Part 2 — THE MAJOR’S WEDDING.

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A VERITABLE STORY TOLD BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ.

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“Ah! Mr. Editor, glad to see you in this cramped hole—no air, hot as a furnace—egad, I’m almost baked; and as for smoking one’s meerschaum, or drinking claret in a stage coach, you might as well dream of heaven in the paws of a prairie bear. Ah! you’ve got a cigar, I see—God bless the man that first invented tobacco. But hark ’e, who was that tall, slim, low-shouldered gentleman, with the long neck, that sat in the bar-room corner, in a semi-animated state, and hadn’t spoke for a half an hour until he growled back your salutation?”

“Who? Jeremy—that was a poet.”

“A poet! heaven protect us from such madness. Is he married?”

“No—he swears he’ll never wed any one but a poetess; and you know they’re a scarce article in the market.”

“Egad, I thought he was a bachelor, for who ever heard of a married man writing poetry? Flummery, sir, flummery—whipt cream and sugar—away with your poetry! Give me the real solid prose, your regular beefsteak, with a spice of wit to make it palatable, boy. Now there’s Oliver Oldfellow, he used to be as poetical as a scissors grinder before he got married, but after that he came to his senses, and—Lord love you!—he hasn’t written a line these twenty years.”

“You’re savage on the poets. But if what you say is true, there ought to be a law against poets marrying.”

“And what’s the use of law, to stop what one can’t help? No man—let me tell you—ever got married in his senses. No, no, my boy, they are crazy, bewitched, ‘non compos mentis.’ Did you ever meet a girl that didn’t say she’d never get married, and why then should she do it if she didn’t get possessed? But the poor victims are to be pitied more than blamed. It’s not their fault. It’s destiny, sir, destiny. When a thief’s hour comes he’s got to be hung—and when a man’s time is up he’s got to suffer matrimony. There’s no escape. Let him double like a hare, turn to the right or left, dive like a duck, or pretend to be dead like a dormouse, he’ll be sure to be found out at every trick, and made a Benedict of—even if it’s done by spirits—before he’s aware of it. Let me tell you a story to prove my position.

“Major Compton was a hale, hearty old fellow when I knew him in the last war, though I believe gout and morning drams have long since driven the nails in his coffin. He had been a gay chap when young—a soldier, a beau, a bit of a fop, and then—egad, sir—a poet of no little fashion. He could knock you off a sonnet on a lady’s charms sooner than old Tom the blacksmith could knock off a horse-shoe. But after a while he fell in love, and—to cut short my story—was married. Ah! many and many a time have I heard him tell me how he felt it coming on him as if he was bewitched; how he struggled against the malady but could not prevail; and how he shuddered when he found himself writing poetry, because, like the sight of water in the hydrophobia, he knew then that it was all over with him. But this happened years before we met. When I knew him he was a jolly, red-faced widower, and had a horror of all poets, women, and cold water—the last of which he used to say made men effeminate, in proof of which he said all savages who used nothing else, like the Tahitians, were cowards. Betwixt you and I, he must have married a Tartar.

“Well—he’d been out one night at a supper, and the bottle had passed around so frequently that every soul of the company, except the major, got under the table,—so, after amusing himself by blacking their faces with burnt cork, and moralising, as a gentleman ought to, over their deplorable condition, he set out to find his way home to his quarters. As he emerged into the cool air he felt his head getting light as if it were going up, balloon-like, with himself for a parachute; but holding his hat down with both hands, as he remembered to have seen them keep down an inflated balloon, he managed to get along pretty well, though he couldn’t keep his head from swinging about with the wind, which made him, he said, walk as crooked as if he had been drunk, though he was never soberer in his life.

“It was a wild, gusty night, and the clouds were drifting like snow-flakes overhead, when the major sallied out into the street, and began his journey to his lodgings. The wind roared around the corners, or whistled down the chimneys of the old houses around, whose tall, dark, chilly figures rose up against the November sky, until they seemed, to the major’s vision, fairly to shiver with cold. The stars, high up, were winking through the drift, except now and then a sturdy old fellow who stared right into the major’s face. One of these seemed determined to abash him whether or no. Go where he would it followed him, so that if he looked up he would be sure to see it staring full upon him with its dull yellow eye. It made him think, he said, of his spouse of blessed memory, when she would stick her arms a-kimbo, and make faces at him. Now the major was a good-humored soul, but there are some things, even Job couldn’t endure. The major bore it, however, until he reached a wild common, when taking a seat upon a heap of stones, he planted his elbows on his knees, buried his chin in his hands, and looking right at the saucy star, said,

“ ‘Hillo! up there—now take a good look, and let’s see who’ll give over first.’

“ ‘Hillo!’ said a voice close behind him.

