Afloat and Ashore (73 page)

"True, sir; but there is only one Lucy Hardinge!" I rejoined with a
fervour and strength of utterance that betrayed more than I intended.

My late guardian actually stopped his horse this time, to look at me,
and I could perceive deep concern gathering around his usually serene
and placid brow. He began to penetrate my feelings, and I believe they
caused him real grief.

"I never could have dreamed of this!" Mr. Hardinge at length
exclaimed: "Do you really love Lucy, my dear Miles?"

"Better than I do my own life, sir—I almost worship the earth she
treads on—Love her with my whole heart, and have loved, I believe, if
the truth were known, ever since I was sixteen—perhaps I had better
say, twelve years old!"

The truth escaped me, as the torrent of the Mississippi breaks through
the levee, and a passage once open for its exit, it cleared a way for
itself, until the current of my feelings left no doubt of its
direction. I believe I was a little ashamed of my own weakness, for I
caused my horse to walk forward, Mr. Hardinge accompanying the
movement, for a considerable distance, in a profound, and, I doubt
not, a painful silence.

"This has taken me altogether by surprise, Miles," my late guardian
resumed; "altogether by surprise. What would I not give could this
have been known a year or two since! My dear boy, I feel for you, from
the bottom of my heart, for I can understand what it must be to love a
girl like Lucy, without hope. Why did you not let this be known
sooner—or, why did you insist on going to sea, having so strong a
motive for remaining at home?"

"I was too young, at that time, sir, to act on, or even to understand
my own feelings. On my return, in the Crisis, I found Lucy in a set
superior to, that in which I was born and educated, and it would have
been a poor proof of my attachment to wish to bring her down nearer to
my own level."

"I understand you, Miles, and can appreciate the generosity of your
conduct; though I am afraid it would have been too late on your return
in the Crisis. That was only a twelvemonth since, and, then, I rather
think, Andrew Drewett had offered. There is good sense in your feeling
on the subject of marriages in unequal conditions in life, for they
certainly lead to many heart-burnings, and greatly lessen the chances
of happiness. One thing is certain; in all such cases, if the inferior
cannot rise to the height of the superior, the superior must sink to
the level of the inferior. Man and wife cannot continue to occupy
different social positions; and, as for the nonsense that is uttered
on such subjects, by visionaries, under the claim of its being common
sense, it is only fit for pretending theories, and can have nothing to
do with the great rules of practice. You were right in principle,
then, Miles, though you have greatly exaggerated the facts of your own
particular case."

"I have always known, sir, and have ever been ready to admit, that the
Hardinges have belonged to a different class of society, from that
filled by the Wallingfords."

"This is true, but in part only; and by no means true to a degree that
need have drawn any impassable line between you and Lucy. You forget
how poor we then were, and bow substantial a benefit the care of
Clawbonny might have been to my dear girl. Besides, you are of
reputable descent and position, if not precisely of the gentry; and
this is not a country, or an age, to carry notions of such a nature
beyond the strict bounds of reason. You and Lucy were educated on the
same level; and, after all, that is the great essential for the
marriage connection."

There was great good sense in what Mr. Hardinge said; and I began to
see that pride, and not humility, might have interfered with my
happiness. As I firmly believed it was now too late, however, I began
to wish the subject changed; for I felt it grating on some of my most
sacred feelings. With a view to divert the conversation to another
channel, therefore, I remarked with some emphasis, affecting an
indifference I did not feel—

"What cannot be cured, must be endured, sir; and I shall endeavour to
find a sailor's happiness hereafter, in loving my ship. Besides, were
Andrew Drewett entirely out of the question, it is now 'too late,' in
another sense, since it would never do for the man who, himself at his
ease in the way of money, hesitated about offering when his mistress
was poor, to prove his love, by proposing to Mrs. Bradfort's
heiress. Still, I own to so much weakness as to wish to know, before
we close the subject for ever, why Mr. Drewett and your daughter do
not marry, if they are engaged? Perhaps it is owing only to Lucy's
mourning?"

"I have myself imputed it to another cause. Rupert is entirely
dependent on his sister, and I know Lucy so well as to feel
certain—some extraordinary cause not interposing—that she wishes to
bestow half her cousin's fortune on her brother. This cannot be done
until she is of age, and she wants near two years of attaining her
majority."

I made no answer; for I felt how likely this was to be true. Lucy was
not a girl of professions, and she would be very apt to keep a
resolution of this nature, a secret in her own breast, until ready to
carry it into execution. No more passed between Mr. Hardinge and
myself, on the subject of our recent conversation; though I could see
my avowal had made him sad, and that it induced him to treat me with
more affection, even, than had been his practice. Once or twice, in
the course of the next day or two, I overheard him soliloquizing—a
habit to which he was a good deal addicted—during which he would
murmur, "What a pity!"—"How much to be regretted!"'—"I would rather
have him for a son than any man on earth!" and other similar
expressions. Of course, these involuntary disclosures did not weaken
my regard for my late guardian.

