakfast, from that time till night, he
fishes and hunts and rides about. Thus he spends eaeh
WOODVILIE.
237
succeeding1 day as it passes. He is warmly attached
to his dog, and as his naturally amiable and affectionate
heart wants something to be kind to, it consoles itself
for the loss of society, to see even this animal derive
happiness from the endearments which hebestows on it.
Now, sir, I have given you all the information I possess¬
ed concei-ning the history of Allison Woodville, and
the causes which led him to adopt his present mode of
life.""
23S
WOODVIIiLE,
CHAPTER XXI.
"The most beloved on earth,
Not long survives to-day;
So music past is obsolete,
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,
And now 'tis gone away.
Thus does the shade
In memory fade,
When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid."
Kirke White.
Just as my kind host of the —— Spring HoteJ con¬
cluded Woodville's history, a servant entered the room
and handed me a billet. It proved to be from my young
friend, Mr. Leland Owen, informing me that he would
be married to the beautiful and accomplished Miss
Julia Saunders, so soon as he should have sufficiently
recovered from a violent attack of the bilious fever>
and requesting my attendance.
I had now been so long absent from home that I felt
it my duty to return thither, before I should visit my
friend, Owen. I did so, as soon as I could make the
necessary arrangements. A few days more, and I was
again admitted to the full enjoyment of the sweet soci¬
ety of my domestic friends, the only bliss of Para¬
dise that has survived the fall.
After spending a day or two in this delightful intent-
course of friendship—in receiving the happy greetings
of relatives, and in the enjoyment of greater endear¬
ments and pleasures of a more permanent and elevated
WOODVILLE.
239
character, I again set forth on the purposed visit to my
friend Owen.
When I had got within a mile of his residence, I ob¬
served, at a considerable distance from the road, a vast
concourse of people slowly moving in a solemn train.
I felt curious to know the occasion of it, and, enquiring
of the first person I met, was informed that they were
just attending to the tomb the remains of my friend.—
At the discovery of so unexpected a thing as the death
of Owen, my astonishment was equalled only by my
grief. On furtfier enquiries I understood that after he
had recovered from the fever concerning which he
wrote me,—or rather during his convalescent state, he
exposed himself so much that it induced a relapse,
which terminated in his death,
Inclination and a sense of duty prompted mp to go
and witness his interment. When I reached the place
the coffin had just been lowered into the grave, and an
aWful silence reigned throughout the crowd. It was a
silence, which breathed into the ear of the- soul a won¬
drous voice, whose language is not of this world.
A venerable man, whose locks were silvered o'er
with age, then advanced a few steps, and, in a solemn
and impressive manner, pronounced the following pas¬
sage of scripture, from which he took occasion to make
a few remarks of practical import:
"It is appointed unto all once to die
"That is a declaration, my friends, to whose truth
every one's daily experience testifies. But how little
do we realize, when encircled with all those bright ob¬
jects, which ihrow such a lustre and brilliancy over the
path of life, that to the cloudless sky succeed the storm
240
WOODVILLE.
and the tempest;—that there are thorns, as well as flow¬
ers, strewed in all our paths of mortality;—that the
germs of decay and final dissolution are found in all
the varied forms of earthly beauty. We grasp the
delightful visions, and fondly call them our own, but
while admiring their beauty and fair proportion, even
I while they repose in our bosoms, their charms, their
beauty and their loveliness wither and die. We then
look back upon the joys that are gone, and mourn over
the desolations of the past. And why do we thus fond¬
ly cherish hopes, which fade so soon, and grasp so
eagerly at visions, which vanish the moment we em¬
brace them? When we open the volume of revelation
the mystery is solved. We are there informed that all
the most perfect forms of material and mental propor¬
tion are but faint out-beamings of that perfection of ex¬
cellence, which dignified and ennobled human nature
in its primeval state; and that, since the fall, our degen¬
erate race, instead of placing their supreme affections
on that uncreated beauty of which the perfect models
that adorned the garden of Paradise were but faint ema¬
nations, have worshipped the creature more than the
creator, who is God over all and blessed forever. We
rove through the wide creation, and examine all the
perishing forms • of material beauty, unconscious that
the infinite spirit is here, yes, even here;—that a royal
feast is prepared, and that, over all the regalements of
the banquet the banner of his love divinely waves."
He then turned to the weeping relatives of the de¬
ceased, and spoke peace to their afflicted hearts:
"Oh! my friends," said he, "why do you yield to this
excessive grief? Surely our young friend gave the
most satisfactory evidence, before his death, that he had
WOODVILLE.
241
made his peace with God. Is there then no solace in
the thought that his happy spirit now ranges in immor¬
tal bliss through the boundless realms of heaven? That
his once sweet and melodious voice is tuned, in sweeter,
loftier harmony, to the music of angels? that no feeling
of infirmity, or thought of sin, can trouble his celestial
repose through the undeclining day of eternity?
"I know it is natural to bemoan the loss of friends,
those who are dear to our hearts; but we should not
murmur at the dispensations of an all-wise providence.
Although it is painful to be bereft of his sweet society,
yet how consolatory the reflection that he now enjoys
the soeiety of angels and the presence of his God in
heaven. Yes, in heaven; and there shall he sit down
with Abraham, with Isaac and Jacob, and tell the tale
and sing, the song of God's redeeming love.
"Oh, how blissful!—The sorrows of time exchanged
for the boundless bliss of eternity!—The groans of an
imprisoned spirit hushed in the everlasting songs of the
Redeemed!—The sting of death forgotten in the fruitions
of immortal life!—The victory of the grave lost in the
interminable triumphs of heaven!—Yes, the fearing,
hoping, doubting, trembling soul was snatched by the
spirit's mighty power from its cell of fleshly thraldom,
and borne away on plumes of ecstacy to the bright
regions of glory!1'
The holy man then ceased, and a moment of silence
succeeded; after which he offered up a fervent prayer
to heaven, and the crowd dispersed.
On leaving the place I directed my course to Mr.
Saunders', who lived but a few miles distant; for I could
not think of leaving the neighborhood without calling
U
242
"WOODVIIiUE.
on his family. Two hours more brought me to his
residence. And O how shall I describe the melancholy
condition in which I found the afflicted Julia? By an
extreme depression of spirits her every faculty seemed
totally suspended and lulled into silence and insensi"
bility. With eyes turned towards heaven, as if in
search of relief, she would utter words of vague and
indistinct meaning, which seemed, in the darkness and
confusion of her few erring thoughts, to intimate some¬
thing not to be explained;—as if grasping at something
beyond the reach of her bewildered reason. At times,
however, a clear light broke in transitory streaks over
the twilight of her spirit. But here let me drop the veil,
and shade the expression of those woes, which fancy
dares not delineate—which memory dares not dwell
upon.
WOGDVIL1E.
243
CHAPTER XXII.,
*Tliere are moments which he calls his own,
Then never less alone than when alone;
Those that he loved so long and sees no more,
Loved and still loves—not dead—but gone before,
He gathers round him; and revives at will
Scenes in his life—that breathe enchantment still—
That come not now at dreary intervals—
But where*a light as from the blessed falls,
A light such guests bring ever, pure and holy—
Lappitigthe soul in sweetest melancholy!
