MEMOIRS 
 
 WATER DRINKER. 
 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 " THE HISTORY OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE ARTS OF DESIGN IN 
 THE UNITED STATES," i( A HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN THEATRE," AND 
 " A HISTORY OF NEW YORK FOR SCHOOLS." 
 
 TWO VOLUMES IN ONE. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 ISMtton. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, ANN STREET. 
 1837. 
 
ENTERED, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1836, 
 
 By WILLIAM DUNLAP, 
 In the Clerk s office of the District Court of the Southern District of New-York. 
 
ps ; 
 
 T5 
 18-37 
 
 PREFACE , 1 
 
 yV ( "* 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 I PRESUME every author is delighted when a new 
 edition of his work is called for. I confess that I am ; 
 and that I am further pleased, that by holding the 
 copy-right of the Water Drinker in my own hands, I 
 am enabled to present it to the publick in a form and 
 at a price that may tend to its more general diffusion 
 through society. 
 
 All authors think their books worthy of attention. 
 I believe this work not only amusing, but calculated 
 to produce a powerful effect upon the reader for his 
 benefit ; and I fear not to say that this conviction is 
 one strong reason for my rejoicing in the opportunity 
 of issuing a second and a cheap edition. 
 
 M1A5531 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I PROFESS to give my readers a novel. That is, 
 something new. And I will give them something new ; 
 notwithstanding we are truly told that " there is no 
 thing new under the sun" and it might be added, 
 neither is the sun new . 
 
 These seeming contradictions are perhaps thus to be 
 reconciled : that although all is old in nature a mere 
 repetition of a rising sun in the east and a setting sun 
 in the west a spring, a summer, an autumn, and a 
 winter, going their rounds yearly, in most habitable 
 countries ; and that, in literature, it is " a pouring out of 
 one vessel into another :" yet, as the successive ge 
 neration of individuals, or nations, come into existence, 
 that, which is of itself old, is to them new. 
 
 Nay, to the same individual, that sun, so often seen, 
 is daily varied by situation in the firmament, and pre 
 sents every hour a new face, as the mist or the cloud 
 changes the medium through which we behold him : 
 so the landscape, although seen every day, is never 
 the same, either in appearance or reality. The truths 
 or falsehoods of literature, although the same materials 
 may be apparently poured from " one vessel into ano 
 ther," produce novelty by the mixture ; for each ope 
 rator has a different mode of mingling the ingredients 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 of the chalice, and the materials themselves are some 
 times chemically changed, as it were, into something 
 unknown before. Thus although all is old ; all is new, 
 in some degree, to every one ; and to the uninstructed 
 in the full extent. 
 
 So much to prove that a novel may be new now 
 to show that although it is a fiction, it may be true. 
 
 A novel is in its very nature a falsehood ; yet if its 
 author has the welfare of his fellow-creatures at heart, 
 its substance and essence will be truth. 
 
 A fable has been defined, " a feigned story intended 
 to enforce some precept ;" and a parable is said to be 
 " a relation under which something else is feigned." 
 But they are the same. They are both feigned stories, 
 which ought to enforce truth : they are both " relations 
 under which something else is feigned." And such is 
 a novel. 
 
 The author of the best code of moral law presented 
 to man, taught many of his precepts by parables. He 
 knew that he must attract and hold the attention, be 
 fore he could instruct. 
 
 A learned Divine once said, " When I see my con 
 gregation inclined to sleep, which sometimes happens 
 of an afternoon, I could wish to read a novel to them 
 instead of a sermon. Or, almost, to see a stage erected 
 in my church, and a Morality enacted, to awaken 
 them to the truths I am in vain presenting from the 
 pulpit." We learn from this, that the exertion of in 
 tellect necessary for receiving instruction is easier made 
 when fasting than full or, at least, that temperance 
 facilitates thought. 
 
CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 CHAP. 1. A Scene in the Park, and a Walk on the Battery . . 5 
 
 2. Heroines on and off the stage ...... 21 
 
 3. A Renunciation 33 
 
 4. Explanations and concealments ... 41 
 
 5. Beginning of a town and a man ^ . 45 
 
 6. A sporting gentleman and a philosophic lady . . 51 
 
 7. We go from home to Boston 60 
 
 8. An old Bachelor s house, a Lawyer s Office, and a Play 
 
 in Boston 69 
 
 9. How to study law. A change of destination . . 81 
 
 10. We return home, Medicine and Theology in Vermont . 87 
 
 11. We go to England, and what we did there ... 85 
 
 12. We come back to the starting-place. A Scene behind 
 
 the curtain 101 
 
 13. A Walk out of town - 108 
 
 14. The difference between a tavern and a horse-shed . .117 
 
 15. The Walk back to town 123 
 
 16. The Lunatic Asylum 135 
 
 17. The result of Intemperance, and a sick chamber .. . 149 
 
 18. A little mystery, and an old acquaintance . . . 157 
 
 19. A dinner party in 1811 165 
 
 20. Conversation and coffee. Politeness and harmony . 176 
 
 21. Midnight and an apparition 186 
 
 22. Things as they were thirty years ago .... 200 
 
THIRTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Jl scene in the Park, and a walk on the Battery. 
 
 14 After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report 
 while you live." 
 
 " They ll take suggestions as a cat laps milk." Shakspeare. 
 
 "Nor numbers, nor example, with him wrought 
 To swerve from truth." Milton. 
 
 WHOEVER has been in the city of New- York, the great 
 centre of the commerce of the western world, must remem 
 ber the marble front of the hall of justice, or City Hall. 
 Standing on the highest ground which the democratic system 
 of filling up hollows by levelling hills, or lifting the low by re 
 moving the superfluity of the high, has left to the great com 
 mercial metropolis. Lifting its stainless face in the midst of 
 catalpas and elms, poplars and sycamores, the pride of our 
 forests, this structure, towers, like the protecting genius of the 
 land, inviting strangers to take shelter under the guardianship of 
 law, and promising protection to the oppressed of all nations. 
 
 It was on a fine day in the October of 1811, about the hour 
 of noon, when the sun was shining bright and giving a dazzling 
 lustre to the front of this building, that two gentlemen came 
 from within, and descending the flight of stairs with the gay, 
 elastic and careless step of youth, bent their way down the 
 centre avenue of the enclosure, in eager conversation : only 
 interrupted by occasional bursts of laughter. It was plain thaf 
 they were not of the tribe to which this building seems princi 
 pally consigned the men of the law there was not the hurried 
 step, nor the thought-pressed brow ; neither were they of the 
 class of jurors dragged reluctantly from their own immediate 
 affairs to pass upon the interests, or the lives, or liberties of 
 others : nor were they litigious clients, filled with doubts and fears 
 1 
 
6 Jl scene in the Park} and a walk on the Battery, 
 
 of the law s uncertainty, or vexed by its delay they were lighi 
 and joyous as the day, (and what American knows not the 
 beauty of an October day,) and appeared to defy or be uncon 
 scious of the existence of laws, judges, or jurors, except as their 
 protectors from wrong. They were tastefully and fashionably 
 dressed, and the shortest, who was not quite six feet in height, 
 was a model of manly beauty; his companion was of the 
 square herculean form, full six feet high, with the nose of a 
 Roman Csesar, the eye of a Spanish contrabandista, and the 
 complexion of a Circassian belle. 
 
 The trees of the Park, for so the enclosure is called* were 
 yet loaded with foliage, which the early frosts had changed from 
 the uniform verdant livery of summer, to the motley brilliancy 
 which distinguishes our autumnal scenery, presenting every tint 
 from gaudy yellow to deep purple, through the intermediate 
 shades of orange and scarlet ; from the brightest golden hue, 
 through various grades to the dusky brown, which denotes the 
 speedy separation of the leaves from their parent stock, and return 
 to that state in which they become its food. 
 
 To such of the busy citizens as, in crossing this triangular 
 pleasure-ground, find leisure to think of nature, this imperfect 
 glimpse of the beauties of American landscape might recall 
 other more variegated pictures ; the scenery of our mountains, 
 forests, and prairies : but these young men were not, at the 
 moment our story begins, thinking of woods and wilds the 
 beauties of nature occupied their thoughts, but they were beau 
 ties of a higher order, though as fleeting as the changing foliage 
 under which they loitered, laughed and lounged. They walked 
 half-way down the centre avenue and stopped, as if without 
 sufficient motive either to proceed or return ; meanwhile the 
 more Apollo-like gallant sported with a terrier dog that follow 
 ed him, and who was addressed by the familiar appellation of 
 " Billy." After a few minutes of this wanton idling they, dog 
 and all, bent their way again towards the hall of justice ; ap 
 pearing to look for some one to join them from thence, and 
 they had nearly reached the portico when two verv dissimilar 
 figures came out of the front door of the theatre" apparently 
 from the box-office, and within view of the first-mentioned pair. 
 The Park theatre, as we all know, being in its position opposite, 
 or nearly so, to the hall of justice. 
 
