Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 4, No. 25, November, 1859

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 4, No. 25, November, 1859

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

For it was set down at the Ensor House, which we are to leave to-night,
half-regretful at not having seen the scorpion by which we always
expected to be bitten; for we had heard such accounts of it, patrolling
the galleries with its venomous tail above its head, that we had
thought a sight might be worth a bite. It was not to be, however. The
luggage is brought; John is gratified with a _peso_; and we take leave
with entire goodwill.

I mention our departure, only because it was Cuban and characteristic.
Returning by boat to Havana, we were obliged to be on board by ten
o'clock that evening, the boat starting at eleven. Of course, the
steamer was nowhere but a mile out in the stream; and a little
cockle-shell of a row-boat was our only means of attaining her. How
different, ye good New Yorkers and Bostonians, from your afternoon walk
on board the "Bay State," with valise and umbrella in hand, and all the
flesh-pots of Egypt in--well, in remembrance! After that degree of
squabbling among the boatmen which serves to relieve the feelings of
that habitually disappointed class of men, we chose our craft, and were
rowed to the steamer, whose sides were steep and high out of water. The
arrangements on board were peculiar. The body of the main deck was
occupied by the _gentlemen's_ cabin, which was large and luxurious. A
tiny after-cabin was fitted up for the ladies. In the region of the
machinery were six horrible staterooms, bare and dirty, the berths
being furnished simply with cane-bottoms, a pillow, and one unclean
sheet. Those who were decoyed into these staterooms endured them with
disgust while the boat was at anchor; but when the paddle-wheels began
to revolve, and dismal din of clang and bang and whirr came down about
their ears, and threatened to unroof the fortress of the brain, why,
then they fled madly, precipitately, leaving their clothes mostly
behind them. But I am anticipating. The passengers arrived and kept
arriving; and we watched, leaning over the side, for Don Antonito, who
was to accompany our voyage. Each boat had its little light; and to see
them dancing and toppling on the water was like a fairy scene. At last
came our friend; and after a little talk and watching of the stars, we
betook ourselves to rest.

Many of the Dons were by this time undressed, and smoking in their
berths. As there was no access to the ladies' cabin, save through the
larger one, she who went thither awaited a favorable moment and ran,
looking neither to the right hand nor the left. The small space was
tolerably filled by Cuban ladies in full dress.--_Mem_. They always
travel in their best clothes.--The first navigation among them was a
real balloon-voyage, with collisions; but they soon collapsed and went
to bed. All is quiet now; and she of whom we write has thrown herself
upon the first vacant bed, spreading first a clean napkin on the
extremely serviceable pillow. Sleep comes; but what is this that
murders sleep? A diminutive male official going to each berth, and
arousing its fair occupant with "Dona Teresita," or whatever the name
may be, "favor me with the amount of your passage-money." No comment is
necessary; here, no tickets,--here, no stewardess to mediate between
the unseen captain and the unprotected female! The sanctuary of the sex
invaded at midnight, without apology and without rebuke! Think of that,
_those_ passengers who have not paid their fare, and, when invited to
call at the captain's office and settle, do so, and be thankful! The
male passengers underwent a similar visitation. It is the Cuban idea of
a compendious and economic arrangement.

And here ends our account of Matanzas, our journey thither, stay, and
return. Peace rest upon the fair city! May the earthquake and hurricane
spare it! May the hateful Spanish government sit lightly on its strong
shoulders! May the filibusters attack it with kisses, and conquer it
with loving-kindness! So might it be with the whole island-vale!

* * * * *

THE FIRST AND THE LAST.

It was the last December of the eighteenth century. All night a fierce
northeast snow-storm had been hissing and drifting through the frozen
air, pelting angrily at the shuttered and curtained windows of the
rich, and shrieking with scornful laughter as it forced its way through
the ill-fitting casements and loose doors of the poor, clutching at
them with icy fingers as they cowered over their poor fires, and
spreading over the garret-beds in which they sought to hide from him a
premature shroud of cold white snow.

But with morning the storm ceased, and a little before noon the sun,
peering from behind his clouds, seemed to wink with astonishment at
seeing how much had been done in his absence.

Not only the sun, but Mr. Phineas Coffin, guardian of the "town's
poor," in the town of Newport, was astir, and, standing at the door of
the "poor-'us," bent a contemplative eye upon the progress made by two
stout youths who were clearing the snow from the sidewalks and paths
upon his premises.

Mr. Coffin perceived that a trial of skill and speed was going on
between one of his own pioneers and a lad similarly engaged on behalf
of the next estate. About half-way between the rapidly approaching
competitors stood a rough-hewn block of stone, marking the boundaries
of the two estates.

