CHAPTER I.
MR. EDWARD COLBURNE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH MISS LILLIE RAVENEL.
It was shortly after the capitulation of loyal Fort Sumter to rebelliousSouth Carolina that Mr. Edward Colburne of New Boston made theacquaintance of Miss Lillie Ravenel of New Orleans.
An obscure American author remarks in one of his rejected articles,(which he had the kindness to read to me from the manuscript) that everygreat historical event reverberates in a very remarkable manner throughthe fortunes of a multitude of private and even secluded individuals. Novolcanic eruption rends a mountain without stirring the existence of themountain's mice. It was unquestionably the southern rebellion whichbrought Miss Ravenel and Mr. Colburne into interesting juxtaposition.But for this gigantic political upturning it is probable that the younglady would never have visited New Boston where the young gentleman thenlived, or, visiting it and meeting him there, would have been a personof no necessary importance in his eyes. But how could a most loyal,warm-hearted youth fail to be interested in a pretty and intelligentgirl who was exiled from her home because her father would not be arebel?
New Boston, by the way, is the capital city of the little Yankee Stateof Barataria. I ask pardon for this geographical impertinence ofintroducing a seventh State into New England, and solemnly affirm that Ido not mean to disturb thereby the congressional balance of therepublic. I make the arrangement with no political object, but solelyfor my private convenience, so that I may tell my story freely withoutbeing accused of misrepresenting this private individual, or insultingthat public functionary, or burlesquing any self-satisfied community.Like Sancho Panza's famous island of the same name, Barataria wassurrounded by land, at least to a much greater extent than most islands.
It was through Ravenel the father that Colburne made the acquaintance ofMiss Ravenel. In those days, not yet a soldier, but only a martiallydisposed young lawyer and wrathful patriot, he used to visit the NewBoston House nearly every evening, running over all the journals in thereading-room, devouring the telegraphic reports that were brought up hotfrom the newspaper offices, and discussing the great political events ofthe time with the heroes and sages of the city. One evening he foundnobody in the reading-room but a stranger, a tall gentleman of aboutfifty, with a baldish head and a slight stoop in the shoulders, attiredin an English morning-suit of modest snuff-color. He was reading the NewYork Evening Post through a rather dandified eyeglass. Presently he putthe eyeglass in his vest pocket, produced a pair of steel-bowedspectacles, slipped them on his nose and resumed his reading with an airof increased facility and satisfaction. He was thus engaged, andColburne was waiting for the Post, raging meanwhile over that copperheadsheet, The New Boston Index, when there was a pleasant rustle of femaleattire in the hall which led by the reading-room.
"Papa, put on your eyeglass," said a silver voice which Colburne liked."Do take off those horrid spectacles. They make you look as old asArarat."
"My dear, the eyeglass makes me feel as old as you say," responded papa.
"Well, stop reading then and come up stairs," was the young person'snext command. "I've had such an awful afternoon with those pokey people.I want to tell you----"
Here she caught sight of Colburne regarding her fixedly in the mirror,and with another rustle of vesture she suddenly slid beyond reach of theangle of incidence and refraction.
The stranger laid down the Post in his lap, pocketed his spectacles,and, looking about him, caught sight of Colburne.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said he with a frank, friendly, man of theworld sort of smile. "I have kept the evening paper a long time. Willyou have it?"
To our young gentleman the civility of this well-bred, middle-agedpersonage was somewhat imposing, and consequently he made his best bowand would not accept of the Post until positively assured that the otherhad entirely done with it. Moreover he would not commence readingimmediately because that might seem like a tacit reproach; so he uttereda few patriotic common-places on the news of the day, and thereby gaveoccasion for this history.
"Yes, a sad struggle, a sad struggle--especially for the South,"assented the unnamed gentleman. "You can't imagine how unprepared theyare for it. The South is just like the town's poor rebelling against theauthorities; the more successful they are, the more sure to be ruined."