 The walk to and from the hall took some minutes, notwith 
 standing that John Duncan, a Scotch traveller and A.B., says 
 the enclosure we have praised only contains half an acre. If 
 ever our North-British friend should be condemned for his sins 
 
Ji scene in the Par/, 1 , and a walk on the Battery. 7 
 
 io make a pilgrimage of the circumference of his half acre, his 
 shoes lined with peas, we doubt not that he will be happy to 
 take a hint from a brother pilgrim and penitent, of former days, 
 and be especially careful to have them well boiled. 
 
 A long loud laugh on the part of one of the first mentioned 
 gentlemen was followed by, " He cannot certainly think of mar 
 rying her. Her personal attractions are not great, although her 
 professional skill and talents may be deemed so ; besides, she s 
 a foot taller than little Spiff. They might play the giantess and 
 Tom Thumb. And her mysterious conduct in regard to 
 Trowbridge, both before and after his death, is too notorious to 
 allow of such an alliance with a man of Spiffards correct way 
 of thinking." 
 
 " But," said the other, who was no less a personage than 
 Thomas Apthorpe Cooper, the justly celebrated histrion ; 
 " She bears the name of a man high in his profession as a tra 
 gedian, and Spiff may know nothing of her story, as he came 
 to New-York after Trowbridge s death, and long subsequent to 
 the affair to which you allude." 
 
 " He was then, and for some years before, in England," said 
 the other. 
 
 " Hilson knew him there," said the tragedian, " See, he is 
 coming out of the theatre with his friend Tarn." 
 
 As we mention the names of two well-known personages, 
 and shall hereafter in the course of our narrative frequently 
 introduce more of the same description, let us pause for explana 
 tion. When we call a character by the name of a real person, 
 dead or alive, still the actions of such character, as connected 
 with this tale, are in general purely imaginary ; and the deeds, 
 thoughts and words imputed to him or her. mere inventions of 
 the author s brain, meant to give point to the moral of his story, 
 or add to the amusement of his readers. As Walter Scott 
 makes use of the names of Cromwell, Charles Stuart, Ireton, 
 Claverhouse, Montrose and others to decorate his characters 
 withal, so we in our humble history of domestic life, take 
 those of Cooke, Cooper, Hilson and other mimic heroes and 
 and mimic villains, for our purposes, as well as some well 
 known names of politicians and professional men of that time. 
 If the action or incident attributed to the person is real, the 
 reader may look for a note indicating it to be so. But we 
 will not, if we have any skill in our vocation, appropriate actions 
 to any one, bearing the name of a real personage, which shall 
 be at variance with the general character of the person from 
 whom the name is borrowed ; although we might plead in e&- 
 
8 Jl scene in the. Park, and a walk on the Battery. , 
 
 cuse that, the great Scotch novelist has made the greatest man 
 in England play the part of commander of a sergeant s guard y 
 or a bailiff with a search warrant, when he (Oliver Cromwell) 
 was in possession of supreme power. Once for all, we protest 
 that this real history is an unreal mockery as it respects charac 
 ters and events : all is a fabricated tissue wrought by the brain y 
 or the imagination, from the materials collected during a long 
 and variegated life. But as all images must have had exis 
 tence from previous impressions made by realities* the fan 
 tastic combination, which we intend to present, may leave a les 
 son of profit on the memory* for the reader s conduct in real life. 
 
 For we do believe that our book contains true pictures of 
 human nature, and that the actions therein described are the 
 actions of men and women, appropriate to real men and women 
 in similar circumstances, and that the consequences we attri 
 bute to the actions of our imaginary characters are the result of 
 such actions, and will ever result from them. Therefore is our 
 book, although a novel and a fiction, a book of truth ; calculated 
 to amend the heart, while it enlists the imagination under the 
 colours of fancy. 
 
 But to proceed. The tragedian and his companion, hav 
 ing again turned, had reached one of the avenues of the Park 
 on the east side, and were in full view of the theatre* 
 The herculean gentleman took a quizzing glass from his 
 pocket and applying it to one eye, said, " It is Spiff and Tarn, 
 sure enough. Suppose you introduce the subject of the lady, 
 and the world s babble about her, to show Spiff that we have 
 heard something, if he has not." 
 
 " Agreed," said the tragedian. " We shall have some sport 
 at any rate. It will be nuts for Tarn." The two gentlemen 
 from the theatre had now advanced to the gate of the park op 
 posite Beekman-street, and were entering the enclosure. 
 
 As one of the new-comers is the principal actor in our 
 Drama, and as both once were the very soul of hilarity the 
 delight of the laughter-loving throngs who crowd play-houses 
 to see the creatures of Shakspeare and Sheridan, Coleman and 
 O Keefe to gaze at scenes of imaginary magnificence, and 
 forget the poverty they have left at home ; as both are impor 
 tant to the readers of this work, and one the very pivot on which 
 all our machinery turns, we will introduce them by a graphic 
 description of their persons. 
 
 Zebediah Spiffard, or as his companions familiarly called 
 him, " Zeb. Spiff." was in height rather less than five feet five 
 inches. He was remarkably square and muscular, at the 
 
JL scene in the Park, and a walk on the Battery. 9 
 
 ?$arne time that he looked attenuated from the absence of all 
 those unctuous particles which give plumpness and swelling 
 contour to persons who like him are possessed of youth, and 
 endowed with health, strength and activity. There was no 
 rounding of feature or limb ; all was angular and sharp, 
 His head was large and thickly covered with coarse sandy hair^ 
 (or rather a bright orange red>) and his face was long enough 
 for a man of six feet. This face was in every feature, and in 
 the physiognomical combination (if we may be allowed the ex 
 pression) truly remarkable. The forehead was low, the eye 
 brows bushy, strongly marked, and almost meeting ; they were 
 attached to powerful muscles, and could be moved in various 
 directions : his eyes were large and prominent, the colour of the 
 iris hazle, nstufctHy bright, but so covered by the upper lid, as, 
 when not animated by passion, or excited by mirth, to appear 
 sleepy and lifeless ; yet occasionally full of fire ; and capable, 
 in concert with the flexible brows, of great comic expression, as 
 well as strong and concentrated marks of emotion. The nose 
 belonging to this extraordinary face was thin, high, and ex 
 tremely hooked ; with wide, ever-moving nostrils. The cheeks 
 hollow, freckled, and pale ; the mouth wide, lips thin, and 
 bloodless ; teeth long, regular and white ; the chin square, yet 
 sharp, having an edge though no point : in short, such a combi 
 nation of feature and limb in face and person, was never seen 
 before nor since. JSpitfard s gait was as singular as his physiog 
 nomy. His step was long, slow, and slouching ; and although 
 he bore his head erect (as most short people do) he walked with 
 his body bent a little forward at every stride. His voice was 
 strong and clear ; usually pitched high, but of great compass ; 
 mid his enunciation was deliberate and distinct in conversation, 
 but on the stage, in such characters as required the effort, it was 
 uncommonly rapid, without losing force or distinctness. Such 
 was Zebediah Spiffard, a Yankee by birth, and a water-drinker 
 in practice. 
 
 Spiffard s companion at this time was Thomas Hilson ; who, 
 in appearance was a contrast to the Yankee water-drinker, 
 though in height and breadth nearly the same, probably an inch 
 or two taller. His frame well proportioned to his head. His 
 muscles full and round. All his form indicating power without 
 the hardness of his companion s. His dark hair curled naturally 
 and gracefully. His forehead was high and while. His eyes 
 small, black, and laughing. His nose far from prominent, and 
 partaking of the rubies of his cheeks and mouth, which both 
 glowed with the richest natural carmine that health could be- 
 
 1* 
 
10 Jl scene in the Parfc, and a walk on the Battery, 
 
 stow ; the cheeks and chin only rivalled by the colour of the lips* 
 His whole physiognomy marked by youth, fun, frolic, and 
 ntelligence. 
 
 1 Hilson s gait was erect, firm, and elastic. His voice deep and 
 powerful. His enunciation always rapid, and accompanied by 
 a slight lisp. Such were the two dissimilar persons who now 
 joined the tragedian and his companion within the precincts of 
 the Park. 
 
 " Well Tarn" said Cooper, accosting Hilson familiarly, 
 " what is doing on the stage 1" 
 
 " Strange doings are going forward," was the reply. 4 Old 
 Cooke is rehearsing a love scene with Mrs. Trowbridge: that s 
 strange, because she generally chooses younger lovers but 
 what is not strange he is under the influence of last night s 
 jollification : rather blind." 
 
 " And how does Mrs. Trowbridge take blind love ?" asked 
 tke tragedian, chuckling to find Hilson stumbling at the first 
 step on the subject he wished. 
 
 " Very kindly," replied the ruddy comedian : " as ladies 
 should take love. The blind are entitled to pity, and pity leads 
 the soul to love." 
 
 "A man must be blind in some way or other who could make 
 love to Mrs. Trowbridge," said Allen for such was the name of 
 the tragedian s herculean companion, the man with the imperial 
 nose, towering height, and Circassian skin. 
 
