Chapter III: Part 3

Know then, sir, that in the year and month ----, and on a certain night, I was seduced by curiosity--that fell destroyer of our race--to go, for the first time, to a party called a Squeeze, in the city of Washington, denominated by some "the Grand City of O," after the capital in Cunningham's amusing fiction of "_The World without Souls_." Being accompanied by one of the initiated, my debut was readily made as others made theirs. Without material obstruction we were ushered through the passage by the escorting valet; but when we reached the door of the principal pressing and crushing room, _hic labor, hoc opus est!_ here commenced that series of efforts and struggles which was not soon to end, as I afterwards found, to the no small detriment of various parts of my body and limbs. Through this door also, my entrance was at last effected; for what obstacle may not perseverance overcome? A strong effort of my own in the van, and the unsolicited aid in the rear of those who, like myself, wished to see all that was to be seen, very soon protruded me "_in medias res_," which I beg leave to render in idiomatic English--"up to the hub" in the business. Not many minutes however elapsed, before the pressing and crushing became so intense as to excite an earnest desire for a change both of place and posture. Accordingly I bent my course towards another room, having understood there were several prepared for _the accommodation!_ (strange misnomer, thought I,) of the company. This joint removal of body and limbs, which I had a particular fancy should not be disunited, having kept company with each other from my birth, I found toilsome and oppressive in no ordinary degree. For the instant I began to move I was met by a strong counter-current composed of a compact mass of my co-squeezers and squeezees--many of whom were of such "breadth and heft" as would verily have done great honor to a Massachusett's cattle show of the highest grade, had the subjects only been quadrupeds instead of bipeds, and in equal condition for market.

A forcible entry having been made into another room, I found myself standing within a few inches of a strange but very lovely young lady. She also was standing, apparently to execute _her_ part of a cotillion, within a circle which the united pushing and shoving of the eight operatives required for the dance, had not been vigorous enough to enlarge beyond a diameter of some six or seven feet. Being compelled to stand immediately behind her, my eyes naturally fell upon her shoulders, which the dominant fashion then required to be literally half naked. With equal pain and wonderment I observed, that by some invisible machinery, the circulation of the blood was so checked on the visible side of the shoulder strap, as to give a livid appearance to the contiguous skin; while the opposite edges of the _scapulæ_ (I would not for the world, in such a case, say _shoulder-blades_,) were forced as near touching as they could be without dislocation. _This_, thought I to myself, must surely be a fashion invented by some bright etherial genius, regardless of bodily suffering, for a squeeze; since its adaptation to _that_ object could not admit of a doubt--an adaptation, by the way, more complete, beyond comparison, than the present much admired, although evidently incompatible fashion of the bishop sleeves.[2] True, there seemed to be no small loss in shoulder comfort; but the manifest gain in bodily compression, that grand desideratum in a squeeze, to which all else must be sacrificed, appeared far to overbalance it, since according to the best off-hand calculation I could make, ten bodies with their appendant limbs thus prepared, could readily be wedged into a space which before would suffice only for nine, dressed after any previous fashion. But what is there too arduous, too great, for the matchless genius of our fair countrywomen, when stimulated by an adequate cause, and exercised upon a suitable subject!!

[Footnote 2: Most, if not all of our fair countrywomen, have vainly supposed _this_ to be quite a modern fashion; but that it is nothing more than an old one revived, and as ancient as the days of the Prophet Ezekiel, when it was all the rage, is indisputably proved by the 18th verse of his 13th chapter. There, the good old man, in all the bitterness of his heart, exclaims--"Wo! to _the women that sew pillows to all arm holes_, and make kerchiefs upon the head of every structure, to hunt souls!!"]

Although I felt much for the poor girls thus trussed, thus cross-hobbled, I resolved to wait a few moments to witness the "_modus operandi_" of this exhilarating dance, which, judging by all the methods that I had ever seen, required for its performance a circle at least three times as large as the one then before me. I knew too, enough of the prevalent fashion of dancing cotillions to be aware, that its most stylish mode then consisted in a kind of alert vigorous movement, which was most truly but somewhat coarsely called, "kicking out." This, it was manifest, could not _there_ be executed according to the law "in that case made and provided," without imminent danger to the anterior tibiæ of the legs--in vulgar parlance, the "shin-bones" of the parties concerned. It was therefore with much apprehension of the danger, at least to "the woman kind," that I awaited the incipient gesticulations of this cotillion party. My fears were soon relieved, by perceiving that the _operatives_ had substituted, with admirable ingenuity, a kind of lackadaisical slipping, sliding, flat-footed motion, which completely guarded them from the danger I had most ignorantly and unnecessarily anticipated. To be sure it no more resembled the lively animating exercise, called _dancing_ in my boyish days, than the dreamy motions of the somnambulist do the elastic springs of the wide awake tight rope dancer. But it possessed the rare merit of perfectly adapted means to ends, and I could ask no more; for Harlequin himself could hardly have done better under similar duresse. By the way, Mr. Editor, I have been told that this somnambulizing motion has now become the very "tip-top" of the mode in all kinds of dancing,--the waltz and the horse-galloping dances only excepted. In this change the arbiters and reformers of our fashions seem to have displayed much more wisdom than we usually find exerted in matters of the kind, since it is the all levelling political principle carried out into our social amusements; for it places the active and the clumsy on a footing (if you will pardon a pun,) of perfect equality, the smooth and even tenor of which is never disturbed; unless when some credulous sexagenarian is over-persuaded to perpetrate the folly of turning out to dance among a party of girls and boys. _They_ make a laughing stock of him, while _he_, in the sincerity of his heart, and with all the fast perishing vigor of his limbs, _caricatures_ (for he can do nothing more,) the athletic cuts and shuffles of the by-gone century, to which nothing could possibly do anything like justice but an uncommon degree both of youthful vigor and activity. That you, sir, who are quite too young to have any personal knowledge of these important matters, may be sure that I do not exaggerate in making this last assertion, it will suffice to inform you, that the most celebrated steps of that time,--steps, which if perfectly executed, always stampt the performers as first rate dancers--were styled, in the metaphorical language of those merry making days, "forked lightning" and "chicken flutter" for the gentlemen, and "heel and toe" and "cross-shuffle" for the ladies. The first I confess, was rather "a far-fetched metaphor," to say the least of it; but the other three appellations were as perfectly appropriate as could well be conceived. It might also be truly affirmed of all, that there was nothing in any of them, in the slightest degree indecorous, as in the waltz and gallopade; for it seemed not then to have been imagined that _dancing_ could be perverted to any such purpose as the excitation of highly culpable sentiments.