“ ‘Hillo it is, you old mocking curmudgeon, say that again and I’ll pound your face into a jelly,’ said the major, turning wrathfully around; but, though he looked every where, not a bit of a man could he see even as big as the fabled Tom Thumb. It was, as I have said, a wide, open common, with not a tree or a house upon it, and if any living thing had been moving across its surface he would have been sure to have detected it. What could it have been? He thought of all the stories of goblins he had ever read, and his hair almost stood on end as he remembered them. But rallying himself, he began to whistle aloud, and stare again at the saucy star overhead. The sky, however, had grown darker during the interruption; and in a few moments the clouds obscured the provoking star. For a moment he closed his eyes, and feeling sleepy, dozed; but his head suddenly pitching forward, aroused him, and he once more looked up. What a sight was there! Dark, frowning masses of vapor swept wildly across the firmament; while the wind now wailed out in unearthly tones, and then went shrieking across the common like the laughter of a troop of malignant fiends. A wood, some distance off, skirting the common, tossed its gray, leafless branches wantonly in the winds; and anon a loud, shrill whistle, as of an army of hunters, rung out, down in the very heart of the forest. The major almost started from his feet, and rubbed his eyes to rouse himself from his drowsiness. The clouds were once more drifting swiftly across the sky, now rolling together into huge, dark masses, and now separating, and then weaving together again into a thousand fantastic shapes. Just at that instant the provoking star gleamed once more through the drift, and this time it stared at him more like his spouse than ever. The major could stand it no longer. Forgetting the fearful things around him, he shook his clenched fist at it, and said,

“ ‘Hillo! you old, wry-faced vixen, how dare you squint at me—Ma—a—a—jor—Com—Compt—Compton—how dare you, I say? Do you want to remind me that I was once fool enough to get married?—I’d like to see the woman I’d have now: all the powers above or below couldn’t force me to get married again—no, no, you old crab-apple!—I—I—say—’

“They couldn’t—couldn’t they?” quietly said a voice at his elbow.

“And who the deuce are you?” said the major, turning sharply around.

“ ‘Who do you think?’ said one of the oddest looking beings the major ever beheld—a short, mis-shapen man, with great goggle eyes, a roguish leer on his face, legs that were doubled up under him like a pocket-rule, and long, bony fingers, one of which was stuck knowingly aside his nose, while his eyes alternately were winking at the astonished major; for the little fellow seemed to be in high glee at the wonder he occasioned.

“For some minutes they stood looking at each other without a word—the major’s eyes growing larger and larger with astonishment; while the odd little fellow kept winking away, with his finger at his nose, to his own apparent glee. At length he said,

“ ‘Well—what d’ y’e think, old carbuncle?’

“Now the major was a valiant man, and had any mortal thing called him by such a nick name, he would have first run him through and then almost eaten him alive; but he has told me a hundred times that his heart went like a forge-hammer to be addressed by a being of another world. So he only stammered,

“ ‘I—I—don’t know—’

“ ‘Speak up, man, speak up—why your voice is as thin and weak as if you’d been doctored for the quinzy a month.’

“ ‘Lord bless you, sir, I never had it in my life,’ said the major, with sudden boldness.

“ ‘Uh—uh—uh,’ interrupted the little fellow, menacingly, ‘none of that—none of that. No strange names if you please.’

“The major’s heart again went like a fulling mill, and his throat felt as if he was about to choke; for he had no doubt it was the devil himself who stood before him.

“ ‘I—I—beg pardon—your majesty—I—I.’

“ ‘What! Strange names again,’ sternly interposed the goggle-eyed little fellow, and then, seeing how he had frightened his companion, he said, to re-assure him, ‘come, come, Major, this will never do. Let’s proceed to business.’

“The major bowed, for he could not speak. The odd little fellow arose with the word, and taking the major’s hand, gave a spring from the ground, and in an instant they were sailing away through the air, over wood, river, hill, and valley, until they alighted at the door of a lone, solitary house, at the foot of a mountain. His companion pushed open the door, without ceremony, and they stood in the presence of a large company, apparently assembled to witness a marriage, for the bride, with her bridemaids, was sitting at the head of the room, and the company, especially the young ladies, were smiling and smirking as they always do on such occasions. The only thing wanting was a groom, and when the major took a second look at the bride, he did not wonder that he delayed his coming to the last moment. She was an old, withered beldame, sixty years of age, at the least, with a yellow skin, a hook nose, a sharp protruding chin, and little sunken grey eyes that leered on the major, as the door opened, with most provoking familiarity. Her ugliness was more apparent from the extreme beauty of the bridemaids, who seemed as if they might have been Houris from Paradise. As the major entered, the bridal company arose simultaneously. The parson stepped forward and opened his book. Every eye was turned upon the new-comers.

“ ‘You are very late, my love,’ said the old hag, turning to the major.

“ ‘Late!—my love!’ said he, starting back, and turning with astonishment, from his conductor, to the bride.