 The four young men appeared to be well acquainted with 
 each other indeed on terms of intimacy and when this chat 
 first began, Allen had saluted Spiffard with the air of every-day 
 familiarity. The latter had not yet spoken ; but with a con 
 strained smile and half closed eyes appeared not to notice the 
 words of his companions. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" said the laughing tragedian, address 
 ing the last speaker, " sure you would not disparage her charms? 
 They are undeniably great. I think, Allen, she would overtop 
 you. And for weight your scale would kick the beam if we 
 gave you half a hundred as a make-weight." 
 
 " Heaven forbid," replied Allen, " that I should be weighed in 
 the same scales with a lady of such ponderous person and gossi- 
 mer reputation. Besides, I hope never to come so near her high 
 weightiness as only to be divided from her by the length of a 
 scale-beam." 
 
 Spiffard affected to laugh. His face was convulsed. A slight 
 flush passed over his pallid cheek. His under mandible was 
 projected, and his thin lips quivered. He at length with a ghastly 
 
Jl scene in the Park, and a walk on the Battery. 1 1 
 
 smile said, " very gallant ! Gentlemen ! Ha ha ! Very gallant ! 
 and no doubt very witty." 
 
 " Does she not ?" asked Allen, sinking the last word in Hil- 
 son s ear. 
 
 " It is more than suspected" said Hilson and as to the 
 mother " here was another mysterious whisper, and Spiffard 
 made another convulsive and abortive attempt at a laugh. 
 
 ** I do not believe it of the daughter," said the tragedian. 
 
 " By the by, Spiff," said Hilson, " they begin to talk of you 
 and the lady ; and it has been currently reported that you have 
 made proposals and further they do say that she does not look 
 down upon, but condescendingly stoops to meet your lofty pre 
 tensions. If it should be so all I say is such a pair is the 
 long and the short of matrimonial felicity." 
 
 " Ha ha ha ! well said Tarn ! but will the water-drinker, 
 the man whose cold cup never coddles his calculation, the phi 
 losopher whose transparent draught never discolours the object 
 he contemplates will he, take such a leap in the dark ! 
 The cold-blooded sage whose cup can never excuse a despe 
 rate act ! Why if common fame says true " 
 
 The tragedian was fortunately interrupted. Spifiard cut short 
 the intended portentous on dit by exclaiming, ** You are very 
 facetious gentlemen ! But I must stop the current of your 
 mirth even at the risk that its overflow may blast some unpro 
 tected name. I now inform you that your merriment is misdi 
 rected, as the person of whom you speak is my wife. Mrs. 
 Trowbridge that ivas, is now Mrs. Spiffard." While the three 
 stood aghast after a pause, he added, " I am her protector 
 and that gentlemen, is the, long and the short, of it." 
 
 Great as we are at descriptions of the human countenance 
 divine, we will not attempt to portray the faces of either the 
 face-making tragedian or comedian, on hearing this speech from 
 Spiffard. The curtain no longer half hid the sleepy eye. It 
 turned flashing from one to the other, while the flushed cheek 
 and bent brow spoke displeasure. Allen, a mere tyro in the art 
 of face-making, was motionless and dumb. He looked any 
 where but at Spiffard. The tragedian and comedian (Cooper 
 and Hilson) exchanged glances ; and the latter, with a tone in 
 which good sense and good nature combined said, "Pooh, pooh, 
 we have carried the joke too far Beg your pardon, Spiff. We 
 knew it. Wish you joy with all my heart but you deserve all 
 the hoax for stealing a march on us. A married man should 
 never attempt to pass for a bachelor. We shall insist on a treat 
 
IS Jl scene in the Park, and a walk on the Battery. 
 
 though Ha, Cooper ? A rump and dozen. We drink wine 
 though you don t. Ha ! what say you ? Wish you joy !" and 
 eo saying he took the manager s arm and they moved off across 
 the Park to Broadway. Allen was left with the Benedict, and 
 not having the facilities of the theatre, he very awkwardly itera 
 ted " wish you joy Mr. Spiffard !" Then turned and followed 
 the heroes of the sock and buskin. 
 
 Poor Zeb our herofor he is the hero of this true history, 
 however defective he may appear, and shorn of the usual qual 
 ifications, stood as fixed as an antique statue, although in contour 
 or attitude nothing like ; his feet were thrown out like the pic 
 ture (in that book of wonders, called " the nine wonders of the 
 world") of the Colossus of Rhodes and bending his head for 
 ward in the direction of his late tormentors, he ejaculated, " Joy ! 
 The joy ye wish me go with ye. Confound ye all ! what have I 
 to do with such jesters ?" Then turning towards the gate by 
 which he had entered, he strided slowly back from whence he 
 came, not knowing exactly what he aimed at or whither he was 1 
 going. 
 
 After a few long strides, which denoted rather the presence of 
 muscular power than presence of mind r he began to soliloquize 
 aloud. Was it a trick theatrical ? Was it a hc?bit derived from 
 the stage ? Or is it natural and common to most men? We 
 are inclined to the latter opinion. We cannot recollect the time 
 when we did not think aloud, especially when under the influ 
 ence of extraordinary excitement. Theatrical? There are 
 many things and actions which in vulgar parlance are called 
 theatrical, meaning thereby unnatural. Trust us r ladies, the 
 truly theatrical, is the truly just imitation of nature. The wri 
 tings of Shakspeare are theatrical the gesticulations of Cooke 
 and Garrick, of Kean and Kemble were theatrical ; those of 
 
 Mr. on the stage, or Mr. in the pulpit, are neither 
 
 theatrical, nor natural. But whether you trust us or not Zeb 
 began very naturally and audibly, thus : " What do those fel 
 lows mean ?" He then took three strides. " They are eminent 
 at a quiz notorious. But then it is plain that they did not know 
 that I was married ; and they might have meant" 
 
 Thus speaking, he opened the same gate at which he had en 
 tered in perfect tranquillity a few minutes before. This gate, a? 
 mutable as his happiness, has long passed away thrown by 
 split up to kindle some kitchen-wench s kettle-boiling fire it 
 was unlike the iron enclosure of the present day, but way 
 a ricketty wooden pale-gate drawn back by a chain and bullet. 
 " From my soul I hope " " You are very rude, Sir !" squeak d 
 
Jl scene in the Park, and a walk on the EaUery. 13 
 
 a female voice for he had most indecorously, though uncon 
 sciously, pressed against a girl, who supposing he opened the 
 gate to let her pass, was entering the park I hope it is all a 
 quiz," said Zeb, looking her full in the face without seeing her. 
 " No quizzing matter, you ugly, impudent fellow." She passed 
 on, adjusting her bonnet. He went on talking. " My mind 
 misgives me I now remember circumstances I now remem 
 ber I have been precipitate perhaps" He walked faster, 
 and his strides became even longer. " To marry on so short 
 an acquaintance" 
 
 " How do you do, my boy ! " cried a cheerful but harsh 
 voice ; and looking up he saw George Frederick Cooke de 
 scending the stairs in front of the theatre. 
 
 The appearance of the veteran denoted that at least fifty-five 
 winters had passed over his head. His once athletic framo 
 had lost the rounded outline of youth, and assumed the hard 
 inflexible contours of age : yet his port was erect, and his step 
 though stiff was firm ; especially when he was under the in 
 fluence, as at present, of the poison which was destroying him. 
 It might be said of him in Shakspeare s words, 
 
 "He is in his fit now; and does not talk after the wisest." 
 
 His features were large, and had lost none of their plastic 
 power they could give form to the poet s airy creations, and 
 were capable of expressing the widest range of passion. His 
 forehead was broad, high, and prominent. His eyes of a 
 dark grey, the upper eye-lids projecting and filling the space 
 between the brows and the coloured portion of the organ. 
 When the pupil of the eye expanded, it gave to the whole iris the 
 appearance of brilliant hazle, almost black. The space be 
 tween his brows was remarkably wide. His nose was aquiline 
 and broad, without deserving the epithet " Roman." The 
 whole physiognomy denoted something uncommon, and by 
 nature, commanding. His grey hair was neatly dressed, pow 
 dered, and (behind) gathered into a short queue, which, with his 
 suit of grey broad-cloth, gave him an old-school air, very pre 
 possessing, and " every inch " a gentleman. 
 
 Spiffard would willingly, at this time, have avoided him ; but 
 the gay tragedian, (who was at the second day s progress in 
 one of those careers of folly which it is well known ended in 
 prostration of strength and intellect, and finally in death) had 
 taken enough of the stimulating poison to render him talkative, 
 and unceremonious ; and had already seized the melancholy 
 comedian by the arm. The deference due to age, and to 
 the Drama s hero, rendered the miserable husband passive. 
 
14 .# scene in the Par A", and a walk on the Battery. 
 
 Cooke walked on, and talked on ; while Spiffard sometimes 
 attending, and oftener thinking of home, and the scenes of do 
 mestic discord which his fears told him were preparing for 
 him, led the garrulous veteran down Broadway towards the 
 Battery. 
 
