Godey's Lady's Book

GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK
Philadelphia, April 1850

WRITING A STORY.

BY H. J. BEYERLE.

AS everybody, now-a-days, dabbles in literature, and not desiring to be behind the age, I took it into my head to write a tale for "Godey." So, trimming by brains for study, and pointing my lead-pencil, that I may commit to paper the ideas as they are created, I push my chair to the table, ready to commence the business. But, like a great many other things, writing a story is easier said than done. In the first place, an author should know what to write about. Love!—It is an exceedingly nice thing to write a love story, and, in addition to this, the subject is almost inexhaustible; but for a married man, with a squalling baby in the cradle, besides two or three "dear little ones," who hang, and shake, and push about one's table—(while I write, one of them has upset my inkstand, and poured the "black writing-fluid" in a copious stream over my sheet)—and all this the consequence of love: for such a man to write about love, pshaw! But what can one write amid the screaming and prating of children? It's excessively annoying! I must immediately call on Mrs. Dr. Smith to quiet the baby, and take the children into the garden, it is so cool out yonder. There, that's a little more comfortable. Yet I am in continual danger of interruption. You cannot imagine the life a physician leads. Whenever the good people take a notion of getting sick, let it be day or night, let it be rain, or hail, or snow, or tropical sunshine, let him repose in the soft arms of Morpheus, or wander on the rocks and cliffs of Parnassus, or be at meeting—let him be doing something or nothing, he—I mean the doctor—must be contented to do as the sovereign people desire. And this proves exceedingly annoying at times. So much for the introduction, and now for the story.

"It was a fine day in the fall month of September, 1774, the city of Philadelphia presented a scene of stir and activity that was truly admirable. The delegates to represent their respective colonies in Congress had made their appearance, and the novelty—the First Congress Session—had attracted an unusual crowd of visitors to Quakerdom. Among the many strangers that walked the crowded pavements, there was one who invited and received the particular attention of all who chanced to see him. He was a man apparently about fifty years of age, and his costume was the antique Dutch. The expression of his eyes and face in general was peculiarly bewildered and confused; and, every now and then, as he cast a glance upon the things around him, he was observed to shake his head, as if doubting the reality of reality."

Knock, knock at the door. Reader, excuse may story for a moment.

"Who is—walk in, sir"—but it was a lady.

"Take a chair, miss," I continued, after the preliminary compliments were through. "What's the news?"

"Oh, nothing 'ticklar," was the short reply.

The girl appears very bashful; and, seating herself, she casts her eyes on the floor. She is evidently waiting for me to recommence the conversation, which she, by her short reply to my first question, had so unceremoniously closed. Being vexed at the interruption—and I doubt not but that you, my patient readers, will be the same—I am now determined to outsilence her; and, taking the pencil, I am about resuming the narrative, when she speaks—

"Please, doctor, mother said you should come up; Sammy is so powerful sick."

"Indeed, sis! What does he complain?"

"Aunt says as it's an information of the brain, and will surely mortify if we do nothin'."

"An inflammation of the brain!—that's severe. How long has he been confined?"

"Sir?"

"I mean, is he in bed?"

"No, sir; he won't go to bed: but he's got such a headache, and can't eat, and is so powerful weak."

"I have an engagement with Godey"—

"Sir?"

"I'll come, sis; tell your mother I'll come."

"You shall come directly, doctor," she muttered, as she slammed the door after her.

Do not be uneasy, dear reader; from the account I received, I judged the patient to be remote from danger. I shall, therefore, attempt to finish our story before I go. How exceedingly annoying!

"I was telling you of a remarkable stranger that walked the streets of Philadelphia. He bent his course towards one of the best hotels in the city; and having entered, and still wearing that look of bewilderment, he stepped up to the bar, and asked—

" 'What city ish dis?'

" 'Philadelphia, sir,' answered the barkeeper, half smiling.

" 'So dey say,' was the dry and confused reply of the stranger.

"Add to this curious question of the stranger his antiquated dress, and his confused manners, and you will undoubtedly feel disposed to pardon the impoliteness which the guests displayed, by all turning their heads towards the new comer, and thus unintentionally increase his confusion. As we intimated, all eyes gazed upon him, which circumstance brought a slight flush to his otherwise pallid face. He took a seat, and placing his hat on the floor, he seemed to lose himself in deep meditation. And now, whilst we have a very favorable opportunity, let us examine him a little closer. Were it in our power to remove that expression of bewilderment—which, however, has been very much diminished since he entered the hotel—we would undoubtedly pronounce his face to be that of an intelligent and experienced person. His aquiline nose, high eyebrows and ample forehead, betray an honest and sensible man. His hair is of raven blackness, long and straight, and regular as flax. In form he is tall, and rather inclined to corpulency. In short, his whole appearance is that of a man with whom we would like to deal—with whom we would like to talk, and laugh, and be on terms of friendship.

