Chapter II

When a young man, Mr. Hopkins arrived upon the spot where now stands the village of ——, with his bundle upon his stick, his sole fortune. He became what may be termed a squatter. It was then a dreary waste of girdled trees, and patches covered with black stumps. But his untiring perseverance and systematic industry were rewarded in time by beholding, from his cottage door, the fields of waving corn and the golden wheat, where once lurked the savage and prowled the ravenous beast.

In course of time, the place became settled; the present village sprang into existence; Mr. Hopkins “grew with its growth, and strengthened with its strength;” in short, Mr. Hopkins became a rich man, and consequently a man of consequence.

Mrs. Hopkins (poor good soul) died ere she could enjoy the wealth that her patient labors had assisted her husband in accumulating. She left one daughter, christened Dinah, and two sons. Upon the death of the “old man,” the sons moved to a strange land, (that is, about a hundred miles from their native vale.) Miss Dinah, or rather Diana, as she chose to be called, after the immortal Die Vernon, remained upon the “old place,” to uphold, as she properly said, the dignity of the Hopkinses.

Thus years wore away. Miss Die became the tyrant of fashion in her own village. She read Shakspeare, doated on Byron, and was subdued by Sir Walter Scott’s works. She languished and quoted poetry for nearly forty years. In youth, she scorned the rustic beaux that kneeled at her shrine; and, as years sped onward, none “bowed nor told their tale of love,” until, at length, Miss Die began seriously to think of a visit to her brothers, when the kind fates brought Mr. Micalf to the village, and there left him to the mercy of Cupid.

The major (as he was familiarly called) was rather short of stature, with an alderman’s corpulency,—famous for his good-nature, intolerable indolence, and devotion to whiskey-punch and the noxious weed. Being asthmatic, he seldom had recourse to any exertion—a long walk would cause him to puff and blow at least for a minute, ere he could catch breath to utter a word. Still Mr. Micalf found breath enough to become a successful wooer—and Miss Die persuaded her swain to elope with her by moonlight, as she could never survive the stare of the plebeians by the light of “gaudy day.”

It ever remained a doubt in the village, what was the exact age of the major. Many were of an opinion that sixty winters had frosted his brow. Others again asserted that he did not number, by a score, as many years as his bride. These latter, however, were the ladies.

Thursday arrived—and, after a weary watching from many a beaming eye, the sun at length disappeared behind the distant mountains, and twilight gently threw over the glowing sky its mantle of sombre gray. Lights flitted to and fro through the houses; an unusual bustle hummed through the quiet streets; the horses, disturbed after a day of labor, to be brought forth and harnessed to whatever vehicle their masters could boast of possessing, hung down their weary heads, with slow and measured steps patiently submitting to the yoke of bondage.

The sudden glare of lights, that streamed through the casements of the white cottage over the gravel walks, announced that preparations had ceased, and that visitors were momentarily expected.

There was the bride, her tall gaunt figure arrayed in white, flitting from room to room, not knowing where to station herself to make the best impression, and inwardly chafing at the perfume of tobacco that met her olfactory nerves, and the loss of her reticule, wherein were the keys of sundry closets and so forth, when the door opened and Mr., Mrs., and the four Misses Potts, with Miss Clapper, beheld the bride upon knees and hands, looking under an immense old-fashioned settee for her lost treasure.

Mrs. Micalf looked up, sprang to her feet, uttered a faint scream, and for a moment hid her face—then yielded her cheek to the salutations of the six ladies, and with much coyness permitted Mr. Potts to touch the tip of her ear.

“Well, I declare, I think you served us a pretty trick, Mrs. Micalf—a lady of your years to make a moonlight flitting—oh, fie!” cried Miss Clapper, in a querulous voice.

“Oh, spare me, dear friends; I feel the full force of the imprudence of the step. But be this my excuse, ‘I’ve scanned the actions of his daily life,’ and flatter myself I have secured happiness.”

“And Mr. Micalf to steal away so—he who hates walking so. Why, I thought it would almost have killed him to walk so far.”

“You are right, old lady,” cried the groom, who had entered unperceived, and slapping Miss Clapper upon the shoulder; “I can’t believe it yet; I haven’t drawn a long breath since—wheugh!—But Die would not be married any other way, though I told her we were making a couple of old fools of ourselves—wheugh—u—u—Never mind, Die, don’t be cast down at being called old—we all know you were young once! ha, ha! wheugh—u! Come, Potts, let’s go and drink good luck to midnight walks.”

“Mr. Micalf is so boisterous when he is in good spirits, and he does so love to plague me!” cried the bride, the quivering of her nostrils and upper lip expressing the workings of the inward passions.

Knock succeeded knock, and the influx of visitors, with the oft-repeated “wish you joy, wish you joy,” soon restored harmony to the spirits of the bride, who was in extacies at the crowd that had gathered around her. She quoted poetry, right and left; forgot, for the moment, that tobacco and punch existed; and some assert that even the major was forgotten! That was but scandal, however. Nevertheless, the major enjoyed seven pipes and five tumblers of punch, without once hearing the sound of Die’s voice; a luxury which, in the warmth of his feelings he solemnly whispered to Potts, had not been permitted him since his moonlight trip.

The hours sped onward—the merry laugh that rang so loud and clear from the midst of a group of young folks who were playing “hunt the slipper,” “my lady’s toilette,” &c. caused the heads of the matrons to turn from each other in high displeasure at the interruption of some tale of scandal!

The happiest moments, still the fleetest!—the hour arrived—the guests departed, and the mistress of the fairy scene began to wonder what had become of her lord. Looking through the empty rooms, peering in every corner by the aid of a feeble night-lamp, and almost suffocated with the vapor of candle-snuff, she was startled by the sonorous notes from her husband’s nasal organ. “I do believe the ass has gone to bed,” she mentally ejaculated. Rushing into her room, she beheld the head of the major, with his blue and white night-cap snugly resting upon her fine linen day pillow-cases. Jerking the pillows from under the offending head, she screamed:

“Major! why, Micalf, you are sleeping upon my beautiful cases with real thread-lace borders!”

“Bless me, what is the matter? Is the house on fire? O Lord, I smell smoke—fire!—fire!”

“Do be quiet now, and don’t make a fool of yourself; it’s only the pillow I wanted.”

“Oh, Die! is that you? You have frightened the very life out of me. Give me something to put under my head; my neck is almost broke.”

“There, my dear, is the night pillow. Now, never presume to go to bed again, until the cover is turned down and the day cases removed, and—bless me, how you have tossed the bed! Why, major, major, are you asleep already?”

“What is it, for heaven’s sake? Am I never to know what rest is again?”

“But, my dear—major, I say, shall I tuck you up snugly?”

“No! the devil! I don’t want to be reminded of my coffin every night by being tucked up,” and away went the clothes from the foot and side. “Oh, how I wish——” groaned the major, as Mrs. Micalf again patiently smoothed them down. The wish died upon his tongue, but it was embodied in his dreams:—Once more he was the quiet possessor of the snug little room, and no less snug little bed, at the “Full Moon,” the atmosphere dense with tobacco-smoke and the vapor of whiskey-punch regaling his nose—when the shrill, sharp voice of his help-meet, at dawn of day, dispelled the illusion, and, with the sun, he arose with the comfortable thought that he was not the only being that had sold peace and happiness for gold. And, ere the honey-moon had expired, Mr. and Mrs. Micalf began to perceive that they had made a great mistake in their moonlight flitting.