 * We have got through rehearsal," said the tragedian, " Not 
 very clear. It is sometime since I played Penruddock. 
 John s the best Penruddock. Black Jack," such was his 
 familiar appellation for his great rival, Kemble. " I must read 
 the part before night. I should have stuck but for Mrs. Trow- 
 b ridge. She is a fine spirited widow ; flesh enough about her, 
 and, flesh is frailty ; a little haughty in the toss of her head, but 
 that commanding brow of hers suits tragedy. They say she 
 is not always on stilts who is ? I knew nothing of Trow- 
 bridge ; they say he played tragedy well, he was a Yankee I 
 believe ; a Yankee tragedian ! A Yankee king ! King of 
 the Yankee-doodles ! Pie was a favourite with the ladies I am 
 told, ladies of free and dashing demeanour ; and Mrs. Trow- 
 bridge " 
 
 Zeb. tried to change the too evident current of his thoughts 
 by asking, " Do you think, sir, that she resembles Mrs. Sid- 
 dons?" 
 
 " What ! Sarah ? No, sirr ! Sarah is the Queen of Trage 
 dy as well as the Tragic Queen. The Tragic Muse herself ! 
 John is great, Black Jack, as we call him, but he is nothing to 
 Sarah. I wonder, sir, that any one who has seen the Siddons 
 should make the comparison. Compare Mrs. Trowbridge to 
 the Siddons ! Blasphemy ! that is, stage blasphemy ! She 
 may pass though for a Yankee Siddons. Sarah is tall, but this 
 woman is a grenadier in petticoats. A good eye, though and 
 a wicked. A fine black brow, but she s nothing to the Siddons ! 
 They are a very extraordinary family. Charles is a good lad. 
 Often has Charles sat up to see me home, good fellow, when 
 John and I, Heaven bless us, were both past seeing. But 
 Sarah s the pride of the flock. John is a poet ; and can take 
 the inspiring draught too, like other poets. There is Byron 
 My dear boy, of all vices that is the most detestable ! the most 
 destructive ! the most insidious ! it undermines the constitu 
 tion of the strongest, and levels the loftiest talent with the 
 meanest. You are young, Mr. Spiffard, and comparatively have 
 seen little of either the real or the mimic world. I can tell 
 you from observation, sir," and lowering his head, and then 
 looking up, askance, over his shoulder as if addressing a third 
 person, and at the same time changing the tone of his voice, 
 
Jl scene in the Par/:, and a walk on the Battery. 15 
 
 " perhaps, I might say experience :" then resuming his former 
 high harsh tone and imperative manner, " sirr, it is the bane of 
 both health and talent, it is * the accursed thing, sir, as much as 
 that spoken of in holy writ." Then with another sudden change 
 of voice accompanied by a corresponding expression of his 
 changeful eye, he added, " I see, you laugh, sirr ; yet the Devil 
 can quote scripture for his purposes ; but he never does so for 
 the purpose of warning from evil as I do now." Then with 
 a firm and dignified air he continued. " Sirr, it is the besetting 
 sin of our profession the efforts we make exhaust us, and 
 we fly to stimulants for relief or support in those exertions we 
 have yet to make. At midnight we go from the theatre to 
 the tavern, or the hospitable board of an admirer, and we fur 
 ther exhaust, instead of repairing exhausted nature. This, sirr, 
 becomes habit, and we become drunkards drunkards, sirr ! 
 Sirr, the mind and body of the drunkard becomes enfeebled 
 until he appears only to live when under the influence of the 
 poison which is consuming him. When in possession of his 
 reason he feels his lost condition he loathes existence, yet he 
 dreads its termination as reason torments him, he seeks mad 
 ness, and the desire of life hurries him on to death, here and 
 hereafter." Spiffard gazed upon the speaker intensely. The 
 meaning of the excessive interest he displayed may be hereafter 
 explained. 
 
 As Cooke ended they found themselves opposite to the City 
 Hotel, and the moralizer suddenly exclaimed, " My dear boy, step 
 in here with me. Let us look over the files of English papers. It 
 is so refreshing to read an English paper. The Yankee journals 
 are as flat as the whole surface of society in this country a dead 
 level we look in vain for the splendid column with its Corin 
 thian capital the princely inheritor of millions who diffuses 
 splendour on all around him and attracts the gaze of every eye." 
 " True," said Spiffard, " and we cannot find thousands who 
 are prostrate in the dust ; or the kneeling supporters of the one 
 princely column." 
 
 The tragedian did not appear to notice this Yankee observa 
 tion ; but saying, in a hurried manner, " I have an ugly pain," 
 he hastened into the bar-room of the hotel, and his com 
 panion followed. 
 
 Spiffard sat down and took up a newspaper. Cooke went tQ 
 the bar, and gave a practical illustration of his discourse on 
 the evils of ebriety, by adding more fire to ths consuming 
 flame within by seeking in madness a refuge from reason an<| 
 conscience. 
 
16 Jl scene in the Par A*, and a walk on the Battery. 
 
 The unhappy bridegroom looked on the newspaper, hut it 
 was a blank to his eyes ; his mind was far away. He ruminated 
 upon what he had heard in the Park ; he endeavoured to deter 
 mine upon the manner in which he should conduct himself at 
 his next meeting with his wife. The first thing to be done was 
 to announce his marriage to the public, and have Mrs. SpifFard s 
 name put in the play-bills. This being resolved as a first 
 step, then came thronging on his mind, doubts, resolutions, 
 objections, recollections, jealousies, arid dire misgivings, which 
 made his heart sink at one moment, and at the next seem to rise 
 and swell almost to suffocation. He forgot all present objects. 
 He struck his fist upon the table at which he sat, and exclaimed, 
 " I will have some " 
 
 The sentence was left unfinished, for the sound of his voice 
 brought to his mind the place in which he was about to solilo 
 quize, and to his eyes the surrounding objects ; and this awaken 
 ing of his faculties was aided by an audible exclamation and 
 start on the part of a gentleman who sat nearly opposite to 
 him, absorbed in the price of stocks as reported in the Daily 
 Advertiser. Among the surrounding objects stood a waiter. 
 
 " Some what sir 1 What will you please to have ? " 
 
 " Come, my boy ! " said Cooke.- " Let us be moving. I 
 feel better. Let us be going. Exercise is the parent of 
 health." 
 
 " Yes sir," said the comedian, rising, " and temperance, 
 the preserver." 
 
 They left the tavern, and Cooke, yet more garrulous, proceed 
 ed with additional powers of voice and energy of emphasis, 
 " Let us continue our ramble. Exercise gives health of body 
 and mind : promotes cheerfulness, dispels the thick-coming 
 fancies of the brain, which late revels, and slothful morning 
 indulgences (two familiar sins of our profession) bring upon us. 
 
 Spiffard had willingly obeyed the summons, glad to be reliev 
 ed, in some degree, from his own thoughts by change of place ; 
 and the veteran, leaning on his arm, continued to pour forth 
 his remarks and moralizings with renewed energy, but with 
 increasing abruptness. 
 
 As they passed in front of Trinity church, Cooke, (to use the 
 phraseology of his profession) took his cue from the object 
 before him, and forcing his companion s distracted attention by 
 making a stop and pointing to the door of the building, he com 
 menced one of those rhapsodies which his unfortunate habits 
 and peculiar mind made so strikingly his own. " What a mass 
 of deformity in architecture these Yankees have made of this 
 
A scene in the Park, and a walk on the Battenj. 17 
 
 once noble gothic edifice ! It now belongs to no order or age. 
 I remember it, when proudly it towered a monument of the 
 taste of Englishmen, and the liberality of the church and gov 
 ernment of England. A pure specimen of the rich and awe- 
 inspiring gothic without, and decorated within by the sculptures 
 and paintings of the most eminent artists of Britain. "What is 
 it now ? A Yankee specimen of republican economy ! They 
 had better have left it a noble ruin as they made it when they 
 fled from their gracious monarch s armies, sent in mercy to teach 
 them their true interests. I remember, sirr " 
 
 " You ! Mr. Cooke ! 
 
 " Yes, sirr ! I, George Frederick Cooke ! I remember 
 Trinity church in its pride, and I remember it in its ruins, even 
 then infinitely more beautiful than in its present state. During 
 the rebellion, sirr, when we occupied this city by right of con 
 quest, the public mall, the favourite walk, was in front of the 
 ruins of that proud building which even then from its dilapidated 
 turrets spoke in praise of monarchy and prelacy of church 
 and state- and frowned on democracy and rebellion. Then, 
 sirr, every evening in summer, we had our military bands of 
 regimental musicians playing loyal airs in the church yard, while 
 we promenaded with the wives and daughters of the refugees 
 and loyalists, and confirmed them in the love of old England. 
 In the morning, s,irr, it was the parade ground, from which the 
 guards were detailed, and marched with drum, fife, trumpet, 
 bugle, an* bagpipe, to their stations. The main guard was 
 down there, in Wall-street, where the Custom House, now 
 stands. There stood the old City Hall and Court House, pro 
 jecting into the street. Sirr, you stare at my knowledge of 
 this place, and its history come on, sirr !" By this time some 
 other auditors were collecting, and he moved on, but soon re 
 sumed his rhodomontade. " The night after we crossed from 
 Brooklyn, all this part of the city, including old Trinity, was one 
 sheet of flame all was burnt by the rebel incendiaries. All 
 on fire from Trinity downwards, and then across to the east, 
 leaving Kennedy s and a few houses towards Fort George, 
 and the Battery. Here stood an old Sectarian meeting house 
 which the flames had spared, and we made a military store 
 house of it. The Yankee shopkeepers have built what they 
 think an elegant church on the site and called it ** Grace," 
 there is grace in making it episcopal. Heaven grant them grace 
 to improve their taste in architecture ! It looks more like a 
 storehouse still than a temple. 
 
