“How thoroughly elegant and clever this is of you, my dear Mrs. Allen Barnaby, thus to give up everything, as I may say, for your great work. But I promise you, my dear madam, that your light shall not be hid under a bushel, but shall blaze away before the judge, and before everybody else of the greatest real high-standing in New Orleans. They will one and all be ready to worship the ground you tread upon when I tell them, as I most certainly shall do, that you give up everything for the sake of progressing with your travels. You don’t know, my dear Mrs. Allen Barnaby, the prodigious fuss that the people will make about you, as you go on, if it is actually known for certain that you are positively employed upon such a work as we have been talking about.”
“Known for certain, my dear friend?” returned Mrs. Allen Barnaby, with something like indignation in her tone; “do you mean to say that anybody doubts it?”
“I don’t mean, I expect, to say anything that could hurt your feelings, dear lady,” returned Mrs. Beauchamp, “but when you know our splendid national character better, you will understand the sort of fineness of intellect which always makes them doubt everything that they don’t see with their eyes. And I must say that this, taken together with some other of their ways of going on, does make out upon the whole the most finished model of a perfect gentleman in the world. Because you see, my dear lady, that this doubtingness does not argue any want of trustfulness, which might seem suspicious and no way noble. But that’s what nobody can say. For where is the nation to be found who gives and takes credit like the Americans? Oh, no! It is not for want of trust; for everything is done upon trust here, and if it was not it would never be done at all. But it is just about things where nothing is to be got by giving or taking credit that they are so particular; for then their fine national sense tells them, plain enough, that the best way to believe is to see.”
“That is indeed a very fine trait to which you have just alluded,” said Mrs. Allen Barnaby, seizing her note-book, which for a moment she had laid aside, “that national habit of feeling confidence, and acting so completely as you say upon credit, ought to be dwelt upon, and must, I should think, my dear madam, have a very considerable effect upon my English readers; for in our country, as I have always understood, it is necessary to show a good deal of ready money before you can ever get credit at all. It really is a very fine national trait.”
And Mrs. Allen Barnaby wrote several lines in her note-book.
“It is a fine national trait replied Mrs. Beauchamp, with great energy, and it is American all over. But, to come back, my dear lady, to what I was saying about our clear-headed citizens liking to see before they believe, it is quite beautiful, I expect, to observe how the two things unite and make one, as I may say, in the minds of our patriots. And you, my dear Mrs. Allen Barnaby, who are smart enough so clearly to comprehend these first-rate qualities, you would, I expect, be the very last to refuse compliance with the wishes of all the people of first standing in New Orleans at this moment present. You would not like to do that, Mrs. Allen Barnaby, I guess? — Say.”
“Not for the universe, my dearest friend!” exclaimed the authoress. “Tell me but what these patriotic gentlemen wish me to do, and I will do it instantly.”
“There is not a single one of them, my dear madam, but what shall be availed of your great obligingness,” returned her friend. “All that I wish you to do, my excellent lady, is just that you should write out a bit of a sort of introductory chapter, saying what you are going to do, and what you think of all you have seen as yet, and your principles and opinions about the slaves; and then write at the top of it the title in good large letters, that should look something like the beginning of a real book, and that, I guess, will be all they wish for just at present; and for this I won’t deny but what they are longing, one and all of them. They took care to avail me of that, I promise you, before I took leave of Mrs. Judge Johnson last night.”
There was something rather abruptly startling to Mrs. Allen Barnaby in this unexpected demand, but being a woman of nerve, instead of a nervous woman, she sustained the attack with great resolution, and after about a moment’s reflection, replied, smilingly, “You are aware, my dear friend, that the book in question is to be the history of my travels through your noble country. Do you think that as yet I have seen enough of it to venture upon writing anything?”
“Oh dear me, yes, my good lady, without any question of doubt you have,” replied Mrs. Beauchamp. “All that we ask for as yet, you know, is just what sort of feeling the first sight of the country produced; and your views, founded upon your own good sense, about the niggers; promising, you know, to study the question deeply as you progress, and then the title; and that’s just about all that we want for the present, so that a mere page or two of writing you see will do.”
“Then a page or two of writing shall be produced immediately,” replied Mrs. Allen Barnaby with decision. “But of course, you are aware, dear madam, that we authors always find it necessary to be alone when we write our books. It is always a terrible pain to part with you, my dear Mrs. Beauchamp, but if I am to set about writing at once, I must have a minute or two to myself if you please, just to think about it.”
Mrs. Beauchamp herself seemed to consider that this was no more than reasonable, and hearing Mrs. General Gregory’s carriage drive away at that moment, she got up at once and left the room, saying as she went towards the door, “Oh my! how I do envy you, Mrs. Allen Barnaby! Such a subject to be sure as you have got before you; and such kind and partial readers as you are like to find among us.”