If you will pardon this digression, sir, in consideration that old men will be garrulous and prosing, I will now squeeze you back from the dancing-room to the one first entered, and with somewhat less difficulty, I hope, than I myself encountered.

There I was immediately attracted by a conspicuous gathering of _heads_; of bodies I could see none, except those in juxtaposition. It was drawn together, as I conjectured, by something rather beyond the common spectacles of the night. Being determined to have my share of the sight, I forced my way near enough to behold, in the midst of a circle not much larger than a hogshead hoop, a tall young lady, elegantly dressed, (that is as far as perfect conformity to the fashion could make her so) and quite a good figure, but too much "drawn" (as the racers say) in the waist. And what, think you, was her employment? Why--attitudinizing and thumping away most theatrically upon a tambourine! This was the finishing stroke--the finale of my squeeze-going days, or rather _nights_; and I hastened to squeeze myself _out_, with much more alacrity than I had squeezed myself _in_--marvelling all the way as I rode home with my equally surfeited companion, at the frequency with which we call actual and severe toils, _pleasures_; and at the innumerable contrivances to which the devotees of the latter resort intentionally, as we must presume, to gain, but in reality to mar, their object. Of these contrivances I had just swallowed my first and last dose, as I then designed it to be, of the one called _a Squeeze_; a contrivance which seemed to me altogether matchless in its unsuitability of means to ends; that is, if it was really designed for _a party of pleasure!_ for after one or two hours most diligent search, I had utterly failed in finding a single spot, where even one individual could either _sit_, _stand_ or _walk_, with the slightest degree of convenience or comfort!!

To give you a still better idea of the supreme folly justly attributable to such plain country folks as myself, for venturing into places so entirely unsuitable to us, I will conclude this long epistle by relating a real incident once told to me by a gentleman who had it from the sufferer himself.

Some years ago a kind of "Hickory Quaker," (as he called himself,) but whose real name it is needless to mention, found his way, "par hazard," from one of the middle States to Congress. Being thus ranked among the honorables of the land, it was not long before he received an invitation to a _Squeeze_. His intense curiosity to see something of which he could not, from the name, form the slightest conception, got the better of his prudence, and he very rashly determined to go; although, as he afterwards confessed, in relating his mishaps, not without many misgivings which he with difficulty suppressed. On consulting one or two of his friends, who were already initiated into all the mysteries of squeezes, as to the proper time to go, the only information given was, "_be sure not to be the first of the company_." This injunction relieved him of much of his apprehension, being very confident of his power to fulfil it. His confidence however, proved too overweening, for having waited and waited until his usual bed hour at home, the sudden fear seized him of erring in the contrary extreme, and finding the party broken up. Under this impression he hurried off, in his best Quaker dress, as fast as his _legs_ could carry him, for taking _a hack_ was out of the question. Having soon arrived, he knocked loudly at the door with his knuckles, not being yet cognizant of the bell-bolt contrivance,--demanding, at the same time, in his customary way, "who keeps the house?" The opening of the door immediately followed, and he was about to enter; but the finely dressed servant whom he mistook for the master of the house, manifesting, not only much surprise, but some strong symptoms of resistance, friend Ephraim (as I beg leave to call him,) deemed it best to say--"I have some particular business with the lady, who sent for me herself." This at once proved an "_open sesamè_," and in he marched, putting as bold a face on the matter as he could, and anxiously hoping to find, in a few minutes, some friends to keep him in countenance. But alas! it is not in man that liveth, to form hopes which shall not be disappointed; for upon being ushered into the lady's presence, he found her, to his utter astonishment, entirely alone, and looking at him as a perfect stranger; and well she might, having never cast eyes on him before. This most unexpected occurrence, this jumping, as it were, out of the frying-pan into the fire, so utterly confounded him, that he was very near taking to his heels with all possible speed, and escaping by the way he came, if he could find no shorter exit. Luckily however, he bethought him of producing his credentials for admission, which he had most fortunately slipped into his pocket, being yet ignorant of the fashion of leaving it in his room, as if through carelesness, but in reality to display the extent of his honors, so far as these depend upon the number of one's visiting acquaintance. The exhibition of his ticket instantly put matters to rights; the lady's countenance brightened up with smiles ineffable; he was overwhelmed with apologies for not knowing him, although greatly did he marvel how she should; and so much pleasure and happiness was expressed at his having honored her party by his presence, that he began to ask himself, with infinite self-complacency, whether there might not _really be_, as he had heard when a boy, such a thing as "_love at first sight_." The repetition however, of nearly the identical expressions to every gentleman who afterwards entered, brought to his mind the mortifying conviction, either that the boyish tale was false, or that his hostess must be in love with every gentleman of the company, which he at once pronounced impossible.