 Thus the excited old man poured forth his recollections from 
 2 
 
18 A scene in the Park, and a walk on the Battery* 
 
 reading or from associating with officers who had been in 
 America at the time he spoke of, mingled with his imaginings, 
 as the objects they passed suggested images of things partly 
 remembered and partly created. Thus with rapid strides and 
 occasional pauses, he proceeded on his way, every word and 
 every action marking that state of increasing excitement, which 
 added an unnatural power to his colloquial faculties. His 
 young companion, glad to escape from his own thoughts, gave 
 way to the interest created by the remarks of his leader, and 
 hung, wondering, uponhis copious, singular, and wild eloquence. 
 They arrived at the Bowling-green. " There, sirr," con 
 tinued Cooke. " There stood the equestrian statue of his 
 sacred Majesty George the Third, my royal master ! 
 There, sirr, within that circular enclosure. It was of 
 lead, gilt over." Then with a sudden change of voice and 
 countenance, looking over his shoulder as if speaking to some 
 one behind him, in an under tone he added, " Gilded lead, said 
 by the vile Jacobites, to be an apt emblem of the house of 
 Hanover." Again resuming his former tone and manner, he 
 proceeded, " Before we landed, the rebels had melted the 
 Lord s anointed, and cast the heavy material into bullets mus 
 ket balls to murder his loyal subjects thus adding sacrilege to 
 parricide, rebellion, murder and treason. Yes, sirr, his leaden 
 majesty was dethroned before we gained the town but 1 re 
 member Pitt s statue in Wall street, the rebels left mm standing 
 because he was the leader of the opposition in parliament and 
 because they could not make bullets of the marble : but some 
 of our wild boys took his head off one night by way of hint 
 to those who encourage rebellion. Ha ! this, sirr, is Kennedy s 
 house, the head quarters of Sir William, Sir Henry, and Sir 
 Guy, his majesty s commanders-in-chief, now rebuilt and en 
 larged to receive a Yankee broker ! Yes, sirr, this corner 
 house was the British head quarters, and opposite rose majesti 
 cally Fort George, surmounted with the floating banner of 
 England, surrounded by her invincible fleets and armies, over 
 looking land and water the town, the battery and the bay but 
 the democrats have levelled it the hill is removed by the faith 
 less, and the natural defence of the city prostrated by the 
 foolish." 
 
 " Perhaps they think its defence is in its men." 
 "And now, sirr, they are building yon stone Frenchified 
 things ! castles ! things that one of our seventy-fours would 
 batter down in an hour." 
 
Ji scene in the Park, and a walk on the Batt&*y. 19 
 
 " Provided no guns were mounted on, or fired from them." 
 " Guns or no guns, sirr ! Guns or no guns ! " 
 They had now entered within the fence (then of wooden 
 pales) which separated our magnificent public walk, still called 
 the Battery, from the street which occupies part of the former 
 site of Fort George, and is called State-street ; and now the 
 view of the spacious bay, with its islands, the rich and beautiful 
 shores of the neighbouring state of New Jersey, the hills of 
 Staten Island, and the meadows and groves of that part of 
 Long Island which with the sister isle forms the outlet to the 
 Atlantic and the inlet to all the commerce of the world, burst 
 upon the view. 
 
 The hero of the mimic scene, looked around him on the 
 realities of the present^ and was for a moment silent : but soon 
 he began again, taking a new hint from the prospect which 
 opened upon him, and seeming to inhale additional animation 
 from the pure sea breezes which swept over the waters,, pour 
 ing health upon the busy multitudes he had left behind him. 
 " My young friend " said he, " I never walk here, and look on 
 these rivers, this bay and those shores, but I think over the days 
 of my youth. I traverse again in triumph those heights." And 
 he pointed to Long Island. " I marched proudly, driving 
 before me the rebels with their Washington and their Lord Ster 
 ling (not a sterling Lord) until the night saved them from utter 
 annihilation. It was the twenty-fifth of August when they ffed 
 before us to their lines in Brooklyn. I must give Washington 
 credit for bringing them off that night. Yes, he made a skill 
 ful retreat, and did all that man a Yankee man could do with 
 such troops. These Yankees, with all their self-conceit, are a 
 poor race, sirr, a degenerate race in every thing." 
 
 " I think, Mr. Cooke " said Spiffard with an affected simpli 
 city, " that it was on the twenty-fifth of August you said, seven 
 teen hundred and seventy-six, that Washington fled with his 
 army of raggamuffins before the disciplined veterans of 
 Britain ?" 
 
 " Aye, sirr ! the twenty-fifth ! the twenty-fifth ! " 
 " And on the twenty-fifth " " Spiffard was interrupted by 
 the exulting repetition of the words,. " Ay, sirr ! the twenty- 
 fifth ! " But the Yankee proceeded deliberately, " the twenty- 
 fifth of November, seventeen hundred and eighty-three, these 
 same Yankees, led by this same Washington, marched into this 
 same city not leading a rabble of raggamuffins but a few regi 
 ments of well dressed, well equipped, well disciplined Yankee 
 soldiers ; and was welcomed by the grateful inhabitants as their 
 
20 A scene in the Park, and a icalk on the Battery. 
 
 benefactor and Saviour ! while his Britannic majesty s fleet, 
 men-of-war, transports and all, were seen from this same spot, 
 wafting his crest-fallen warriors back to their native shores." 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Cooke, with one of his arch looks, 
 " we will say nothing of that." 
 
 This day, ever to be commemorated not only by New- York, 
 but by America, as the last day their soil was polluted by an 
 enemy during the war of the revolution ; this memorable twenty- 
 fifth of November, 1783, was witnessed as a scene of triumph 
 by the writer of these memoirs ; and the words put into the mouth 
 of SpifFard, supposed to be spoken by him as the result of tra 
 dition, may be received by the reader as the testimony of an eye 
 witness. 
 
 After a pause Cooke added, " You spoke the latter part of 
 that last sentence, in a tone that would almost induce me to 
 think you an American, but that you are too short and too clever 
 for a Yankee. It is odd, sirr, that they have never produced 
 one good actor. How long is it since you came to this coun 
 try ? " 
 
 " Five and twenty years." 
 
 " Then you must have come when you were six months old 
 or less." 
 
 " Less, sir. Not an hour old. I am guilty of being born in 
 Yankee land." 
 
 " So, so, so ! and I have been be-rating the country, and the 
 people, to a a " 
 
 " A Yankee actor," said Spiffard laughing. 
 
 " A sterling actor," said the veteran in his best manner, 
 " come you when or whence you will." The chain of romance 
 and rhodomontade seemed broken, and with a pleasant smile 
 the old man said, " I have been fairly caught, I must confess. 
 But I like you none the worse for being a native of the land of 
 pumpkins and puritans. You must let me have my fling at you, 
 especially as you know, let who will laugh, or who will rail, 
 you Yankees have won the game." 
 
 Thus chatting, and somewhat recovered from the effects of 
 reading the English newspapers with the bar-keeper of the 
 tavern, the veteran was accompanied by the young comedian to 
 his lodgings, who with difficulty excused himself from entering 
 to share in the rich profusion of Jemmy Bryden s board at the 
 Tontine Coffee House. 
 
 When alone, Spiffard again fell into mournful ruminations on 
 his rueful condition. " If the suspicions which my volatile 
 companions have raised should prove to be founded on fact." At 
 one moment he strove against the thought that tortured him, 
 
Heroines on and off the stage. 21 
 
 and the next gave way to his fears. " These fellows are quiz 
 zing me. They are always at their hoaxing sport sport to 
 them ! but then how should they know that I am married to 
 her ? I boarded in the house before. It is but two weeks and 
 no one in the house knows it but Mrs. Epsom, not even her 
 cousin Emma no, no, there is a foundation for this insinuation. 
 I remember now a thousand circumstances in confirmation. 
 But then she has a mind so far above the ordinary class of 
 women. Her sentiments are elevated. The whole tenor of 
 her reading and conversation is masculine and philosophic. 
 True, her passions are remarkably strong, and she may have 
 followed the example of her former husband whom she loved 
 to excess she may have but that she now loves me I cannot 
 doubt, and with her good qualities and superior mind what have 
 I to fear?" 
 