“Envy me, indeed!” muttered the over-hurried authoress, as the door was closed upon her; “what idiot fools they must all be to fancy that I have seen any wonders to write about in rather less than a week. The most wonderful thing I know about them is what I got from Donny, as to their every one of them being cheats, and that is curious enough to be sure, and might amuse the folks at home to know, if one did but dare to tell it. But this is all folly and nonsense, and as like as can be to quarrelling with one’s bread and butter. If they were not the vain peacocks they are, how would my sitting down to write a book about them be so like as it is to make my fortune before it is half done?”
And soothed by this agreeable reflection, Mrs. Allen Barnaby really did set about her task in good earnest, settling her chair, placing a whole quire of paper before her, and fixing a steel pen to her fancy.
“Half done?” she repeated, with a little, quiet, solitary laugh.
“Half a sheet will be enough to turn all their heads, and to bring them crawling on all fours to my feet, if I do but put in palaver enough.”
And now the important business was actually begun, and Mrs. Allen Barnaby in turning over the first page of her book turned over a new page in her own history also; and she felt this — felt that her genius had now brought her to another epoch of her fate, and she doubted not but that she should date from it the growth and the ripening of honour, profit, and renown.
“What matters it,” said she, renewing her soliloquy, “what matters it how or in what manner a book or anything else is managed, so that one gets just exactly the thing one wants by it?
It would be just as easy for me to write, all truth as all lies, about this queer place, and all these monstrous odd people, but wouldn’t I be a fool if I did any such thing? — and is it one bit more trouble to write all these monstrous fine words, just like what I have read over and over again in novels, — is it one bit more trouble I should like to know, writing them all in one sense instead of the other?”
Mrs. Allen Barnaby suspended her soliloquy at this point, and began leisurely and critically to read what she had written. She smiled — as perhaps only authors smile, as she perused the sentences which she had composed.
“I always have succeeded in everything that I attempted to do,” she said, with a feeling of triumphant confidence which made her grasp her pen firmly, and replenish it with ink as confidently as ever soldier drew his sword, or cocked his
pistol; and again she wrote. Page after page became covered with the somewhat broad and square, but tolerably firm characters of her pen, till once again j she stopped, took breath, and reasoned a little.
“Well, to be sure,” thought she, “these American people do seem to be out of luck, by their own account, in all the books that have been written about them. Poor souls! By what they say I suppose they have been pretty roughly drawn over the coals, by one and all of the author gentry that have set to work upon them; and then here come I, quite as well able to write a book as any of them, I fancy, and ready enough for my own particular reasons to praise them all, up to the very skies; and yet, somehow or other, I don’t suppose that any living soul, but themselves, will believe there is a word of truth in it from beginning to end; and that I do call being monstrous unlucky. But what the deuce do I care for that? I have got an object, I suppose, and my business is to obtain it, without bothering my brains about who will or will not believe all the things that I choose to write down.”
And now again Mrs, Allen Barnaby resumed her pen, and the colourless paper became rapidly tinted by her ink.
“It is a good thing, however,” she resumed, “that it goes off so glib and easy as it seems to do. If I was always quite sure about the spelling of the words, I declare I think I should find it quite as easy as talking. I do wonder sometimes, where I got all my cleverness from. There isn’t many, though I say it that shouldn’t — but that’s only when nobody hears me — there isn’t many that could go on as I have done, from the very first almost that I remember anything, always getting on, and on, and on. There’s a pretty tolerable difference, thank heaven! between what I am now with judges and members, and I don’t know who all, smirking and speechifying to me, and what I was when my name was Martha Compton, without two decent gowns perhaps to my back, and not knowing where on earth to get another when they were gone! However,” added the retrospective lady, smiling, as some comical recollection seemed to cross her mind, “I contrived to manage pretty well even then, and I shall contrive to manage pretty well now, too, or I’m greatly mistaken. There; that’s enough for one bout,” and so saying, the well pleased Mrs. Allen Barnaby laid the sheets she had filled, neatly together, and went to look at herself for a minute or two in the glass.
“Well,” she murmured, again in soothing soliloquy, “if I don’t look quite as young as I did when I was Martha Compton, I have gained in dignity quite as much as I’ve lost in beauty. I do look like a duchess, I’ll be hanged if I don’t — and I do believe in my conscience, that when I can get the things to put on, I dress as well as any woman that ever lived — I see nobody anywhere that looks as really stylish as I do, and just the sort of thing, I should think, for a fashionable authoress — no shyness, no stupid, awkward fear of anybody or anything. I certainly have, thank God! a great many advantages — and I may thank myself that I know how to make use of them.”
In short, few authors ever rose from their first hour of literary labour better satisfied with themselves and their production, than Mrs. Allen Barnaby. But she had still another hour of leisure before it was necessary for her to begin dressing for dinner, and for an evening party that was to follow after; Mrs. Carmichael having obligingly desired her boarders to invite any friends they liked, as she was going to have a soirée herself.
