Home as Found by James Fenimore Cooper (page 2)

preferred. All this gave John Effingham himself no concern, but retiring a little from the crowd, he entered into a short conversation with the young baronet.

“I should like to know your real opinions of this set,” he said; “not that I plead guilty to the childish sensibility that is so common in all provincial circles to the judgments of strangers, but with a view to aid you in forming a just estimate of the real state of the country.”

“As I know the precise connexion between you and our host, there can be no objection to giving a perfectly frank reply. The women strike me as being singularly delicate and pretty; well dressed, too, I might add; but, while there is a great air of decency, there is very little high finish; and what strikes me as being quite odd, under such circumstances, scarcely any downright vulgarity, or coarseness.”

“A Daniel come to judgment! One who had passed a life here, would not have come so near the truth, simply because he would not have observed peculiarities, that require the means of comparison to be detected. You are a little too indulgent in saying there is no downright vulgarity; for some there is; though surprisingly little for the circumstances. But of the coarseness that would be so prominent elsewhere, there is hardly any. True, so great is the equality in all things, in this country, so direct the tendency to this respectable mediocrity, that what you now see here, to-night, may be seen in almost every village in the land, with a few immaterial exceptions in the way of furniture and other city appliances, and not much even in these.”

“Certainly, as a mediocrity, this is respectable though a fastidious taste might see a multitude of faults.”

“I shall not say that the taste would be merely fastidious, for much is wanting that would add to the grace and beauty of society, while much that is wanting would be missed only by the over-sophisticated. Those young-men, who are sniggering over some bad joke in the corner, for instance, are positively vulgar, as is that young lady who is indulging in practical coquetry; but, on the whole, there is little of this; and, even our hostess, a silly woman, devoured with the desire of being what neither her social position, education, habits nor notions fit her to be, is less obtrusive, bustling, and offensive, than a similar person, elsewhere.”

“I am quite of your way of thinking, and intended to ask you to account for it.”

“The Americans are an imitative people of necessity, and they are apt at this part of imitation, in particular. Then they are less artificial in all their practices, than older and more sophisticated nations; and this company has got that essential part of good breeding, simplicity, as it were _per force_. A step higher in the social scale, you will see less of it; for greater daring and bad models lead to blunders in matters that require to be exceedingly well done, if done at all. The faults here would be more apparent, by an approach near enough to get into the tone of mind, the forms of speech, and the attempts at wit.”

“Which I think we shall escape to-night, as I see the ladies are already making their apologies and taking leave. We must defer this investigation to another time.”

“It may be indefinitely postponed, as it would scarcely reward the trouble of an inquiry.”

The gentlemen now approached Mrs. Jarvis, paid their parting compliments, hunted up Captain Truck, whom they tore by violence from the good-natured hospitality of the master of the house, and then saw the ladies into their carriage. As they drove off, the worthy mariner protested that Mr. Jarvis was one of the honestest men he had ever met, and announced that he intended giving him a dinner on board the Montauk, the very next day.

The dwelling of Mrs. Hawker was in Hudson Square; or in a portion of the city that the lovers of the grandiose are endeavouring to call St. John’s Park; for it is rather an amusing peculiarity among a certain portion of the emigrants who have flocked into the Middle States, within the last thirty years, that they are not satisfied with permitting any family, or thing, to possess the name it originally enjoyed, if there exists the least opportunity to change it. There was but a carriage or two before the door, though the strong lights in the house showed that company had collected.

“Mrs. Hawker is the widow and the daughter of men of long established New-York families; she is childless, affluent, and universally respected where known, for her breeding, benevolence, good sense, and heart,” said John Effingham, while the party was driving from one house to the other. “Were you to go into most of the sets of this town, and mention Mrs. Hawker’s name, not one person in ten would know there is such a being in their vicinity; the _pele mele_ of a migratory population keeping persons of her character and condition in life, quite out of view. The very persons who will prattle by the hour, of the establishments of Mrs. Peleg Pond, and Mrs. Jonah Twist, and Mrs. Abiram Wattles, people who first appeared on this island five or six years since, and, who having accumulated what to them are relatively large fortunes, have launched out into vulgar and uninstructed finery, would look with surprise at hearing Mrs. Hawker mentioned as one having any claims to social distinction. Her historical names are overshadowed in their minds by the parochial glories of certain local prodigies in the townships whence they emigrated; her manners would puzzle the comprehension of people whose imitation has not gone beyond the surface, and her polished and simple mind would find little sympathy among a class who seldom rise above a common-place sentiment without getting upon stilts.”

“Mrs. Hawker, then, is a lady,” observed Sir George Templemore.

“Mrs. Hawker is a lady, in every sense of the word; by position, education, manners, association, mind, fortune and birth. I do not know that we ever had more of her class than exist to-day, but certainly we once had them more prominent in society.”

“I suppose, sir,” said Captain Truck, “that this Mrs. Hawker is of what is called the old school?”

“Of a very ancient school, and one that is likely to continue, though it may not be generally attended.”

“I am afraid, Mr. John Effingham, that I shall be like a fish out of water in such a house. I can get along very well with your Mrs. Jarvis, and with the dear young lady in the other carriage; but the sort of woman you have described, will be apt to jam a plain mariner like myself. What in nature should I do, now, if she should ask me to dance a minuet?”

“Dance it agreeably to the laws of nature,” returned John Effingham, as the carriages stopped.

A respectable, quiet, and an aged black admitted the party, though even he did not announce the visiters, while he held the door of the drawing-room open for them, with respectful attention. Mrs. Hawker arose, and advanced to meet Eve and her companions, and though she kissed the cousins affectionately, her reception of Mademoiselle Viefville was so simply polite as to convince the latter she was valued on account of her services. John Effingham, who was ten or fifteen years the junior of the old lady, gallantly kissed her hand, when he presented his two male companions. After paying the proper attention to the greatest stranger, Mrs. Hawker turned to Captain Truck and said–

“This, then, is the gentleman to whose skill and courage you all owe so much–_we_ all owe so much, I might better have said–the commander of the Montauk?”

“I have the honour of commanding that vessel, ma’am,” returned Captain Truck, who was singularly awed by the dignified simplicity of his hostess, although her quiet, natural, and yet finished manner, which extended even to the intonation of the voice, and the smallest movement, were as unlike what he had expected as possible; “and with such passengers as she had last voyage I can only say, it is a pity that she is not better off for one to take care of her.”

“Your passengers give a different account of the matter, but, in order that I may judge impartially, do me the favour to take this chair, and let me learn a few of the particulars from yourself.”

Observing that Sir George Templemore had followed Eve to the other side of the room, Mrs. Hawker now resumed her seat, and, without neglecting any to attend to one in particular, or attending to one in a way to make him feel oppressed, she contrived, in a few minutes, to make the captain forget all about the minuet, and to feel much more at his ease than would have been the case with Mrs. Jarvis, in a month’s intercourse.

In the mean time, Eve had crossed the room to join a lady whose smile invited her to her side. This was a young, slightly framed female, of a pleasing countenance, but who would not have been particularly distinguished, in such a place, for personal charms. Still, her smile was sweet, her eyes were soft, and the expression of her face was what might almost be called illuminated As Sir George Templemore followed her, Eve mentioned his name to her acquaintance, whom she addressed as Mrs. Bloomfield.

“You are bent on perpetrating further gaiety to-night,” said the latter, glancing at the ball-dresses of the two cousins; “are you in the colours of the Houston faction, or in those of the Peabody.”

“Not in pea-green, certainly,” returned Eve, laughing–“as you may see; but in simple white.”

“You intend then to be ‘led a measure’ at Mrs. Houston’s. It were more suitable than among the other faction.”

“Is fashion, then, faction, in New-York?” inquired Sir George.

“Fractions would be a better word, perhaps. But we have parties in almost every thing, in America; in politics, religion, temperance, speculations, and taste; why not in fashion?”

“I fear we are not quite independent enough to form parties on such a subject,” said Eve.

“Perfectly well said, Miss Effingham; one must think a little originally, let it be ever so falsely, in order to get up a fashion. I fear we shall have to admit our insignificance on this point. You are a late arrival, Sir George Templemore?”

“As lately as the commencement of this month; I had the honour of being a fellow-passenger with Mr. Effingham and his family.”

“In which voyage you suffered shipwreck, captivity, and famine, if half we hear be true.”

“Report has a little magnified our risks; we encountered some serious dangers, but nothing amounting to the sufferings you have mentioned.”

“Being a married woman, and having passed the crisis in which deception is not practised, I expect to hear truth again,” said Mrs. Bloomfield, smiling. “I trust, however, you underwent enough to qualify you all for heroes and heroines, and shall content myself with knowing that you are here, safe and happy–if,” she added, looking inquiringly at Eve, “one who has been educated abroad _can_ be happy at home.”

“One educated abroad _may_ be happy at home, though possibly not in the modes most practised by the world,” said Eve firmly.

“Without an opera, without a court, almost without society!”

“An opera would be desirable, I confess; of courts I know nothing, unmarried females being cyphers in Europe; and I hope better things than to think I shall be without society.”

“Unmarried females are considered cyphers too, here, provided there be enough of them with a good respectable digit at their head. I assure you no one quarrels with the cyphers under such circumstances. I think, Sir George Templemore, a town like this must be something of a paradox to you.”

“Might I venture to inquire the reason for this opinion!”

“Merely because it is neither one thing nor another. Not a capital, nor yet merely a provincial place; with something more than commerce in its bosom, and yet with that something hidden under a bushel. A good deal more than Liverpool, and a good deal less than London. Better even than Edinburgh, in many respects, and worse than Wapping, in others.”

“You have been abroad, Mrs. Bloomfield?”

“Not a foot out of my own country; scarcely a foot out of my own state. I have been at Lake George, the Falls, and the Mountain House; and, as one does not travel in a balloon, I saw some of the intermediate places. As for all else, I am obliged to go by report.”

“It is a pity Mrs. Bloomfield was not with us, this evening, at Mrs. Jarvis’s,” said Eve, laughing. “She might then have increased her knowledge, by listening to a few cantos from the epic of Mr. Dodge.”

“I have glanced at some of that author’s wisdom,” returned Mrs. Bloomfield, “but I soon found it was learning backwards. There is a never-failing rule, by which it is easy to arrive at a traveller’s worth, in a negative sense, at least.”