Ah! then the less willing (nor the choice condemn)
To live with others than to think on them."—Rogers.
"Fortune you say, flies from us—she but circles
Like the fleet sea-bird round the fowler's skiff,—
Lost in the mist one moment, and the next
Brushing the white sail with her whiter wing,.
As if to court the aim.—Experience watches
And has her on the wheel."—Anon.
On the morning' after the funeral of my young friend,
Mr. Owen, I left Mr. Saunders'. Owen's sudden death
and the strange mental hallucination which it had
wrought upon Miss Saunders, produced in my own
mind a feeling of sadness. But the intercourse of
friendship is a cordial for the heart. It beguiles the
hour of grief:—gently weans the thoughts from the
selfishness of sorrow; .and gives the mourner to feel
that earth is not a wilderness. So soon therefore as I
returned to the bosom of iny family, these melancholy
emotions vanished before the cheerful smiles of friend¬
ship and affection.
The next watering season I again visited the ———
Springs. I wished to see Woodville again, and to be-
244
WOODVILLE.
come better acquainted with him; for there was some-*
thing in this gentleman which, at first sight, strongly
enlisted my feelings in his favor. It was not the beauty
of his face, nor the symmetry of his fine form, but it
was an uncommon union of interest, benevolence, mod¬
esty, and manly thought, which are so seldom seen
united in a countenance of great beauty, and the inter¬
esting and ti'uly romantic account of him, which the
landlord of the Spring hotel had given one, that
thus strongly attracted me towards him. In addition
to this, the mystery, which a strange combination of
circumstances had thrown around his birth and paren¬
tage, and the consequent powerful effect which a knowl¬
edge of it had had upon his delicate and feeling mind
strongly excited my sympathies. As I journeyed along
the road to the Springs, the thought was suggested to
me, that, ifit were possible to reclaim this misanthropic
anchoret,—to revive in his bosom the love of society,
and to pursuade him to return to the world which he
had abandoned, perhaps, a combination of circumstan¬
ces equally strange might occur, which would, unex¬
pectedly, solve the mystery, and lead to a discovery of
his pai'ents.
Animated with the hope that it might ut so, I
travelled on in greater haste until I reached the Springs.
Here a good deal of company had already assembled;
but not as formerly did I again -meet here my friend
.Leland Owen. This reflection cast a shade of sad¬
ness upon my heai't; but in the midst of such charming
scenery, and such gay and mirthful company, this sad¬
ness, like the flitting cloud that momentarily obscures
the brightness of a summer's sun, quickly passed away.
Miss Julia Saunders, however, was anTong thevmtors
W'OODVILLE
245
at the springs this season. In every season of life grief
brings its own peculiar antidote along with it: the buoy¬
ancy of yputh soon repels its deadening weight; the
firmness of manhood resists its weakening influence; the
torpor of old age is insensible to its most acute pangs.
The death of Owen had deeply distressed Miss Saun¬
ders. But there is an ultimate point of depression from
which the spirits return in a contrary progress, and
beyond which they ngver pass. During the hours of
regret we recall the images of departed joys, and in
weeping over each tender remembrance, tears softly
embalm the wounds of grief. To be denied the privi¬
lege of pouring forth our love and our lamentations over
the grave of one who in life was our happiness, is to
shut up the soul of the survivor in a solitary tomb,
where the bereaved heart pines in secret till it breaks
with the fullness of uncommunicated sorrow: but listen
to the mourner; give his feelings way, and, like the
river rolling from the hills into the valley, they will flow
with a gradually gentler stream, till they become lost in
time's wide ocean. Yes, time will cure every wound,
however deep, however painful has been its infliction.
The ——Springs, of all places in the world, is the
one we should visit if we wish to escape from sorrow.
Even Miss Saunders herself felt her heart gradually
weaned from its selfish grief in this delightful region.—
Mature was too enticing, and the air too full of the
sweet fragrance of flowers, and the breeze too bland,
for her thoughts to dwell upon painful reminiscences^
and she was imperceptibly and almost involuntarily
drawn into alLthe fashionable amusements, sports, and
pastimes of the season.
I embraced the first opportunity to make my land-
U2
24G
WOODVILtE.
lord acquainted with my views and feelings in regard
to Woodville.
He told me in reply that "he would like it of all things
if we could prevail on Allison to visit him that he might
have an opportunity of introducing him again into so¬
ciety. I know he cares but little for society," he con¬
tinued; "the ordinary intercourse of the world has slen¬
der charms for him; he cares "but little for the world, but
he would be ill-satisfied with the-reverse of the propo¬
sition—that the world should not care for him, He will
not endure its censure; he will not endure its contempt;
he is formed to feel any slur that is cast upon him, not
like a wound, but like fifty mortal swords, each of them
striking at something infinitely beyond his life."
"Admitting that to be true, Mr. ; let Woodville
care as little for society as he will;—still, in his entire
seclusion from the world, he must be the most unhappy
man living. Were it possible for him to be so totally
wrapped up in himself) as to live in absolute seclusion
from human nature, and could yet enjoy perfect con¬
tentment and tranquility, -1 allow that his situation
would be more desirable than to live in a world so
pregnant with vice and folly. But this can never he the
case. Man was born for society. However little he
may be attached to the world, he never can wholly
forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by it. Disgust¬
ed at the guilt or absurdity of mankind, the misanthrope
flies from it; he resolves tobec'ome a hermit, and buries
himself in the cavern of some gloomy rock. While
hate inflames his bosom, possibly he may be contented
with his situation; but when his passions begin to cool,
when time has mellowed his sorrows, and healed those
wounds which he bore with him to solitude, think you
WOODVILLE.
247
that content becomes his companion? Ah! no—no
longer sustained by the violence of his passions, he
feels all the monotony of his way of living, and his
heart becomes the pray of ennui and weariness. He
looks round him, and finds himself alone in the uni¬
verse: the love of society revives in his bosom, and he
longs to return to the world. Nature loses her charms
in his eyes; no one is near him to point out her beauties,
or share in his admiration of her excellence and vari¬
ety. Propped upon the fragment of some rock, he
gazes upon the trembling waterfall with a vacant eye;
he views without emotion the glory pf the setting sun.
Slowly he returns to his cell at evening, for no one
there is anxious for his arrival: he has no comfort in
"his'solitary meal; he throws himself upon his couch of
moss, despondent and dissatisfied; and wakes only to
pass a day as joyless and monotonous as the former."
"Your remarks are correct, I think, sir;" replied the
landlord, "and I verily believe that Woodville is al¬
ready dissatisfied with his situation. I have visited
him frequently since you left here;—I have studied his
character and disposition, and have discovered one
thing—that he has ambition; and ambition, you know,
cannot have its proper scope in solitude. I think, sir,
that, if a judicious course were pursued, he might be
induced to leave his seclusion."
'.'Do you really think so?" I asked, pleased to think
that the landlord agreed with me:
"Ireally do," he replied.
"Well, sir," I i*ejoined, "with your assistance and co¬
operation, I shall attempt it at all hazards."
"At your service, Mn. . I'll accompany you to
243
WOODVILLE.
Woodvilie's cottage at any time,—to-morrow, if you
wish."
