[F6] "The Bread Crust Papers, Part Second" (continued again), Spirit of the Times, March 30, 1842

THE BREAD CRUST PAPERS.

By Eric Iterbil.

Part Second.

THE DUEL AT CAMDEN.

II. Fairmount at Sunrise.

            "Angeline, I say, observe what a splendid spectacle!  Sunrise at Fairmount!  Grand!  Magnificent!  The wide expanse of the unclouded heavens, arching over the city with its thousand domes—"

            "Thousand what, Mr. Brown?"

            "Domes, Miss Smivers, domes.  Steeples, Miss Smivers, steeples.  There's Christ Church steeple, and yonder's the State House steeple.  That remarkably tall steeple is the Presbyterian Church, at the corner of Tenth and Arch street, and there, far far away, over the roofs of the houses is the round shot-tower near the Navy Yard.  What a beautiful sight!  Those light clouds floating in the pathway of the sun, and the glorious orb of day himself coming up the sky in all his light and beauty, the smoke arising from the innumerable roofs, and winding its way in spiral columns of airy nothing to the vast empyream."

            "If you haven't any objections, I'd like to walk round to the other side of the basin, Mr. Brown.—What was that you said last, Thomas?"

            Done Brown turned suddenly to his companion, and gave her what he emphatically styled 'a look.'

            "Laws bless us Tom, how queer you look!  Come—let's walk round the other side of the basin.  My, but there's Cherry Hill.  Do you learn them looks at the 'Rhetorical,' Thomas?"

            Thomas looked down from the basin, toward the city, and whistled.

            "That's a purty tune, Tom.  You don't know how my brother Bill can whistle Yankee Doodle.  He reely does it slick.  How nice the green trees are coming out, over yander at Lemon Hill. Tom.  I wonder what o'clock it is?"

            "Don't know," replied Done Brown, as his face brightened up with some evidence of good humor—"Why I vow, Angeline, but that merino shawl looks well this morning.  You have an uncommon good color.  You have."

            "No?" said Miss Smivers deprecatingly, "now you don't say so."

            "I do tho'," replied Tom with a polite gesture.—"By-the-bye, we've almost reached the ice house.—How clear, how deep, how translucid the waters of the Schuylkill seem, as pouring in a silver sheet over the dam, or precipice—yes, precipice, they mingle in the deep roar of the waters boiling below.  By the spirit of Shakspeare, but as Byron says—"

            "I wonder if it aint most time for breakfast?" inquired the innocent Miss Smivers, as her plump phiziognomy assumed an anxious expression.

            "Hey, Tom, look there!" she continued with a very quick utterance, as she pointed to the ice house on the north-western corner of the basin, "I say Tom didn't you see nothing?"

            "Nothing, but a sick poodle dog eating grass," replied Done Brown with a dignified air, as they continued their walk around the basin.  Thomas, it must be confessed, was a little chagrined.  His thin lips moved murmuringly, and he muttered to himself:—

            "Here have I been taking this girl out to Fairmount, and before sunrise too, on purpose to have a romantic stroll with her, and now, not satisfied with my paying the cab hire, she is talking about breakfast, breakfast.  Breakfast be d—d, I wonder if she knows that I haven't but a quarter about me?"

            "Why, Tom, I declare you're talkin' to yourself," interrupted Miss Smivers.  "I'll bet a sasser of ice cream that you're makin' up some poetry.  Now you needn't deny it.  I heard you wrote a good deal for the Amaranth.  Dear me how tired I am.—Come let's take a seat."

            They seated themselves on one of the benches of the small platform at the extreme height of the winding stairway, leading downward from the gravelled walk of the basin, and while Miss Angeline with sundry cautious glances of her pretty blue eyes, proceeded to arrange her merino shawl, Done Brown resumed his poetical strain.

            "When I behold a scene like the present, Miss Angeline, where dashing water, and blue heavens, and waving trees bending to the wooing air, mingle in a harmony as fascinating as natural, I feel the very depths of my soul stirred by the ripples of suasive feeling, and—"

            "Wont Harding's have done breakfast by the time we cross in the ferry boat?" gently inquired Miss Smivers.

            "By the spirit of Shakspeare this is intolerable!" muttered Brown to himself.  "Come Angeline," he continued aloud, "let's us proceed to breakfast."

            "Breakfast, who talks of breakfast!" cried an invisible voice, and ere Mr. Brown or Miss Angeline had time to utter an ejaculation of surprise, a mass of red hair and a flushed face was observed to arise slowly from under the opposite side of the platform, and in an instant, a slim body or figure, as you like it, arose after the head.  Another moment witnessed the figure in the act of climbing the railing, that  separates the platform from the sloping banks, covered with green sod.

            "Crust by all that's holy!" cried Brown, when he recovered his breath.

            "Why that's the feller that's been follerin' me about all the streets, night after night!" exclaimed Miss Smivers, with an expression of injured innocence on her plump and rosy features. "Lick him, Tom," she continued, with an air of quiet resignation.

            "You go not to breakfast until you have answered to me for your perfidy, Tom Done Brown!" cried the figure with the red summit, as rushing across the platform it confronted the Bilious Rhymester.  "Aye," continued he, in a loud voice, "aye, here, in this elevated spot, with the high heavens above you, with heaven's air around you, here, here, shall you answer for your perfidy.  I am a desperate man, Tom Done Brown!"

            "Come you sir, none of your sass"—began Miss Smivers.

            "What a pity for him"—exclaimed Mr. Brown, in a soliloquising manner—"What a pity that poor Crust should come out here to bathe, and then go out of his head all of a sudden.  Sit down, Harry.  You'll be better directly.  Are you taken this way frequently?"

            Crust could not reply.  He was boiling with rage.  He did everything but froth at the mouth.  With a quick movement he extended his right arm, and throwing out his right hand, he placed the thumb and forefinger in a peculiar position, and in a minute the nose of Mr. Brown was fixed between the identical thumb and forefinger, and shaken violently.

            In another instant the right arm of Mr. Brown was observed spinning round his head, and with the celerity incident to such occasions, it was brought suddenly downward, and the clenched hand lighted directly between Mr. Crust's eyes, and Mr. Crust fell sprawling on the platform floor.

            Mr. Brown took the arm of Miss Smivers, and they walked away.

            "Good bye dearie," said Miss Angeline, looking over her shoulder as they pursued their way around the basin, towards the south.  "Good bye dearie."

            "I say Crust," exclaimed Done Brown, also looking over his shoulder—"I say Crust, how's Harry Dickson? eh?  Are you going to his funeral?  Good bye Crust!"

            Crust arose slowly from the platform, and rubbed the wounded part between his eyes, and then glancing at the retreating pair, an expression of a very decided character came over his countenance. 

            "There remains but one thing for me," he said in the deep, quiet tone of desperation, "there remains but one thing for me, and that is—revenge!"

            In a moment he descended the stairway, and the platform was empty.

(To be continued)