“That is a rule which may be worth knowing,” said the baronet, “as it would save much useless wear of the eyes.”

“When one betrays a profound ignorance of his own country, it is a fair presumption that he cannot be very acute in his observation of strangers. Mr. Dodge is one of these writers, and a single letter fully satisfied my curiosity. I fear, Miss Effingham, very inferior wares, in the way of manners, have been lately imported, in large quantities, into this country, as having the Tower mark on them.”

Eve laughed, but declared that Sir George Templemore was better qualified than herself to answer such a question.

“We are said to be a people of facts, rather than a people of theories,” continued Mrs. Bloomfield, without attending to the reference of the young lady, “and any coin that offers passes, until another that is better, arrives. It is a singular, but a very general mistake, I believe, of the people of this country, in supposing that they can exist under the present regime, when others would fail, because their opinions keep even pace with, or precede the actual condition of society; whereas, those who have thought and observed most on such subjects, agree in thinking the very reverse to be the case.”

“This would be a curious condition for a government so purely conventional,” observed Sir George, with interest, “and it certainly is entirely opposed to the state of things all over Europe.”

“It is so, and yet there is no great mystery in it after all. Accident has liberated us from trammels that still fetter you. We are like a vehicle on the top of a hill, which, the moment it is pushed beyond the point of resistance, rolls down of itself, without the aid of horses. One may follow with the team, and hook on when it gets to the bottom, but there is no such thing as keeping company with it until it arrives there.”

“You will allow, then, that there is a bottom?’

“There is a bottom to every thing–to good and bad; happiness and misery; hope, fear, faith and charity; even to a woman’s mind, which I have sometimes fancied the most bottomless thing in nature. There may, therefore, well be a bottom even to the institutions of America.”

Sir George listened with the interest with which an Englishman of his class always endeavours to catch a concession that he fancies is about to favour his own political predilections, and he felt encouraged to push the subject further.

“And you think the political machine is rolling downwards towards this bottom?” he said, with an interest in the answer that, living in the quiet and forgetfulness of his own home, he would have laughed at himself for entertaining. But our sensibilities become quickened by collision, and opposition is known even to create love.

Mrs. Bloomfield was quick-witted, intelligent, cultivated and shrewd. She saw the motive at a glance, and, notwithstanding she saw and felt all its abuses, strongly attached to the governing principle of her country’s social organization, as is almost universally the case with the strongest minds and most generous hearts of the nation, she was not disposed to let a stranger carry away a false impression of her sentiments on such a point.

“Did you ever study logic, Sir George Templemore?” she asked, archly.

“A little, though not enough I fear to influence my mode of reasoning, or even to leave me familiar with the terms.”

“Oh! I am not about to assail you with _sequiturs_ and _non sequiturs_ dialectics and all the mysteries of _Denk-Lehre,_ but simply to remind you there is such a thing as the bottom of a subject. When I tell you we are flying towards the bottom of our institutions, it is in the intellectual sense, and not, as you have erroneously imagined, in an unintellectual sense. I mean that we are getting to understand them, which, I fear, we did not absolutely do at the commencement of the ‘experiment.'”

“But I think you will admit, that as the civilization of the country advances, some material changes must occur; your people cannot always remain stationary; they must either go backwards or forward.”

“Up or down, if you will allow me to correct your phraseology. The civilization of the country, in one sense at least, is retrogressive, and the people, as they cannot go ‘up,’ betray a disposition to go ‘down.'”

“You deal in enigmas, and I am afraid to think I understand you.”

“I mean, merely, that gallowses are fast disappearing, and that the people–_le peuple_ you will understand–begin to accept money. In both particulars, I think there is a sensible change for the worse, within my own recollection.”

Mrs. Bloomfield then changed her manner, and from using that light- hearted gaiety with which she often rendered her conversation _piquante_, and even occasionally brilliant, she became more grave and explicit. The subject soon turned to that of punishments, and few men could have reasoned more sensibly, justly or forcibly, on such a subject, than this slight and fragile-looking young woman. Without the least pedantry, with a beauty of language that the other sex seldom attains, and with a delicacy of discrimination, and a sentiment that were strictly feminine, she rendered a theme interesting, that, however important in itself, is forbidding, veiling all its odious and revolting features in the refinement and finesse of her own polished mind.

Eve could have listened all night, and, at every syllable that fell from the lips of her friend, she felt a glow of triumph; for she was proud of letting an intelligent foreigner see that America did contain women worthy to be ranked with the best of other countries, a circumstance that they who merely frequented what is called the world, she thought might be reasonably justified in distrusting. In one respect, she even fancied Mrs. Bloomfield’s knowledge and cleverness superior to those which she had so often admired in her own sex abroad. It was untrammelled, equally by the prejudices incident to a factitious condition of society, or by their reaction; two circumstances that often obscured the sense and candour of those to whom she had so often listened with pleasure in other countries. The singularly feminine tone, too, of all that Mrs. Bloomfield said or thought, while it lacked nothing in strength, added to the charm of her conversation, and increased the pleasure of those that listened.

“Is the circle large to which Mrs. Hawker and her friends belong?” asked Sir George, as he assisted Eve and Grace to cloak, when they had taken leave. “A town which can boast of half-a-dozen such houses need not accuse itself of wanting society.”

“Ah! there is but one Mrs. Hawker in New-York,” answered Grace, “and not many Mrs. Bloomfields in the world. It would be too much to say, we have even half-a-dozen such houses.”

“Have you not been struck with the admirable tone of this drawing- room,” half whispered Eve. “It may want a little of that lofty ease that one sees among the better portion of the old _Princesses et Duchesses_, which is a relic of a school that, it is to be feared, is going out; but in its place there is a winning nature, with as much dignity as is necessary, and a truth that gives us confidence in the sincerity of those around us.”

“Upon my word, I think Mrs. Hawker quite fit for a Duchess.”

“You mean a _Duchesse_” said Eve, “and yet she is without the manner that we understand by such a word. Mrs. Hawker is a lady, and there can be no higher term.”

“She is a delightful old woman,” cried John Effingham, “and if twenty years younger and disposed to change her condition, I should really be afraid to enter the house.”

“My dear sir,” put in the captain, “I will make her Mrs. Truck to- morrow, and say nothing of years, if she could be content to take up with such an offer. Why, sir, she is no woman, but a saint in petticoats! I felt the whole time as if talking to my own mother, and as for ships, she knows more about them than I do!”

The whole party laughed at the strength of the captain’s admiration, and getting into the carriages proceeded to the last of the houses they intended visiting that night.

Chapter V.

“So turns she every man the wrong side out; And never gives to truth and virtue, that Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.”

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

Mrs. Houston was what is termed a fashionable woman in New-York. She, too, was of a family of local note, though of one much less elevated in the olden time than that of Mrs. Hawker. Still her claims were admitted by the most fastidious on such points, for a few do remain who think descent indisputable to gentility; and as her means were ample, and her tastes perhaps superior to those of most around her, she kept what was thought a house of better tone than common, even in the highest circle. Eve had but a slight acquaintance with her; but in Grace’s eyes, Mrs. Houston’s was the place of all others that she thought might make a favourable impression on her cousin. Her wish that this should prove to be the case was so strong, that, as they drove towards the door, she could not forbear from making an attempt to prepare Eve for what she was to meet.

“Although Mrs. Houston has a very large house for New-York, and lives in a uniform style, you are not to expect ante-chambers, and vast suites of rooms, Eve,” said Grace; “such as you have been accustomed to see abroad.”

“It is not necessary, my dear cousin, to enter a house of four or five windows in front, to see it is not a house of twenty or thirty. I should be very unreasonable to expect an Italian palazzo, or a Parisian hotel, in this good town.”

“We are not old enough for that yet, Eve; a hundred years hence, Mademoiselle Viefville, such things may exist here.”

“_Bien sur. C’est naturel._”

“A hundred years hence, as the world tends, Grace, they are not likely to exist any where, except as taverns, or hospitals, or manufactories. But what have we to do, coz, with a century ahead of us? young as we both are, we cannot hope to live that time.”

Grace would have been puzzled to account satisfactorily to herself, for the strong desire she felt that neither of her companions should expect to see such a house as their senses so plainly told them did not exist in the place; but her foot moved in the bottom of the carriage, for she was not half satisfied with her cousin’s answer.

“All I mean. Eve,” she said, after a pause, “is, that one ought not to expect in a town as new as this, the improvements that one sees in an older state of society.”

“And have Mademoiselle Viefville, or I, ever been so weak as to suppose, that New-York is Paris, or Rome, or Vienna?”

Grace was still less satisfied, for, unknown to herself, she _had_ hoped that Mrs. Houston’s ball might be quite equal to a ball in either of those ancient capitals; and she was now vexed that her cousin considered it so much a matter of course that it should not be. But there was no time for explanations, as the carriage now stopped.

The noise, confusion, calling out, swearing, and rude clamour before the house of Mrs. Houston, said little for the out-door part of the arrangements. Coachmen are nowhere a particularly silent and civil class; but the uncouth European peasants, who have been preferred to the honours of the whip in New-York, to the usual feelings of competition and contention, added that particular feature of humility which is known to distinguish “the beggar on horseback.” The imposing equipages of our party, however, had that effect on most of these rude brawlers, which a display of wealth is known to produce on the vulgar-minded; and the ladies got into the house, through a lane of coachmen, by yielding a little to a _chevau de frise_ of whips, without any serious calamity.

“One hardly knows which is the most terrific,” said Eve, involuntarily, as soon as the door closed on them–“the noise within, or the noise without!”

This was spoken rapidly, and in French, to Mademoiselle Viefville, but Grace heard and understood it, and for the first time in her life, she perceived that Mrs. Houston’s company was not composed of nightingales. The surprise is that the discovery should have come so late.

“I am delighted at having got into this house,” said Sir George, who, having thrown his cloak to his own servant, stood with the two other gentlemen waiting the descent of the ladies from the upper room, where the bad arrangements of the house compelled them to uncloak and to put aside their shawls, “as I am told it is the best house in town to see the other sex.”