To first reach this, the winning-post, was evidently the emulous desire
of each. As they approached near and nearer, the snow flew from their
shovels with a force and velocity which would certainly have reminded
Mr. Coffin of a steam snow-plough, had he ever seen or heard, of such a
thing, which he most assuredly never had.

Each boy performed prodigies of skill and valor. The "poor-'us" lad
evidently gained, and his patron did not conceal a wide smile of
satisfaction; the rival looked up, saw it, was stung with generous
rage, threw himself with fury upon his shovel, and in three enormous
plunges laid bare his own side of the post, before "poor-'us" had come
within a foot of it.

Then, clapping his numb fingers upon his thighs, the successful
champion uttered a melodious crow, which so disgusted the spectator
that he was about to retire within doors, when his eyes fell upon a
thinly clad, timid-looking woman who was advancing along the newly
opened path, casting deprecating glances at the two boys, who from
peaceful rivalry were now proceeding to open warfare, carried on with
the ammunition so plentifully spread before them.

Nor was the alarm of the poor woman groundless; for, as she advanced
into the battle-field, she found herself saluted upon the breast with
an immense snow-ball, which, being of loose construction, adhered to
the red broadcloth cloak of the pedestrian, forming a conspicuous and
remarkable ornament to that garment.

"Come, stop that, you young limbs, or I'll----," shouted the chivalric
Phineas, hastily gathering, as he spoke, material for a formidable
missile, which, being completed before the sentence, was used by him as
a ready means of rounding his period, being at once more forcible and
easier to come at than the words which most men would have used.

Besides, Nathaniel, the poorhouse lad, turning round at sound of his
master's voice, presented so fair a mark, with his gaping mouth, that,
half involuntarily, the snow-ball left Mr. Coffin's hand, and the next
instant formed the contents of Nathaniel's open mouth, leaving,
however, a liberal surplusage to ornament his cheeks, chin, and nose.
The recipient of this bulletin choked, spluttered, and pawed at his
face after the manner of a cat who has tried to eat a wasp.

His rival did not seek to conceal the expression of his triumph and
derision, the consequence of which was, that, as soon as "poor-'us"
could see, he fell upon his antagonist, and both immediately
disappeared from view in the bosom of an enormous drift.

"Come right along, Mum," called Mr. Coffin to the horror-stricken
woman, who stood contemplating the spot where a convulsive floundering
and heaving beneath the snow showed that the frozen element had not yet
extinguished the fire of passion in the breasts of the buried
heroes,--"come right along, and don't be scaart of them young uns.
They're dreffal rude, I know; but then boys will be boys."

The woman returned no answer to this time-honored defence of youthful
enormities, but, hurrying on, reached the door, saying,--

"How's your health this morning, Mr. Coffin?"

"Waal, Ma'am, I'm pooty middlln' well, thank ye," replied Phineas,
slowly, and with an evident effort at recollection; then suddenly
added, with more vivacity,--

"Why, it's Widder Janes,--a'n't it? Declare to goodness I didn't know
ye, with yer hood over yer face. Walk in, Miss Janes, and see my
woman,--won't ye?"

"Waal, I dunno as I can stop," replied the widow, beginning,
nevertheless, to shake the snow from her scanty skirts, and to stamp
her numb feet, which were protected from the biting cold by a pair of
old yarn socks, drawn over the shoes.

"I was wantin' to see ye, a minit," continued she; "but Miss Coffin
allers keeps cleaned up so slick, I don't hardly darst to come in."

"Oh, waal," replied Phineas, with a chuckle of satisfaction at the
compliment to his wife. "Ye look nice enough for anybody's folks. Come
right in, this way."

"I dunno how 'tis," continued the visitor, as she followed her host
through the long entry, "that Miss Coffin can allers be so forehanded
with her work, an' do sich a master sight on't, too. She don't never
seem to be in the suds, Monday nor no time."

Mr. Coffin had reached the door of the "keeping-room" as the widow
concluded her last remark; but pausing, with his thumb upon the latch,
he turned, and, looking over his shoulder, whispered, with an emphatic
nod,--

"Fact is, Miss Janes, there a'n't sich a great many women jest like
Miss Coffin."

"There a'n't no two ways about that," murmured Miss Janes, assentingly,
as the door was thrown open.

"Walk right in. Here, Marthy, the widder Janes has called to see you
this morning."

A quiet, middle-aged woman turned round from the table, where she was
fitting patches to a pair of pauper trousers. Her face was sweet, her
voice low, and, though she was of middle age, every one agreed that
"Miss Coffin was a real pooty woman, an' a harnsome woman too."