Until more company arrived, our quaker friend found himself in a sad predicament; for having no plausible excuse for escape, and deeming himself bound, at least to try to entertain the lady with some kind of conversation, he sat many minutes pondering over the few topics on which he thought himself able to converse, but finding none that exactly pleased him, he at length resolved to hazard something about cabbages, and peas, and poultry; shrewdly imagining that such matters would be more amusing, as well as instructive to her, than any contained in his "knowledge box." Great was his pleasure and wonderment to find her perfectly at home as to all these mysteries; so much so, indeed, that he could hardly suppress the exclamation, "Oh! that my old woman knew half as much." All things, however, must have an end, although friend Ephraim began to fear that the tête à tête between the lady and himself never would; and when their chat was fast dying away, like the flickering blaze in the nearly empty socket of a candlestick, suddenly the doors were thrown open, and in rushed pellmell, such a mixed multitude, as struck him with speechless astonishment. Very soon (as he himself described the scene,) he had to abandon his seat; and according to his notions of politeness, was every moment making room, first for one stranger and then for another, without having time so much as casually to shake the hand of an acquaintance, before they were thrust apart. Thus elbowed, and shoved, and bumped about on every side, and not knowing how to keep out of every body's way, which seemed a physical impossibility, he found himself, at last, most unexpectedly squeezed into the midst of a party altogether of ladies, whose united voices raised such an unintelligible din, as brought to his recollection what he had read in his Bible, about the confusion of tongues at the tower of Babel. Resolutely bent, however, upon "seeing the show out," he determined to persevere. But, at the same time, having the accommodation of others much at heart, he resolved to try a yet unessayed position, by way of making himself as small as possible. This was to thrust his hands behind him, the first moment space enough was given for the purpose; at the same time straightening his arms as much as practicable, and grasping one wrist with the other hand, to secure their union. He had but a few seconds for self-congratulation upon so ingenious a device, before some sudden, undesigned impetus in front, forced him back, so that his hand was pressed against something hard. Of this he involuntarily took hold, but without turning his head; that indeed being impracticable. He mistook this hard article (as he afterwards found to his cost,) for the end of a narrow shingle, although for the life of him he could not imagine why, or how it got there, as he had seen nothing like building going on about the premises. Scarcely, however, had he taken hold of it, before it was forcibly jerked from his grasp, and his hands were once more disengaged. His conjectures as to what it could possibly be, were still puzzling his brain, when a fierce Pendragon sort of a fellow, whiskered and mustached to the very tip of his nose, forced his way to him through the dense mass by which he was surrounded, and in a very authoritative, menacing tone, told him that Mrs. ---- desired to see him. He obeyed the mandate as speedily as possible, but in mortal dread and astonishment as to the cause of it. The moment he reached his hostess, she demanded, with a look of indescribable indignation, "how he dared to insult a lady in her house?" Thunderstruck, as it were, at the accusation, for a few moments he was deprived of speech. But at length recovering the use of his tongue, he averred and protested, and affirmed, that he was utterly unconscious of having committed any such outrage; an outrage which he was altogether incapable of perpetrating. This so far appeased the lady's wrath, as to produce an awkward and embarrassing explanation on both sides, by which it was discovered, that the supposed shingle end had been, in reality, the projecting end of a lady's corset bone, unluckily squeezed out of place, in the general pressing and crushing of the crowd. The conference ended in the lady's being satisfied, and in our worthy quaker resolving from the very bottom of his heart, never again to trust himself in any place under the sun, be the temptation what it might, wherein he could not find a safe place, even for his hands!

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SANFORDS.

"Some wild desire, some sad mistake has cast
Severe remorse and sorrow for the past;
Some former fault shall present solace curb,
Or fair occasion lost, his peace disturb;
Some fatal chance has ruined every scheme,
And proved his brightest prospect all a dream."

About the year 18--, there lived in a populous neighborhood, in the state of Virginia, a lady and gentleman named Sanford. They possessed considerable wealth, which was to be inherited by their only son, whom they called Hugh. The life of this worthy couple, was as quiet and easy as an unruffled stream, save when some slight differences of opinion would occasionally arise, respecting the management of Hugh. But one point on which they always agreed, was, that he should never be thwarted in any wish of his heart.

At the time our story commences, Hugh Sanford was twenty, and had just left college. Whether he ever distinguished himself there, I have not been able to ascertain. However, I know with certainty, that he was by nature gifted with good sense, and he had many fine qualities of the heart. I know not whether the reader will think so, from the sketch I am about to write, but he must bear in mind, that Hugh's natural disposition was so warped by continual indulgence, that not until the fever of youth had subsided, was it truly developed.

A large party had been invited to spend several days at Mr. Sanford's, and his wife had promised them a little dance. We shall pass over the preparations which were made for the party, and which, in the country, always produce so much bustle and excitement; we will even say nothing of the more important business, (to the girls at least) of the _toilette_; but shall follow them all to the drawing room, which was brilliantly lighted.