“To _hear them_, would be nearer the truth, perhaps,” returned John Effingham. “As for pretty women, one can hardly go amiss in New-York; and your ears now tell you, that they do not come into the world to be seen only.”

The baronet smiled, but he was too well bred to contradict or to assent. Mademoiselle Viefville, unconscious that she was violating the proprieties, walked into the rooms by herself, as soon as she descended, followed by Eve; but Grace shrank to the side of John Effingham, whose arm she took as a step necessary even to decorum.

Mrs. Houston received her guests with ease and dignity. She was one of those females that the American world calls gay; in other words, she opened her own house to a very promiscuous society, ten or a dozen times in a winter, and accepted the greater part of the invitations she got to other people’s. Still, in most other countries, as a fashionable woman, she would have been esteemed a model of devotion to the duties of a wife and a mother, for she paid a personal attention to her household, and had actually taught all her children the Lord’s prayer, the creed, and the ten commandments. She attended church twice every Sunday, and only staid at home from the evening lectures, that the domestics might have the opportunity of going (which, by the way, they never did) in her stead. Feminine, well-mannered, rich, pretty, of a very positive social condition, and naturally kind-hearted and disposed to sociability, Mrs. Houston, supported by an indulgent husband, who so much loved to see people with the appearance of happiness, that he was not particular as to the means, had found no difficulty in rising to the pinnacle of fashion, and of having her name in the mouths of all those who find it necessary to talk of somebodies, in order that they may seem to be somebodies themselves. All this contributed to Mrs. Houston’s happiness, or she fancied it did; and as every passion is known to increase by indulgence, she had insensibly gone on in her much-envied career until, as has just been said, she reached the summit.

“These rooms are very crowded,” said Sir George, glancing his eyes around two very pretty little narrow drawing-rooms, that were beautifully, not to say richly, furnished; “one wonders that the same contracted style of building should be so very general, in a town that increases as rapidly as this, and where fashion has no fixed abode, and land is so abundant.”

“Mrs. Bloomfield would tell you,” said Eve, “that these houses are types of the social state of the country, in which no one is permitted to occupy more than his share of ground.”

“But there are reasonably large dwellings in the place. Mrs. Hawker has a good house, and your father’s for instance, would be thought so, too, in London even; and yet I fancy you will agree with me in thinking that a good room is almost unknown in New-York.”

“I do agree with you, in this particular, certainly, for to meet with a good room, one must go into the houses built thirty years ago. We have inherited these snuggeries, however, England not having much to boast of in the way of houses.”

“In the way of town residences, I agree with you entirely, as a whole, though we have some capital exceptions. Still, I do not think we are quite as compact as this–do you not fancy the noise increased in consequence of its being so confined?”

Eve laughed and shook her head quite positively.

“What would it be if fairly let out!” she said. “But we will not waste the precious moments, but turn our eyes about us in quest of the _belles_. Grace, you who are so much at home, must be our cicerone, and tell us which are the idols we are to worship.”

“_Dites moi premierement; que veut dire une belle a New-York?_” demanded Mademoiselle Viefville. “_Apparemment, tout le monde est joli._”

“A _belle_, Mademoiselle,” returned John Effingham, “is not necessarily beautiful, the qualifications for the character, being various and a little contradictory. One may be a _belle_ by means of money, a tongue, an eye, a foot, teeth, a laugh, or any other separate feature, or grace; though no woman was ever yet a _belle_, I believe, by means of the head, considered collectively. But why deal in description, when the thing itself confronts us? The young lady standing directly before us, is a _belle_ of the most approved stamp and silvery tone. Is it not Miss Ring, Grace?”

The answer was in the affirmative, and the eyes of the whole party turned towards the subject of this remark. The young lady in question was about twenty, rather tall for an American woman, not conspicuously handsome, but like most around her of delicate features and frame, and with such a _physique_, as, under proper training, would have rendered her the _beau ideal_ of feminine delicacy and gentleness. She had natural spirit, likewise, as appeared in her clear blue eye, and moreover she had the spirit to be a _belle_.

Around this young creature were clustered no less than five young men, dressed in the height of the fashion, all of whom seemed to be entranced with the words that fell from her lips, and each of whom appeared anxious to say something clever in return. They all laughed, the lady most, and sometimes all spoke at once. Notwithstanding these outbreakings, Miss Ring did most of the talking, and once or twice, as a young man would gape after a most exhilarating show of merriment, and discover an inclination to retreat, she managed to recall him to his allegiance, by some remark particularly pertinent to himself, or his feelings.

“_Qui est cette dame?_” asked Mademoiselle Viefville, very much as one would put a similar question, on seeing a man enter a church during service with his hat on.

“_Elle est demoiselle_,” returned Eve.

“_Quelle horreur!_”

“Nay, nay, Mademoiselle, I shall not allow you to set up France as immaculate on this point, neither–” said John Effingham, looking at the last speaker with an affected frown–“A young lady may have a tongue, and she may even speak to a young gentleman, and not be guilty of felony; although I will admit that five tongues are unnecessary, and that five listeners are more than sufficient, for the wisdom of twenty in petticoats.”

“_C’est une horreur!_”

“I dare say Miss Ring would think it a greater horror to be obliged to pass an evening in a row of girls, unspoken to, except to be asked to dance, and admired only in the distance. But let us take seats on that sofa, and then we may go beyond the pantomime, and become partakers in the sentiment of the scene.”

Grace and Eve were now led off to dance, and the others did as John Effingham had suggested. In the eyes of the _belle_ and her admirers, they who had passed thirty were of no account, and our listeners succeeded in establishing themselves quietly within ear-shot–this was almost at duelling distance, too,–without at all interrupting the regular action of the piece. We extract a little of the dialogue, by way of giving a more dramatic representation of the scene.

“Do you think the youngest Miss Danvers beautiful?” asked the _belle_, while her eye wandered in quest of a sixth gentleman to “entertain,” as the phrase is. “In my opinion, she is absolutely the prettiest female in Mrs. Houston’s rooms this night.”

The young men, one and all, protested against this judgment, and with perfect truth, for Miss Ring was too original to point out charms that every one could see.

“They say it will not be a match between her and Mr. Egbert, after every body has supposed it settled so long. What is your opinion, Mr. Edson?”

This timely question prevented Mr. Edson’s retreat, for he had actually got so far in this important evolution, as to have gaped and turned his back. Recalled, as it were by the sound of the bugle, Mr. Edson was compelled to say something, a sore affliction to him always.

“Oh! I’m quite of your way of thinking; they have certainly courted too long to think of marrying.”

“I detest long courtships; they must be perfect antidotes to love; are they not, Mr. Moreland?”

A truant glance of Mr. Moreland’s eye was rebuked by this appeal, and instead of looking for a place of refuge, he now merely looked sheepish. He, however, entirely agreed with the young lady, as the surer way of getting out of the difficulty.

“Pray, Mr. Summerfield, how do you like the last Hajji–Miss Eve Effingham? To my notion, she is prettyish, though by no means as well as her cousin, Miss Van Cortlandt, who is really rather good- looking.”

As Eve and Grace were the two most truly lovely young women in the rooms, this opinion, as well as the loud tone in which it was given, startled Mademoiselle Viefville quite as much as the subjects that the belle had selected for discussion. She would have moved, as listening to a conversation that was not meant for their ears; but John Effingham quietly assured her that Miss Ring seldom spoke in company without intending as many persons as possible to hear her.

“Miss Effingham is very plainly dressed for an only daughter” continued the young lady, “though that lace of her cousin’s is real point! I’ll engage it cost every cent of ten dollars a yard! They are both engaged to be married, I hear.”

“_Ciel!_” exclaimed Mademoiselle Viefville.

“Oh! That is nothing,” observed John Effingham coolly. “Wait a moment, and you’ll hear that they have been privately married these six months, if, indeed, you hear no more.”

“Of course this is but an idle tale?” said Sir George Templemore with a concern, which, in despite of his good breeding, compelled him to put a question that, under other circumstances, would scarcely have been permissible.

“As true as the gospel. But listen to the _bell_, it is _ringing_ for the good of the whole parish.”

“The affair between Miss Effingham and Mr. Morpeth, who knew her abroad, I understand is entirely broken off; some say the father objected to Mr. Morpeth’s want of fortune; others that the lady was fickle, while some accuse the gentleman of the same vice. Don’t you think it shocking to jilt, in either sex, Mr. Mosely?”

The _retiring_ Mr. Mosely was drawn again within the circle, and was obliged to confess that he thought it was very shocking, in either sex, to jilt.

“If I were a man,” continued the _belle_, “I would never think of a young woman who had once jilted a lover. To my mind, it bespeaks a bad heart, and a woman with a bad heart cannot make a very amiable wife.”

“What an exceedingly clever creature she is,” whispered Mr. Mosely to Mr. Moreland, and he now made up his mind to remain and be ‘entertained’ some time longer.

“I think poor Mr. Morpeth greatly to be pitied; for no man would be so silly as to be attentive seriously to a lady without encouragement. Encouragement is the _ne plus ultra_ of courtship; are you not of my opinion, Mr. Walworth?”

Mr. Walworth was number five of the entertainees, and he did understand Latin, of which the young lady, though fond of using scraps, knew literally nothing. He smiled an assent, therefore, and the _belle_ felicitated herself in having ‘entertained’ _him_ effectually; nor was she mistaken.

“Indeed, they say Miss Effingham had several affairs of the heart, while in Europe, but it seems she was unfortunate in them all.”

“_Mais, ceci est trop fort! Je ne peux plus ecouter._”

“My dear Mademoiselle, compose yourself. The crisis is not yet arrived, by any means.”

“I understand she still corresponds with a German Baron, and an Italian Marquis, though both engagements are absolutely broken off. Some people say she walks into company alone, unsupported by any gentleman, by way of announcing a firm determination to remain single for life.”

A common exclamation from the young men proclaimed their disapprobation; and that night three of them actually repeated the thing, as a well established truth, and two of the three, failing of something better to talk about, also announced that Eve was actually engaged to be married.

“There is something excessively indelicate in a young lady’s moving about a room without having a gentleman’s arm to lean on! I always feel as if such a person was out of her place, and ought to be in the kitchen.”

“But, Miss Ring, what well-bred person does it?” sputtered Mr. Moreland. “No one ever heard of such a thing in good society. ‘Tis quite shocking! Altogether unprecedented.”