"How does thee do, Keziah Janes? I am glad to see thee. Take a seat by
the fire, and warm thee after thy cold walk."

"I can't stop a minit; but it's as cheap settin' as stannin', I do
suppose," replied the widow, with a nervous little laugh, as she seated
herself in the proffered chair upon the clean red hearth, and commenced
her business by saying,--

"I was wantin' to speak with you, Mr. Coffin, about poor Mr.
Widdrinton."

"Widdrinton,--who's he?" inquired Phineas.

"Waal," commenced the widow, settling herself in her chair, and
assuming the air of one who has a story to narrate. "You know I have my
thirds in the house my poor husband left. It wa'n't sold, as it had
ought to ben,--for Samooel (that's _his_ brother) never's ben easy that
I should have the rooms I have; but they're what was set off for me,
an' so he can't help himself; on'y he's allers a-thornin.' when he gits
a chance.

"But that a'n't nyther here nor there. What I was a-comin' to was this.
Ruther better 'n a year ago, a man come to me and wanted to know ef I
used all my rooms. I told him I hadn't no use for the garrit, 'cept to
dry my yarbs in (for I think yarbs are drefful good in case o'
sickness, Miss Coffin,--don't you?) An' then he said he wanted a place
to sleep in, an' his breakfast an' supper, an' wanted to know if I
would take him so.

"Waal, I thought about it a spell, an' I concluded I was too old to
mind the speech o' people, and I hadn't no other objection, so I said
he might come,--an' he did, that very day.

"Waal, at fust he had some kind o' work to do writin', an' he seemed to
git along very comf'table,--at least, fur's I know,--for I was out
tailorin' all day mostly, same as I be now; but last fall the writin'
seemed to gin out all to oncet, an' he begun to kerry off his furnitoor
an' books to sell, an' finally he paid up all he was owin' of me, an'
told me he didn't want no more meals, but would find himself.

"Waal, I told him, that, seein' things wuz as they wuz with him, I
shouldn't take no rent for the garrit, an' I could dry my yarbs there
jest as well as ef he warn't there; an' he looked kind o' red, and held
his head up a minit, an' then he thanked me, an' said, 'God bless you!'
an' said he'd pay me, ef he got any more work.

"Waal, he didn't git no more; an' after the furnitoor an' the books,
his cloze begun to go.

"Then I begun to be afeard he didn't have nothin' to eat, an' oncet in
a while I'd kerry him up a mess o' vittles; but it allers seemed
drefful hard for him to take 'em, an' fin'ly he told me not to do so no
more, an' said suthin' to himself about devourin' widders. So I didn't
darst to go up agin, he looked so kind o' furce an' sharp, till, last
night, I reck'n'd the snow would sift in through the old ruff, an' I
went up to offer him a comf'table for his bed. I knocked; but he didn't
make no answer, so I pushed the door open an' went in. It was a good
while sence I'd seen the inside o' the room,--for when he heerd me
comin' up, he'd open the door a crack an' peek out while he spoke to
me; so when I got inside the room and looked about, I was all took
aback an' gawped round like a fool, an' no wunder nyther; for of all
the good furnitoor and things he'd brought, there wa'n't the fust thing
to be seen, save and 'xcept a kind o' frame covered with cloth stannin'
ag'inst the wall, an' an old straw-bed on the floor, with him on it,
an' a mis'able old comf'table kivered over him."

"And this bitter weather, too! Oh, Keziah, what did thee do?" asked
Mrs. Coffin, in a tearful voice.

"Why, I went up to the bedside, (ef you may call it so,) an' said, sez
I, 'Why, Lor' sakes, Mr. Widdrinton,'----an' then I hild up, for I
ketchcd a sight of his face, an' I thought he wuz gone for sartin. He
wuz as cold an' as white as that 'ere snow, an' it warn't till I'd felt
of his heart an' foun' that it beat a little that I thought of sich a
thing as his comin' to. But as soon as I found he'd got a breath o'
life in him, I didn't waste much time till I'd got him wropped up in a
hot blanket with a jug o' water to his feet, an' some hot tea inside on
him. Then he come to a little, an' said he hadn't eat nor drank for two
days an' nights."

"Oh, Keziah!" sobbed Mrs. Coffin; while her husband, plunging his hands
deep into his breeches-pockets, and elevating his eyebrows till they
were lost in his shaggy hair, exclaimed,--

"Good Je-hosaphat!" which was the nearest approach to an oath in which
he ever indulged.