"The stranger had been in his musing position for about fifteen minutes, when he suddenly lifted up his eyes, and said—

" 'Gentlemen, what date ish dis?'

" 'The seventh of September, 1774,' answered several gentlemen, very seriously; for, in spite of the oddness of the scene, none felt disposed to jest—the stranger's aspects were so distressed, and yet earnest and confidential.

" 'So dey say,' was the simple reply; but, after a short pause, he added: 'Either all de world is mad, or I am;' and, taking up his hat, he went towards the door.

" 'Stop, friend,' said one of the guests, mildly. 'Can I be of any service to you?'

" 'Tell me de truth,' said the stranger, respectfully bowing to the person who had addressed him; 'tell me de truth, on your honor, ish dis de town of Philadelphia? and ish dis day de seventh of September, 1774?—or have all de people of dis place conspired against me, determined to increase my dismay?'

" 'It is just as every one tells you: this is Philadelphia, and this the date you have just mentioned,' replied the gentleman who had before spoken to him.

" 'Then listen to me' "—

Listen—who can? Somebody at the door again. How exceedingly annoying!

"Doc, are you at home? Oh, I've got a horrible toothache!"

"Have you? I'm sorry for that—bad company."

"And I want the offender taken out."

"Why, sonny, it is customary to take offenders in."

"Yes; and sometimes they take in, themselves. But I want none of your crackers, doc; set to work."

"Separate your jaws, sir; we shall soon catch him."

How annoying this country practice; we must be dentists and everything.

"There, sonny, he is out."

"Heigho, doctor—Judy, that hurts!"

"It is all over."

"Thank you for't. You're a writin';—a story, I'll bet, for Godey;—wish I could see it."

"You shall see it, sonny, after it is published. Good-by; that's a good boy."

"Good-by, doc," cried my youthful customer, taking my gentle hint, and leaving the room.

Now for the story. How excessively annoying to be interrupted at the best part of it!

"The stranger again took his chair, and said (but I shall not follow his Dutch pronunciation):—

" 'My name is Petrus Von —. I was born at Fort Orange, in the year 1645. Two years previous to my birth, my parents had come over from the Netherlands. In the old country, they stood in the first ranks of the common people—were respectable, honest, and wealthy. These circumstances were a guarantee to distinction in their new home. And my father received that distinction; for in all political and industrial transactions, which were in the hands of the citizens of Fort Orange, he was certain to be consulted, and his opinions generally threw the preponderance into that party with whom he thought it his duty to side. In his veins flowed the unalloyed Dutch blood: he was a strenuous defender of our rights, and fearlessly opposed the British aggressions. But he died before the true crisis arrived: death saved him for the pain it would have occasioned him to see the New Netherlands in the undisputed possession of our enemies.

" 'His opinions and his principles were also mine. I would always have been willing and ready to sacrifice my life for my country. But this satisfaction was denied me;—you must be acquainted with the shameful surrender which Petrus Stuyvesant was compelled to make to the English. Indignant at the conduct of my countrymen, I left the "Province of New York," as they now called the country of Heinrich Hudson, with the determination to look upon it no more. At first, I traveled North; but, as I could not agree with the strict Puritanism practiced in New England, I turned myself into another direction, and, after wandering about for many years, I at length arrived in Philadelphia in the year 1695. They say this is Philadelphia! I am not dreaming, gentlemen. Surely, I am awake! I am seated in a hotel in—in Philadelphia!'

"Here the confusion of the speaker increased; he blushed, and rubbed his eyes, and looked about himself. After a moment's pause, he continued—

" 'One day—it seems to me like yesterday—I went up the banks of the Schuylkill, with my gun on my back, to look for some game. Not meeting with anything worth a shot of powder, I continued my ramble for a long stretch into the wild and picturesque woods. Suddenly, an old man stood before me! There was something peculiar in his face, which disconcerted me for a moment; but a pleasant smile, which presently started in the corners of his mouth, and played upon his lips like Innocence herself, restored the equanimity of my mind. With great familiarity he took hold of my hand, gave me a hearty shake, but quickly came round with his other hand, grasped me by the throat, threw me to the ground, and, before I could pray for mercy, he overpowered me, tied a cloth around my eyes, and throwing me on his shoulder, ran off at a rapid pace.' "