Among the girls, Mary Linden, was the most commanding; her splendid dress and jewelry, gave her quite a _magnificent_ air. She was the daughter of a _rich_ widower. Ellen Lorval (the only child of a _poor_ lawyer,) was also much admired. Her light muslin dress and simple wreath of wild flowers were peculiarly becoming.

"My dear Hugh," said Mrs. Sanford, "I wish to speak with you a moment before the dancing commences. Does not Mary look beautiful? Do go and engage her as your partner immediately."

"Not so fast mother," said he smiling.

"My son," said she, "I love Mary as my daughter: could I but think that she would be one to me." She looked at him intently, but he appeared not to understand her meaning, and turning the conversation, he went to join a group of young men.

The scene changes. The enlivening sound of the violin is heard; the couples are beginning to take their places on the floor, when Hugh, to the dismay of his parents, is seen leading out Ellen Lorval. Mary Linden is surrounded by beaux, and it seems has capriciously given her fair hand to the least deserving of them, a would-be-wit, whose whole conversation consists of long words and jests, which have been in print for ages. The party went off well, and all seemed to enjoy themselves, except some few unfortunate _wall-flowers_, for whom, however, Mrs. Sanford procured partners towards the close of the evening.

Hugh would probably never again have thought of his attentions to Ellen, had not his mother kept him _in custody_ the next morning, while she spoke _her_ mind on the subject. She represented to him "the folly of falling in love with her, when Mary Linden was in the house;" and she even went so far as to say that "there would be a _great impropriety_ in his falling in love with Ellen."

Hugh was greatly astonished at hearing all this, for the idea of falling in love had never entered his imagination. He was sorry to see his mother pained, but since she had put such notions into his head, he could not but see, that if he could be so fortunate as to fall in love, and meet with opposition, it would give a peculiar zest to the monotony of his country life. So he stalked off to the drawing room, and _began_ to think Ellen very interesting. The few succeeding days were passed as they usually are by a large party in the country. They read, talked, rode and played at battledoor; but at length the guests departed, and Mr. and Mrs. Sanford returned to the enjoyment of their usual tranquillity; but Hugh did not feel quite at his ease, as he was conscious that he had pained his parents, not so much by his attentions to Ellen, as by failing to fall in love with Mary Linden. Weeks passed on;--Hugh continued to meet Ellen at all the dinners and parties in the neighborhood, and to pay her attention. Mr. and Mrs. Sanford had seen all their hopes respecting Mary Linden laid low, and they had fretted themselves into ill humor about Ellen: a calm was now ensuing, they began to look on the bright side of things, and even to fancy that Ellen was to be their future daughter.

"My son," said Mr. Sanford, "I wish you to consult your own happiness in every thing. You love Ellen; you have now the consent of your parents to address her."

"Really father, I----." He stammered out something that was unintelligible.

"Say no more, I see you are embarrassed."

"Hear me father----."

"Not a word more at present; good bye."

There is an old saying, that "competition is the life of trade," and I think it is no less true, that "opposition is the life of love," or of something that is frequently mistaken for it by _greenhorns_, and very young ladies just from school. Now that all opposition was at an end, Hugh was somewhat surprised to find himself entirely OUT of love with Ellen; and indeed, he shrewdly suspected he had never been IN love with her. The gentle girl had seemed pleased with the attentions of the handsome Hugh Sanford, though she acted with the most perfect delicacy, nor have I ever found out whether she imagined him to be serious. I am sorry to say, that the utmost partiality cannot throw a veil over the conduct of Hugh in this instance; and many will say that he does not deserve the title of a _hero_. "Pshaw!" says a little girl, "I thought all heroes were perfect!" And so they are, in English novels, but not in Old Virginia!

Mrs. Sanford had a widowed sister living in the southern part of the state. Her name was Harrington, and she was the mother of two daughters, who were dashing belles and beauties. Thither Hugh now went, to pay a visit. On a bright evening, he came in sight of his aunt's dwelling. It was situated on a smooth green hill, which gradually sloped to the river ----, which was not very wide here. A tiny canoe was presently visible in the middle of the stream, and much to his surprise he perceived in it a single female figure. "Can that be one of my cousins?" said he; "what mad freak could induce her to go alone?" But, when he arrived at the house, he found both of his cousins and his aunt sitting together. They received him cordially, and while he was answering their inquiries, a light step was heard in the passage, and an eager voice exclaimed: "Oh, Mrs. Harrington, my pigeon flew away from me to the other bank, and I was so much afraid of losing it, that I went over for it by myself." The speaker entered the room, holding the bird triumphantly in her hand; but perceiving a stranger, she was retreating, when Mrs. Harrington recalled her, and she was introduced to Hugh by the appellation of Amy Larone. She was bright as a sunbeam, and beautiful as the roses of spring. Her hazel eyes were large; a delicate carnation bloomed on her cheek, and her brown hair was parted over her smooth brow, and gracefully twisted at the back of her head. She was below the middle size, and the plainest suit of mourning was neatly fitted on her slender shape. Hugh's interest was strongly excited by the air of mystery with which he fancied she was surrounded, and he seized the first opportunity to inquire who she was. Her simple story was soon told. She was nearly sixteen, and was the orphan child of poor and obscure, though honest parents. Her mother died when she was four years old, and she was left to the care of her father, an illiterate, although well-meaning man, who had no idea that education was at all necessary: if he could see his daughter neatly dressed, and hear the neighbors say how beautiful she was, he cared for nothing more. Her beauty and modesty were talked of by rich and poor. Her father had not been dead more than seven or eight months; and Mrs. Harrington pitying her forlorn condition, had taken her to her house. Maria and Theresa Harrington were kind to her, and were anxious to repair somewhat the total neglect of the education of the warm hearted Amy. She was grateful, but as her taste for study had not been formed in childhood, it was with reluctance that she now attempted the _drudgery_ of learning, and, so far as concerned herself, she wished that the makers of books had never existed.