"An' so," pursued the widow, after enjoying for a moment the
consternation of her audience,--"an' so I thought I had better come an'
see ef he couldn't be took in here; not that I wouldn't do for him, an'
be glad to, fur as I could, but he a'n't in a state to be left alone,
an' you know my trade takes me away consid'able from home,--an' which,
if I don't foller it, why, when I git a little older, I shall have to
come here myself, an' be a burden on your hands an' the town's."

"We would take good care of thee, if thee did come, Keziah," said Mrs.
Coffin, in whom the habitual equanimity of the "Friend" had conquered
the emotion of the woman. "Though I do not deny that it is pleasanter
and better for thee to support thyself, as thee always has done."

"I don't doubt you would be good to me, Miss Coffin, an' thank ye,
Ma'am, kindly for a-sayin' of it; but you know innerpendance is sweet
to all on us."

"Surely, surely, Keziah; and now, Phineas, I suppose thee will see at
once about this poor man, won't thee?"

"Yes, Marthy, yes. I'll go right off and see one of the selectmen; and
I reckon, by the time you git a bed ready for him, we shall be along."

Phineas accordingly bustled out of the room; and Mrs. Janes, after
lingering a few moments, took her leave and returned to her charge,
inwardly congratulating herself on having so new and interesting a
piece of intelligence with which to lighten her next day's "tailoring."

Mrs. Coffin, left alone, stood for a moment considering, and then,
opening a door, called gently,--

"Faith!"

"Yes, mother," replied a voice whose soft tones seemed the echo of her
own. A moment after, a slender, dark-eyed girl, about twenty years of
age, entered the room, and said cheerfully,--

"What is it, mother?"

"I have somewhat to tell thee, Faith."

And the Quakeress repeated, in calm, unemphatic language, the story
narrated by Mrs. Janes.

"The poor man will soon be here, Faith," continued she, "and I wanted
to ask what thee thinks should be done with him. Thee knows there is no
room that can have a fire in it, except the one where Polly and Susan
sleep, and they are both too sick to be moved into the cold"--

"He shall have my room, mother," said Faith, quietly.

"Thy room, child?"

"Yes, mother; and I will sleep here on the couch. I should like it very
much indeed; for you know I never have been able to be quite the
orderly and regular girl you have tried to make me."

"Thee is a good girl," said the mother, quietly.

"Not half so good a girl as I ought to be, with so good a mother,"
replied Faith, throwing her arms about her mother's neck and kissing
her fondly.

The elder woman returned the caress with an involuntary warmth, which,
pure and natural though it might be, was yet at variance with the
strict rule of her sect, which had taught her to avoid everything like
compliment or caress, as savoring of the manners of the "world's
people."

She therefore, after one kiss, gently repelled the girl, saying,--

"Nay, Faith, but it sufficeth. Go, then, if thee will, and make ready
thy chamber for this sick man, while I prepare him some broth."

An hour later, a pung or box-sleigh drew up at the poor-house door,
from which was lifted a long, gaunt figure, carefully enveloped in
blankets and cloaks. As he was taken from the sleigh, he feebly
murmured a few words, to which Phineas Coffin replied kindly,--

"Don't be scart,--it's all safe, and Nathaniel will fetch it right in
after us."

"What! this 'ere?" queried the youth called Nathaniel, while he lifted
from the sleigh, somewhat contemptuously, a long flat something,
carefully enveloped in a cotton case.

"Yes. Fetch it along this way," replied Phineas; and Nathaniel followed
the chair, in which the sick man was carried, into the pretty little
maiden chamber which Faith had so quietly relinquished to one who she
thought needed it more than herself.

Mother and daughter stood ready to receive their new charge, and see
him comfortable in the warm, soft bed which they had prepared for him.

"Thee will soon get rested now, friend, and go to sleep,--won't thee?"
said Mrs. Coffin, in her gentle voice, as she turned down the sheet a
little more evenly.

"Where is it?" panted the exhausted sufferer, trying to look beyond his
kind nurse into the room.

"What does thee mean, friend?"

"It is this thing, mother," said Faith, bringing it forward, and
leaning it against the wall at the foot of the bed. "He brought it with
him," continued she, in a low voice; "and father says, he didn't seem
to care half so much about his own comfort as to have _that_ safe."

"It is my--property,--all I have--left. I won't be--parted from it.
You--sha'n't take it--away," gasped the sick man, in an excited tone.

"Thee shall not be parted from it, friend," said Mrs. Coffin,
soothingly. "Surely we would not deprive thee of what is thine own, and
what thee seems to value so much. Now if thee will try to go to sleep,
I will stay with thee the while, and when thee wakes give thee some
broth to strengthen thee."

"Let--let _her_ stay.--Go away,--the rest of you," whispered the feeble
voice, while the weary eyes rested upon Faith's grave, sweet face.