Reader, I am very nervous; the least noise will disturb the equilibrium of my mind. There is a humming sound right under my table, that I must look after. Oh, it's a careless wanderer that fell into a trap—a fly in a spider's web. Well, there is a fuss, I'll declare, that the little fly makes about herself! How the poor thing kicks and flutters to disengage its pedal extremities from their unpleasant fetters! Murderous rouges, those spiders;—and there he sets, the proud castellan, grinning his teeth and laughing in his sleeves for the lucky capture he had made. I've a mind to smash him to atoms!—but no;—reader, I have a certain weakness about me, if it is a weakness, namely, an insatiable love of Natural history, and this prompts me to spare the life of the felon spider. Indeed, I am opposed to capital punishment in general. It seems to me there can be no satisfaction in it. The chastisement is soon over, and there is no chance for the culprit to reform and become a better citizen, or spider, or whatever he is. And the one I am looking at is really a pretty spider; none of your clumsy, crawling animals, but a real nice, sleek, and good-looking specimen of his tribe, one that would do honor to a king's palace. But the fly is struggling wonderfully; there is actually some fear of its breaking prison; and the watching spider seems aware of it, too. But he is an ingenious fellow, and will soon do something to make more certain of his prize. Now he approaches the writhing prisoner, and slowly winds a thread around him, which, now that he has completely circumnavigated him, he draws on tight, and the hum of the fly is decreasing very much, because its wings are fixed immovably. The spider is quite pleased with his ingenious operation, and, after contemplating it for a moment, he resumes his labor, and very adroitly binds one thread after another around the poor fly, so that she cannot move even a foot. Now she is harmlessly suspended in his net, and he confidentially approaches, and, the rogue, embraces her, and smacking his lips, he imprints a ki—pshaw!—It is not necessary for the ladies to know what; but so much I'll tell you, it is not out of love, but merely to bring his poisonous mandibles in contact with the body of the fly, for the purpose of destroying her life, as such a kiss—there you have it—is inevitably fatal.

The hum is silenced, and we shall resume our story.

" 'After running about ten minutes, he stopped, placed me on the ground and unbound my eyes. We were on the top of a small hill, and in a part of the country I had never before seen. My mysterious companion still displayed that innocent smile; and taking a small glass, with a golden frame around it, out of his pocket, he motioned me to look into it. I obeyed, and was astonished at what I saw.

" 'The first object that met my view was the British flag. It was suspended high in the air, and beneath it there was an immense multitude of people, whom I knew to be my countrymen. They were laboring at all kinds of trades. In the distance, I saw a number of ships; and, when they approached the flag, the sailors mounted the masts, and cheered the ensign of their country. I could not hear the sailors' voices, but their movement and gestures showed very plainly what they were about. Presently a storm arose, which wrecked the ships and tore the flag into tatters, which were then carried by the wind into all directions. When the tempest subsided, I saw large armies of soldiers in British uniforms; and when they arrived at the place where the multitude of people were at work, they scattered themselves among the industrious citizens, and took up the rags and tatters of the flag, which turned into serpents in their hands, and with them scourged the people. The masses sank on their knees, and asked for mercy, but none was shown. But, when the people at length saw that supplication was vain, they resolved to resist. And I saw a tall figure rise from among them, who held an eagle in his hand; and soon the bird took to its wings, flew among the soldiers, tore the serpents out of their hands and devoured them. At the same time, the tall man gathered our countrymen into companies, and a war ensued, in which the red-coated soldiers were completely routed. A new flag, which I cannot describe, now waved in the air; and with this the old man returned the glass into his pocket.

" 'Night had set in, and my companion gently approached me, blindfolded me once more, to which I made no resistance, and took me into his arms and walked off; in about ten minutes he stopped, brought me to the ground, and, when my eyes were opened, I was astonished to be in this city. The old man laughed maliciously, and went away, I know not whither. This was about two hours ago. Now, gentlemen, make the best of it you can; so will I. But that man whom I saw in the glass, he who mustered the army for the defense of his country, and defeated the British, him I shall never forget. Oh, that my eyes could behold him once more! The first sight of him struck my heart with admiration—his appearance was so venerable, so divine! That eagle glance of his! that majestic air! that commanding carriage! Oh, I can never forget them!—neither can I describe them.—Out there!—there,' he cried, vehemently, as a gentleman passed the door; 'there is the man I saw in the glass!'

"And suddenly the stranger's features changed, his hair turned white as snow, he staggered towards the door, but fell ere he arrived there, and was a corpse!

"The gentleman who had just passed the door was COLONEL GEORGE WASHINGTON!"

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