She seemed, however, to possess an instinctive knowledge of what was right and proper to be said or done, even on occasions that were perfectly novel to her; and when a subject was started of which she was ignorant, she acted _wisely_, and said _nothing_; or if in the course of conversation a few errors were committed by her, her transcendent beauty was sufficient to atone for all. True, her beauty was not of the spiritual kind, "the rapt soul _beaming_ in the eyes;" but it was just such as is always admired by enthusiastic young men.

Company came in, and Hugh obtaining a seat near Amy, entered into conversation with her, in which to do her justice, she supported her part quite well. He rallied her upon her excursion after her truant bird. She replied--"It was the last thing my father ever gave me, and I love it for his sake."

Several weeks had been passed by Hugh at his aunt's, and he had become deeply interested in the orphan. Amy appeared dejected, and very rarely joined the family party in the sitting room. This conduct only strengthened Hugh's interest. He was now really in love--"fairly caught," as the young ladies express it. Walking out one evening by himself, he encountered Amy unexpectedly, and a gleam of joy lighted up his handsome features.

"Miss Larone," said he, "why have you deserted us; the time has been too, too long since we met."

"Three days, sir," said Amy, slightly smiling.

"I can hardly believe it possible," said he, "for it seems almost as many months to me."

Amy assumed a look of coldness, and said she did not understand him; but her countenance betrayed that she did.

They walked on in silence to the bank of the river, and Hugh looking on the beautiful stream and its romantic banks, said, "Could I but think that you would walk here after I am gone, and think of me--Amy, I will confess that from the first moment I saw you, I felt the strongest interest in you. Nay more, that I do now love you most ardently. Will you give me your heart?" She remained silent and agitated, and at length tears came to her relief. "Oh, why do you weep? Say to me Amy, that I may at least hope you love me!" She raised her mild tearful eyes, and that glance betrayed that her heart was his.--"Now, heaven bless you Amy, let us record our vows, and you will be my bride ere long." "Mr. Sanford," she said, "'tis true that I love you, but yet I can never be yours. Your parents would never receive me as their daughter." "Hush Amy," said he, "my parents love me too well to withhold their consent." Struggling with her emotion, she said, "There are other weighty reasons why I cannot be your wife. No, no, it cannot be." "Amy, you distract me; whatever those reasons are, they _shall_ be overcome." She shook her head, and darted off from him ere he was aware of her determination. Hugh was bewildered; but he resolved to seek another interview with Amy. The next day he entreated her as a last favor, to walk with him. So _reasonable_ a request could not be refused. He told her that unless she changed her determination, on the morrow he would depart, whither he neither knew or cared. Her _compassion_ was so much excited, that before their return to the house, she had permitted him to hope. He told her he would set off directly for his home, and that he would return in a few weeks,--adding that he would write to her immediately. It was not until after much entreaty, that she consented to receive his letters; but when he requested her to _answer_ them, her agitation knew no bounds. Poor Amy!

The next day he took leave of all; and ere long, a letter fraught with expressions of the most tender regard, was handed to Amy. _She did not answer it._ Another soon followed, gently chiding her for her silence. After this, _all were answered_. Mrs. Harrington and Maria _were in arms about the match_. His parents yielded a reluctant consent; and at the appointed time they were married. Hugh wrote to his mother to apprize her of it, and to appoint a time for their arrival at the home of his childhood--he now thought himself perfectly happy. The _honey-moon_ was nearly past, when, one day as he was gazing with rapture on the loveliness of his young bride, Mrs. Harrington entered, saying, "Here is a letter directed to 'Mrs. Hugh Sanford,' from my sister, I think." She handed Amy the letter, with a look of peculiar significance. Amy broke the seal mechanically, blushed deeply, and bent her eyes on the ground.--"Amy," said Hugh, "why do you not read my mother's letter?" She sank down, and could only say, "Forgive me--oh, forgive me!" "For what, dearest? You that never in thought or word offended. Look up, Amy," said he, smiling, "you have no need of forgiveness." "Oh, you do not know; I--" She could scarce articulate; but at length came the terrible confession, that she could scarcely read, and _could not write!_

We have mentioned the total neglect of her education, and the "_weighty_ reasons" which she told Hugh would prevent her from marrying him. All is now explained. But how, you may ask, did she manage to answer his letters, when she was unable to write? She made Theresa Harrington her confidant; and _she_, without thinking of the consequences, answered them in Amy's name. The deception was cruel; but Amy's conduct is not entirely without some palliation. Her love of Hugh, and the shame of her ignorance, combated fiercely in her bosom; and _she did refuse him--partly_.