"Very well, lsir; we will go to-morrow."
Accordingly, we set out at an early hour, and long
before the sun disappeared behind the mountains in the
far west, we had reached Woodville's cottage.
As we rode up he was sitting in his arbor and seemed
to be wrapped in a deep study. We had dismounted
and tied our horses to a fence which enclosed a small
yard in front of the humble dwelling, and had got with¬
in a few paces of the door before he observed us. He
arose to greet us, and as we received his salutation a
melancholy smile slightly animated his features. He
conducted us into his cottage and bade us be seated.—
Woodville was much altered;—he did not look as for¬
merly, when the landlord and J visited him before, du¬
ring my sojournment at the Springs. His countenance
wore a pale and ashy hue,* and there seemed to be
something, with which we were as yet unacquainted,
hanging heavily upon his heart. My companion en¬
deavored to rally him in his humorous way by telling
anecdotes; but this tended rather to increase than to
diminish the gloom which now possessed his'mind.
After making a few desultory remarks on indifferent
subjects the landlord enquired for Ned.
So soon as he made this enquiry Woodville burst in¬
to tears. This solved the whole matter.—Ned had paid
the debt of nature since the landlord's last visit. This
flood of tears afforded Woodville some relief, and when
he had partially recovered from his agitation he turned
to us and said,
WOODVILtE.
249
"O gentlemen, I am the most miserable being in ex¬
istence!"
"I know you are, Mr. Woodville," replied the land¬
lord; "and your misery will remain undiminished, so
long as you continue in this lonely retreat. Come,
come," said he, assuming an air of gaiety, "cheer up
and look forward to happier days. Get your horse in
the morning and accompany us back to the Mansion
house. There, are a number of young ladies there,—
perhaps you may find one among them, whom you
would like to make your partner for life. If so, your
days in future will brighten, and your heart become
reconciled to the world and to its usages."
"Ah! no—no. In this world, sir, I stand alone, like
a blasted flower on the heath! • Misfortune's rude
tempest has prostrated every kindred plant! There is
no one to whom I-can unreservedly communicate my
feelings,—no congenial spirit that can understand and
share them. Would I form a connection of which you
speak, without having a name, which the beloved ob¬
ject of my affections might share with me? No,—I
cannot think of it. Here, unknown to the world will I
live,—here, unlamented will I die. Yes, I feel grateful
to you, gentlemen, for the kind attention you have paid
me,—for the interest you seem to entertain for my wel¬
fare."
"I fear, Mr. Woodville, that you have been too much
in the habit of viewing mankind through a delusive and
deceptious atmosphere. You have hitherto lived in a
world which was the mere creation of fancy, but now
you view things differently. And indeed those individ¬
uals, sir, are the happiest, who soonest learn to barter
the bright, delusive hopes of youth for the sober, sub-
250
WOODVILLB.
dued views of real life, which, without producing a dis¬
taste for this world's enjoyments, despoil them of that
vivid colouring which cannot last, and detaches them
from considering it their abiding place. But, sir, in¬
stead of being led to entertain these subdued and mod¬
erated views of real life, the first gleam of reality that
flashed upon you was like a dagger to your heart, it laid
low in the dust your towering hopes, and your warm
and sanguine feelings recoiled from the contemplation;-
—with their natural impetuosity they bounded over
moderation and reason, and thus influenced, you finally
abandoned the world, indulging the most misanthropic
views. You should learn, sir, to subdue your passions,
moderate your prejudices, and never submit to the vio¬
lence of a sudden impulse. I really think, sir," that, if
you were again to enter society, your return to the
world would be accompanied with more sober and
philanthropic views."
ftAh! my dear sir," replied Woodville, "I sometimes
enjoy, a happiness here in these dark woods that the
world knows nothing of."
"I know, Mr. Woodville," rejoined my landlord;
"that a spiritless tranquility may be obtained; but the
mind of man, to improve, must be agitated; and it is
better occasionally to hear the dashing of the waves,
than to inhale the pestilential effluvia of stagnant
waters. Man, sir, is not an isolated creature, and can
never become so; he is a link of one great and mighty
chain, and each necessarily has a dependence upon the
other. In society, he is like the flower blown in its na¬
tive bed; in solitude, like the blasted shrub of the desert
—-neither giving nor receiving support, the energies of
his nature fail him, and he droops, degenerates and dies
WOOBVJIXE.
251
No doubt, sir, that you enjoyed your tranquil retirement
a great deal-for a while when you first came to this val¬
ley, and that this enjoyment may have lasted even until
the death of your servant; but, sir, it is equally doubt¬
less., to my mind, that, since his death—since you have
no human being near you with whom you may con¬
verse, you feel all the monotony of your mode of living*.
You will acknowledge yourself that you are unhappy
here. I know you cannot be otherwise than unhappy."
"I confess, sir,*' replied Woodville, "that I am some¬
times so, but I do not think that returning to the world
would afford me any relief. If I could' be convinced
of my mistake, however, I would gladly leave my se¬
clusion."
"I really think, Mr. Woodville, that I have advanced
arguments sufficiently strong to convince any man of
your intelligence, that you are acting very improperly.
If, however, my benevolent efforts to convince you that
friendly "intercourse with the world would have a happy
. effect upon your mind, have failed of success, let me as¬
sure you, sir, that actual experience will convince you of
the fact. And now, sir, promise me that you will re¬
turn with me to the Mansion House to-morrow. Will
you do so?"
During this conversation I observed that Woodville's
countenance underwent frequent changes. When the
landlord spoke of the pleasures of society, a melan¬
choly smile played Upon his features, and when he
brought into view the listless monotony and misery of
his present way of living, a deep gloom settled upon
his countenance. From this circumstance I was in¬
duced to entertain a hope that he could be prevailed
upon finally to leave his seclusion.
2-52
WOODVILLE.
In reply to the landlord's question, he said that he
would think about it, and would acquaint bim with his
determination in the morning'.
We helped him to prepare, and then partook of, his
evening meal. In our conversation the rest of the even¬
ing, we assumed an air of gaiety in order to withdraw
Woodville, as much as possible, from his own gloomy
thoughts and misanthropic feelings. And indeed this
seemed to have quite a salutary effect upon his mind, for
he really appeared to enjoy himself very much. After
supper, (if such it may be ealled, for we had only some
squirrels, broiled upon the coals, and some corn bread,
baked in the ashes, with a dish or two of pretty' good
coffee), we retired for the night.
At an early hour the next morning we arose and en¬
tered Woodville's apartment. He had already risen
and had gone out. While we were preparing to take
our departure he entered the cottage with his gun on
his shoulder, and a number of birds in his hand which
he had just killed for his morning meal.
"Good morning, gentlemen." he said, as he entered:
"I hope you -do not intend to start before breakfast?''
he said.
"Why, no," replied my companion, "we will not
start before breakfast if you will go with us."
"Indeed, gentlemen," rejoined Woodville, "I some¬
times feel half inclined to go; but there is one reflec¬
tion that always discourages me and damps my feel¬
ings."
"And what is that?" asked the landlord:
WOODVILLE.
255
"I thought you would have guessed it. It is my. ig¬
norance of my own name, and the impossibility of ever
becoming acquainted with it."