“It strikes me as being excessively coarse!”

“Oh! manifestly; quite rustic!” exclaimed Mr. Edson.

“What can possibly be more vulgar?” added Mr. Walworth.

“I never heard of such a thing among the right sort!” said Mr. Mosely.

“A young lady who can be so brazen as to come into a room without a gentleman’s arm to lean on, is, in my judgment at least, but indifferently educated, Hajji or no Hajji. Mr. Edson, have you ever felt the tender passion? I know you have been desperately in love, once, at least; do describe to me some of the symptoms, in order that I may know when I am seriously attacked myself by the disease.”

“_Mais, ceci est ridicule! L’enfant s’est sauvee du Charenton de New- York._”

“From the nursery rather, Mademoiselle; you perceive she does not yet know how to walk alone.”

Mr. Edson now protested that he was too stupid to feel a passion as intellectual as love, and that he was afraid he was destined by nature to remain as insensible as a block.

“One never knows, Mr. Edson,” said the young lady, encouragingly. “Several of my acquaintances, who thought themselves quite safe, have been seized suddenly, and, though none have actually died, more than one has been roughly treated, I assure you.”

Here the young men, one and all, protested that she was excessively clever. Then succeeded a pause, for Miss Ring was inviting, with her eyes, a number six to join the circle, her ambition being dissatisfied with five entertainees, as she saw that Miss Trumpet, a rival belle, had managed to get exactly that number, also, in the other room. All the gentlemen availed themselves of the cessation in wit to gape, and Mr. Edson took the occasion to remark to Mr. Summerfield that he understood “lots had been sold in seven hundredth street that morning, as high as two hundred dollars a lot.”

The _quadrille_ now ended, and Eve returned towards her friends. As she approached, the whole party compared her quiet, simple, feminine, and yet dignified air, with the restless, beau-catching, and worldly look of the belle, and wondered by what law of nature, or of fashion, the one could possibly become the subject of the other’s comments. Eve never appeared better than that evening. Her dress had all the accuracy and finish of a Parisian toilette, being equally removed from exaggeration and neglect; and it was worn with the ease of one accustomed to be elegantly attired, and yet never decked with finery. Her step even was that of a lady, having neither the mincing tread of a Paris grisette, a manner that sometimes ascends even to the _bourgeoise_ the march of a cockneyess, nor the tiptoe swing of a _belle_; but it was the natural though regulated step, of a trained and delicate woman. Walk alone she could certainly, and always did, except on those occasions of ceremony that demanded a partner. Her countenance, across which an unworthy thought had never left a trace, was an index, too, to the purity, high principles and womanly self- respect that controlled all her acts, and, in these particulars was the very reverse of the feverish, half-hoydenish half-affected expression of that of Miss Ring.

“They may say what they please,” muttered Captain Truck, who had been a silent but wondering listener of all that passed; “she is worth as many of them as could be stowed in the Montauk’s lower hold.”

Miss Ring perceiving Eve approach, was desirous of saying something to her, for there was an _eclat_ about a Hajji, after all, that rendered an acquaintance, or even an intimacy desirable, and she smiled and curtsied. Eve returned the salutation, but as she did not care to approach a group of six, of which no less than five were men, she continued to move towards her own party. This reserve compelled Miss Ring to advance a step or two, when Eve was obliged to stop Curtsying to her partner, she thanked him for his attention, relinquished his arm, and turned to meet the lady. At the same instant the five ‘entertainees’ escaped in a body, equally rejoiced at their release, and proud of their captivity.

“I have been dying to come and speak to you, Miss Effingham,” commenced Miss Ring, “but these _five_ giants (she emphasized the word we have put in italics) so beset me, that escape was quite impossible. There ought to be a law that but one gentleman should speak to a lady at a time.”

“I thought there was such a law already;” said Eve, quietly.

“You mean in good breeding; but no one thinks of those antiquated laws now-a-days. Are you beginning to be reconciled, a little, to your own country?”

“It is not easy to effect a reconciliation where there has been no misunderstanding. I hope I have never quarrelled with my country, or my country with me.”

“Oh! it is not exactly that I mean. Cannot one need a reconciliation without a quarrel? What do you say to this, Mr. Edson?”

Miss Ring having detected some symptoms of desertion in the gentleman addressed, had thrown in this question by way of recal; when turning to note its effect, she perceived that all of her _clientelle_ had escaped. A look of surprise and mortification and vexation it was not in her power to suppress, and then came one of horror.

“How conspicuous we have made ourselves, and it is all my fault!” she said, for the first time that evening permitting her voice to fall to a becoming tone. ‘Why, here we actually are, two ladies conversing together, and no gentleman near us!”

“Is that being conspicuous?” asked Eve, with a simplicity that was entirely natural.

“I am sure, Miss Effingham, one who has seen as much of society as you, can scarcely ask that question seriously. I do not think I have done so improper a thing, since I was fifteen; and, dear me! dear me! how to escape is the question. You have permitted your partner to go, and I do not see a gentleman of my acquaintance near us, to give me his arm!”

“As your distress is occasioned by my company,” said Eve, “it is fortunately in my power to relieve it.” Thus saying, she quietly walked across the room, and took her seat next to Mademoiselle Viefville.

Miss Ring held up her hands in amazement, and then fortunately perceiving one of the truants gaping at no great distance, she beckoned him to her side.

“Have the goodness to give me your arm, Mr. Summerfield,” she said, “I am dying to get out of this unpleasantly conspicuous situation; but you are the first gentleman that has approached me this twelvemonth. I would not for the world do so brazen a thing as Miss Effingham has just achieved; would you believe it, she positively went from this spot to her seat, quite alone!”

“The Hajjis are privileged.”

“They make themselves so. But every body knows how bold and unwomanly the French females are. One could wish, notwithstanding, that our own people would not import their audacious usages into this country.”

“It is a thousand pities that Mr. Clay, in his compromise, neglected to make an exception against that article. A tariff on impudence would not be at all sectional.”

“It might interfere with the manufacture at home, notwithstanding,” said John Effingham; for the lungs were strong, and the rooms of Mrs. Houston so small, that little was said that evening, which was not heard by any who chose to listen. But Miss Ring never listened, it being no part of the vocation of a _belle_ to perform that inferior office, and sustained by the protecting arm of Mr. Summerfield, she advanced more boldly into the crowd, where she soon contrived to catch another group of even six “entertainees.” As for Mr. Summerfield, he lived a twelvemonth on the reputation of the exceedingly clever thing he had just uttered.

“There come Ned and Aristabulus,” said John Effingham, as soon as the tones of Miss Ring’s voice were lost in the din of fifty others, pitched to the same key. “_A present, Mademoiselle, je vais nous venger_.”

As John Effingham uttered this, he took Captain Truck by the arm, and went to meet his cousin and the land agent. The latter he soon separated from Mr. Effingham, and with this new recruit, he managed to get so near to Miss Ring as to attract her attention. Although fifty, John Effingham was known to be a bachelor, well connected, and to have twenty thousand a year. In addition, he was well preserved and singularly handsome, besides having an air that set all pretending gentility at defiance. These were qualities that no _belle_ despised, and ill-assorted matches were, moreover, just coming into fashion in New-York. Miss Ring had an intuitive knowledge that he wished to speak to her, and she was not slow in offering the opportunity. The superior tone of John Effingham, his caustic wit and knowledge of the world, dispersed the five _beaux_, incontinently; these persons having a natural antipathy to every one of the qualities named.

“I hope you will permit me to presume on an acquaintance that extends back as far as your grandfather, Miss Ring,” he said, “to present two very intimate friends; Mr. Bragg and Mr. Truck; gentlemen who will well reward the acquaintance.”

The lady bowed graciously, for it was a matter of conscience with her to receive every man with a smile. She was still too much in awe of the master of ceremonies to open her batteries of attack, but John Effingham soon relieved her, by affecting a desire to speak to another lady. The _belle_ had now the two strangers to herself, and having heard that the Effinghams had an Englishman of condition as a companion, who was travelling under a false name, she fancied herself very clever in detecting him at once in the person of Aristabulus; while by the aid of a lively imagination, she thought Mr. Truck was his travelling Mentor, and a divine of the church of England. The incognito she was too well bred to hint at, though she wished both the gentlemen to perceive that a _belle_ was not to be mystified in this easy manner. Indeed, she was rather sensitive on the subject of her readiness in recognizing a man of fashion under any circumstances, and to let this be known was her very first object, as soon as she was relieved from the presence of John Effingham.

“You must be struck with the unsophisticated nature and the extreme simplicity of our society, Mr. Bragg,” she said, looking at him significantly; “we are very conscious it is not what it might be, but do you not think it pretty well for beginners?”

Now, Mr. Bragg had an entire consciousness that he had never seen any society that deserved the name before this very night, but he was supported in giving his opinions by that secret sense of his qualifications to fill any station, which formed so conspicuous a trait in his character, and his answer was given with an _aplomb_ that would have added weight to the opinion of the veriest _elegant_ of the _Chaussee d’Antin._

“It is indeed a good deal unsophisticated,” he said, “and so simple that any body can understand it. I find but a single fault with this entertainment, which is, in all else, the perfection of elegance in my eyes, and that is, that there is too little room to swing the legs in dancing.”

“Indeed!–I did not expect that–is it not the best usage of Europe, now, to bring a quadrille into the very minimum of space?”

“Quite the contrary, Miss. All good dancing requires evolutions. The dancing Dervishes, for instance would occupy quite as much space as both of these sets that are walking before us, and I believe it is now generally admitted that all good dancing needs room for the legs.”

“We necessarily get a little behind the fashions, in this distant country. Pray, sir, is it usual for ladies to walk alone in society?”

“Woman was not made to move through life alone, Miss,” returned Aristabulus with a sentimental glance of the eye, for he never let a good opportunity for preferment slip through his fingers, and, failing of Miss Effingham, or Miss Van Cortlandt, of whose estates and connections he had some pretty accurate notions, it struck him Miss Ring might, possibly, be a very eligible connection, as all was grist that came to his mill; “this I believe, is an admitted truth.”

“By life you mean matrimony, I suppose.”

