The Continental Monthly , Vol. 2 No. 5, November 1862

'Paul!' exclaimed Josephine. The lad looked again at his sister; but he now saw through her horrified surprise; there was really no danger in continuing this revelation; elated, he went on:

'Forged and paid! so the young fellow told me. That's not Scheffer, understand. He don't know that I have got wind of it; he thinks it is safe with him; and you never would have known anything but for me! August thinks too much of you, I've found that out, to tell you, or me either, that Cromwell is a scamp.'

'What have I to do with all this, Paul?' asked his sister, with a well-assumed indifference. She had time now to consider whether she had not betrayed too much interest in the affairs of these young men, the scientific forger and the man of trade.

'Why,' answered Paul, with no less composure, inwardly rejoicing in what he considered his triumph, 'you have to make the best of it, I suppose—satisfy mother—marry Cromwell when he comes back, rich as Croesus, with ship-loads of treasure. That's what the handsome girls are for, to marry off to rich men, isn't it?'

Paul had had his say, but that was his only consolation. Whatever answer Josephine might have made was prevented by the voice of her mother calling from the foot of the stairs. Yet he chose to consider that sufficient confession, in regard to some of his suspicions, was given in her words as she went down; though what she said was merely,

'Paul, if you don't join the detectives, you'll fail of your mission.'

VII

Scheffer's uniform good luck took a sudden turn one day. The fine row of buildings that faced the college grounds took fire one morning, and his shop was burned with the rest. He saved but little of his stock, and it was but recently that he had greatly added to it. His loss was a severe one.

Toward nightfall of that day, Paul looked for Scheffer, and found him in a room to which he had removed the remnants of his goods. He was alone there, and trying to come to an understanding with himself, singing meanwhile, but, it must be said, in not the most straightforward and perfectly musical manner.

Paul came expressly deputed by his mother to bring Scheffer home to tea with him. The news of his disaster had set August before her in a different light from that in which he had stood in the days of his vulgar prosperity. Calamity restored him to his place again—the son of an old neighbor, the son of a good woman—one of the heirs of misfortune: and who might not have expected this event, that knew in August's veins the Scheffer blood was flowing? Yes; the mother of Josephine was this day disposed to compassion, helped, may be, to that gentleness by the letter she had recently received from Cromwell, in which he detailed his successes in a manner that made the heart of the prophetess to rejoice.

Scheffer hesitated for a moment, only one, over that invitation. But he did hesitate. And Paul, the lynx-eyed, saw it. Scheffer might invent whatever excuse seemed best to his own kindliness of heart: Paul was convinced that his friend felt no confidence in the impulse that had obtained for him an open door in the house that he had seen, in spite of Josephine's friendliness, was closed on him all these years.

Paul did not urge the invitation. Instead, he produced a purse—sole purse of the house of Mitchell, that had not, in a generation, held as many bank notes as this now contained. He put this purse into Scheffer's hands, and said, moving back from him a pace:

'That is yours. I knew you fibbed about the tool chest. You had no use for it. So we have bought it. Look if I have counted the money right. I knew you would never tell me the truth about the cost, so I've been to the maker, and asked him a civil question. No dodging, Mr. Scheffer.'

Mr. Scheffer did not 'dodge.' He emptied the purse, counted the bills, put them into his own leather pocket-book; then he handed the purse to Paul.

Paul did not expect this. It was plain that he did not. He thought that Scheffer would have 'stood' against receiving the payment for his gift. He had said so to Josephine; but Josephine had replied, 'You are mistaken, Paul. You don't know him, after all. But, if you are right, insist on his taking the money. Do not go too far, however. If he should seem to be offended, bring it back to me, and I will attend to it.'

Was he offended? Paul was in doubt. The doubt made him desperate, and he exclaimed:

'I meant that for a present. Josephine worked it.'

Scheffer's eye fell on the light and pretty trifle; a change came over him. He would have struggled hard and long before he would have surrendered that little tissue of floss, but now less than vanity to him. 'Josephine worked it.' What are words?

'I suppose,' he began; but he did not conclude what he had on his tongue; he did not say to Paul that he supposed it was Josephine's money too—her earnings—that paid for the chest.

There came an awkward silence into the confused and dismal room. Scheffer stood among his ruins, not like a ruined man: he could not talk, however. He could say nothing whatever in continuance, about the fire. It was never his habit to boast; as little his practice to lament.