On looking at her watch, and perceiving that this unoccupied interval remained, Mrs. Allen Barnaby’s first thought was to employ it by going to seek “Patty and the Perkinses,” in order to indulge herself by vapouring a little about her new occupation; but a second thought brought with it a doubt as to how far any one of the three might be capable of appreciating the species of dignity which she was beginning very strongly to feel belonged to her, in her new character, and she therefore changed her purpose into the much more profitable one of sitting down again to her writing-table.
“I know a thing will put ’em all in a rapture of delight,” thought Mrs. Allen Barnaby, as she again took up her pen. “I will just write down a list of questions for Mrs. Beauchamp, or her famous Judge Johnson to answer, and they will do double work, or I am greatly mistaken, for I will put them all upon thinking and saying that I am so clever, and so anxious for information! And at the same time it will give them exactly what they seem to love best in the world, and that is an opportunity of talking about themselves, and their country, and their glorious constitution.”
She then took a fresh sheet of paper, and after a little reflection produced the following list of interrogatories: —
“In what manner does the republican form of government appear to affect the social habits of the people?
“How far does the absence of a national form of worship produce the results anticipated from it?
“At what degree of elevation may the education of the ladies of the Union be considered to stand, when compared to that received by the females of other countries?
In what manner was slavery originally instituted?
“And what are its real effects both on the black and the white population?”
Mrs. Allen Barnaby almost laughed aloud with delight, when she had written the above; and in truth she had very sufficient reason to be contented with herself. A very few days had passed since the hour in which she had heard, for the first time in her life, any one of the above subjects alluded to; and had not the admirable quickness of her charming intellect enabled her to catch the very words which she had heard used by the distinguished patriots among whom she had so happily fallen, the writing the above pithy sentences would have been as completely out of her power as the inditing so much Greek. But never did any woman know better how to profit by opportunity than Mrs. Allen Barnaby, and great as was the elevation to which she now appeared likely to reach, it is impossible to deny that she deserved it.
She then began in excellent spirits the somewhat laborious but always delightful labours of the toilet, with a heart as gay, and an eye very nearly as bright, as when she had dressed to meet Lord Mucklebury at her first Cheltenham ball. In truth, everything seemed to favour her projects, and assure her the most unqualified success. The party about to assemble that evening, in Mrs. Carmichael’s ample saloon, was likely to be very miscellaneous, inasmuch as every boarder had the privilege of giving invitations, as freely as Mrs. Carmichael herself, an arrangement which could not fail of bringing together exactly such a mixture of “all sorts of men,” as it would be most desirable for her to “gain golden opinions” from. And golden, or at any rate, silver opinions, she was determined to make them.
Mrs. Allen Barnaby was still in the act of adoring —
With bead uncovered, the cosmetic powers — when the major entered. He was immediately struck by the general brightness and animation of her aspect, and exclaimed —
“Heyday, my Barnaby! — what has happened now? If there ware any Lady Susans here, I should say that some of them had been making some charming proposal for taking you to court again. Upon my soul, my dear, you look as if you had been eating live birds, and that their bright little eyes were looking out, through your own. Who have you seen? — what have you been doing?”
And though the major as he spoke began steadily enough the business of refreshing his dress, he continual to keep his eyes fixed upon his ample spouse, with a good deal of curiosity, and it may be, with a little admiration.
“Who have I seen, and what have I been doing?” repeated his lady, with a very benignant smile; “as to seeing, Mr. Major, I have seen little or nothing — except, indeed, that everlasting Mrs. Beauchamp. But as to doing — it is not my place to talk about that, Donny, dear. I will just leave you to form your own judgment on the subject; upon my word, we have neither of us any time to talk about it now! for I’m not half done yet; and as for you, your beard is as long as Aaron’s, major, though I know you mowed it only yesterday, but that comes of the climate, you know; so set to, there’s a good man; and in the course of the evening I will see if I cannot indulge you, my dear, with a little insight into
what I have done, am doing, and may be about to do.”
“Well, I must consent, I suppose, to live in the dark, my dear, till it shall be your will and pleasure to grant me light,” returned her amiable husband; and while the dressing lasted, nothing further passed between them on the subject of Mrs. Allen Barnaby’s occupations, except a few mystic, and perfectly unintelligible words, uttered from time to time, by the lady herself.
CHAPTER XX.
THE evening party at Mrs. Carmichael’s was a very large one — much larger, as that panting and blowing lady assured the company, than she had at all expected; adding, however, that if they could all make themselves comfortable, she should be right down glad they were all come — though for sure and certain she did not expect the one-half so many.
Neither the invited nor the inviters, however, appeared at all offended by these hints, and tea, coffee, lemonade, and whisky drinking, went on very prosperously. At length, Mrs. Beauchamp (who, in answer to a question gently asked, had learnt from her friend, Mrs. Allen Barnaby, that she had no objection whatever to her mentioning the fact of her having actually begun her work), addressing herself particularly to that portion of the company which crowded round herself and her splendid English friend, said —
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