While he spoke he looked in the young and strange face of his hearerwith as much seeming earnestness as if the latter had been an oldacquaintance whose opinions were of value to him. There was an amiablefascination in the sympathetic grey eyes and the persuasive smile. Hecaught Colburne's expression of interest and proceeded.
"Nobody can tell me anything about those unlucky, misguided people. I amone of them by birth--I have lived among them nearly all my life--I knowthem. They are as ill-informed as Hottentots. They have no more idea oftheir relative strength as compared to that of the United States thanthe Root-diggers of the Rocky Mountains. They are doomed to perish bytheir own ignorance and madness."
"It will probably be a short struggle," said Colburne, speaking thecommon belief of the North.
"I don't know--I don't know about that; we mustn't be too sure of that.You must understand that they are barbarians, and that all barbariansare obstinate and reckless. They will hold out like the FloridaSeminoles. They will resist like jackasses and heroes. They won't knowany better. They will be an honor to the fortitude and a sarcasm on theintelligence of human nature. They will become an example in history ofmuch that is great, and all that is foolish."
"May I ask what part of the South you have resided in?" inquiredColburne.
"I am a South Carolinian born. But I have lived in New Orleans for thelast twenty years, summers excepted. A man can't well live there theyear round. He must be away occasionally, to clear his system of itsmalaria physical and moral. It is a Sodom. I consider it a proof ofdepravity in any one to want to go there. But there was my work, andthere I staid--as little as possible. I staid till this stupid,barbarous Ashantee rebellion drove me out."
"I am afraid you will be an exile for some time, sir," observedColburne, after a short silence during which he regarded the exiledstranger with patriotic sympathy.
"I am afraid so," was the answer, uttered in a tone which impliedserious reflection if not sadness.
He remembers the lost home, the sacrificed wealth, the undeservedhostility, the sentence of outlawry which should have been a meed ofhonor, thought the enthusiastic young patriot. The voice of welcomeought to greet him, the hand of friendship ought to aid him, here amongloyal men.
"I hope you stay some time in New Boston, sir," he observed aloud. "IfI can be of the slightest benefit to you, I shall be most happy. Allowme to offer you my card, sir."
"Oh! Thank you. You are extremely kind," said the stranger. He bowedvery politely and smiled very cordially as he took the bit ofpasteboard; but at the same time there was a slight fixity of surprisein his eye which made the sensitive Colburne color. He read the name onthe card; then, with a start as of reminiscence, glanced at it again;then leaned forward and peered into the young man's face with an air ofeager curiosity.
"Are you--is it possible!--are you related to Doctor Edward Colburne ofthis place who died fourteen or fifteen years ago?"
"I am his son, sir."
"Is it possible! I am delighted to meet you. I am most sincerely andearnestly gratified. I knew your father well. I had particular occasionto know him as a fellow beginner in mineralogy at a time when thescience was little studied in this country. We corresponded andexchanged specimens. My name is Ravenel. I have been for twenty yearsprofessor of theory and practice in the Medical College of New Orleans.An excellent place for a dissecting class, by the way. So many negroesare whipped to death, so many white gentlemen die in their boots, as thesaying is, that we rarely lack for subjects.--But you must have beenquite young when you had the misfortune--and science had themisfortune--to lose your father. Really, you have quite his look aboutthe eyes and forehead. What profession may I ask?"
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p; "Law," said Colburne, who was flushed with pleasure over the acquisitionof this charming acquaintance, so evidently to him a man of the world, asavant, a philosopher, and a patriotic martyr.
"Law--that is a smattering of it--just enough to have an office and donotary work."
"A good profession! A grand profession! But I should have expected yourfather's son to be a physician or a mineralogist."
He took off his spectacles and surveyed Colburne's frank, handsome facewith evidently sincere interest. He seemed as much occupied with thisyoung stranger's history and prospects as he had been a moment beforewith his own beliefs and exile.
At this stage of the conversation one of the hotel servants entered theroom and said, "Sir, the young lady wishes you would come up stairs, ifyou please, sir."
"Oh, certainly," answered the stranger, or, as I may now call him, theDoctor. "Mr. Colburne, come up to my room, if you are at leisure. Ishall be most happy to have a longer conversation with you."