"Thee means my daughter? Faith, does thee wish to stay? or had thee
rather I should?"

"I will stay, mother, if he wishes it."

"Very well, daughter. When thee is weary, come down, and I, or one of
the women, will take thy place."

Mrs. Coffin left the room, and Faith, her sewing in her hand, was about
seating herself by the fire, when the voice of the stranger summoned
her to the bedside.

Turning, she found his hollow and gleaming eyes fixed sternly upon her,
while a long, lean finger was pointed alternately at her and the frame
leaning against the wall.

"Girl!"

"Can I do something for you?" asked Faith, kindly.

"Don't you look at it--or let any one--else, while I'm--asleep."

"I certainly will not."

"Promise!"

"I do promise."

"Swear!"

"Nay, friend, that would be wrong," replied the girl, unconsciously
adopting the phraseology of the Quakers, while expressing a sentiment
learned from them; for though Faith had been brought up outwardly in
the creed of her father, she had, without being aware of it, adopted
many of the tenets to which her mother held.

"I will promise you very solemnly, however," continued she, "that I
will neither look at yonder thing nor allow any one else to do so; and
you will be wrong to doubt my word."

"I don't.--What is your name?"

"Faith."

"A good omen. Mine is--Ichabod."

"Ichabod Widdrinton?"

"Ichabod. Call me so,--all of you."

"Very well, if it is your name, we will. Now you must go to sleep."

"Sit there,--where I can see you."

Faith complied with this request, although uncertain whether it was not
prompted by a distrust of her promise. The stranger soon slept, and his
young nurse then made a more attentive survey of his features than she
had yet done. He seemed not over forty years of age, and would, in
health, have been considered a handsome man,--although the fine silky
hair, thin beard, sensitive nostril, and delicate mouth could never
have expressed much of strength or resolution.

The traces of disease and starvation were painfully apparent; but it
seemed to the thoughtful Faith that behind these she could perceive in
the sorrowful, downward curve of the lips, in the lines of the hollow,
throbbing temples, in the gloomy light of the dark eyes, symptoms of a
long corroding care, which, though secretly, had done its work of
devastation more surely and more ruthlessly than the more apparent
foes.

"How he must have suffered!" murmured she. It seemed as if the tone of
gentle pity had penetrated the light slumber, and reached the heart of
the sick man,--for, opening his eyes, he smiled upon the girl, a wan,
sad smile, which was at once an assent and a benison.

From that moment, until the welcome end of that sad life, Ichabod would
patiently endure no tendance but Faith's; and she, with the calm and
silent self-abnegation of her order, (for Florence Nightingale is but a
type, and there are those all about us who lack but her opportunities,)
devoted herself to him.

Her mother sometimes remonstrated, and begged her to yield her place in
the sick-chamber to her or to one of the pauper women; but Faith, whose
grave sweetness concealed more determination than a stranger would have
guessed, would simply say,--

"Dear mother, what is a little fatigue to one as well as I am, compared
with the pleasure of making this poor stranger's death-bed happy and
quiet?--which it certainly would not be, if he was crossed in his fancy
for seeing me about him." And the conscientious mind of the mother was
forced to yield assent to this simple logic.

A few weeks thus passed, and then the sick man became a dying man. The
pauper inmates of the house were all willing and anxious to watch
beside him through the long nights, but Ichabod received all their
attentions very ungraciously; nor was it till Faith told him, in her
kind, decided way, that she could not stay with him at night, that he
consented to allow the others to do so.

At last there came the evening when the physician said to Mrs. Coffin,
as he entered the room where she sat with her husband,--

"He won't last till morning,--'tis impossible."

"Then thee had better watch beside him, Phineas. It is not fitting that
Faith should do so."

"Certain. I'll go right up, and send her down," replied Phineas,
readily.

But when the arrangements for the night were made known to Ichabod, he
caught hold of Faith's dress, as she stood at his bedside bidding him
good-night, and gasped out,--

"No, no!--you!--I must have--you!--I shall die--die to-night!--And--and
I want to tell--to tell you something.--Stay,--stay, Faith!--it's the
last--last time, and I--I shall never trouble any one--any more."

"Let me stay, mother; father, do!" pleaded Faith, looking from one to
the other. "I should be very unhappy, always, if I was obliged to deny
him this last request. I shall not be afraid, mother; and Betty can
sleep in the chair by the fire, if you wish it, so as to be at hand, if
"----

"Well, child, if thee feels a call to do so, and it will make thee
unhappy to be denied, I will hold my peace. But thee must certainly
have Betty here, and promise to send her to call me, if Ichabod should
be worse,--won't thee?"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20