“Yes, Miss, a man always means matrimony, when he speaks to a young lady.”

This rather disconcerted Miss Ring, who picked her nosegay, for she was not accustomed to hear gentlemen talk to ladies of matrimony, but ladies to talk to gentlemen. Recovering her self-possession, however, she said with a promptitude that, did the school to which she belonged infinite credit,–

“You speak, sir, like one having experience.”

“Certainly, Miss; I have been in love ever since I was ten years old; I may say I was born in love, and hope to die in love.”

This a little out-Heroded Herod, but the _belle_ was not a person to be easily daunted on such a subject. She smiled graciously, therefore, and continued the conversation with renewed spirit.

“You travelled gentleman get odd notions,” she said, “and more particularly on such subjects. I always feel afraid to discuss them with foreigners, though with my own countrymen I have few reserves. Pray, Mr. Truck, are you satisfied with America?–Do you find it the country you expected to see?”

“Certainly, marm;” for so they pronounced this word in the river, and the captain cherished his first impressions; “when we sailed from Portsmouth. I expected that the first land we should make would be the Highlands of Navesink; and, although a little disappointed, I have had the satisfaction of laying eyes on it at last.”

“Disappointment, I fear, is the usual fate of those who come from the other side. Is this dwelling of Mrs. Houston’s equal to the residence of an English nobleman, Mr. Bragg?”

“Considerably better, Miss, especially in the way of republican comfort.”

Miss Ring, like all _belles_, detested the word republican, their vocation being clearly to exclusion, and she pouted a little affectedly.

“I should distrust the quality of such comfort, sir,” she said, with point; “but, are the rooms at all comparable with the rooms in Apsley House, for instance?”

“My dear Miss, Apsley House is a toll-gate lodge, compared to this mansion! I doubt if there be a dwelling in all England half as magnificent–indeed, I cannot imagine any thing more brilliant and rich.”

Aristabulus was not a man to do things by halves, and it was a point of honour with him to know something of every thing. It is true he no more could tell where Apsley House is, or whether it was a tavern or a gaol, than he knew half the other things on which he delivered oracular opinions; but when it became necessary to speak, he was not apt to balk conversation from any ignorance, real or affected. The opinion he had just given, it is true, had a little surpassed Miss Ring’s hopes; for the next thing, in her ambition to being a _belle_, and of “entertaining” gentlemen, was to fancy she was running her brilliant career in an orbit of fashion that lay parallel to that of the “nobility and gentry” of Great Britain.

“Well, this surpasses my hopes,” she said, “although I was aware we are nearly on a level with the more improved tastes of Europe: still, I thought we were a little inferior to that part of the world, yet.”

“Inferior, Miss! That is a word that should never pass your lips; you are inferior to nothing, whether in Europe or America, Asia or Africa.”

As Miss Ring had been accustomed to do most of the flattering herself, as behoveth a _belle_, she began to be disconcerted with the directness of the compliments of Aristabulus, who was disposed to ‘make hay while the sun shines;’ and she turned, in a little confusion, to the captain, by way of relief; we say confusion, for the young lady, although so liable to be misunderstood, was not actually impudent, but merely deceived in the relations of things; or, in other words, by some confusion in usages, she had hitherto permitted herself to do that in society, which female performers sometimes do on the stage; enact the part of a man.

“You should tell Mr. Bragg, sir,” she said, with an appealing look at the captain, “that flattery is a dangerous vice, and one altogether unsuited to a Christian.”

“It is, indeed, marm, and one that I never indulge in. No one under my orders, can accuse me of flattery.”

By ‘under orders,’ Miss Ring understood curates and deacons; for she was aware the church of England had clerical distinctions of this sort, that are unknown in America.

“I hope, sir, you do not intend to quit this country without favouring us with a discourse.”

“Not I, marm–I am discoursing pretty much from morning till night, when among my own people, though I own that this conversing rather puts me out of my reckoning. Let me get my foot on the planks I love, with an attentive audience, and a good cigar in my mouth, and I’ll hold forth with any bishop in the universe.”

“A cigar!” exclaimed Miss Ring, in surprise. “Do gentlemen of your profession use cigars when on duty!”

“Does a parson take his fees? Why, Miss, there is not a man among us, who does not smoke from morning till night.”

“Surely not on Sundays!”

“Two for one, on those days, more than on any other.”

“And your people, sir, what do they do, all this time?’

“Why, marm, most of them chew; and those that don’t, if they cannot find a pipe, have a dull time of it. For my part, I shall hardly relish the good place itself, if cigars are prohibited.”

Miss Ring was surprised; but she had heard that the English clergy were more free than our own, and then she had been accustomed to think every thing English of the purest water. A little reflection reconciled her to the innovation; and the next day, at a dinner party, she was heard defending the usage as a practice that had a precedent in the ancient incense of the altar. At the moment, however, she was dying to impart her discoveries to others; and she kindly proposed to the captain and Aristabulus to introduce them to some of her acquaintances, as they must find it dull, being strangers, to know no one. Introductions and cigars were the captain’s hobbies, and he accepted the offer with joy, Aristabulus uniting cordially in the proposition, as, he fancied he had a right, under the Constitution of the United States of America, to be introduced to every human being with whom he came in contact.

It is scarcely necessary to say how much the party with whom the two neophytes in fashion had come, enjoyed all this, though they concealed their amusement under the calm exterior of people of the world. From Mr. Effingham the mystification was carefully concealed by his cousin, as the former would have felt it due to Mrs. Houston, a well-meaning, but silly woman, to put an end to it. Eve and Grace laughed, as merry girls would be apt to laugh, at such an occurrence, and they danced the remainder of the evening with lighter hearts than ever. At one, the company retired in the same informal manner, as respects announcements and the calling of carriages, as that in which they had entered; most to lay their drowsy heads on their pillows, and Miss Ring to ponder over the superior manners of a polished young Englishman, and to dream of the fragrance of a sermon that was preserved in tobacco.

Chapter VI.

“Marry, our play is the most lamentable Comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.”

PETER QUINCE.

Our task in the way of describing town society will soon be ended. The gentlemen of the Effingham family had been invited to meet Sir George Templemore at one or two dinners, to which the latter had been invited in consequence of his letters, most of which were connected with his pecuniary arrangements. As one of these entertainments was like all the rest of the same character, a very brief account of it will suffice to let the reader into the secret of the excellence of the genus.

A well-spread board, excellent viands, highly respectable cookery, and delicious wines, were every where met. Two rows of men clad in dark dresses, a solitary female at the head of the table, or, if fortunate, with a supporter of the same sex near her, invariably composed the _convives_. The exaggerations of a province were seen ludicrously in one particular custom. The host, or perhaps it might have been the hostess, had been told there should be a contrast between the duller light of the reception-room, and the brilliancy of the table, and John Effingham actually hit his legs against a stool, in floundering through the obscurity of the first drawing-room he entered on one of the occasions in question.

When seated at table, the first great duty of restauration performed, the conversation turned on the prices of lots, speculations in towns, or the currency. After this came the regular assay of wines, during which it was easy to fancy the master of the house a dealer, for he usually sat either sucking a syphon or flourishing a cork-screw. The discourse would now have done credit to the annual meeting and dinner of the German exporters, assembled at Rudesheim to bid for the article.

Sir George was certainly on the point of forming a very erroneous judgment concerning the country, when Mr. Effingham extricated him from this set, and introduced him properly into his own. Here, indeed, while there was much to strike a European as peculiar, and even provincial, the young baronet fared much better. He met with the same quality of table, relieved by an intelligence that was always respectable, and a manliness of tone which, if not unmixed, had the great merit of a simplicity and nature that are not always found in more sophisticated circles. The occasional incongruities struck them all, more than the positive general faults and Sir George Templemore did justice to the truth, by admitting frankly, the danger he had been in of forming a too hasty opinion.

All this time, which occupied a month, the young baronet got to be more and more intimate in Hudson Square, Eve gradually becoming more frank and unreserved with him, as she grew sensible that he had abandoned his hopes of success with herself, and Grace gradually more cautious and timid, as she became conscious of his power to please, and the interest he took in herself.

It might have been three days after the ball at Mrs. Houston’s that most of the family was engaged to look in on a Mrs. Legend, a lady of what was called a literary turn, Sir George having been asked to make one of their party. Aristabulus was already returned to his duty in the country, where we shall shortly have occasion to join him, but an invitation had been sent to Mr. Truck, under the general, erroneous impression of his real character.

Taste, whether in the arts, literature, or any thing else, is a natural impulse, like love. It is true both may be cultivated and heightened by circumstances, but the impulses must be voluntary, and the flow of feeling, or of soul, as it has become a law to style it, is not to be forced, or commanded to come and go at will. This is the reason that all premeditated enjoyments connected with the intellect, are apt to baffle expectations, and why academies, literary clubs, coteries and dinners are commonly dull. It is true that a body of clever people may be brought together, and, if left to their own impulses, the characters of their mind will show themselves; wit will flash, and thought will answer thought spontaneously; but every effort to make the stupid agreeable, by giving a direction of a pretending intellectual nature to their efforts, is only rendering dullness more conspicuous by exhibiting it in contrast with what it ought to be to be clever, as a bad picture is rendered the more conspicuous by an elaborate and gorgeous frame.

The latter was the fate of most of Mrs. Legend’s literary evenings, at which it was thought an illustration to understand even one foreign language. But, it was known that Eve was skilled in most of the European tongues, and, the good lady, not feeling that such accomplishments are chiefly useful as a means, looked about her in order to collect a set, among whom our heroine might find some one with whom to converse in each of her dialects. Little was said about it, it is true, but great efforts were made to cause this evening to be memorable in the annals of _conversazioni_.

In carrying out this scheme, nearly all the wits, writers, artists and _literati_, as the most incorrigible members of the book clubs were styled, in New-York, were pressingly invited to be present. Aristabulus had contrived to earn such a reputation for the captain, on the night of the ball, that he was universally called a man of letters, and an article had actually appeared in one of the papers, speaking of the literary merits of the “Hon. and Rev. Mr. Truck, a gentleman travelling in our country, from whose liberality and just views, an account of our society was to be expected, that should, at last, do justice to our national character.” With such expectations, then, every true American and Americaness, was expected to be at his or her post, for the solemn occasion. It was a rally of literature, in defence of the institutions–no, not of the institutions, for they were left to take care of themselves–but of the social character of the community.