Hugh had first been won by her beauty and her destitute condition; her refusal of his offered hand had only added fuel to the flame. Absence, "making the heart grow fonder," and the letters he received, all conspired to blind him. Sincerely was he to be pitied, for he possessed many fine qualities, and was nobly disinterested. The veil was now removed from his eyes, and the dream of love was fast deserting him, like shadows of the morning, when the bright sunlight rises o'er the hills. They went to his parents. We shall pass over the various mortifications which Hugh had to endure. Amy idolized her husband, and he was too kind-hearted to be proof against her fondness. He exerted himself day after day to instruct her, but I do not believe she went much beyond learning to read and write legibly. His parents lived only a few years after these events, and his beautiful wife was attacked about four years after they were married with a slight cough, which was soon followed by that bright flush, which is too frequently the harbinger of death. A southern climate, and every possible means were resorted to, for her restoration to health, but in vain! Her last prayers were offered up for her husband, and a daughter then two years old. Hugh never married again. He continued to live at the family mansion, occupied almost entirely with the education of Eva. When she was ten years of age, she was sent to New York to school. Her life has been attended with circumstances which are not without romance. Should any curiosity be felt on the subject, I may at a future time give a sketch of the life of Eva Sanford.

Years have passed since these events transpired, and the once young and handsome Hugh Sanford is now an old man. His appearance is very much changed, and his faults and foibles have been lost in his progress through life, or have become softened by the hand of time. Certain it is, he is now a very estimable man, and is looked up to with reverence both in public and private life.

A.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SCENE FROM "ARNOLD AND ANDRE,"

An unpublished Drama, by the author of "Herbert Barclay," and translator of Schiller's "Don Carlos."

ACT I. _Scene 2_. New York, towards the end of the summer of 1780.

Sir Henry Clinton. Colonel Robinson. An Old British Officer.

SIR H. CLINTON.
Rebellion's tatter'd banner droops at last,
Wanting the breath of stirring confidence.
Discord, twin-brother to defeat, now lifts
Within the Congress walls her grating voice--
Fit sound for rebel ears--and in their camp,
Lean want breeds discontent and mutiny:
The while o'er our embattled squadrons waves
High-crested victory, and flaps her wings,
Fanning the fire of native valor. Soon
Shall peace revisit this oppressed land,
So long bestrid by war, whose iron heel
With her own life-blood madly stains her sides.

ROBINSON.
Our arms' success upon the southern shore,--
Whose thirsty sands are saturate with streams
From rebel wounds,--and the discomfiture
Of new-born hopes of aid from fickle France,
Brought on by Rodney's timely coming, have
Ev'n to the stoutest hearts struck black dismay.

OLD OFFICER.
Cast down they may be, but despair's unknown
To their determin'd spirits. Washington's
The same as when in seventy-six he pass'd
The Delaware, and in a darker hour
Than this is, rallied his dishearten'd troops,
And by a stroke of generalship, as shrewd
As bold, back turn'd the tide of victory.

ROBINSON.
But years of fruitless warfare, sucking up
Alike the people's blood and substance, weigh
Upon th' exhausted land, like heaped debts
Of failed enterprise, that clog the step
Of action.

OLD OFFICER.
Deem ye not the spirit dull'd,
Which first impell'd this people to take arms
And brave our mighty power; nor yet the hope
Extinct which has their roused energies
Upheld against such fearful odds. The blood
They've shed, is blood of martyrs--precious oil--
Rich fuel to the flame that's boldly lit
On Freedom's altar, and whose dear perfume,
Upward ascending, is by heroes snuff'd,
Strength'ning the soul of patriotic love
With ireful vengeance.

SIR H. CLINTON.
Whence, my vet'ran Colonel,
Comes it, that you, whose scarred body bears
The outward proofs of inward loyalty,
Do entertain for rebels such regard?

OLD OFFICER.
Custom of war has not so steel'd my heart,
But that its pulse will beat in admiration
Of noble deeds, ev'n though by foemen done.
Nor does my sworn allegiance to my king
Forbid all sympathy with men, who fight--
And fight too with a valiantness which naught
But conscious justice could inspire--for rights
Inherited from British ancestors.

SIR H. CLINTON.
Their yet unconquer'd souls, and the stern front
They have so long oppos'd in equal strife
To our war-practis'd soldiery, attest
Their valor: and for us to stint the meed
Of praise for gallant bearing in the field,
Were self-disparagement, seeing that still
They hold at bay our far-outnumb'ring host.
But for the justice of their cause,--the wrong,
Skill'd to bedeck itself in garb of right,
Oft cheats the conscience broad credulity,
And thus will vice, with virtue's armature
Engirt, fight often unabash'd. Unloose
The spurs, wherewith desire of change, the pride
Of will, hot blood of restless uncurb'd youth
Wanting a distant parent's discipline,
And bold ambition of aspiring chiefs,
Do prick them on to this unnatural war;
And then, how tam'd would be their fiery mettle,
Heated alone by patriotic warmth.