'Paul,' he said at last, resuming his dismal endeavor to arrange and assort the chaotic remnant of his goods, 'I got your box under weigh last night. There's a friend of mine going to see it; and you needn't be worrying on account of this—this fire; for I shall have money enough to push your business pretty soon; and there are two good fellows standing ready to buy your rights to the patent in this State, on your own terms, I guess, if you are tolerably reasonable. You can have five thousand dollars, if you will be easy with them about the payments. They are as safe as the best in town. I settled all that last night. All you have to do is to come to an agreement.'

Paul's heart beat as fast as any young man's heart beats when the result of secret toil, of wakeful nights, and patient endurance of home misconception, is before him in the form of honorable success. But instead of thanks, these words escaped him in a tumult:

'Scheffer, have you heard the news from Cromwell?'

Scheffer considered ere he answered; he was puzzled, looking at Paul, such a contradiction and confusion of signs he read in the lad's face.

'I heard that your family had great tidings from him,' he answered finally.

'He is dead!'

'Poor Josephine!'

What was it that brought so low the head of the man who had stood all day bravely erect, enduring the condolence of people, sustaining himself in the shock of integrity? Scheffer sat down when he heard this news, and wept.

And Paul wept with him. There, in that chamber of ruins, they deplored the loss of the proud, ambitious, brilliant, and dishonest wordling, who had long ago gone out of their world with a lie on his soul.

Then Paul produced the foreign letter he had brought with him from the mail, as he came in his search for Scheffer. The letter he read aloud. It was written by one of Harry's fellow students, his companion in that notable journey Cromwell made to the Ural, and the Zavods of Siberia. He had returned to Paris, and thence had written of his various successes to his friends: they knew it was his purpose to sail at once for Alexandria. His preparations, wrote this correspondent, were complete; but, on the day when the vessel sailed, he died—sickened and died in one morning; his disease was of the heart.

'Poor Josephine!' groaned August again; this time his pity had comment.

'It's awful!' said Paul. 'Josephine cried when she heard of your misfortune. She won't do more when she sees this letter.' Paul was entirely reckless of consequences. He was determined Scheffer's fire should serve a private purpose of illumination, 'It is so rare a thing, her crying,' he continued, 'I should have thought the fire would have been put out by it.'

Scheffer's tears ceased falling. But he spoke in a low voice, somewhat broken, too:

'It's enough to wipe out my regrets. If she cared that much, I don't consider it a misfortune. Tell her so, Paul.'

'I will, after you have told her yourself, Scheffer,' said Paul. Then casting all their fortunes on a word, speaking hurriedly, impetuously, driven on by admiration and gratitude toward Scheffer, and a determination to end all misunderstandings at once and forever, he continued: 'I found it all out, myself, without prying. The young fellow in the bank told me. I knew that you never would. It made me love you, that did. I told Josephine, but not till I thought I might safely. He didn't get that money from the bank till Josephine had told him she could not promise herself to him before he went away. Poor fellow! It made him mad, I think.'

'Paul,' said Scheffer, with reproof, and yet the mildest, in his voice, 'he is dead. That was an ugly twist, but it wasn't his nature to grow in a crooked fashion. Harry will come out straight yet. He is in better circumstances now than ever before. I could forgive a man for worse things than he had the wit to do, if he loved Josephine.'

'There! I'm glad we are back on that ground! I hate mysteries,' exclaimed Paul.

'Except in locks,' said Scheffer.

'Why wouldn't she promise Harry? It is what mother expected. And I was fool enough to wonder. You are wiser than we; so tell me, Scheffer, did anything ever happen in old times that binds her yet? Do you suppose she ever loved a lad when she was a child?'

'I know she did,' said Scheffer, looking not away from Paul, neither busying himself any longer with the endeavor to bring order out of chaos. 'I know she did.'

Then Paul laughed again, as he had not laughed in many a day; but it was laughter that did not jar the silence of the room—such laughter as formed a fit prelude for words like these:

'Find out if the lad is alive yet. There is a piece of business worthy of Scheffer himself! I'm tired of hunting out secrets. Promise me, August—promise before you leave this room—before you breathe again.'

Scheffer did.

Mrs. Mitchell waited tea that evening for at least an hour. Josephine was sure that if August could be found, Paul would bring him home. At last they came. Home at last! The darkness might besiege the house, it could not enter the hearts there; rain might fall on Scheffer's ruins, it could not prevent the rising of the Phoenix. Not recognized altogether as the household's eldest son, he stood under the roof of the little house on Cottage Row. But enough! he was satisfied: he saw two women smiling on him—one from her heart. And from the circle that night Paul, triumphant and joyful, excluded the vision of death.