"Pshaw!" said the landlord, smiling, "never mini'
that,—never mind that, sir. Go with us.*—I'll introduce
you to the company, as Mr. Woodville, and • no one
will presume to ask any questions. Besides, if you go,
you may see some person there, or something may oc¬
cur, that might lead to a discovery of your parents."
"Indeed 1 do not know; the case seems to me to be
almost an hopeless one. But why are you in so great a
hurry to return home, landlord? I was going to pro¬
pose a hunt;—suppose we take a hunt to-day, and re¬
turn hereto night. You can return to the Mansion to
morrow as well as to-day. What say you to that ar¬
rangement?"
"You know, Mr. Woodville," replied the landlord,
''that, at this season of the year, I cannot be absent
from home long at a time; but, if Mr. —- wishes to
take a hunt, I am willing to postpone returning until to¬
morrow." Then turning to me, he whispered,
"Say you would like to take a hunt; for 1 see thai
my conversation with him has had some elfect upon hi*
mind; and, if we do not ultimately succeed with hire
by argument and persuasion, we will, by some strata¬
gem."
I thanked the landlord aloud for his kindness in leav¬
ing it tq me to decide, and added that I should be very
much pleased to take a hunt.
Accordingly, the necessary preparations were made,
and, alter taking breakfast, we set out.
Y
254
WOODVII/LE.
As we rambled on, the beautiful and romantic seen
ery, the mountains, the woods, and the solitary cas¬
cades dashing down the sides of the mountains, to¬
gether with the most interesting conversation on almost
every topic, beguiled the tediousness of the sultry sum¬
mer day, which seemed to have passed off almost im¬
perceptibly.
It was Woodville's intention, when we set out in the
morning, to return to his cottage at night; but in the
afternoon the landlord drew him into an argument upon
some philosophical question, by which his mind was so
completely abstracted that he seemed to have forgotten
every thing else. The landlord had "given me the
wink,"—I recognized his object, but said not a word.
The sun had sunk to rest and the shades of evening
were closing around us, when the landlord made a sud¬
den digression from the subject of his conversation
with Woodville, and remarked that, "as it was grow¬
ing late, he thought we had better select some place of
encampment for the night." Woodville appeared to
be much surprised to find that the day had passed so
quickly away, and regretted that night had overtaken
us so far from his cottage. But seeing that we were
obliged to remain in the woods until the next morning,
instead of spending his time in fruitless Jeremiads, he
diligently applied himself, and aided us in preparing for
our encampment.
We had kindled a fire beneath a very large tree
whose thick foliage afforded a comfortable shelter from
the dews of the night, and were preparing to cook some
squirrels and birds which we had killed during the day,
when our attention was arrested by a distant ligbt}
which seemed to be passing to and fro, as it glimmered
WOODVILLE.
255
*
through the trees. The landlord "observed that he
thought it must be at some house with which he was un¬
acquainted," and told us to "remain at our place of en¬
campment until he should go and see if it were so, and
if we could not be accommodated there with lodging
for the night."—As he turned away, altho' the shadow
of the tree measurably obscured his features, I thought
I could discern upon his countenance a smile, which
seemed to be full of meaning, yet I was not able at the
moment to comprehend that meaning. "When he had
gone, as I was passing about the fire, I saw at thebot-
tom of the hill upon which we were encamped, a very
fine spring, and immediately went to it to get some
water. So soon as I had tasted it, I knew it to be medi¬
cinal; and on examining with more minuteness the ob¬
jects around me, I discovered it to be one of my land¬
lord's medicinal springs, which brought such a crowd
to the Mansion House every summer. This discovery
interpreted the smile which played upon the landlord's
countenance as he left us at the tree, and convinced me
that the light we had seen was at the Mansion House.
I returned to our place of encampment, but, suspect¬
ing that the landlord had some design in view, did not
mention the circumstance to Woodville.
In a few minutes, another circumstance equally
strange and unaccountable arrested our attention. The
trampling of horses was heard, and, a moment or two
after, a carriage was seen to issue from among the trees
and approach us. It drove up and stopped within a
few rods of the place where we were stationed. The
next instant the door flew open, and out jumped the
landlord. He hastened to us, and, in a most provoking
good humor, took Woodville by the hand and led him
towards the carriage and called on me to follow.
256
WOODVILLE.
"Why, what in the world does this mean?" asked
Woodville, with a look of surprise.
"O nothing, sir;—nothing of consequence," replied
the landlord; "only I think you can be better entertain¬
ed at my house, than here in the woods."
"At your house!" exclaimed Woodville, "and was
the light that we saw a while ago, at your house?" he
asked.
"Yes, sir, it was so," replied the landlord.
"Well, well," said Woodville, laughing, as he entered
the carriage, "I find you are determined that I shall visit
the Mansion House once, any how."
We left our horses in the care of a servant whom the
landlord had brought with him for the purpose, and as
soon as we were seated in the carriage, we dashed on
our way to the Mansion House.
When we arrived a number of ladies and gentlemen
were sitting in the portico, and among the former was
Miss Julia Saunders, arrayed in all her loveliness. (I
hope the reader will not judge my hero so harshly as to
pronounce him fickle or infirm should he happen to fall
in love with this lady, and determine never to return to
his seclusion.j He was introduced to her, and to all
the company present, by our generous host. "Wood¬
ville did not remember her. Her face was familiar to
him, and he looked again and again, but for his life he
could not recollect where he had seen her before. He
had travelled all over Europe—had visited all the most
celebrated watering places in the British empire, and
had seen a thousand different faces; but none more
lovely than Miss Julia's—no form more fair than her's.
WOODVILLE.
257
lie thought that he had seen her before under peculiar
circumstances of distress and danger—that, on this oc¬
casion, all the tender sympathies of his soul were
awakened into the most lively interest in her behalf; and
even now, by a strange and unaccountable impulse of
nature his feelings seemed to be strikingly assimilated
to those, which he imagined that he experienced at this
unknown time. Where or under what circumstances
he had seen Miss Saunders he knew not. The recol¬
lection was faint,—like the shadowy forms that flit be¬
fore the musing eye of fancy and are gone.
Meanwhile Miss Julia, whose habits of life had been
so quiet and sedentary, so far removed from "the crowd,
the hum, the shock of men," had a distinct recollection
of Woodville. For, connected with his short sojourn
at her father's, there were associations, which could
not be easily erased from her mind. Often did her
thoughts with painful intensity of feeling recur to the
time that she was rescued from the brutal violence of a
midnight assassin, by the kind interposition of a noble
youth, whose name she did not know. Often and with
pleasure did she gaze upon the beautiful ring which he
had given her; and frequent and fervent were the
prayers she sent up to Heaven in his behalf. His form,
his features, and the very expression of his manly
countenance were indelibly fixed in her memory. And
now that she was blessed with seeing him again, so
unexpectedly too, and under such pleasing circumstan¬
ces, after the lapse of so many long years, it was truly
gratifying to her feelings. Still, although she had a
perfect recollection of Woodville,—although she knew
him to be the same individual,—and although she anx¬
iously desired to make him acquainted with this fact,—
to make some allusion to it in her conversation with
y2
258
WOODVIULB.
him—still she felt too great a delicacy to do it. She
feared that the recognition was not mutual, and, besides,
she thought that, even if it were, it was a matter that
devolved upon him, rather than upon herself.