 So soliloquizing our hero strode up Wall-street to Broadway, 
 and on to the house of Mrs. Epsom, his mother-in-law, having 
 in a good degree tranquilized his mind, and being determined 
 neither to do nor say any thing which might interrupt his do 
 mestic felicity; unless it should be disturbed by the public 
 avowal of his change of state, and the annunciation in papers 
 and bills of his wife s change of name, which had become ne 
 cessary after the scene in the Park* 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Heroines on and off the stage. 
 
 "Have you the lion s part written ] pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am 
 slow of study." Shakspeare. 
 
 " Study is still the cant term used in the theatre forgetting any nonsense 
 by rote." Stevens. 
 
 " Bottom discovers a true genius for the stage by his solicitude for pro 
 priety of dress, and his deliberation which beard to choose among many 
 beards, all unnatural." Johnson. 
 
 " I will draw you a bill of properties, such as our play wants." Shaks. 
 
 "A cue 
 
 serves as 
 
 ia stage cant is the last words of the preceding speech, and 
 a hint to. him. who is to speak next." Stevens. 
 
 BEFORE Zeb appears again or undertakes to make known 
 his purpose or rather his- change of resolution, we wiH introduce 
 
 2* 
 
22 Heroines on and off the stage. 
 
 the reader to the family circle at Mrs. Epsom s. Mrs. Trow- 
 bridge (we will call her so for the present) had just returned 
 from rehearsal (Cooke having absconded before his time, leav 
 ing the prompter to read Penruddock) and was busied in select 
 ing and preparing the dress and properties she intended for the 
 character of the evening. Mrs. Epsom sailed majestically 
 about the house* occasionally visiting the kitchen to see that 
 Rachel the black girl executed her orders, then with dignified 
 pace and action taking her seat by the parlour window, and after 
 an abundant administration of snuff to her capacious nostrils, 
 resuming her spectacles and her occupation of sewing. A book 
 was open on the chair beside her : whether on morality or reli 
 gion the reader must determine when he has perused to the end 
 of this history. We rather think it was deposited there for 
 what in playhouse technicalities is called study. 
 
 Mrs. Trowbridge, or Mrs. Spiffard, as the reader pleases, was 
 a vigorous square built woman of the largest English model ; not 
 only broad in frame but tall, and appearing still more so by 
 the side of her Zebediah, who although a native of Vermont, 
 it may be remembered was the very reverse of the long lank 
 Yankee of the novelist and story-teller, or the towering and 
 manly form of the real Vermonter ; and she appeared the taller 
 as she never lost an inch of her height by stooping, having a 
 true tragedy elevation of head and a commanding carriage of the 
 neck and shoulders. Her swan-like neck rose proudly from 
 her chest, giving an air of pride as well as grace to the 
 movements of the head,, whose ornament was hair that in luxu 
 riance and colour was truly Asiatic. Her arms were full, 
 plump, white and terminated by small graceful hands. Her 
 feet were rather large ; they were decidedly not American. Her 
 face was very remote from the painter s or sculptor s standard 
 of beauty ; yet might be called fine ; complexion, a light brunette, 
 but in spots rather ruddy. Forehead good, high, broad, white 
 strongly marked black eyebrows,, which,, with black eyes, and 
 hair falling in masses of raven hue, gave powerful effect to the 
 poet s passions, and sometimes to her own. She had a promi 
 nent full nose red lips, somewhat thick, the upper one having 
 rather a scornful curl towards its neighbour the impending nose, 
 when separated they displayed brilliant teeth this congrega 
 tion of features was finished by a square prominent chin, and 
 the whole visage was slightly marked by disappointment. The 
 aggregate gave indications of strong intellect, and, to the 
 close observer, ungoverned passions. 
 
 Her mother, who played the tragedy, or serious, old women 
 
Heroines on and off the stage. 23 
 
 of the Drama occasionally, was tall and thin, with a cream- 
 coloured face, except the nose which was red, sharp, short and 
 puggish thin lips, the upper one of which (as well as her nose) 
 was always discoloured with snuff her whole physiognomy 
 hypocritical and in her air was seen that mock dignity, and 
 that swimming and sailing manner already mentioned. 
 
 At the other window, so retired as that the light should fall on 
 her work and not on her face, sat Emma Portland. She was 
 intently employed in sewing ; and her eyes being cast down in 
 the direction of her needle, caused the long, dark, auburn lashes 
 to be more apparent as contrasted with the brilliant white of her 
 skin : they were relieved like the delicate touches of the pencil on 
 a ground of snowy purity. When the fringed curtains of her 
 eyes were raised, their azure tint and softness of expression 
 caused fascination not the fascination of the enchantress, but 
 a holy attraction inspiring admiration r divested of all impurity, 
 except when the beholder was impure. Complexion is evanes 
 cent yet transparency and bloom add to the charms of form 
 and expression. The most delicate tint of the damask rose- 
 leaf did not equal the colour of this maiden s cheek. She ap 
 peared by the purity and simplicity of her dress, the placidity of 
 her countenance,, the slender symmetry of her justly proportioned 
 form, and the graceful movement accompanying this common 
 domestic occupation, to contrast strongly with the majestic 
 figure of one, and the worldly appearance of the other of her 
 companions. 
 
 Emma was not yet eighteen, and looked two years younger 
 when not speaking. When she spoke r a mind of maturity indi 
 cating many years appeared in the unveiled mirror of her soul 
 her face which beamed with intelligence and intellectual 
 beauty. Nor did her words belie her lovely countenance, or in 
 the least disappoint the expectation which her all-expressive 
 physiognomy had raised. Purity and truth piety and love 
 (heavenly love) were written on her countenance. Of her form 
 and face it might be said with the poet, 
 
 "There is nothing ill can dwell in such a temple." 
 Her voice was 
 
 musical 
 
 As bright Apollo s harp strung with his hair, 
 Or that of Orpheus, strung with poet s sinews." 
 
 A spotless white morning dress covered her person from the 
 feet to the chin. There was no studied art to display form, or 
 
24 Heroines on and off the stage. 
 
 coquettishly to conceal it ; but the perfection of female loveliness 
 was seen in every movement and in every limb. Her hair was 
 auburn, fine and glossy as the richest silk ; modestly braided, 
 it formed a natural crown copeing her maiden brow ; that por 
 tion which impinged upon the ivory of her forehead, was parted 
 in the midst, and in ringlets hung clustering on either side, 
 shading the blue veins of her temples, and sometimes as they 
 waved, adding golden tinted shadows to the rich hues near them. 
 Her face approached the oval in its form, with a portion of 
 girlish roundncss f which only added to its innocent expression 
 when y as now, perfectly tranquil, and which expression of ex 
 treme youth was heightened by the glowing colour of her cheeks 
 and lips. These lips were as usual two, and as the old poet 
 says, 
 
 " The one was thin, 
 Compared with that was next her chin." 
 
 Yet both were full, exquisitely curved and rounded, and parted 
 by a line more resembling the bow of Cupid when unbent, 
 than any thing merely mortal ; within this mouth, the rows of 
 brilliant, pearly teeth, were in unison with the honied breath and 
 honied words which flowed from the healthful frame and health 
 ful mind of this matchless maiden. With this beauty she pos 
 sessed a higher, holier loveliness ; proceeding from within. In 
 her eyes you beheld the pure soul which never knew or thought 
 deceit the charm of truth was spread over her countenance, 
 but it shone in her eyes. She had read and heard of falsehood 
 and arts of deceit, but they were theories with her she confided 
 in every one,, because she felt her own sincerity and heretofore 
 had no experience of the lack of it in others. She confided in 
 all, and all confided in her. How could they avoid it ] Truth 
 was an innate and a practical virtue, which had such power in 
 her voice that no human creature could doubt an assertion from 
 her lips. She possessed another virtue- Charity. Charity in 
 its widest sense in its theory and practice. She thought 
 charitably of all, and she acted charitably to all. She could 
 not give money, or food, or clothing to the poor, but rarely and 
 scantily : she could not send fuel to the cold, and sick, and 
 shivering : but she did more she sought their abodes and 
 cheered them with looks and words. She pointed out their 
 cheerless dwellings to those who could supply their physical 
 wants and alleviate their sufferings. 
 
 How came such a creature in such a place and in such com 
 pany ? We will tell the reader in few words. 
 
Heroines on and off the stage. 25 
 
 The father of Emma Portland left England, his native 
 land, and took refuge in America, after the destruction of 
 his family by the elopement of his sister with a worthless 
 strolling player of the name of Epsom. This sister, though 
 now such as we have seen her had then a showy kind of so-called 
 beauty, was vain, and thought it would be a charming thing to 
 receive the plaudits of the theatre to be admired by hundreds, 
 to stand aloft and dazzle thousands, and to be the wife of the 
 tall, handsome, tragic actor, Mr. Adolphus Epsom. She was 
 an only daughter, and her conduct killed first her father and sub 
 sequently her mother. Her brother, a well disposed young man, 
 but with no extraordinary talents or acquirements, sought a home 
 in Philadelphia, prospered in commerce, married one of the 
 loveliest and best of women, and was blest by her perfections 
 mental and physical and more by the good conduct of a son 
 and daughter, Thomas and Emma ; so named from himself 
 and wife. The children inherited the talents of the mother, and 
 imbibed from her an ardent love of truth: the foundation of 
 every virtue. 
 