Alas! it is easier to feel high aspirations on such subjects, in a provincial town, than to succeed; for merely calling a place an Emporium, is very far from giving it the independence, high tone, condensed intelligence and tastes of a capital. Poor Mrs. Legend, desirous of having all the tongues duly represented, was obliged to invite certain dealers in gin from Holland, a German linen merchant from Saxony, an Italian _Cavaliero_, who amused himself in selling beads, and a Spanish master, who was born in Portugal, all of whom had just one requisite for conversation in their respective languages, and no more. But such assemblies were convened in Paris, and why not in New-York?

We shall not stop to dwell on the awful sensations with which Mrs. Legend heard the first ring at her door, on the eventful night in question. It was the precursor of the entrance of Miss Annual, as regular a devotee of letters as ever conned a primer. The meeting was sentimental and affectionate. Before either had time, however, to disburthen her mind of one half of its prepared phrases, ring upon ring proclaimed more company, and the rooms were soon as much sprinkled with talent, as a modern novel with jests. Among those who came first, appeared all the foreign corps, for the refreshments entered as something into the account with them; every blue of the place, whose social position in the least entitled her to be seen in such a house, Mrs. Legend belonging quite positively to good society.

The scene that succeeded was very characteristic. A professed genius does nothing like other people, except in cases that require a display of talents. In all minor matters he, or she, is _sui generis_; for sentiment is in constant ebullition in their souls; this being what is meant by the flow of that part of the human system.

We might here very well adopt the Homeric method, and call the roll of heroes and heroines, in what the French would term a _catalogue raisonnee_; but our limits compel us to be less ambitions, and to adopt a simpler mode of communicating facts. Among the ladies who now figured in the drawing-room of Mrs. Legend, besides Miss Annual, were Miss Monthly, Mrs. Economy, S.R.P., Marion, Longinus, Julietta, Herodotus, D.O.V.E., and Mrs. Demonstration; besides many others of less note; together with at least a dozen female Hajjis, whose claims to appear in such society were pretty much dependent on the fact, that having seen pictures and statues abroad, they necessarily must have the means of talking of them at home. The list of men was still more formidable in numbers, if not in talents. At its head stood Steadfast Dodge, Esquire, whose fame as a male Hajji had so far swollen since Mrs Jarvis’s _reunion_, that, for the first time in his life, he now entered one of the better houses of his own country. Then there were the authors of “Lapis Lazuli,” “The Aunts,” “The Reformed,” “The Conformed,” “The Transformed,” and “The Deformed;” with the editors of “The Hebdomad,” “The Night Cap,” “The Chrysalis,” “The Real Maggot,” and “The Seek no Further;” as also, “Junius,” “Junius Brutus,” “Lucius Junius Brutus,” “Captain Kant,” “Florio,” the ‘Author of the History of Billy Linkum Tweedle’, the celebrated Pottawattamie Prophet, “Single Rhyme,” a genius who had prudently rested his fame in verse, on a couplet composed of one line; besides divers _amateurs_ and _connoisseurs_, Hajjis, who _must_ be men of talents, as they had acquired all they knew, very much as American Eclipse gained his laurels on the turf; that is to say, by a free use of the whip and spur.

As Mrs. Legend sailed about her rooms amid such a circle, her mind expanded, her thoughts diffused themselves among her guests on the principle of Animal Magnetism, and her heart was melting with the tender sympathies of congenial tastes. She felt herself to be at the head of American talents, and, in the secret recesses of her reason, she determined that, did even the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah menace her native town, as some evil disposed persons had dared to insinuate might one day be the case, here was enough to save it from destruction.

It was just as the mistress of the mansion had come to this consoling conclusion, that the party from Hudson Square rang. As few of her guests came in carriages, Mrs. Legend, who heard the rolling of wheels, felt persuaded that the lion of the night was now indeed at hand; and with a view to a proper reception, she requested the company to divide itself into two lines, in order that he might enter, as it were, between lanes of genius.

It may be necessary to explain, at this point of our narrative, that John Effingham was perfectly aware of the error which existed in relation to the real character of Captain Truck, wherein he thought great injustice had been done the honest seaman; and, the old man intending to sail for London next morning, had persuaded him to accept this invitation, in order that the public mind might be disabused in a matter of so much importance. With a view that this might be done naturally and without fuss, however, he did not explain the mistake to his nautical friend, believing it most probable that this could be better done incidentally, as it were, in the course of the evening; and feeling certain of the force of that wholesome apothegm, which says that “truth is powerful and must prevail” “If this be so,” added John Effingham, in his explanations to Eve, “there can be no place where the sacred quality will be so likely to assert itself, as in a galaxy of geniuses, whose distinctive characteristic is ‘an intuitive perception of things in their real colours.”

When the door of Mrs. Legend’s drawing-room opened, in the usual noiseless manner, Mademoiselle Viefville, who led the way, was startled at finding herself in the precise situation of one who is condemned to run the gauntlet. Fortunately, she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Legend, posted at the other end of the proud array, inviting her, with smiles, to approach. The invitation had been to a “_literary fete_,” and Mademoiselle Viefville was too much of a Frenchwoman to be totally disconcerted at a little scenic effect on the occasion of a _fete_ of any sort. Supposing she was now a witness of an American ceremony for the first time, for the want of _representation_ in the country had been rather a subject of animadversion with her, she advanced steadily towards the mistress of the house, bestowing smile for smile, this being a part of the _programme_ at which a _Parisienne_ was not easily outdone. Eve followed, as usual, _sola_; Grace came next; then Sir George; then John Effingham; the captain bringing up the rear. There had been a friendly contest, for the precedency, between the two last, each desiring to yield it to the other on the score of merit; but the captain prevailed, by declaring “that he was navigating an unknown sea, and that he could do nothing wiser than to sail in the wake of so good a pilot as Mr. John Effingham.”

As Hajjis of approved experience, the persons who led the advance in this little procession, were subjects of a proper attention and respect; but as the admiration of mere vulgar travelling would in itself be vulgar, care was taken to reserve the condensed feeling of the company for the celebrated English writer and wit, who was known to bring up the rear. This was not a common house, in which dollars had place, or _belles_ rioted, but the temple of genius; and every one felt an ardent desire to manifest a proper homage to the abilities of the established foreign writer, that should be in exact proportion to their indifference to the twenty thousand a year of John Effingham, and to the nearly equal amount of Eve’s expectations.

The personal appearance of the honest tar was well adapted to the character he was thus called on so unexpectedly to support. His hair had long been getting grey, but the intense anxiety of the chase, of the wreck, and of his other recent adventures, had rapidly, but effectually, increased this mark of time; and his head was now nearly as white as snow. The hale, fresh, red of his features, which was in truth the result of exposure, might very well pass for the tint of port, and his tread, which had always a little of the quarterdeck swing about it, might quite easily be mistaken by a tyro, for the human frame staggering under a load of learning. Unfortunately for those who dislike mystifications, the captain had consulted John Effingham on the subject of the toilette, and that kind and indulgent friend had suggested the propriety of appearing in black small- clothes for the occasion, a costume that he often wore himself of an evening. Reality, in this instance, then, did not disappoint expectation, and the burst of applause with which the captain was received, was accompanied by a general murmur in commendation of the admirable manner in which he “looked the character.”

“What a Byronic head,” whispered the author of “The Transformed” to D.O.V.E.; “and was there ever such a curl of the lip, before, to mortal man!”

The truth is, the captain had thrust his tobacco into “an aside,” as a monkey is known to _empocher_ a spare nut, or a lump of sugar.

“Do you think him Byronic?–To my eye, the cast of his head is Shaksperian, rather; though I confess there is a little of Milton about the forehead!”

“Pray,” said Miss Annual, to Lucius Junius Brutus, “which is commonly thought to be the best of his works; that on a–a–a,–or that on e– e–e?”

Now, so it happened, that not a soul in the room, but the lion himself, had any idea what books he had written, and he knew only of some fifteen or twenty log-books. It was generally understood, that he was a great English writer, and this was more than sufficient.

“I believe the world generally prefers the a–a–a,” said Lucius Junius Brutus; “but the few give a decided preference to the e–e– e—-“

“Oh! out of all question preferable!” exclaimed half a dozen, in hearing.

“With what a classical modesty he pays his compliments to Mrs. Legend,” observed “S. R. P.”–“One can always tell a man of real genius, by his _tenu_!”

“He is so English!” cried Florio. “Ah! _they_ are the only people, after all!”

This Florio was one of those geniuses who sigh most for the things that they least possess.

By this time Captain Truck had got through with listening to the compliments of Mrs. Legend, when he, was seized upon by a circle of rabid literati, who badgered him with questions concerning his opinions, notions, inferences, experiences, associations, sensations, sentiments and intentions, in a way that soon threw the old man into a profuse perspiration. Fifty times did he wish, from the bottom of his soul, that soul which the crowd around him fancied dwelt so nigh in the clouds, that he was seated quietly by the side of Mrs. Hawker, who, he mentally swore, was worth all the _literati_ in Christendom. But fate had decreed otherwise, and we shall leave him to his fortune, for a time, and return to our heroine and her party.

As soon as Mrs. Legend had got through with her introductory compliments to the captain, she sought Eve and Grace, with a consciousness that a few civilities were now their due.

“I fear, Miss Effingham, after the elaborate _soirees_ of the literary circles in Paris, you will find our _reunions_ of the same sort, a little dull; and yet I flatter myself with having assembled most of the talents of New-York on this memorable occasion, to do honour to your friend. Are you acquainted with many of the company?”

Now, Eve had never seen nor ever heard of a single being in the room, with the exception of Mr. Dodge and her own party, before this night, although most of them had been so laboriously employed in puffing each other into celebrity, for many weary years; and, as for elaborate _soirees_, she thought she had never seen one half as elaborate as this of Mrs. Legend’s. As it would not very well do, however, to express all this in words, she civilly desired the lady to point out to her some of the most distinguished of the company.