The conversation was kept up by them and all the
company with much animation and cheerfulness until
some of the party proposed a walk in the gardens. As
we left, "Woodville offered Miss Saunders his arm and
she accepted it. O, 'twas a lovely night! All nature
seemed to repose in tranquil smiles; the moon, in all
her gorgeous splendor, followed by a thousand brilliant
stars, went trooping down the west;.—the smoothe and
even walks of the garden—the rich fragrance stream¬
ing from innumerable aromatic plants, and imparting
fresh perfume to the buoyant sweetness of the atmos¬
phere. O, if there be a time at which the mind feels
more elevated than at any other,—when it is more
easily withdrawn from the selfish interests of the world,
it is in the full enjoyment of such an hour as this.
"Oh, howl love at such an hour,
To gaze and long to fly away
To some fair and happy bower,
Where roses bloom and muses stay."
In the enjoyment of the present, Miss Saunders seem¬
ed to be completely withdrawn from all reminiscences
of a painful character. In Woodville's mind also there
was a happy change; and with a spirit won back to its
earlier years, he was ready to kneel again atyoung life's
broken shrine. So great were the delights which the
hour and the scenery afforded us, that every thing
seemed full of romanc e, and poesy, and love.
We returned to the Mansion, and retired for the
night. Woodville could not yet recollect where he
WOODVILIiK.
239
had seen Miss Saunders. Had he known, he would,
perhaps, have regarded her with less attention; but his
very ignorance on that subject had a tendency to fix
his thoughts upon her, and he determined not to leave
the Mansion House until he should become acquainted
with the whole matter.
He rose at an early hour the next morning as was
his custom, and descended the stairs and entered the
portico, where he found the landlord sitting, reading a
newspaper.
"Good morning, Mr. Woodville," said the landlord;
and seeing him put on his hat, "I hope you do not think
of leaving us so soon, do you, sir?"
"No, sir, I shall not start till after breakfast."
. "Till after breakfast!" echoed the landlord, with some
surprise. "I expected you to stay a week, at least.—
Come, come, you mustn't think of leaving in less than
a week. If you will consent to remain with us that
long, I will promise you that before the expiration of
that period the mystery which hangs over your birth
will be solved."
"Will you?" asked Woodville, anxiously:
"I will pledge you my word," replied the landlord:
"Well, sir, I will stay. Yes, I would stay a month,
could I but hope that, at the end of that time, I should
know all; for nothing could afford me greater pleasure
than to become acquainted with my parents, and my
own real name."
From what the landlord told him Allison was some-
£60
WOODVILXE.
what disposed to think that he had some clue that
would enable him to prosecute the subject, or that he
was really acquainted with the whole affair, and only
waited for a proper time to make it known to him; but
the fact was the landlord knew nothing at all about it,
and his only reason for wishing Woodville to spend a
week with him, was because he thought that, in that
length of time, he would be enabled to prevail on him
to leave his seclusion and return to the world.
Woodville left the landlord and walked into the gar-
. den to enjoy the freshness of the morning atmosphere,
and listen to the sweet music of the birds. He had got
to the remote end of the garden, and was rambling
about, among the trees,. when music of a different,
though not less charming kind fell on his ear. 'Twas
the rich, full music of a female's voice. He drew
nearer the spot whence it seemed to proceed, in order
to hear it more distinctly, and saw Miss Julia Saunders
sitting on a low bench, beneath one of the trees, busily
employed in forming a wreath of evergreens and flow¬
ers of various colors while she sang a most charming
air. Unwilling to interrupt her, he concealed himself
behind a tree, but in such a position that he could see
her without being observed by her. She was dressed
in a plain, morning dishabille, and her rich tresses,
through which the soft, sweet breath of morning played,
flowed carelessly upon her snowy neck and shoulders.
Oh, what a beautiful creature was she!—lovely as the
morning, whose opening glories she had come to hail
with her matin hymn. What refinement of tenderness
in the eyelid; what soul in the curvature of the lip!—
how the line swelled, and then was lost again in the al¬
most dimpling roundness of the chin!—liow child-like,
and yet how replete with meaning, the turn of the bead
WOOJDVILLE.
261
and neck!—it was at once the bud, the flower, the fruit
of beauty amalgamated and embodied in the sweet
creature.
A short time previous to her present visit at the
springs Miss Saunders had had a slight illness, but had
now almost entirely recovered. And the beautiful Ian-
gor, which it had cast over her person, had produced a
varied charm more inimical to Woodville's peace than
even the lightning of her eyes.
Allison was riveted to the spot by the delights of the
scene and the season, and the many pleasing thoughts
which they inspired. The balmy sweetness of the air
-—the unfolding beauties of the 'morning, and the gentle
rivulet joyously winding around the curves of its nar¬
row channel at his feet. The glowing sun rise,—the
dancing wave is redolent of repose and pleasure; the
scintillating sun-beams are emblematic of that dancing
of the heart, which, in the morning of our days, gilds
every thing with beauty: no, there is no after pleasure
which can equal the sun-rise of existence. But now,
Woodville felt like a new being: ail the dark and
gloomy feelings of the misanthrope had vanished from
his hear;; and his spirit, his heart, his life, his whole
being seemed to have sprung into a new and healthful
existence.
But let us ramble on: Woodville looked again and
again upon the lovely form and features of Miss Julia,
and need I say that he loved her? Who could help loving
so beautiful, so amiable, and so highly accomplished a
being?
<;Fair washer form, but who could hope to trace
The pensive softness of her angel face r _ ,
She breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul,
In every nerve he felt her blest controul."
262
woodville.
Yes;
"He gazed upon her soft black eye,
Till there his very soul was lost;
He would not, and he.could not fly,
He knew not, cared not, what it cost."
Spell-bound he gazed upon her, and while she twist¬
ed into a beautiful wreath the flowers she had gathered,
he observed a ring on her hand. The moment he
caught a glimpse of it, he recognised it to be the same
which he himself had* given her.
"And is this the little girl whose life I saved some
years ago?" he asked himself:
"Yes," said he, "she is surely the same. I knew I
had seen her before, but could not recollect where.—
And now I will go and interrupt her sweet thoughts,'
upon the plea of ancient acquaintanceship;" but a se¬
cond reflection checked him. 'Twas so early an hour
of the day, and in so remote a part of the garden, that
he feared his unexpected appearance might alarm her.
He determined at length to deny himself the pleasure
of speaking to her, at that time, and to postpone making
himself known to her as the same individual who had
presented her the ring, which she still bore on her hand,
until a more favorable opportunity should offer.
In a few minutes more she left her seat and directed
her steps towards the house. Woodville gazed after
her in the most profound enchantment until the trees
and bushes of the garden had concealed her from his
view. He then returned also to the house, and spent a
greater part of the day in his room, thinking of the in¬
cidents of the morning. Hate in the evening he walked
into the gardens, where, after rambling about some
time, he met with Miss Saunders, at the same place
WOODVILLE.
263
where he had found her sitting' in the morning. He
gladly embraced the opportunity of having a private
interview with her.