 Emma had in infancy the inestimable advantage of the ex 
 ample and instruction of an enlightened and good mother ; and 
 as her mind expanded, her beloved brother, some years older 
 than herself, and devoted to science and literature, became her 
 chosen companion, and instructor. Thus with every advantage 
 which wealth, science, virtue and piety could surround her, she 
 attained her fifteenth year. Then came a sad reverse. The 
 father, heretofore a princely merchant, failed sunk under the 
 shock and died. The mother bowed her head to God, and rose 
 higher and firmer from the conviction that to do his will was her 
 duty and her happiness ; that his will is the happiness of his crea 
 tures ; and that her duty was to make her children and herself use 
 ful in the great work of promoting happiness. The brother and 
 mother sought and found employment. Their sister and daugh 
 ter cheered their labours and cheerfully added her own. Soon 
 a lingering and cruel disease, the consumption, the conse 
 quence, perhaps, of too severe study, was apparent in the 
 flushed cheek arid enfeebled frame of the brother. The 
 mother seemed to melt away as her first born withered, as it is 
 fabled that the victim of malignity sinks with the melting of the 
 charm-fraught image moulded by the hand of accursed sorcery. 
 Both died resigned to the will of him who had given life and 
 much happiness thankful for the past and confiding in the 
 future ; they died first the brother, then the mother, and left the 
 orphan Emma not alone and unprotected, for in our country 
 
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28 Heroines on and off the Stage. 
 
 more than ever enjoyed, as all studies are in proportion to the 
 progress made in them, and the consciousness of intellectual 
 power thereby gained. She had no fastidious notions respecting 
 the Drama. She had read plays, English and French, selected 
 by her brother. She saw no reason to suppose that the effect of 
 a good poem in .prose or verse would be lessened by the just 
 representation of its characters, and powerful delivery of its 
 moral sentiments. She had seen with the delight incident to 
 inexperienced youth the charms of scenic representation ; and 
 although, since her residence with her aunt Epsom, her feelings 
 toward the theatre had undergone a change, still her only mo 
 tive on this occasion, was the preference given to retirement and 
 the pursuit of a study she had commenced. 
 
 It is known, without our aid, to some of our readers, that the 
 dressing rooms of the Park Theatre, are over the green-room, 
 or room for the assembling of performers when ready to obey 
 the prompter s summons to the stage. The passage leading to 
 these rooms, and to the stage, opened in a darksome dirty street 
 called Theatre Alley ; since that time, like many other things, 
 reformed. The first floor of the building, which is an adjunct to 
 the theatre proper, was occupied by the aforesaid green-room, 
 and the passage way from the street or alley to it, to the stage, 
 and to the stair-case leading to the dressing rooms. The second 
 floor was divided into three apartments, one of which was at this 
 time appropriated to Mr. Cooke, and the others to some of the 
 principal male performers of the company, none of whom hap 
 pened to play on the evening of which we speak, nor were their 
 usual occupants in the house. The third floor had likewise 
 three dressing rooms, one of which was occupied by Mrs. Ep 
 som and her daughter, a second accommodated Mr. Spiffard and 
 another comedian, and the third was similarly used by others of 
 the company. Above this again were other tiring rooms, better 
 filled, at least in quantity, (the persons of lesser weight in this 
 community, as in other places, rising nearer the clouds, as poets 
 and painters mount to garrets,) and still higher were apart 
 ments for tailors, supernumeraries and trumpery, all called ward 
 robe. Each landing on the staircase was lighted usually by a 
 lamp, but as Emma ascended with her aunt and cousin, it being 
 yet twilight, she had not noticed whether the lamp was burning 
 or not. 
 
 As she now descended to the floor on which the dressing 
 room of George Frederick Cooke was situated, she found her 
 self involved in darkness, and it appeared to her that the lamp 
 had been extinguished at the moment she opened the door of 
 
Heroines on and off the stag*. 29 
 
 the apartment from which she issued. With the confidence of 
 innocence, and that courage given by a just appreciation of her 
 own character, she kept on her way, darkling ; but as she pass 
 ed the last dressing room she was suddenly arrested, and felt 
 herself seized round the waist, by the strong grasp of a man s 
 arm, and forcibly drawn towards the door. She struggled to 
 return to the stairs whence she came and in her struggles con 
 fusedly heard the words murmured, " lovely girl I will make 
 your fortune I love you no harm " and a rude kiss was at 
 tempted upon her averted face. 
 
 " Help ! Aunt ! Cousin ! Cousin Trowbridge," cried the 
 struggling maid, " Monster ! Ruffian ! Help ! Help !" 
 
 A door opened, and a figure in a dressing gown appeared in the 
 doorway. This person, finding the landing and stairs in 
 darkness, turned back into the room, snatched a light and rush 
 ed out. The arm which had seized Emma was suddenly with 
 drawn, the ruffian had vanished, and she sunk on the lower step 
 of the stairs she had just descended, faintly crying " Help." 
 
 Thus before she could see the satyr who had assailed her, ex 
 cept by the faint and impeded light from the door that had been 
 thrown open, some rays of which fell on a face unknown to her, 
 she was left alone, sitting on the stairs leading to her aunt s 
 dressing room leaning with one arm on the step above that on 
 which she was seated, and with the other outstretched in search 
 of her bonnet in that attitude her bonnet off her face, neck 
 and shoulders almost covered by the profusion of her golden 
 ringlets in this state of apparent helplessness was she found 
 by George Frederick Cooke. 
 
 The veteran had been preparing for the ensuing scene, under 
 the hands of his hair-dresser, Dennis O Dogherty ; and attend 
 ed by his servant, or, as he called himself, his valet de sham, 
 Trustworthy Davenport (the first an honest hibernian, and the 
 second a thorough going yankee,) and hearing a female voice 
 cry for help, George Frederick rushed to the rescue with all the 
 promptitude of a preux chevalier, and stood in an attitude of 
 unfeigned amazement at the apparition of such a lovely creature 
 so strangely situated ; lovely he could now see that she was, for 
 a blaze of light fell strong and full upon her, from the candle he 
 had seized, and from another borne aloft by the tall yankee, his 
 valet. 
 
 " This way, O Dogherty ! Here, Davenport ! My dear 
 young lady, have you fallen ? Are you hurt 1 Let me assist 
 you ! Are you hurt ?" 
 
 " No sir. I am not hurt. Some ruffian assailed me. Hp 
 3 
 
30 Heroines on and off the stage. 
 
 must have gone into that room, I think or perhaps down stairs." 
 
 " That door ? Ha ! O Dogherty ! Davenport ! that door 
 I beg your pardon, Madam. Bring a glass of wine, O Dogh 
 erty ! and Davenport, see who is in that room the door is 
 open." 
 
 " And there is no speck of light," said Trusty, as he obeyed. 
 
 " You are faint, my dear," said the old gentleman, " Let me 
 assist you into this room and there you can sit down until you 
 recover yourself. For Emma was now standing at the foot of 
 the stairs near the tragedian s open door. 
 
 " Oh no sir, no, no, I am well now ;" and the trembling girl, 
 hastily adjusting her long and dishevelled tresses under her 
 bonnet, attempted to ascend the stairs, but suddenly recollecting 
 that to her aunt and cousin, as then engaged, the knowledge of 
 her adventure would prove unseasonable and annoying, and that 
 it might prevent Mrs. Trowbridge s exertions as an actress, at 
 the same time wondering that her cries had not brought those 
 ladies down (but in truth they had not heard her faint and stifled 
 calls for help) she concluded to leave them in ignorance for the 
 present. 
 
 Davenport returned from his search with the report that no 
 one was to be found. 
 
 Emma, after a moment of hesitation, re-assumed her inten 
 tion of going home, and was proceeding down stairs to the lower 
 floor, after thanking the old gentleman for his assistance and 
 kind offers. 
 
 " Where would you go, young lady ? " said he. 
 
 " Home, sir." 
 
 Alone ! " 
 
 " There is no danger, sir." 
 
 " I think there is." 
 
 " None, sir, after leaving this house." 
 
 " Indeed, miss," said Dennis O Dogherty, who stood holding 
 a decanter of Madeira in one hand, and a full glass in the other. 
 " There are more bad houses in this alley." 
 
 " What sirr ! " said Cooke, " do you make a bad house of 
 the theatre 1 " 
 
 " Not I, sir, but among us I think it will get its name up. I 
 only mane that there are others in the alley, though this is the 
 biggest." 
 
 " Mr. O Dogherty," said the Yankee, " you are mending the 
 matter clean with a plaster of rnud." 
 