LAS ORACIONES

I moved among the moving multitudeIn old Manila, when the afternoonReleases labor, and the scorching skiesAre tempered with the coming on of night.Above the 'ever loyal city,' roseThe surging sound of unloosed tongues and feet,As the encompassed town and suburbs vast,The boated river and the sentinelled bridgeSwarmed, parti-colored, with the populace.The sovereign sun, that through the toilsome dayNo eye had seen for brightness, now subdued,Stepping, like Holy Pontiff, from his throne,Neared to the people, and, with level rays,As hands outstretching, benedictions shed.Full the effulgence flashed upon the wallsWhich girt the city with a strength renowned,Rimming them with new glory: bright it gleamedUpon the swarthy soldiery, as they filedA dazzling phalanx through the gaping crowdWith martial intonation, and it playedSoftly upon the evening-breathing throngOn the Calsada's broad and dashing drive,On gay, armorial equipage, whereinDozed dowagers: on unbonneted damesIn open chariots, toying daintilyWith dark hidalgos, as they sipped the sceneIn languishing contentment, and betweenResponsive glances, showing hidden fire,With fluent breath of Spanish repartee.There lounged senoras, fat officials' wives,From their soft cushions casting cool disdainOn the mestiza, who, in hired hack,Blooming in beauty of commingled blood,And robed in slippery tissue, rainbow-bright,Sat, in her sandal-footed grace, a queenAmong her fellows, they who yesterdayWhirled her lithe figure in the tireless dance,And now, with airy compliment, kept brightThe flame she yet may quench in wedlock dull.Thus rolled the wealthy in their liveried ease,'Mid walking peasantry and pale Chinese,And curious-shirted Creole; while, tight swathedUp to their shrivelled features, mummy like,The Indian women filled the motley scene.Meanwhile, the sovereign sun had crowned the palmsStanding in stately clusters; and from thenceScaled the high walls and climbed the citadel,Pouring a parting radiance on the towerOf San Sebastian: mounting to its goal,It swept the public dial plate and lay,E'en in the face of stern recording timeSmiling significance; thence slowly creptUp to the turret, blazing, momently,Thence reached the dizzy ball; and, last of all,Kissed with its dying lips the sacred cross.Then pealed the solemn vesper bell to prayer,And suddenly—completely—with a hush,As if a god-like voice had stricken it dead,Stood still the city!Motionless the lifeThat but an instant off stirred the warm airWith murmurs multifarious, and the wavesOf great humanity, sunk silenced there,With stillness so supreme, that pulses beatMore quickly from the contrast, and the soulHearkened to listen, humbled and subduedAs when the Saviour uttered 'Peace, be still.'The tardy laborer, walled within the town,Brought the uplifted hammer noiseless down,And stood in meek confession, tool in hand.The mother hushed the baby lullaby,And o'er her sleeping innocence exhaledVoiceless thanksgiving. Children ceased to play,Feeling an awe they comprehended not,And stood, unconscious of their beauty's pose,As those Murillo's pencil glorifies.Upon the airy esplanade the steedNo longer pawed the air in wantonness,But, like his compeer of the fabled song,Stood statued with his rider, while belowThe beggar ceased his cry importunate,And to a Higher Almoner than manSent up a dumb appeal. In folly's courtThe laugh was hushed, and the half-uttered jestFell witless into air, and burning thoughtCooled, as it flowed, unmoulded into speech.As throbbed the distant bell with serious pause,—Standing bareheaded in the dewless air,Or prostrate in their penitence to earth,Or bending with veiled lids,—the people prayed.Then was that moment, in its muteness, worthThe laboring day that bore it, for all senseSeemed filtered of its grossness; what was earthSunk settling with the dust to earth again,As through the calm, pure atmosphere, aroseOne mingling meditation unto Heaven.Oh, beautiful is silence, when it fallsOn housed assemblies bowed in voiceless prayer:But when it lays its finger on the heartOf a great city, stilling all the wheelsOf life's employment, that to Heaven may turnIts many thousand reverend breathing soulsWith gesture simultaneous; when proud manLike multitudinous marble, moveless standsWith God communing, then does silence seem,In its unworded eloquence, sublime.Therein, doth Romish worship point rebukeTo him who doth ignore it, for thereinIt rises to a majesty of praiseO'erspanning huge cathedrals, for it makesThe censer, candle, rosary, and bookBut senseless mockeries.So sunk the sunTill on its amber throne, like drapery doffed,Lay piled th' imperial purple. Then the stirOf an awakened world swept through the crowd,As forest leaves are wind-swept after lulls,And, with the sense of a renewing joy,The murmurous people turned them to their homes.Manila, 1856.