"Good evening, Miss Saunders,", he said as he ap.
proached, and took a seat beside her on the bench:
Miss Julia appeared to be a little startled at first, and
the blood mounted to her cheeks as she echoed his sal¬
utation. After a few minutes' conversation, Woodville
observed to her that he "believed she was an old ac¬
quaintance of his;"—that he "thought he had passed a
night at her father's house in company with a Dr. Rig-
glesworth."
Miss Saunders replied that "there were certain events
connected with his short sojourn at her father's that
caused the circumstance to be indelibly impressed upon
her memory. I recognized you, sir," she continued,
"as soon as I saw you, last evening; but I have always
believed your name to be Mr. Berrington, sir, instead
of Mr. Woodville."
"And why did you suppose that?" Woodville anx¬
iously enquired:
"Because J. Berrington, sir, is engraved on this ring,
which you gave me," she replied as she took the ring
from her finger and handed it to him.
Woodville took the ring and examined it.
"I see no name here, Miss Saunders," he said:
"On the inside, sir; look at the inside, you will find
the name there."
He looked again, and saw "J. Berrington" engraved
261
"WOODVILMJ.
on the- inside of the ring in very small letters.—He re¬
membered the account that old Woodville had given
him of the manner in "which that ring had got into his
family, and the .whole affair now seemed perfectly plain-
He turned to Miss Saunders, and "O, my dear lady!"
said he, "how thankful I am to you for preserving this
little jewel, for it will yet enable me, I hope, to solve the
mystery in which my birth and parentage are envel¬
oped. I trust you will have no objections to my keep¬
ing it until certain matters shall be revealed and satis¬
factorily explained."
"Certainly, sir," she replied, "I could have no objec¬
tion to your keeping it as long as you wish."
At the request of Miss Saunders, Woodville related
to her many of the leading incidents of his life, for to
her, his manner and language when speaking on the
subject, appeared as strange and mysterious, as the
circumstances of his birth and parentage did to him.
Allison then took from his pocket old Mr. Wood¬
ville's manuscript and read it to Miss Saunders. She
appeared to be much interested, and listened to it with
attention. To her- lively imagination the circumstan¬
ces of his birth and his career through life appeared to
be the most romantic she had ever known. When
Woodville got to that part of the manuscript where the
old man speaks of his marriage, and mentions the name
of his first wife, and the circumstance of her appearing
to him immediately after the fire at Detroit, and after
he had married the second time, it stru,ck her mind very
forcibly that this Miss Judith O'Flannagan must have
been his first wife, or, some how or other, related
to her. She said nothing, however, until he had
WOODVILLB.
265
finished reading1 the manuscript When hehadcon¬
cluded, she told him that she believed that the first
wife of his supposed father was still alive, and that
she was close at hand. She requested him to keep his
seat until she should return, and then rose quickly and
hastened to the house. She flew into the nursery, and,
without any circumlocution, abruptly told Miss Judith
that she wished her to walk with her in the garden.
"Why, what on earth is the matter, Miss Saunders7
—have you seen a snake in the garden?—you look like
you was scared half to death."
"Oh, no, ma'am," replied Julia: "be not alarmed,—
nothing has happened,—I am not at all frightened.—
Come, and take a walk with me in the garden,—I have
something to tell you."
Meanwhile, Woodville was completely lost in won¬
der. He could not conjecture what Miss Saunders
meant. Who could the individual be, of whom she
spoke as being "close at hand."
He had risen from his seat where Julia had left him,
and was walking to and fro in the grove when she re¬
turned, accompanied by Miss Judith O'Flannagan.
Miss Saunders introduced this lady to Woodville,
and, believing so firmly that, even if she were not old
Woodville's wife, she had some acquaintance with the
facts which are about to be developed, without any pre -
liminary remarks of explanation to Miss O'Flannagan,
showed her the ring, and asked her "if she had ever
seen it before."
Mies O^FIannagan indefinitely replied, that "she&Jd
not recollect whether she had ever seen it before or not.**
W
366
WOODVILLE.
Miss Saunders then turned to Woodville, and re¬
quested him to read the manuscript to Miss O'Flanna-
gan: He complied with her request.
Miss O'Flannagan stared at him in wonder and as¬
tonishment; and when he got to the place where old
"Woodville gives an account of the time and place that
he found the infant Allison, immediately after the burn¬
ing of Detroit, and of the appearance of his first wife,
she sprang from her seat, and running to Allison, threw
her arms round his neck, and cried "Ob, my dear boy!
my dear boy! and am I blest with seeing you once
morel" whilst tears of joy flowed down her cheeks.—
"Oh, how glad it makes my poor old heart to see you
again!" she said, as she strained him to her bosom.
After this violent effervescence of feeling had meas¬
urably subsided, Allison asked her "if she were his
mother!"
"O, no," she replied, "I am not your mother, I am no
kin to you. Your father's name is Berrington,— Wil¬
liam Berrington, sir, who formerly lived at Detroit. I
was your nurse at that time, and hence, became greatly
attached to you. No, sir, I have no children—never
had. Mr. Woodville, the man who wrrote that letter,
sir, was my husband. I believed him to be dead,—that
the pirates ofthe Mediterranean had killed him. I was
made their prisoner."
Here she entered into a detailed account of the man¬
ner in which she made her escape; but as it is not very
important we will not stop to relate it. Let it suffice
to state that she did escape, and safely reached her na¬
tive country where she heard that her husband was still
alive, had returned home, and believing her to be dead ,
WOODVILLE.
267
had emigrated to America. So soon as she received
this pleasing intelligence she came to the United States
in pursuit of her husband. After a long and fruitless
search she arrived at Detroit perfectly penniless. This
humiliating reflection brought on a serious spell of sick¬
ness.
"During my illness, sir," said she, "Mr. William Ber-
rington, hearing of my situation, had me removed from
the Hotel to his own house, where, after my recovery,
I officiated as nurse to his infant boy, whom he cjalled
Allison for his wife's brother, Mr. Allison Vernon, who
is now the lord of this domain, the worthy host of the
«— Spring Hotel, where I now live, and officiate in
the same capacity of nurse."
"I am acquainted with this man, whom you eall my
father," remarked Allison; but, said he, "I had thought
that he was not married for some two or three years
after he left Detroit."