About noon, the Grace & Lucy came in, and Neb reported that Dr. Bard
was not at home. He had left my letter, however, and it would be
delivered as soon as possible. He told me also that the wind had been
favourable on the river, and that the Wallingford must reach town that
day.

Nothing further occurred, worthy of notice. I passed the afternoon
with Grace, in the little room; and we conversed much of the past, of
our parents in particular, without adverting, however, to her
situation, any further than to apprise her of what I had done. I
thought she was not sorry to learn I had sent for Lucy, now that I was
with her, and it was no longer possible her illness could be
concealed. As for the physicians, when they were mentioned, I could
see a look of tender concern in Grace's eyes, as if she regretted that
I still clung to the delusion of hoping to see her health
restored. Notwithstanding these little drawbacks, we passed a sweet
eventide together. For more than an hour, Grace lay on my bosom,
occasionally patting her hand on my cheeks, as the child caresses its
mother. This was an old habit of hers, and it was one I was equally
delighted and pained to have her resume, now we were of the age and
stature of man and woman.

The next day was Sunday, and Grace insisted on my driving her to
church. This was done, accordingly, in a very old-fashioned, but very
easy Boston chaise, that had belonged to my mother, and with very
careful driving. The congregation, like the church-edifice of
St. Michael's, was very small, being confined, with some twenty or
thirty exceptions, to the family and dependants of Clawbonny.
Mr. Hardinge's little flock was hedged in by other denominations on
every side, and it was not an easy matter to break through the
barriers that surrounded it. Then he was not possessed with the spirit
of proselytism, contenting himself with aiding in the spiritual
advancement of those whom Providence had consigned to his care. On the
present occasion, however, the little building was full, and that was
as much as could have happened had it been as large as St. Peter's
itself. The prayers were devoutly and fervently read, and the sermon
was plain and filled with piety.

My sister professed herself in no manner wearied with the exertion. We
dined with Mr. Hardinge, at the Rectory, which was quite near the
church; and the irreverent, business-like, make-weight sort of look,
of going in to one service almost as soon as the other was ended, as
if to score off so much preaching and praying as available at the
least trouble, being avoided, by having the evening service commence
late, she was enabled to remain until the close of the day. Mr.
Hardinge rarely preached but once of a Sunday. He considered the
worship of God, and the offices of the church, as the proper duties of
the day, and regarded his own wisdom as a matter of secondary
importance. But one sermon cost him as much labour, and study, and
anxiety, as most clergymen's two. His preaching, also, had the high
qualification of being addressed to the affections of his flock, and
not to its fears and interests. He constantly reminded us of God's
love
, and of the
beauty
of holiness; while I do not
remember to have heard him allude half a dozen times in his life to
the terrors of judgment and punishment, except as they were connected
with that disappointed love. I suppose there are spirits that require
these allusions, and the temptations of future happiness, to incite
their feelings; but I like the preacher who is a Christian because he
feels himself
drawn
to holiness, by a power that is of itself
holy; and not those who appeal to their people, as if heaven and hell
were a mere matter of preference and avoidance, on the ground of
expediency. I cannot better characterize Mr. Hardinge's preaching,
than by saying, that I do not remember ever to have left his church
with a sense of fear towards the Creator; though I have often been
impressed with a love that was as profound as the adoration that had
been awakened.

Another calm and comparatively happy evening was passed, during which
I conversed freely with Grace of my own intentions, endeavouring to
revive in her an interest in life, by renewing old impressions, and
making her participate in my feelings. Had I been with her from the
hour spring opened, with its renewal of vegetation, and all the joys
it confers on the innocent and happy, I have often thought since, I
might have succeeded. As it was, she listened with attention, and
apparently with pleasure, for she saw it served to relieve my mind. We
did not separate until I insisted Grace should retire, and Chloe had
made more than one remonstrance about her young mistress's exceeding
the usual time. On leaving my sister's chamber, the negress followed
me with a light, lest I should fall, among the intricate turnings, and
the ups and downs of the old building.

"Well, Chloe," I said, as we proceeded together, "how do you find Neb?
Does he improve by this running about on the ocean—especially do you
think he is tanned?"

"De
fel
-ler!"

"Yes, he is a fellow, sure enough, and let me tell you, Chloe, a very
capital fellow, too. If it can be of any advantage to him in your
favour to know the truth, I will just say a more useful seaman does
not sail the ocean than Neb, and that I consider him as of much
importance as the main-mast?"