Colburne was in the usual quandary of young and modest men on suchoccasions. He wished to accept the invitation; he feared that he oughtnot to take advantage of it; he did not know how to decline it. After alightning-like consideration of the _pros_ and _cons_, after a stealthyglance at his toilet in the mirror, he showed the good sense and had thegood luck to follow Doctor Ravenel to his private parlor. As theyentered, the same silver voice which Colburne had heard below,exclaimed, "Why papa! What has kept you so long? I have been as lonelyas a mouse in a trap."
"Lillie, let me introduce Mr. Colburne to you," answered papa. "My dearsir, take this arm chair. It is much more comfortable than those awkwardmahogany uprights. Don't suppose that I want it. I prefer the sofa, Ireally do."
Miss Ravenel, I suppose I ought to state in this exact place, was veryfair, with lively blue eyes and exceedingly handsome hair, veryluxuriant, very wavy and of a flossy blonde color lighted up by flashesof amber. She was tall and rather slender, with a fine form and anuncommon grace of manner and movement. Colburne was flattered by thequick blush and pretty momentary flutter of embarrassment with which shereceived him. This same irrepressible blush and flutter often interestedthose male individuals who were fortunate enough to make Miss Ravenel'sacquaintance. Each young fellow thought that she was speciallyinterested in himself; that the depths of her womanly nature werestirred into pleasurable excitement by his advent. And it was frequentlynot altogether a mistake. Miss Ravenel was interested in people, in aconsiderable number of people, and often at first sight. She had herfather's sympathetic character, as well as his graceful cordiality andconsequent charm of manner, the whole made more fascinating by beingveiled in a delicate gauze of womanly dignity. As to her being as lovelyas a houri, I confess that there were different opinions on thatquestion, and I do not care to settle it, as I of course might, by atyrannical affirmation.
It is curious how resolutely most persons demand that the heroine of astory shall be extraordinarily handsome. And yet the heroine of many alove affair in our own lives is not handsome; and most of us fall inlove, quite earnestly and permanently in love too, with rather plainwomen. Why then should I strain my conscience by asserting broadly andpositively that Miss Ravenel was a first class beauty? But I do affirmwithout hesitation that, like her father, she was socially charming. Igo farther: she was also very loveable and (I beg her pardon) verycapable of loving; although up to this time she did not feel sure thatshe possessed either of these two qualities.
She had simply bowed with a welcoming smile and that flattering blush,but without speaking or offering her hand, when Colburne was presented.I suspect that she waited for her father to give her a key to the natureof the interview and an intimation as to whether she should join in theconversation. She was quite capable of such small forethought, andDoctor Ravenel was worthy of the trust.
"Mr. Colburne is the son of Doctor Colburne, my dear," he observed assoon as his guest was seated. "You have heard me speak of the Doctor'spremature and lamented death. I think myself very fortunate in meetinghis son."
"You are very kind to call on us, Mr. Colburne," said the silver voicewith a musical accent which almost amounted to a singsong. "I hope youdon't hate Southerners," she added with a smile which made Colburne feelfor a moment as if he could not heartily hate Beauregard, then therepresentative man of the rebellion. "We are from Louisiana, you know."
"I regret to hear it," answered Colburne.
"Oh, don't pity us," she laughed. "It is not such a bad place."
"Please don't misunderstand me. I meant that I regret your exile fromyour home."
"Thank you for that. I don't know whether papa will thank you or not. Hedoesn't appreciate Louisiana. I don't believe he is conscious that hehas suffered a misfortune in being obliged to quit it. I am. New Bostonis very pretty, and the people are very nice. But you know how it is; itis bad to lose one's home."
"My dear, I can't help laughing at your grand misfortune," said theDoctor. "We are something like the Hebrews when they lost Pharaoh kingof Egypt, or like people who lose a sinking wreck by getting on a soundvessel. Besides, our happy home turned us out of doors."
The Doctor felt that he had a right to abuse his own, especially afterit had ill-treated him.