"No, sir; If'Mr. Berrington married after he left De¬
troit, 'twas the second time; for I know he was mar¬
ried when he lived in Detroit, and that his wife was
there burnt to death at the time of the great conflagra¬
tion. I will relate to you the circumstances. Her hus¬
band, (your father, I may now call him for he is un¬
doubtedly such,) well, your father was not at home at
the time. Accompanied by Mr. John Saunders, (your
father, Miss Julia, but he was not married at that time,)
and several other gentlemen, had started a day or two
before on a hunting expedition with the expectation of
being absent two weeks. During their absence the fire
broke out, and it was utterly impossible to check its
progress. In the general conflagration Mr. Berring-
268
WOODVILLE.
ton's house also caught fire, and was in a light blaze
before it was discovered. Your mother and I, having
no one to assist us, made great exertions to secure the
furniture from the flames. She took you up in her arms
from the cradle in which you were lying, fast asleep,
and ran to the door where she met me and told me to
take you beyond the reach of the fire. At this moment
I held in my hand a small chest containing your clothes,
which I had just brought out of the house, I took you
from your mother's arms and carried you into a beau¬
tiful meadow a short distance from the village, and laid
yon down upon a blanket under a shady tree, and also
placed the little trunk close by you. During my ab¬
sence on this errand your mother had gone up into the
garret to bring down some articles of "value, and while
there the roof of the house fell in and crushed her to
death. After the fire was all over I hastened back to the
tree where I had laid you, but you had been taken away
and also the trunk. I went immediately to u little farm
house, which was but a short distance from the spot, to
enquire for you, supposing that, perhaps, some person
passing that way might have carried you there. I en¬
tered and rapped at the door, and, the next instant^
saw Mr. Woodville, my husband, enter the passage
with you in his arms, and accompanied by his wife.—
Language, sir, is totally inadequate to describe my feel¬
ings at that awful moment. You may readily conceive,
though, that they were painful in the extreme. I
scarcely knew what I did, or where I was for several
days. My heart then became full of resentment and
1 resolved to reject my matron, and retain my virgin,
name. I rambled about through the states several
months and at length arrived at this place, where I was
taken in by our worthy host, and have been ever since
treated with the greatest kindness and attention. I
WOODVILLE.
269
have never seen nor heard of your father since the fatal
fire at Detroit. I have suspected, though, that, when
he returned from his hunt, finding that the town had
been consumed by fire, he supposed that all his family
were destroyed in the common ruin. It is a subject upon
which I have avoided to speak, because there are so
many painful associations connected with it; and I be¬
lieve, sir, that even now, Mr. Vernon does not know
that I am acquainted with any of his relations, or, that
I was once a nurse in his sister's family."
Allison was overjoyed to hear every thing so satis¬
factorily explained,—still there was another point
which he did not yet fully understand.
<;If my father's name be William Berrington, how
happens it, Miss O'Flannagan, that J. Berrington is
engraved upon the ring?"
"I now recollect the ring, sir, though I did not when
it was first shown to me. It belonged to your mother,
sir, whose name was Julia."
With what inebriation of happiness did Allison quit
this seene! with what a cheered and gladdened heart
did he return to the Mansion House to bear the pleas¬
ing intelligence to Mr. Vernon, and to inform him that
he was his nephew! with what an overflowing spirit
of thankfulness did lie pour forth his acknowledgments
to this friend who, under Providence, had restored him
to happiness, and .with such judicious zeal guided and
counselled him to reach the goal. For these feelings
there are no words.— When he left his uncle, Mr. Ver¬
non, the landlord, he went into the public room, and
among the names of the visitors at the Springs, regis¬
tered his name Allison Woodville Berrington, He
270
WOODVIUtE.
could not think of discarding the middle name, for in
that name all his destinies were woven.
Mr. Vernon, the landlord, his wife, Miss Saunders,
Miss O'Flannagan, and all the company seemed to par¬
ticipate in his joy, at the revelation of these facts, over
which it appeared a short time before, that the relent¬
less fates had woven the most impenetrable veil.
After some hours had passed, during which Allison,
in the delirium of his felicity, could scarcely persuade
himself of the reality of a change which so short a
time had wrought in his existence, he became calmer;
and looking back on the past, he could not but see the
overruling hand of Providence in all that had befallen
him.
The unthinking might call it a chance, which thus
revealed to him his real name; and continuing in this
error, they might ascribe to the same fortuitous power,
that he had reached the Mansion House at the time he
did, a desolate and forlorn being, to whom no object in
life presented itself to cheer existence or stimulate ex¬
ertion; and that now, how the evolution of a few hours
had reversed the whole picture, and placed him on the
summit of human happiness! Yes, the unthinking and
the hardened may ascribe all this to chance; but the
wise and good know that chance is only -another word
for Providence; and that, in every turn of our lives, in
every minutia which affects our existence here or here¬
after, there is a mightier power to, be acknowledged
than any secondary cause can alone produce.
Allison's next thought was to visit his father; but how
could he leave so soon that lovely object of his idolatry,
Miss Julia Saunders. He concluded at last to remain
WOODVILLB.
271
a few weeks longer at all events. He did so; and em¬
braced every opportunity of enjoying her sweet soci¬
ety,—their acquaintance gradually led to intimacy, and
at length, warmed by a mutual love, their hearts melted
into one, glowing with fervent, devoted affection. A
day or two after they had engag-ed themselves^ to be
married, Miss Saunder's father arrived at the Springs;
and on the morning following his arrival, he started
home with his daughter accompanied by Mr. Wood-
ville Berrington.
When they arrived at the residence of Mr. Saunders",
Allison informed that gentleman and his lady that an
engagement existed between their daughter and him¬
self. No objection being offered it was agreed upon that
they should be married as soon as practicable. Thus
the matter was at once settled. The wedding day was
postponed two weeks, however, in order to make the
necessary preparations. During this interval, Allison
determined to visit his father.
1V00DVILLH.
CHAPTER XXlII.
"I am dumb.
Were you the Doctor, and I knew you not?"—Shakespeare.
Old Mr. Berrington was very much embarrassed in
his circumstances indeed. The debts of Hanson, whose
security he was, were still hanging over his head. In
fact a greater part of his estate had been put under the
hammer and sold at a very great sacrifice to satisfy
judgments that were brought against him. His beauti"
ful farm had been sold, his interest in the firm of "James
and William Berrington/' and a good deal of other
valuable property.
Allison arrived at S , about half after nine o'clock,
on the morning of the fourth day after his departure
from IVIaj. Saunders'. He rode up to the "Village Inn,"
and, after dismounting and calling for his breakfast,
seated himself in the portico which fronted the building.
He had been sitting here a.few minutes when he saw a
man coming along the street, ringing a bell. When
this man got to the corner of the street just before the
Inn, Allison heard him cry out, "Oyes! oyes! oyeS! be
it known to the inhabitants of S——, that I will, this
morning, precisely at ten o'clock, offer for sale at the
residence of William Berrington all the personal pro¬
perty of the said Berrington, consisting of his house
and lot, household and kitchen furniture, three likely
negroes, a handsome carriage and a fine pair of horses,
to satisfy a judgment against said Berrington, and in
favor of Robert L. Barrett, Esq."
WOODVIIiLS.
273
As soon as Allison got his breakfast he went to his
father's residence, where a vast crowd had already as¬
sembled to attend the sale and to purchase such article®
as they wished.
William Berripgton's house was the finest and most
handsomely situated residence in S , and a number,
of the more wealthy individuals of the village had come
for the express purpose of purchasing it. But they
were defeated in their design; for the house, the lot, the
carriage and horses, the negroes, and every article of
furniture that was offered for sale, were successively
stricken off to A. W. Berrington.^ During the sale Al¬
lison saw Matilda sitting at her own window, weep- -
ing bitterly. He longed to press his dear sister to his
bosom, such natural yearnings played round his heart,
but the present was not a fit time. He also saw his fa¬
ther, who appeared to be in the deepest sorrow, and
his brothers, Robert and Frederic, and many of his old"
acquaintances. Several of them were very near speak¬
ing to him; but he had been absent a number of years
and was so much altered that they were afraid that
they might be mistaken. In addition to this, his giving
the name of A. W. Berrington as purchaser of the pro¬
perty as it was stricken off to him, convinced those
who had known him, as Allison Woodville, that they
were mistaken—that he was not the same individual.