"What be
dat
, Masser Mile?"

"I see nothing, Chloe—there are no spooks at Clawbonny, you know."

"No, sah! What b'e t'ing Neb like,
fel
-ler?"

"Oh! I ask your pardon—the main-mast, you mean. It is the most
important spar in the ship, and I meant that Neb was as useful as that
mast. In battle, too, Neb is as brave as a lion."

Here Chloe could stand it no longer; she fairly laughed outright, in
pure, natural admiration of her suitor's qualities. When this was
performed, she ejaculated once more "De
feller
!"—dropped a
curtsey, said "Good night, Masser Mile," and left me at my own
door. Alas! alas!—Among the improvements of this age, we have
entirely lost the breed of the careless, good-natured, affectionate,
faithful, hard-working, and yet happy blacks, of whom more or less
were to be found in every respectable and long-established family of
the State, forty years ago.

The next day was one of great anxiety to me. I rose early, and the
first thing was to ascertain the direction of the wind. In midsummer
this was apt to be southerly, and so it proved on that occasion. Neb
was sent to the point, as a look-out; he returned about ten, and
reported a fleet of sloops, in sight. These vessels were still a long
distance down the river, but they were advancing at a tolerable rate.
Whether the Wallingford were among them, or not, was more than could
yet be told. I sent him back to his station, as soon as he had eaten;
and unable to remain quiet in the house, myself, I mounted my horse,
and rode out into the fields. Here, as usual, I experienced the
happiness of looking at objects my ancestors loved to regard, and
which always have had a strong and near interest with me.

Perhaps no country that ever yet existed has been so little
understood, or so much misrepresented, as this America of ours. It is
as little understood, I was on the point of saying, at home as it is
abroad, and almost as much misrepresented. Certainly its possessors
are a good deal addicted to valuing themselves on distinctive
advantages that, in reality, they do not enjoy, while their enemies
declaim about vices and evils from which they are comparatively
free. Facts are made to suit theories, and thus it is that we see
well-intentioned, and otherwise respectable writers, constantly
running into extravagances, in order to adapt the circumstances to the
supposed logical or moral inference. This reasoning backwards, has
caused Alison, with all his knowledge and fair-mindedness, to fall
into several egregious errors, as I have discovered while recently
reading his great work on Europe. He says we are a migratory race, and
that we do not love the sticks and stones that surround us, but quit
the paternal roof without regret, and consider the play-grounds of
infancy as only so much land for the market. He also hazards the
assertion, that there is not such a thing as a literal farmer,—that
is a tenant, who
farms
his land from a landlord—in all
America. Now, as a rule, and comparing the habits of America with
those of older countries, in which land is not so abundant, this may
be true; but as literal fact, nothing can be less so. Four-fifths of
the inhabited portion of the American territory, has a civilized
existence of half a century's duration; and there has not been time to
create the long-lived attachments named, more especially in the
regions that are undergoing the moral fusion that is always an
attendant of a new settlement. That thousands of heartless
speculators exist among us, who do regard everything, even to the
graves of their fathers, as only so much improvable property, is as
undeniable as the fact that they are odious to all men of any moral
feeling; but thousands and tens of thousands are to be found in the
country, who
do
reverence their family possessions from a
sentiment that is creditable to human nature. I will not mention
Clawbonny, and its history, lest I might be suspected of being
partial; but it would be easy for me to point out a hundred families,
embracing all classes, from the great proprietor to the plain yeoman,
who own and reside on the estates of those who first received them
from the hand of nature, and this after one or two centuries of
possession. What will Mr. Alison say, for instance, of the Manor of
Rensselear? A manor, in the legal sense it is no longer, certainly,
the new institutions destroying all the feudal tenures; but, as mere
property, the late Patroon transmitted it as regularly to his
posterity, as any estate was ever transmitted in Europe. This
extensive manor lies in the heart of New York, a state about as large
and about as populous as Scotland, and it embraces no less than three
cities in its bosom, though their sites are not included in its
ownership, having been exempted by earlier grants. It is of more than
two centuries' existence, and it extends eight-and-forty miles east
and west, and half that distance, north and south. Nearly all this
vast property is held, at this hour, of the Van Rensselears, as
landlords, and is farmed by their tenants, there being several
thousands of the latter. The same is true, on a smaller scale, of the
Livingston, the Van Cortlandt, the Philipse, the Nicoll, and various
other old New York estates, though several were lost by attainder in
the revolution. I explain these things, lest any European who may
happen to read this book, should regard it as fiction; for, allowing
for trifling differences, a hundred Clawbonnys are to be found on the
two banks of the Hudson, at this very hour.
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