"Were you absolutely exiled, sir?" asked Colburne.
"I had to take sides. Those unhappy Chinese allow no neutrals--nothingbut themselves, the central flowery people, and outside barbarians. Theyhave fed on the poor blacks until they can't abide a man who isn't acannibal. He is a reproach to them, and they must make away with him.They remind me of a cracker whom I met at a cross road tavern in one ofmy journeys through the north of Georgia. This man, a red-nosed,tobacco-drizzling, whiskey-perfumed giant, invited me to drink withhim, and, when I declined, got furious and wanted to fight me. I toldhim that I never drank whiskey and that it made me sick, and finallysucceeded in pacifying him without touching his poison. In fact he mademe a kind of apology for having offered to cut my throat. 'Wa'al, factis, stranger,' said he, '_I_,' (laying an accent as strong as his liquoron the personal pronoun) '_I_ use whiskey.'--You understand theinference, I suppose: a man who refused whiskey was a contradiction, areproach to his personality: such a man he could not suffer to live. Itwas the Brooks and Sumner affair over again. Brooks says, 'Fact is _I_believe in slavery,' and immediately hits Sumner over the head for notbelieving in it."
"Something like my grandfather, who, when he had to diet, used to wantthe whole family to live on dry toast," observed Colburne. "For the timebeing he believed in the universal propriety and necessity of toast."
"Were you in danger of violence before you left New Orleans?" hepresently asked. "I beg pardon if I am too curious."
"Violence? Why, not precisely; not immediate violence. The breaking-offpoint was this. I must explain that I dabble in chemistry as well asmineralogy. Now in all that city of raw materialism, of cotton-bale andsugar-hogshead instinct--I can't call it intelligence--there was not aman of southern principles who knew enough of chemistry to make a fuse.They wanted to possess themselves of the United States forts in theirState. They supposed that they would be obliged to shell them. Theshells they had plundered from the United States arsenal; but the fuseswere wanting. A military committee requested me to fabricate them. Ofcourse I was driven to make an immediate choice between rebellion andloyalty. I took the first steamboat to New York, getting off just intime to escape the system of surveillance which the vigilance committeesestablished."
It may seem odd to some sensible people that this learned gentleman ofover fifty should expose his own history so freely to a young fellowwhom he had not seen until half an hour before. But it was a part of theDoctor's character to suppose that humanity took an interest in him justas he took an interest in all humanity; and his natural frankness hadbeen increased by contact with the prevailing communicativeness of hisopen-hearted fellow-citizens of the South. I dare say that he would haveunfolded the tale of his exile to an intelligent stage-driver by whom hemight have chanced to sit
, with as little hesitation as he poured itinto the ears of this graduate of a distinguished university andrepresentative of a staid puritanical aristocracy. He had no thought ofclaiming admiration for his self-sacrificing loyalty. His story wasworth telling, not because it was connected with his interests, butbecause it had to do with his sentiments and convictions. Why should henot relate it to a stranger who was evidently capable of sympathisingwith those sentiments and appreciating those convictions?
But there was another reason for the Doctor's frankness. At that timeevery circumstance of the opening civil war, every item of life thatcame from hostile South to indignant North, was regarded by all as aspecies of public property. If you put down your name on a hotelregister as arrived from Charleston, Savannah, Mobile, New Orleans, orany other point south of Mason & Dixon's line, you were immediatelyaddressed and catechised. People wanted to know how you escaped, and whyyou tried to escape; and were ready to accord you any credit youdemanded for perilous adventures and patriotic motives; and did notperceive it nor think a bit ill of you if you showed yourself somewhatof a romancer and braggart. And you, on the other hand, did not objectto telling your story, but let it out as naturally as a man just rescuedfrom drowning opens his heart to the sympathising crowd which greets himon the river bank.