OLD OFFICER.
My General, I know this people well.
And all the virtues which Old England claims,
As the foundations of her happiness
And greatness,--such as reverence of law
And custom, prudence, female chastity,
And with them, independence, fortitude,
Courage and sturdiness of purpose,--have
Been here transplanted from their native soil,
And flourish undegenerate. From these,--
Sources exhaustible but with the life
That feeds them,--their severe intents take birth,
And draw the lusty sustenance to mould
The limbs and body of their own fulfilment,
So that performance lag not after purpose.
They are our countrymen. They are, as well
In manly resolution as in blood,
The children of our fathers. Washington
Doth know no other language than the one
We speak: and never did an English tongue
Give voice unto a larger, wiser mind.
You'll task your judgment vainly to point out
Through all this desp'rate conflict, in his plans
A flaw, or fault in execution. He
In spirit is unconquerable, as
In genius perfect. Side by side I fought
With him in that disastrous enterprise,
Where brave young Braddock fell; and there I mark'd
The vet'ran's skill contend for mastery
With youthful courage in his wondrous deeds.
Well might the bloody Indian warrior pause,
Amid his massacre confounded, and
His baffled rifle's aim, till then unerring,
Turn from "that tall young man," and deem in awe
That the Great Spirit hover'd over him;
For he, of all our mounted officers,
Alone came out unscath'd from that dread carnage,
To guard our shatter'd army's swift retreat.
For years did his majestic form hold place
Upon my mind, stampt in that perilous hour,
In th' image of a strong-arm'd friend, until
I met him next, as a resistless foe.
'Twas at the fight near Princeton. In quick march,
Victorious o'er his van, onward we press'd;
When, moving with firm pace, led by the Chief
Himself, the central force encounter'd us.
One moment paus'd th' opposing hosts--and then
The rattling volley hid the death it bore:
Another--and the sudden cloud, uproll'd,
Display'd, midway between the adverse lines,
His drawn sword gleaming high, the Chief--as though
That crash of deadly music, and the burst
Of sulphurous vapor, had from out the earth
Summon'd the God of war. Doubly exposed
He stood unharm'd. Like eagles tempest-borne
Rush'd to his side his men; and had our souls
And arms with two-fold strength been braced, we yet
Had not withstood that onset. Thus does he
Keep ever with occasion even step,--
Now, warily before our eager speed
Retreating, tempting us with battle's promise
Only to toil us with a vain pursuit--
Now, wheeling rapidly about our flanks,
Startling our ears with sudden peal of war,
And fronting in the thickest of the fight
The common soldier's death, stirring the blood
Of faintest hearts to deeds of bravery
By his great presence,--and his every act,
Of heady onslaught as of backward march,
From thoughtful judgment first infer'd.

ROBINSON.
If that
You do report him truly, and your words
Be not the wings to float a brain-born vision,
But are true heralds who deliver that
Which will in corporal doings be avouch'd,
Then was this man born to command. And shall
Ingrate revolt be justified by fate,
And Britain's side bleed with the rending off
Of this vast member; they will find it so,
Who seek to gain a greater liberty
Than does befit man's passion-guided state.
Jove's bird as soon shall quail his cloud-wet plumage,
Sinking his sinewy wafture to the flight
Of common pinions,--or the silent tide
Break its mysterious law at the wind's bidding,
Remitting for a day its mighty flood
Upon this shore,--as that, one recogniz'd
To have all kingly qualities, shall not
Assert his natural supremacy,
And weaker men submit to his full sway.
Power does grow unto the palm that wields it.
The necks that bend to make ambition's seat,
Must still uphold its overtopping weight,
Or, moving, be crush'd under it.

OLD OFFICER.
And heads
That quit the roof of shelt'ring peace, and bare them
To war's fierce lightning for a principle,
Do crown the limbs of men, each one a rock
Baffling with loftiness ambition's step,
Whose ladder is servility. Were they
Susceptible of usurpation's sway,
This conflict had not been; and then the world
Had miss'd a Washington, whose greatness is
Of greatness born. Him have they rais'd because
Of his great worth; and he has headed them
For that they knew to value him. Had he
Been less, then they had pass'd him by; and had
Their souls lack'd nobleness, his tow'ring trunk,
Scanted of genial sap, had fail'd to reach
Its proper altitude. No smiling time
Is this for hypocritical ambition
To cheat men's minds with virtue's counterfeit.
What made him Washington, makes him the chief
Of this vast league,--and that's integrity,
The which his noble qualities enlinks
In one great arch, to bear the sudden weight
Of a new cause, and, strength'ning ever, hold
Compact 'gainst time's all-whelming step.

SIR H. CLINTON.
What now
You speak, you'll be reminded of, belike,
Ere many weeks are past. And well I know,
Your arm will not be backward, if there's need,
To prove your own words' falsity. Meanwhile,
Hold you in readiness for sudden march.

[_Exit Old Officer_.]

ROBINSON.
A better soldier than a prophet.

SIR H. CLINTON.
Yet,
Scarce does his liberal extolment stretch
Beyond its object's merits; for, were he
Not rooted in his compeers' confidence,
And in his generalship unmatched, this league
Had long since crumbled from within, and o'er
Its sever'd bands our arms had quickly triumph'd.
In all his mighty spirit's ordinant,
The while his warriors, rang'd in council round him,
Listen to plans of learned generalship.
Within the Congress is his voiceless will
Potential as the wisest senator's.
Ever between their reeling cause and us,
Comes his stern brow to awe fell Ruin's spirit.
'Tis a grand game he plays, and, by my soul,
Worthy the game and player is the stake.
A fair broad continent is't for a kingdom:
If he can win't, he's welcome to't.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAP. II.

I have heard it remarked, that the study of our early poets was like a journey through a country of rich groves and pleasant gardens. There surely _is_ something pleasing in the study of old poetry. A ripeness of feeling meets us on the yellow and stained page, which, gradually mingling with the legitimate feelings of our own hearts, "makes us to glow with a rich fervor."