After the sale was over, and Allison had settled with
the crier for all the property that was sold, his father
oame to him and asked him "when he wished to take
possession?"
"I have some business at the tavern, sir," replied Al¬
lison, "that requires my immediate attention;—I havn't
time to talk to you about it now; but will call on you
274
WOODVlLLE.
again in the course of an hour. Meanwhile, make
yourself quite easy on the subject, sir, for I do not in¬
tend you to leave your present residence at all." And
without giving his father an opportunity to say any
thing more, be quickly left him, and returned to the Inn.
Here he sat down and wrote a deed of gift to his father,
to all the property that had been sold. He then took
this deed, with old Woodville's manuscript, and the
written testimony of Miss Judith O'Flannagan, and the
ring he had got from his betrothed, Miss Julia Saun¬
ders,"and rolled them all up in a bundle together and
sent them to his father by a servant.
" Meanwhile, the Berrington family were all won¬
dering who this A. W. Berrington conld be! Fred¬
eric said that he would almost have sworn that it was
Allison Woodville, before he heard him give in his name
to the crier, as A. W. Berrington. Presently the ser¬
vant arrived with the packet. Berrington took it, and
Frederic and Bobert, Matilda, Caroline and Frances,
knowirig it to be from this stranger, all gathered around
-their father to see and knoAv what it contained. "When
the old man opened it the first thing that caught his eye
was the deed, He read it, and his sorrow was turned
to joy, to find that his property was restored to him.—
But never was a man more perfectly astounded, than
was he, on seeing the ring, and on reading old Wood¬
ville's letter in connection with the indisputable testi¬
mony of Miss Judith O'Flannagan, to find that the
young man, whom he had formerly known as Allison
Woodville, was his own son, whom he believed to have
been burnt to death with his mother at Detroit.
The old gentleman then explained it all to his chil¬
dren,—told them of his marriage to a Miss Julia Vernon,
WOODVILLE.
275
and the circumstances connected with her death and
the burning1 of Detroit; and thus prepared them to re¬
ceive Allison as a brother. Just at this moment Alli¬
son entered.
Language is totally inadequate to describe the scene
which followed. As Allison entered the apartment,
the old gentleman flew to him, and, throwing his arms
around him, pressed him to his heart with all the ten¬
derness of a father's love. Then, releasing him from
his embrace, -
"Stand back," said he, "and let me look on you again!
Oh, my Allison!—my beloved boy!—can it be—after
twenty-five years?"
"My dearest father!" exclaimed Allison, *in the deep¬
est emotion.
"Oh, Heaven!" cried the old gentleman, "receive a
iUther's thanks!—.a father's tears of joy! This is indeed
thy work!—At such an hour, too, he comes not only as
a son, but as a savior,-*-a savior from the wretchedness
of poverty, degradation and want.—Oh, what a change
hath an hour wrought! This morning I was borne
down with the deepest distress; but now I cannot
think of sorrow, and really begin to doubt if ever I felt
it, for it is now so dazzled from my memory, by this
oblivious transport!" '
Allison then received the joyful greetings of his bro¬
thers and sisters. As he touched Matilda's hand, "and
are yon my sister, Matilda?" he asked: In sounds al¬
most inarticulate, she pronounced "my brother;" and,
as her head was bowed down, overcome with the agi¬
tation of such a moment, the old gentleman approach-
276
WOODVILLE.
ed, pressed their united hands together, and blest them
as his children*
After spendinga day or two in this delightful society,
Allison told his father and his brothers and sisters that
he was about to be married to the only daughter of his
old friend, Mr. John Saunders, and requested the at¬
tendance of Robert and Frederic. Accordingly, a8
soon as Frederic, and Robert had made the necessary
preparations they set oat with Allison for Mr. Saun¬
ders'.
On the 25th of July 1830, in the twenty-seventh year
of his age, Mr. Allison Woodville Berrington was
married to the beautiful and amiable Miss Julia, daugh¬
ter of Mr. John Saunders.
I wonder if old Mrs. Berrington (Allison's step moth¬
er) would have thought that that looked handsomely
in print? I wonder, if she had lived till Allison re¬
turned, and snatched her family from the jaws of ruin'
whether she would have considered it a humiliating
reflection, that "the poorr mean, vagabond, Allison Wood¬
ville, whom Mr. Barrett took into his store for mere
charity's sake," was so nearly related to her,—-that he
was the son of her husband?
On the evening of the nuptials the bride wore on
her hand the ring, which, like a faithful talisman, had
restored Allison to happiness, and guided him to the
goal, and which now bore upon it her own name, as
well as that of her departed mother-in-law, "J. Ber¬
rington." After the wedding. Mr. Saunders presented
to Allison, as a dower, a title to the very tract of land*
which caused the villainous, and avaricious Davenport
to make an attempt upon the lives of his daughters, h>«
"WOODVIiXE.
277
chief witnesses in the pending suit, that he might,
thereby, be enabled to support his own pretensions.—
On the morning after the wedding Allison, with his
wife and brothers, Robert and Frederic, set out for
S . On their arrival at this village they were gladly
received by their father and sisters.
Allison immediately re-purchased hie father's farm
which had been sold, and, shortly after, the old gentle¬
man settled down upon it with his two youngest daugh¬
ters, Caroline and Frances, there to spend the rest of
his days in undisturbed tranquility; while Allison tool'
possession of his father's former residence in the vil¬
lage'. His sister Matilda, and his brothers Robert and
1 rederie lived with him. Frederic at this time was
engaged in the practice of the law. fcs soon as Allison
settled himself, he and Robert commenced the mercan¬
tile business in copartnership. Allison now made all
his friends and relatives acquainted with the fate of
Dr. Hanson. About this time, Mr. Hemingway of
R , hearing of the happy revolution in the fortunes
of his friend Allison came to S to see him, and to
congratulate with him. And now, for the first time in
his life, he saw, and became acquainted with Allison's
sister, Mrs. Matilda Hanson. He was pleased with
her,—she was pleased with him. JLfter the lapse of a
few months he declared himself, and they were married.
Hemingway then settled himself permanently in R
Thus are all the members of the family now situated.
Every summer they meefin S , and in a solid pha¬
lanx, take a trip to the Springs, to see their kinsman,
Mr. Allison Vernon, and to enjcv the delights of the
season in this beautiful and romantic region.
END.
X
278
WOODV1I.LB.
ERRATA.
Page 23, eight lines from top, S. instead of"L."
Page 31, nineteen lines from top, lovely, instead of
"lively."
Page 46, second line from top, objection, instead of "af¬
fection."
Page 47, ninth line from top, "she," superfluous.
Page 48, third line from top, read moreover, instead of
"however."
Do. five lines from bottom, "she," superfluous.
Page 132, second line from bottom, loud, instead of
"long."
Page 131, ninth line from bottom, safely, instead of "se¬
renely."
Page 249, tenth line from bottom, yet, instead of "yes."