MY MARYLAND!

THE SEPTEMBER RAID

They took thy boots, they took thy coats,My Maryland!And paid for them in 'Confed' notes,My Maryland!They gobbled down thy corn like goats,And rooted up thy truck like shoats,But then—they didn't get thy votesOr volunteers—my Maryland!

A MERCHANT'S STORY

'All of which I saw, and part of which I was.'

CHAPTER V

On the cleared plot in front of the store were assembled, as I have said, about a hundred men, women, and children, witnessing a 'turkey match.' It was a motley gathering. All classes and colors and ages were there. The young gentleman who boasted his hundred darkies, and the small planter who worked in the field with his five negroes; the 'poor trash' who scratched a bare subsistence from a sorry patch of beans and 'collards,' and the swearing, staggering bully who did not condescend to do anything; the young child that could scarcely walk alone, and the old man who could hardly stand upright; the brawny field hand who had toiled over night to finish his task in time for 'de shootin;' and the well-dressed body servant who had roused 'young massa oncommon airly' for the same purpose; all, white, black, and yellow—and some neither white, black, nor yellow—were there; scattered over various parts of the ground, engaged in lounging, playing, drinking, smoking, chewing, chatting, swearing, wrangling, and looking on at the turkey match.

A live turkey was fastened to an ordinary bean pole, in a remote quarter of the ground, and when I emerged from the cabin, seven or eight 'natives' had entered for 'a shot.' The payment of a 'bit,' 'cash down,' to Tom, who officiated as master of ceremonies, secured a chance of hitting the turkey's head with a rifle bullet at 'long distance.' Any other 'hit' was considered 'foul,' and passed for nothing. Whoever shot the mark took the prize, and was expected to 'treat the crowd.' As 'the crowd' seemed a thirsty one, it struck me that turkey would prove expensive eating to the fortunate shots; but they were oblivious to expense, and in a state of mind that unfitted them for close financial calculations.

Nearly every marksman present had 'carried off his poultry,' and Tom had already reaped a harvest of dimes from the whiskey drinking. 'Why, bless ye,' he said to me, 'I should be broke, clean done up, if it warn't fur the drinks; I haint got more'n a bit, or three fips, fur nary a fowl; the fust shot allers brings down the bird; they're all cocksure on the trigger—ary man on 'em kin hit a turkey's eye at a hundred paces.' This was true; and in such schools were trained the unerring marksmen who are now 'bringing down' the bravest youth of our country, like fowls at a turkey match.

A disturbance had broken out on a remote part of the ground, and, noticing about twenty negro men and women seated on a log near by, I went in that direction, in hopes of meeting the negro trader. It was a dog fight. Inside an imaginary ring about ten feet in diameter, two dogs were clenched in what seemed a life-and-death struggle. One was holding the other down by the lower jaw, while a man, evidently the owner of the half-vanquished brute, was trying to separate them. Outside this ring about twenty other brutes—men, women, and children—were cheering the combatants, and calling on the meddler to desist. It was strange how the peacemaker managed to stand up against the volleys of oaths they showered on him; he did, however, and persisted in his laudable efforts, till a tall, rawboned, heavy-jawed fellow stepped into the ring, and, taking him by the collar, pulled him away, saying: 'Let 'em be—it's a fair fight; d– yer pictur—let 'em alone.'

'Take thet! you whelp,' said the other, planting a heavy blow between the intruder's eyes. Blow followed blow; they clenched; went down; rose up; fought on—at one end of the ring the canines, at the other the humans; while the rest looked on, shouting, 'Let 'er rip! Go in, Wade! Hit 'im agin! Smash his mug! Pluck the grizzly! Hurrah fur Smith! Drown his peepers! Never say die! Go in agin!' till the blood flowed, and dogs and men rolled over on the ground together.

Disgusted with this exhibition of nineteenth-century civilization, I turned and walked away. As I did so, I noticed, following me at a short distance, a well-dressed man of about thirty-five. He wore a slouched hat, a gray coat and lower garments, and enormous high-top boots, to one of which was affixed a brass spur. Over his shoulder, holding the two ends in his hands, he carried a strong, flexible whip, silver mounted, and polished like patent leather. He was about six feet high, stoutly built, with a heavy, inexpressive face, and a clear, sharp gray eye. One glance satisfied me that he was the negro trader.