Now Miss Ravenel was a rebel. Like all young people and almost allwomen she was strictly local, narrowly geographical in her feelings andopinions. She was colored by the soil in which she had germinated andbeen nurtured; and during that year no flower could be red, white andblue in Louisiana. Accordingly the young lady listened to the Doctor'sstory of his self-imposed exile and to his sarcasms upon the people ofher native city with certain pretty little starts and sniffs ofdisapprobation which reminded Colburne of the counterfeit spittings of akitten playing anger. She could not under any provocation quarrel withher father, but she could perseveringly and energetically disagree withhis opinions. When he had closed his tirade and history she broke forthin a defence of her darling Dixie.
"Now, papa, you are too bad. Mr. Colburne, don't you think he is toobad? Just see here. Louisiana is my native State, and papa has livedthere half his life. He could not have been treated more kindly, norhave been thought more of, than he was by those Ashantees, as he callsthem, until he took sides against them. If you never lived with thesoutherners you don't know how pleasant they are. I don't mean thoserough creatures from Arkansas and Texas, nor the stupid Acadians, northe poor white trash. There are low people everywhere. But I do say thatthe better classes of Louisiana and Mississippi and Georgia and SouthCarolina and Virginia, yes, and of Tennessee and Kentucky, are rightnice. If they don't know all about chemistry and mineralogy, they cantalk delightfully to ladies. They are perfectly charming at receptionsand dinner parties. They are so hospitable, too, and generous andcourteous! Now I call that civilization. I say that such people arecivilized."
"They have taught you Ashantee English, though," smiled the Doctor, whohas not yet fully realized the fact that his daughter has become a younglady, and ought no longer to be criticised like a school girl. "I amafraid Mr. Colburne won't understand what 'right nice' means."
"Oh, yes he will. Do try to understand it, Mr. Colburne," answers MissRavenel, coloring to her temples and fluttering like a canary whose cagehas been shaken, but still smiling good-naturedly. Her father's satire,delivered before a stranger, touched her, but could not irritate a goodtemper softened by affection.
"I must be allowed to use those Ashantee phrases once in a while," shewent on. "We learn them from our old mammas; that is, you know, our niceold black nurses. Well, I admit that the mammas are not grammarians. Iadmit that Louisiana is not perfect. But it is my Louisiana. And, papa,it ought to be your Louisiana. I think we owe fealty to our State, andshould go with it wherever it goes. Don't you believe in State rights,Mr. Colburne? Wouldn't you stand by Barataria in any and every case?"
"Not against the Union, Miss Ravenel," responded the young man, unshakenin his loyalty even by that earnest look and winning smile.
"Oh dear! how can you say so!" exclaims the lovely advocate ofsecession. "I thought New Englanders--all but Massachusettspeople--would agree with us. Wasn't the Hartford Convention held in NewEngland?"
"I can't help admiring your knowledge of political history. But theHartford Convention is a byeword of reproach among us now. We should assoon think of being governed by the Blue Laws."
At this declaration Miss Ravenel lost hope of converting her auditor.She dropped back in her corner of the sofa, clasping her hands andpouting her lips with a charming earnestness of mild desperation.
Well, the evening passed away delightfully to the young patriot,although it grieved his soul to find Miss Ravenel such a traitor to therepublic. It was nearly twelve when he bade the strangers good night andapologized for staying so late, and accepted an invitation to call nextday, and hoped they would continue to live in New Boston. He actuallytrembled with pleasure when Lillie at parting gave him her hand in thefrank southern fashion. And after he had reached his cosy bedroom on theopposite side of the public square he had to smoke a segar to composehimself to sleep, and succeeded so ill in his attempt to secure speedyslumber that he heard the town clock ring out one and then two of themorning before he lost his consciousness.
"Oh dear! papa, how he did hang on!" said Miss Ravenel as soon as thedoor had shut behind him.
Certainly it was late, and she had a right to be impatient with thevisitor, especially as he was a Yankee and an abolitionist. But MissRavenel, like most young ladies, was a bit of a hypocrite in talking ofyoung men, and was not so very ill pleased at the bottom of her heartwith the hanging on of Mr. Colburne.
Miss Ravenel's conversion from secession to loyalty Page 4