But this pleasure, like all other exquisite pleasures, is rather of the inexpressible kind. To impart it, condensation is necessary: and to condense it, is like bottling fragrance, or gathering foam into a beaker.

The reader may therefore prepare himself for nothing more than a straight forward story--broken in upon at intervals, by such rambling episodes of "remark" as I may think suitable.

I. Geoffry Chaucer, the poet

"That made first to dystylle and rayne
The gold dewe dropys of speche and eloquence,
Into our tunge thrugh his excellence."[1]

has ever stood first among the writers who have drunk at "the well of English undefiled."[2] He has been called the father of English verse, and properly. He travelled several times into the countries of the south, and, as great minds are seldom idle ones, we might infer, without the proof which exists in so many shapes, that he became a pupil to the Italian masters.

[Footnote 1: Lydgate.]

[Footnote 2: The term "well of English undefiled," was applied to Chaucer by Spenser, because he arranged and settled the language--stripping it of many barbarisms and foreign incumbrances. I am aware that he introduced as many foreign words as he cast out; but the rejected were corrupt fragments of the Norman French, which yet (though soft compared with the Saxon,) bore in part a mark of its parentage; and the selections made for the purpose of replacing them, were from the _Langue D'Oc_--the most beautifully musical of all tongues. He consequently did not _defile_ the English language.]

He was a student, and returned to England laden with the fruits of his study. It was his fate to come between the scholars of that and preceding ages, who worked their religious and scientific instructions into _heavy_ Latin metre, and the court minions, who sang to their mistresses and patrons in Norman French, and lay a solid foundation out of the scattered fragments of real English poetry. With little fancy, less imagination, and the little of the first clipped, by his matter-of-fact employment as _wool inspector_, he has succeeded in story-telling better than any of his successors. In a tale, the more vivid the picture drawn, the more interesting the tale. To be minute and particular in description, is to beget a vivid picture: and this is the secret of Chaucer's popularity. He writes as if he were taking an inventory of, rather than describing, things around him. Ages after, when this same talent for descending skilfully into particulars, was used in the description of natural scenery and of the workings of the human breast, it gave Spenser's Pastorals, and the tragedies of Shakspeare and poor Shelly, a beauty which in the first two, men have long ago learned to appreciate, and which in the course of time, will place the last on the seat to which he is entitled. The whole secret of Chaucer's charm is, as I have said, particularity. If he had used this talent in describing the many workings of the human heart, he would probably have failed--for no man can describe that of which he is ignorant.[3] If he had turned his attention to pastoral poetry, he _might_ have succeeded; and indeed, in the descriptions of nature scattered throughout his various poems, he has succeeded admirably. But something more is wanting than this power of description, in the song of a shepherd. From his wild and unrestrained life among the hills of a legendary country--surrounded as he is, by "kids and lambs, and blithe birds," we not only look for minuteness of description, but affecting plaintiveness and imaginative imbodyings. This last is one great aid to Spenser's pastoral poetry. But I am anticipating my subject.

[Footnote 3: Chaucer has the reputation of being a great "painter of characters;" but he excels in describing manner, bearing, dress, &c.--not in picturing the workings of the "human heart."]

Chaucer was the founder of a style which after poets have often attempted to imitate. Dryden and Pope have paraphrased his works; and Keates tells us that he is too weak to do other than "stammer where Dan Chaucer sung." The Canterbury tales were modelled after, and for the most part copied from the Decameron of Boccacio. The prologue to these is the most perfect thing of its kind extant. His satires are strong, and chiefly aimed against the enemies of Wickliffe, and his patron John of Lancaster. Chaucer was a philosopher too--a great one for his age. His treatise on the Astrolabe, intended for the benefit of his son, manifests more information than we would look for in the reign of Edward III. His satires against the opponents of Wickliffe are rather political than religious. In religious matters he seems to have possessed a praiseworthy spirit of toleration--a quality unknown for ages after to the "agents elect" of a peace-loving Christ.[4] Altogether, Chaucer was a wonderful man, and certainly, for his time, a poet as "parfite" and as "gentil" as his own knight.[5] His Canterbury tales are his _great_ works: they gave a tone to English poetry. In these days, when all literature has lost its freshness, it would be a pleasant thing if we could

"Call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball and of Algarsife,
And who had Canacè to wife,
That owned the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass
On which the Tartan king did ride."[6]

I should like to believe in the Pythagorean doctrine, if only for the pleasant consciousness that old Geoffry Chaucer had left his spirit behind him. He died on the 25th of October, (the same day of the same month on which died King Alfred,) in the year 1400; and was buried in Westminster Abbey, where for a long time these words were upon his tomb:

"Galfridus Chaucer, vates et fama poesis
Maternæ hac sacra sum tumulatis humo."

[Footnote 4: It is in a letter to his son, where he is remarking upon the merits of the different sects that we find this odd similitude--"There are many roads leading to Rome." He was not narrow brained enough to believe that there was but one.]

[Footnote 5: "He was a veray parfite gentil knight."--_Prol. Can. Tales._]

[Footnote 6: Milton's Il Pensoroso, in allusion to the Squire's tale in Chaucer.]

II. Before passing on to the celebrated poets of the time of Henry VIII, I will make a few remarks upon the ancient ballad of "Chevy Chase."