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I have discovered in the Norfolk Epitome of the Times, for Oct. 9, 1800, a remarkable epistle written from Richmond Jail by the unfortunate Callender himself. He indignantly denies the charges against the Democrats, of complicity in dangerous plots, boldly retorting them upon the Federalists.
The consequence of this proceeding was a violent struggle, which finally ended in a close stand-up fight between the male combatants, who shewed great spirit, although, perhaps, not a great deal of science. John Anderson, in particular, struck out manfully, and, in a twinkling, tapped the claret of his antagonist, Tom Callender.
It made her superstitious; these coincidences looked like fate or rather like a special manifestation of the will of Providence to the mind of Phillida Callender. Undeniably there was something in Charles Millard that attracted her. He was not just of her own kind, but if he had been would she have liked him so well?
Lismore's private room at the office, and presented a visiting-card. Mrs. Callender had reflected, and had arrived at a decision. Underneath her name she had written these explanatory words: "An important business." "Does she look as if she wanted money?" Mr. Lismore inquired. "Oh dear, no! She comes in her carriage." "Is she young or old?" "Old, sir." To Mr.
"If I died to-night," he said, neither gravely nor jocosely, but as if rather interested to know whether he would or would not, "the club would have a hard time to collect that sixteen dollars." "Are you serious, sir?" Brett asked. "If to-morrow is a repetition of to-day," said Mr. Callender, "you will see the name of Callender & Co. in the evening papers."
She asked for the card, took up a pen, and wrote: "Miss Callender wishes to see Mr. Millard in great haste, on a matter of the utmost importance." She was about to put this into an envelope, but she reflected that an open message was better. She handed the card to the clerk, who took it hesitatingly, and with a touch of "style" in his bearing, saying, "Mr.
But, like the brave man he was, he stuck to his resolution not to call on Miss Callender, from a sort of blind loyalty to nothing in particular. Perhaps a notion that a beau like himself would make a ridiculous figure suing to such a saint as Phillida had something to do with his firmness of purpose.
Callender and Agatha as with Phillida, who on her part could not show her displeasure before the others, for lovers' quarrels are too precious to be shared with the nearest friend. He left before the dinner was over, so that Phillida did not have a moment alone with him. The next evening she expected him to call, but he only sent her a bunch of callas.
"But you'll look into the matter maybe, Miss Callender?" "No; I will not. I hate the whole business." Phillida wanted to add, "and you besides"; however, she only said: "Don't say any more, please. I won't have anything at all to do with it." Phillida rose, but Miss Bowyer did not take the hint.
With this view he applied to William Cornelison Schouten of Horn, a man in easy circumstances, deservedly famous for his great skill in maritime affairs, and his extensive knowledge of trade in the Indies, having been thrice there in the different characters of supercargo, pilot, and master. Callender, II. 217.
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