“With the greatest pleasure, Miss Effingham,” Mrs. Legend taking pride in dwelling on the merits of her guests.–“This heavy, grand- looking personage, in whose air one sees refinement and modesty at a glance, is Captain Kant, the editor of one of our most decidedly pious newspapers. His mind is distinguished for its intuitive perception of all that is delicate, reserved and finished in the intellectual world, while, in opposition to this quality, which is almost feminine, his character is just as remarkable for its unflinching love of truth. He was never known to publish a falsehood, and of his foreign correspondence, in particular, he is so exceedingly careful, that he assures me he has every word of it written under his own eye.”

“On the subject of his religious scruples,” added John Effingham, “he is so fastidiously exact, that I hear he ‘says grace’ over every thing that goes _from_ his press, and ‘returns thanks’ for every thing that comes _to_ it.”

“You know him, Mr. Effingham, by this remark? Is he not, truly, a man of a vocation?”

“That, indeed, he is, ma’am. He may be succinctly said to have a newspaper mind, as he reduces every thing in nature or art to news, and commonly imparts to it so much of his own peculiar character, that it loses all identity with the subjects to which it originally belonged. One scarcely knows which to admire most about this man, the atmospheric transparency of his motives, for he is so disinterested as seldom even to think of paying for a dinner when travelling, and yet so conscientious as always to say something obliging of the tavern as soon as he gets home–his rigid regard to facts; or the exquisite refinement and delicacy that he imparts to every thing he touches. Over all this, too, he throws a beautiful halo of morality and religion, never even prevaricating in the hottest discussion, unless with the unction of a saint!”

“Do you happen to know Florio?” asked Mrs. Legend, a little distrusting John Effingham’s account of Captain Kant.

“If I do, it must indeed be by accident. What are his chief characteristics, ma’am?”

“Sentiment, pathos, delicacy, and all in rhyme, too. You no doubt, have heard of his triumph over Lord Byron, Miss Effingham?”

Eve was obliged to confess that it was new to her.

“Why, Byron wrote an ode to Greece, commencing with ‘The Isles of Greece! the Isles of Greece!’ a very feeble line, as any one will see, for it contained a useless and an unmeaning repetition.”

“And you might add vulgar, too, Mrs. Legend,” said John Effingham, “since it made a palpable allusion to all those vulgar incidents that associate themselves in the mind, with these said common-place isles. The arts, philosophy, poetry, eloquence, and even old Homer, are brought unpleasantly to one’s recollection, by such an indiscreet invocation.”

“So Florio thought, and, by way of letting the world perceive the essential difference between the base and the pure coin, _he_ wrote an ode on England, which commenced as such an ode _should_!”

“Do you happen to recollect any of it, ma’am?”

“Only the first line, which I greatly regret, as the rhyme is Florio’s chief merit. But this line is, of itself, sufficient to immortalize a man.”

“Do not keep us in torment, dear Mrs. Legend, but let us have it, of heaven’s sake!”

“It began in this sublime strain, sir–‘Beyond the wave!–Beyond the wave!’ Now, Miss Effingham, that is what _I_ call poetry!”

“And well you may, ma’am,” returned the gentleman, who perceived Eve could scarce refrain from breaking out in a very unsentimental manner–“So much pathos.”

“And so sententious and flowing!”

“Condensing a journey of three thousand miles, as it might be, into three words, and a note of admiration. I trust it was printed with a note of admiration, Mrs. Legend?”

“Yes, sir, with two–one behind each wave–and such waves, Mr. Effingham!”

“Indeed, ma’am, you may say so. One really gets a grand idea of them, England lying beyond each.”

“So much expressed in so few syllables!”

“I think I see every shoal, current, ripple, rock, island, and whale, between Sandy Hook and the Land’s End.”

“He hints at an epic.”

“Pray God he may execute one. Let him make haste, too, or he may get ‘behind the age,’ ‘behind the age.'”

Here the lady was called away to receive a guest.

“Cousin Jack!”

“Eve Effingham?”

“Do you not sometimes fear offending?”

“Not a woman who begins with expressing her admiration of such a sublime thing as this. You are safe with such a person, any where short of a tweak of the nose.”

“_Mais, tout ceci est bien drole!_”

“You never were more mistaken in your life, Mademoiselle; every body here looks upon it as a matter of life and death.”

The new guest was Mr. Pindar, one of those careless, unsentimental fellows, that occasionally throw off an ode that passes through Christendom, as dollars are known to pass from China to Norway, and yet, who never fancied spectacles necessary to his appearance, solemnity to his face, nor _soirees_ to his renown. After quitting Mrs. Legend, he approached Eve, to whom he was slightly known, and accosted her.

“This is the region of taste, Miss Effingham,” he said, with a shrug of the jaw, if such a member can shrug; “and I do not wonder at finding you here.”

He then chatted pleasantly a moment, with the party, and passed on, giving an ominous gape, as he drew nearer to the _oi polloi_ of literature. A moment after appeared Mr. Gray, a man who needed nothing but taste in the public, and the encouragement that would follow such a taste, to stand at, or certainty near, the head of the poets of our own time. He, too, looked shily at the galaxy, and took refuge in a corner. Mr. Pith followed; a man whose caustic wit needs only a sphere for its exercise, manners to portray, and a society with strong points about it to illustrate, in order to enrol his name high on the catalogue of satirists. Another ring announced Mr. Fun, a writer of exquisite humour, and of finished periods, but who, having perpetrated a little too much sentiment, was instantly seized upon by all the ultra ladies who were addicted to the same taste in that way, in the room.

These persons came late, like those who had already been too often dosed in the same way, to be impatient of repetitions. The three first soon got together in a corner, and Eve fancied they were laughing at the rest of the company; whereas, in fact, they were merely laughing at a bad joke of their own; their quick perception of the ludicrous having pointed out a hundred odd combinations and absurdities, that would have escaped duller minds.

“Who, in the name of the twelve Caesars, has Mrs. Legend got to lionize, yonder, with the white summit and the dark base?’ asked the writer of odes.

“Some English pamphleteer, by what I can learn,” answered he of satire; “some fellow who has achieved a pert review, or written a Minerva Pressism, and who now flourishes like a bay tree among us. A modern Horace, or a Juvenal on his travels.”

“Fun is well badgered,” observed Mr. Gray.–“Do you not see that Miss Annual, Miss Monthly, and that young alphabet D.O.V.E., have got him within the circle of their petticoats, where he will be martyred on a sigh?”

“He casts tanging looks this way; he wishes you to go to his rescue, Pith.”

“I!–Let him take his fill of sentiment! I am no homoepathist in such matters. Large doses in quick succession will soonest work a cure. Here comes the lion and he breaks loose from his cage, like a beast that has been poked up with sticks.”

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Captain Truck, wiping his face intensely, and who having made his escape from a throng of admirers, took refuge in the first port that offered. “You seem to be enjoying yourselves here in a rational and agreeable way. Quite cool and refreshing in this corner.”

“And yet we have no doubt that both our reason and our amusement will receive a large increase from the addition of your society, sir,” returned Mr. Pith.–“Do us the favour to take a seat, I beg of you, and rest yourself.”

“With all my heart, gentlemen; for, to own the truth, these ladies make warm work about a stranger. I have just got out of what I call a category.”

“You appear to have escaped with life, sir,” observed Pindar, taking a cool survey of the other’s person.

“Yes, thank God, I have done that, and it is pretty much all,” answered the captain, wiping his face. “I served in the French war– Truxtun’s war, as we call it–and I had a touch with the English in the privateer trade, between twelve and fifteen; and here, quite lately, I was in an encounter with the savage Arabs down on the coast of Africa; and I account them all as so much snow-balling, compared with the yard-arm and yard-arm work of this very night. I wonder if it is permitted to try a cigar at these conversation-onies, gentlemen?”

“I believe it is, sir,” returned Pindar, coolly. “Shall I help you to a light?”

“Oh! Mr. Truck!” cried Mrs. Legend, following the chafed animal to his corner, as one would pursue any other runaway, “instinct has brought you into this good company. You are, now, in the very focus of American talents.”

“Having just escaped from the focus of American talons,” whispered Pith.

“I must be permitted to introduce you myself. Mr. Truck, Mr. Pindar– Mr. Pith— Mr. Gray–gentlemen, you must be so happy to be acquainted, being, as it were, engaged in the same pursuits!”

The captain rose and shook each of the gentlemen cordially by the hand, for he had, at least, the consolation of a great many introductions that night. Mrs. Legend disappeared to say something to some other prodigy.

“Happy to meet you, gentlemen,” said the captain “In what trade do you sail?”

“By whatever name we may call it,” answered Mr. Pindar–“we can scarcely be said to go before the wind.”

“Not in the Injee business, then, or the monsoons would keep the stun’sails set, at least.”

“No, sir.–But yonder is Mr. Moccasin, who has lately set up, _secundum artem_, in the Indian business, having written two novels in that way already, and begun a third.”

“Are you all regularly employed, gentlemen?”

“As regularly as inspiration points,” said Mr. Pith. “Men of our occupation must make fair weather of it, or we had better be doing nothing.”

“So I often tell my owners, but ‘go ahead’ is the order. When I was a youngster, a ship remained in port for a fair wind; but, now, she goes to work and makes one. The world seems to get young, as I get old.”

“This is a _rum litterateur_,” Gray whispered to Pindar.

“It is an obvious mystification,” was the answer; “poor Mrs. Legend has picked up some straggling porpoise, and converted him, by a touch of her magical wand, into a Boanerges of literature. The thing is as clear as day, for the worthy fellow smells of tar and cigar smoke. I perceive that Mr. Effingham is laughing out of the corner of his eyes, and will step across the room, and get the truth, in a minute.”

The rogue was as good as his word, and was soon back again, and contrived to let his friends understand the real state of the case. A knowledge of the captain’s true character encouraged this trio in the benevolent purpose of aiding the honest old seaman in his wish to smoke, and Pith managed to give him a lighted paper, without becoming an open accessary to the plot.

“Will you take a cigar yourself, sir,” said the captain, offering his box to Mr. Pindar.

“I thank you, Mr. Truck, I never smoke, but am a profound admirer of the flavour. Let me entreat you to begin as soon as possible.”