As he approached he held out his hand in a free, hearty way, saying: 'Cunnel, good evenin'.'

'Good evenin',' I replied, intentionally adopting his accent; 'but yer wrong, stranger; I'm nary cunnel.'

'Well, Major, then?'

'No, Gin'ral; not even a sargint.'

'Then ye're Squire——,' and he hesitated for me to fill up the blank.

'No; not even Squire–,' I added, laughing. 'I've nary title; I'm plain Mister Kirke; nothin' else.'

'Well, Mister Kirke, ye're the fust man I've met in the hull Suthern country who wus jest nobody at all; and drot me ef I doan't like ye for't. Ev'ry d–d little upstart, now-a-days, has a handle ter his name—they all b'long ter the nobility, ha! ha!' and he again brought his hand down upon mine with a concussion that made the woods ring.

'Come,' he added; 'let's take a drink.'

'Glad ter drink with ye, stranger; but I karn't go Tom's sperrets—it's hard ter take.'

'That's a fact, but I keeps the raal stuff. That's the pizen fur ye;' he replied, holding up a small willow flask, and starting toward the bar. Entering a cloud of tobacco smoke, and groping our way over groups of drunken chivalry, who lay 'loosely around,' we approached the counter.

'Har, you lousy sorrel-top,' said the trader to the red-faced and red-headed bar tender; 'har, give us some mugs.'

'Sorrel-top' placed two glasses on the counter, and my new acquaintance proceeded to rinse them thoroughly. They were of a clear grass-green color, and holding one up to the light, the trader said: 'Now luk a' them. Them's 'bout as green as the fellers that drink out on 'em—a man's stumac's got ter be of cast iron ter stand the stuff they sell har.'

'It's better'n you kin 'ford ter drink,' exclaimed the bar tender, in high dudgeon.

'Who spoke ter ye—take thet!' rejoined the trader, discharging the contents of the glass full in the man's face. The sorrel-crowned worthy bore the indignity silently, evidently deeming discretion the better part of valor.

'Buy'n ony nigs, Kirke?' said the trader, inserting his arm in mine, and leading me away from the shanty: 'I've got a prime lot—prime;' and he smacked his lips together at the last word, in the manner that is common to professional liquor tasters. He scented a trade afar off, and his organs of taste, sympathizing with his olfactories, gave out that token of satisfaction.

'Well, I doan't know. What ye got?'

'Some o' the likeliest property ye ever seed—men and wimmin. All bought round har; haint ben ter Virginny yit. Come 'long, I'll show ye;' and he proceeded toward the group of chattels. He was becoming altogether too familiar, but I called to mind a favorite maxim of good old Mr. Russell—Necessitus non arbit legum—and quietly submitted.

The negroes were seated on a fallen pine, in a remote quarter of the ground, and were chained together by the wrists, in gangs of four or five, the outside one having one hand secured by a cord bound about the waist. The men wore woollen hats, and the women neat Madras turbans, and both had thick linsey clothing, warm enough for any weather. Their dusky faces were sleek and oily, and their kinky locks combed as straight as nature would permit. The trader had 'rigged them up,' as a jockey 'rigs up' his horses for market.

Pausing before a brawny specimen of the yellow species, he said: 'Thar, Kirke, luk o' thar; thar's a boy fur ye—a nig thet kin work—'tend ten thousand boxes (turpentine) easy. He's the sort. Prime stuff thet—(feeling of his arms and thighs)—hard—hard as rock—siners like rope. Come o' good stock, he did—the old Devereaux blood—(a highly respectable family in those parts)—they's the raal quality—none on yer shams or mushrooms; but genuwine 'stockracy—blamed if they haint. What d'ye say ter him?'

'Well, he moight do, p'raps—but I rather reckon ye've done him up sum; 'iled his face, greased his wool, and sech like. It's all right, ye know—onything's far in trade; but ye karn't come it over me, ole feller. I'm up ter sech doin's. I am, Mr.–,' and I paused for him to finish the sentence.

'Larkin,' he added quickly and good-humoredly; 'Jake Larkin, and yours, by–,' and he gave my hand another shake. 'Yer one on 'em, I swar, and I own up; I hev 'iled em' a trifle—jest a trifle; but ye kin see through thet; we hev ter do it ter fix the green 'uns, ye knows.'