“ ‘I have brought you to your wedding, you see,’ said the odd little fellow composedly, with a tantalising grin, ‘didn’t I hear you say, on the common, “that you’d like to see the woman you’d marry,” didn’t I?’ and he grinned again.

“ ‘Yes—my duck,’ simpered the hateful bride, leering on the major, ‘and I’ve been so alarmed lest you might have met with an accident to detain you. Why were you so long?’ and she placed her hand fondly on the major’s arm.

“ ‘Hands off,’ thundered the major, springing back, and again turning bewildered from one to another of his tormenters.

“ ‘Come, come, now, major,’ said his conductor, with a malicious grin, ‘it’s no use to resist, for that,’ said he with emphasis, pointing to the old hag, ‘is your bride. It is fate; and what is written, is written you know. I’ve no doubt,’ and here he gave another malicious grin, ‘that your married life in future will be one of unmitigated felicity. Come,—don’t you see the parson’s waiting?’

“ ‘Yes, dear,’ said the bride, distorting her withered jaws into what was meant for a smile, ‘and don’t let us think, by any more hard words,’ and here she tried to sob, ‘that your fatigues have thrown you into a fever and delirium.’

“Cold drops of sweat were on the major’s brow, as he looked around the room, and saw every eye bent upon him, some with amazement, some with contempt, but most with indignation. There was a menacing air on the brow of his conductor, which made him shake as if he had an ague chill. The major, moreover, was unarmed. But he made a desperate effort, and said piteously—

“ ‘Marry! I didn’t want to get married—’

“ ‘Not want to get married, when it’s your destiny!’ broke in his conductor, with a voice of thunder, striding up to the major, whose very teeth chattered with fright at his peril.

“ ‘Why—why—y—I’ve no particular objection—that is to say,’ exclaimed the major with another desperate effort, ‘if I must get married, I’d sooner take one of these pretty, blue-eyed bridemaids here.’

“ ‘You would—would you!’ said his conductor with a threatening look, ‘dare but to think of it, and I’ll make you rue it to the last day of your existence,’ and again he scowled upon the major with a brow blacker than midnight, and which had a fearful indentation—the major used to say—as of a gigantic spear head, right in the centre.

“The major always said that he resisted stoutly for a long time, even after his tormentor had fairly prostrated him with only a tap of his finger, and until strange figures, of unearthly shape, uttering terrible cries of anger, and attended by a strong smell of brimstone, came rushing into the room, without any apparent way of ingress, and surrounding him in a body, awaited the signal of his conductor to bear him off, he knew not whither, and inflict on him unheard of torments;—but as I knew the major was sometimes given to vaporing in his cups, I always set the better part of it down for exaggeration. However, at length he gave in, even according to his own account, and signified his willingness, though not without some qualms as he looked at the bride, to have the ceremony performed.

“ ‘I knew it, major—a brave man never should struggle against fate,’ said the little fellow with goggle eyes.

“ ‘Needs must, when the—’

“ ‘Sir,’ said the little fellow, turning fiercely around.

“ ‘I beg pardon,’ said the major meekly.

“But to wind up my story—for, egad, I believe you’re asleep—the major was married, had kissed the bride, and was actually performing the same duty on the bridemaids, when the little fellow with the goggle-eyes, perceiving what he was at, seized him angrily by the arm, whisked him up the chimney, bore him swiftly through the air, and with a roar of malicious laughter, that might have been heard a mile, exclaiming,—

“ ‘There—wait, and your wife will pop in on you when you least expect it,’—let him drop to the earth, on the very common, and aside of the very pile of stones, where he had been sitting when he first saw the little, old fellow. But meantime the night had passed, and it was broad morning. The birds were singing in the neigboring woods,—the sound of the village clock striking the hour, boomed clear upon the air,—and a few cattle, with the monotonous tinkle of their bells, were leisurely crossing the commons, under the charge of a herd boy. For some minutes the major could not persuade himself but what it had all been a dream; but the damp sweat was still upon his brow, and every limb ached with the fall. So he couldn’t comfort himself with that assurance, but set himself down, on the contrary, as one of the most luckless men alive.

“From that hour, sir, the major was a firm believer in destiny, and used to sigh whenever any one would talk of matrimony. He lived in constant fear lest his wife should find him out, and at last threw up his commission, only, I believe, that he might go to Europe, for better security. Some used to say it was only a drunken dream, out of which he had been awakened by falling upon the stones, but if the major heard it he was sure to challenge the slanderer, so that, in course of time, his story got to be believed by general consent. And now—you old curmudgeon—who’ll say marriages ain’t fixed by fate?”

“But, Jeremy, to credit your ghost story requires rather a good deal of credulity.”

“Credulity! Ghost story! what, egad, is life without a touch of romance, and what romance is so glorious as the one which deals in diablerie? Ah! my good fellow if I didn’t know that the major was generally credible, and therefore in this instance to be believed, I’d endorse his story just because it proves my assertion. Answer that, if you can!”

J. S.

February, 1841.