Thus encouraged, Captain Truck drew two or three whiffs, when the rooms were immediately filled with the fragrance of a real Havana. At the first discovery, the whole literary pack went off on the scent. As for Mr. Fun, he managed to profit by the agitation that followed, in order to escape to the three wags in the corner, who were enjoying the scene, with the gravity of so many dervishes.

“As I live,” cried Lucius Junius Brutus, “there is the author of a– a–a–actually smoking a cigar!–How excessively _piquant!_”

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is not that the writer of e–e–e– fumigating us all!” whispered Miss Annual.

“Nay, this cannot certainly be right,” put in Florio, with a dogmatical manner. “All the periodicals agree that smoking is ungenteel in England.”

“You never were more mistaken, dear Florio,” replied D.O.V.E. in a cooing tone. “The very last novel of society has a chapter in which the hero and heroine smoke in the declaration scene.”

“Do they, indeed!–That alters the case. Really, one would not wish to get behind so great a nation, nor yet go much before it. Pray, Captain Kant, what do your friends in Canada say; is, or is not smoking permitted in good society there? the Canadians must, at least, be ahead of us.”

“Not at all, sir,” returned the editor in his softest tones; “it is revolutionary and jacobinical.”

But the ladies prevailed, and, by a process that is rather peculiar to what may be called a “credulous” state of society, they carried the day. This process was simply to make one fiction authority for another. The fact that smoking was now carried so far in England, that the clergy actually used cigars in the pulpits, was affirmed on the authority of Mr. Truck himself, and, coupled with his present occupation, the point was deemed to be settled. Even Florio yielded, and his plastic mind soon saw a thousand beauties in the usage, that had hitherto escaped it. All the literati drew round the captain in a circle, to enjoy the spectacle, though the honest old mariner contrived to throw out such volumes of vapour as to keep them at a safe distance. His four demure-looking neighbours got behind the barrier of smoke, where they deemed themselves entrenched against the assaults of sentimental petticoats, for a time, at least.

“Pray, Mr. Truck,” inquired S.R.P., “is it commonly thought in the English literary circles, that Byron was a developement of Shakspeare, or Shakspeare a shadowing forth of Byron?”

“Both, marm,” said the captain, with a coolness that would have done credit to Aristabulus, for he had been fairly badgered into impudence, profiting by the occasion to knock the ashes off his cigar; “all incline to the first opinion, and most to the last.”

“What finesse!” murmured one. “How delicate!” whispered a second. “A dignified reserve!” ejaculated a third. “So English!” exclaimed Florio.

“Do you think, Mr. Truck,” asked D.O.V.E. “that the profane songs of Little have more pathos than the sacred songs of Moore; or that the sacred songs of Moore have more sentiment than the profane songs of Little?”

“A good deal of both, marm, and something to spare. I think there is little in one, and more in the other.”

“Pray, sir,” said J.R.P., “do you pronounce the name of Byron’s lady- love, Guy-kee-oh-_ly_, or, Gwy-ky-o-_lee_?”

“That depends on how the wind is. If on shore, I am apt to say ‘oh- lee;’ and if off shore, ‘oh-lie.'”

“That’s capital!” cried Florio, in an extasy of admiration. “What man in this country could have said as crack a thing as that?”

“Indeed it is very witty,” added Miss Monthly–“what does it mean?”

“Mean! More than is seen or felt by common minds. Ah! the English are truly a great nation!–How delightfully he smokes!”

“I think he is much the most interesting man we have had out here,” observed Miss Annual, “since the last bust of Scott!”

“Ask him, dear D.O.V.E.,” whispered Julietta, who was timid, from the circumstance of never having published, “which he thinks the most ecstatic feeling, hope or despair?”

The question was put by the more experienced lady, according to request, though she first said, in a hurried tone, to her youthful sister–“you can have felt but little, child, or you would know that it is despair, as a matter of course.”

The honest captain, however, did not treat the matter so lightly, for he improved the opportunity to light a fresh cigar, throwing the still smoking stump into Mrs. Legend’s grate, through a lane of literati, as he afterwards boasted, as coolly as he could have thrown it overboard, under other circumstances. Luckily for his reputation for sentiment, he mistook “ecstatic,” a word he had never heard before, for “erratic;” and recollecting sundry roving maniacs that he had seen, he answered promptly–

“Despair, out and out.”

“I knew it,” said one.

“It’s in nature,” added a second.

“All can feel its truth,” rejoined a third.

“This point may now be set down as established,” cried Florio, “and I hope no more will be said about it.”

“This is encouragement to the searchers after truth,” put in Captain Kant.

“Pray, Hon. and Rev. Mr. Truck,” asked Lucius Junius Brutus, at the joint suggestion of Junius Brutus and Brutus, “does the Princess Victoria smoke?”

“If she did not, sir, where would be the use in being a princess. I suppose you know that all the tobacco seized in England, after a deduction to informers, goes to the crown.”

“I object to this usage,” remarked Captain Kant, “as irreligious, French, and tending to _sans-culotteism_. I am willing to admit of this distinguished instance as an exception; but on all other grounds, I shall maintain that it savours of infidelity to smoke. The Prussian government, much the best of our times, never smokes.”

“This man thinks he has a monopoly of the puffing, himself,” Pindar whispered into the captain’s ear; “whiff away, my dear sir, and you’ll soon throw him into the shade.”

The captain winked, drew out his box, lighted another cigar, and, by way of reply to the envious remark, he put one in each corner of his mouth, and soon had both in full blast, a state in which he kept them for near a minute.

“This is the very picturesque of social enjoyment,” exclaimed Florio, holding up both hands in a glow of rapture. “It is absolutely Homeric, in the way of usages! Ah! the English are a great nation!”

“I should like to know excessively if there was really such a person as Baron Mun-chaw-sen?” said Julietta, gathering courage from the success of her last question.

“There was, Miss,” returned the captain, through his teeth, and nodding his head in the affirmative. “A regular traveller, that; and one who knew him well, swore to me that he hadn’t related one half of what befel him.”

“How very delightful to learn this from the highest quarter!” exclaimed Miss Monthly.

“Is Gatty (Goethe) really dead?” inquired Longinus, “or, is the account we have had to that effect, merely a metaphysical apotheosis of his mighty soul?”

“Dead, marm–stone dead–dead as a door-nail,” returned the captain, who saw a relief in killing as many as possible.

“You have been in France, Mr. Truck, beyond question?” observed Lucius Junius Brutus, in the way one puts a question.

“France!–I was in France before I was ten years old. I know every foot of the coast, from Havre de Grace to Marseilles.”

“Will you then have the goodness to explain to us whether the soul of Chat-_to_-bri-_ong_ is more expanded than his reason, or his reason more expanded than his soul?”

Captain Truck had a very tolerable notion of Baron Munchausen and of his particular merits; but Chateaubriant was a writer of whom he knew nothing. After pondering a moment, and feeling persuaded that a confession of ignorance might undo him; for the old man had got to be influenced by the atmosphere of the place; he answered coolly–

“Oh! Chat-_to_-bri-_ong_, is it you mean?–As whole-souled a fellow as I know. All soul, sir, and lots of reason, besides.”

“How simple and unaffected!”

“Crack!” exclaimed Florio.

“A thorough Jacobin!” growled Captain Kant, who was always offended when any one but himself took liberties with the truth.

Here the four wags in the corner observed that head went to head in the crowd, and that the rear rank of the company began to disappear, while Mrs. Legend was in evident distress. In a few minutes, all the Romans were off; Florio soon after vanished, grating his teeth in a poetical frenzy; and even Captain Kant, albeit so used to look truth in the face, beat a retreat. The alphabet followed, and even the Annual and the Monthly retired, with leave-takings so solemn and precise, that poor Mrs. Legend was in total despair.

Eve, foreseeing something unpleasant, had gone away first, and, in a few minutes, Mr. Dodge, who had been very active in the crowd, whispering and gesticulating, made his bow also. The envy of this man had, in fact, become so intolerable, that he had let the cat out of the bag. No one now remained but the party entrenched behind the smoke, and the mistress of the house. Pindar solemnly proposed to the captain that they should go and enjoy an oyster-supper, in company; and, the proposal being cordially accepted, they rose in a body, to take leave.

“A most delightful evening, Mrs. Legend,” said Pindar, with perfect truth, “much the pleasantest I ever passed in a house, where one passes so many that are agreeable.”

“I cannot properly express my thanks for the obligation you have conferred by making me acquainted with Mr. Truck,” added Gray. “I shall cultivate it as far as in my power, for a more capital fellow never breathed.”

“Really, Mrs. Legend, this has been a Byronic night!” observed Pith, as he made his bow. “I shall long remember it, and I think it deserves to be commemorated in verse”

Fun endeavoured to look sympathetic and sentimental, though the spirit within could scarcely refrain from grinning in Mrs. Legend’s face. He stammered out a few compliments, however, and disappeared.

“Well, good night, marm,” said Captain Truck, offering his hand cordially. “This has been a pleasant evening, altogether, though it was warm work at first. If you like ships, I should be glad to show you the Montauk’s cabins when we get back; and if you ever think of Europe, let me recommend the London line as none of the worst. We’ll try to make you comfortable, and trust to me to choose a state-room, a thing I am experienced in.”

Not one of the wags laughed until they were fairly confronted with the oysters. Then, indeed, they burst out into a general and long fit of exuberant merriment, returning to it, between the courses from the kitchen, like the _refrain_ of a song. Captain Truck, who was uncommonly well satisfied with himself, did not understand the meaning of all this boyishness, but he has often declared since, that a heartier or a funnier set of fellows he never fell in with, than his four companions proved to be that night.

As for the literary _soiree_, the most profound silence has been maintained concerning it, neither of the wits there assembled having seen fit to celebrate it in rhyme, and Florio having actually torn up an impromptu for the occasion, that he had been all the previous day writing.

Chapter VII.

“There is a history in all men’s lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased, The which observed, a man may prophesy With a near aim, of the main chance of things, As yet not come to life.”

KING HENRY VI

The following morning the baronet breakfasted in Hudson Square. While at table, little was said concerning the events of the past night, though sundry smiles were exchanged, as eye met eye, and the recollection of the mystification returned. Grace alone looked grave, for she had been accustomed to consider Mrs. Legend a very discriminating person, and she had even hoped that most of those who usually figured in her rooms, were really the clever persons they laid claim to be.