 " Hold your tongues, sirrs !" said Cooke. " How far are you 
 going, young lady ?" 
 
Heroines on and off the stage. 31 
 
 * Only to Mrs. Epsom s, sir." 
 
 " My coat ! Davenport ! I dont go on till the second act. 
 O Dogherty, my hat ! Young lady, you must not go through 
 that dark alley alone. I am George Frederick Cooke, madam ; 
 and though my grey hairs if I hadn t this black wig on might 
 be assurance enough for your security, we will have Dennis 
 with us, who knows the alley so well, and Davenport shall carry 
 a Ian thorn before us." 
 
 " Indeed, sir, I have no fears, when out of this house." 
 
 " The house has its traps, sure enough, miss ; and there are 
 some who make the sight of an unprotected beauty a cue to 
 their licentiousness ; but pardon me, the night is growing dark, 
 and such a figure as yours flitting through Theatre-alley might 
 attract a ruffian, and occasion an insult even out of the theatre. 
 So you must permit therefore, pardon me, I will see you home. 
 Give me that glass of wine, O Dogherty, and take care of the 
 bottle ; and do you, Trusty, take the lanthorn." Having tossed 
 off the bumper, he proceeded. " I will see you safe home by the 
 light of Dennis s face and Trustworthy s lanthorn. And as I 
 shall be supporting you, and Davenport carrying the light before 
 us, that Hibernian shall follow as a rear guard. Come along, 
 Davenport, and take your cudgel with you, Dennis ! " 
 
 Emma could no longer decline the aid so frankly offered ; 
 and supported by the arm of the veteran, lighted by his trusty 
 valet, and guarded by the red-faced Irishman, they descended 
 the stairs, at the bottom of which they found the old porter. 
 
 " Did any one pass out within a few minutes 1 " said Cooke. 
 
 " Yes, sir, a gentleman in a great hurry." 
 
 " Who was he 1" 
 
 " I dont know, sir ?" 
 
 " You must know all the performers ?" 
 
 " He was not a performer I m sure sir." 
 
 " Then what business had he here ?" 
 
 " He did not come in this way since I came from my supper, 
 and as he looked like a gentleman, I let him pass without asking 
 questions. He was wrapp d in a cloak, and his face partly 
 covered." 
 
 " Some young scape-grace," ejaculated Cooke, as they passed 
 out. 
 
 " No, sir," said the porter, " he was not young, that I know 
 by the way he came down the stairs. He was none of your 
 hop-skip-and-jump fellows." 
 
 Emma reached her aunt s house in safety ; receiving all the 
 delicate attentions which a man of sense and feeling would be- 
 
32 Heroines on and off the stage. 
 
 stow upon a young female in her situation ; for it happened that 
 Mr. Cooke was at this time such as nature had qualified him for 
 being at all times. 
 
 When they stopped at the door, Emma, having thoroughly 
 recovered her self-possession, said, " I will not ask you in, sir. 
 I know your engagements. My aunt will add her thanks to 
 mine, for your politeness, at some other time. I hope you 
 will call upon her, she is not now at home. The thanks and 
 blessings of the orphan are with you, sir." Then suddenly 
 bending her head, under the impulse of excited feelings, she 
 pressed her lips upon the hand which had assisted her, he felt a 
 warm tear drop, and she hastily left him. 
 
 Cooke, and his two attendants, turned to retrace their way to 
 the theatre, and they had walked in silence for a minute or 
 two, when the hero of the buskin ejaculated the single word, 
 " strange !" He drew out his handkerchief, and, rubbing his 
 eyes, said, " Who is this beautiful creature, Dennis ?" 
 
 " Sure and she is beautiful, sir," said Dennis. 
 
 " I know that, you blockhead ; but ivho is she ?" 
 
 " Sure, Mister Cooke, you wouldn t call me a blockhead for 
 not knowing all the beautiful creatures. And, indeed, Mr. 
 Cooke, and I think she is none of the company, or she would 
 not have minded a little affair of that sort quite so much." 
 
 " Get out, you blackguard, do you know what you are say 
 ing?" 
 
 " Mr. Dog-hearty," said Davenport, " means the present 
 company." 
 
 " To be sure," said Dennis, " that s what I mean ; the present 
 company always excepted." 
 
 " He don t know what he means," said Cooke. 
 
 " Fai t, and I do, sir, without maining any disrespect to your 
 self, Mr. Cooke, or any of the other ladies of the stage, past, 
 present, or to come." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, sir !" 
 
 il And I can do that ; and what the more will you know if 
 idol" 
 
 " Have you ever seen her before, Davenport?" inquired the 
 tragedian, turning to his yankee attendant. 
 
 " I have, be sure, Mr. Cooke," said the valet de sham, " and 
 noticed her with considerable admiration. For, to tell the truth, 
 which I always endeavour to do, modesty, in our house, shines 
 like a candle in a dark night, or a good deed in a naughty 
 world/ as the poet says. But I see her in another house at 
 church ; and there she looks like an inhabitant of the upper re- 
 
A Renunciation r 33 
 
 gions : I don t mean the gallery, or the upper tier of boxes. An 
 angel a descending spirit, come to tell * the secrets of the 
 world unknown, as Norval says." 
 
 This rhapsody, given with a nasal tone, and true JVeto Eng 
 land or old English peculiarity of accent and enunciation, tickled 
 the tragedian s fancy, and turned the current of his thoughts. 
 After good naturedly exclaiming, " Hush, you barbarous mur 
 derer of Dominie Home !" he communed with himself as he 
 returned to the business of the night ; occasionally a word 
 escaped him, such as " brute" " beautiful" "daughter" but 
 further communication with Dennis or Davenport, he held none. 
 
 CHAPTER III, 
 
 A Renunciation. 
 
 " Time is the nurse and breeder of all good." 
 " Temperance is a delicate wench." Shakspeare. 
 
 MY story is one of ordinary life. Its incidents are such, 
 mainly, as I have known to occur. If I have introduced an 
 Irishman and a Yankee, it is because my scene is in New- York ; 
 and in New-York one cannot turn a corner but an Irishman is 
 at one elbow and a Yankee at the other. It will be seen by the 
 sequel that 1 mean no disrespect to the natives of the Emerald 
 Isle I feel none. Take Pat from the influence of bad, or no 
 education ; give him a fair chance in the race, he will out 
 strip the best and the proudest of Europe ; and Jonathan is my 
 own countryman, only born further " down east," where I have 
 found some of the most enlightened heads, and truest hearts, 
 of all who can boast the name of ** Yankee." 
 
 We will now take up the thread of our story, and open the 
 conversation which was on the eve of commencement when we 
 dropt the stitch in our knitting-work. We return to the colloquy 
 of Mrs. Epsom, Mrs. Spiffard, (late Mrs. Trowbridge,) and 
 Emma Portland, which has been so long necessarily delayed. 
 
 " Emma, dear," said Mrs. Spiffard, as she selected the dress 
 she intended to wear in the evening ; " will you help me with 
 these ruffles 1" 
 
 3* 
 
34 Jl Renunciation. 
 
 " Certainly, cousin ;" and putting aside her needle-work, 
 she crossed the apartment to receive the stage ornaments. 
 "Why, these are old fashioned." 
 
 " They are for an elderly lady ; I am to play an old lady to 
 night in Cumberland s Wheel of Fortune. You, who do not 
 read plays, may not know that Penruddock is one of Kemble s, 
 Cooke s, and Cooper s fine parts. As this is the first time of 
 Mr. Cooke s playing the character in America, I am anxious 
 that he may be well supported, as far as my exertions can go 
 towards giving support to his talents." 
 
 " I have read the Wheel of Fortune, said Emma, " and 
 most of Cumberland s plays. My brother" and a slight cloud 
 passed over her beaming countenance ; " my brother did not 
 prohibit dramatic authors, but he selected for me. I once had a 
 strong relish for plays." 
 
 w When you were young, I suppose," said Mrs. Epsom, with 
 a sneering snuffle. 
 
 " When I was " Emma was going to say happy ; but de 
 licacy, and the consciousness of present good, checked her. 
 " When my " again she stopped. " What shall I do with this 
 ruffle, cousin V 
 
 Mrs. SpifFard gave the necessary directions, and described 
 the dress which was intended for the character of Mrs. Wood- 
 viile, in the above named play, and then continued " I don t 
 think you ever saw me personate an old woman. I am to play 
 a part, perhaps, unsuited to my figure to-night, and 1 hope you 
 will go and see how I perform, that I may have your opinion 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Emma had anticipated the trial which now approached. Even 
 before the outrage which had been offered by the unknown 
 ruffian, and which we have related* she had felt a growing reluc 
 tance to visiting the private part of the theatre. That occur 
 rence had determined her ; and with due consideration she had 
 made up her mind, (after consulting a friend who will be here 
 after introduced to the reader,.) to avoid, unless some duty 
 required her attendance, (some service not otherwise to be 
 performed for her protectors,) to avoid any communication 
 with the recesses of the theatre. To introduce the subject to 
 her friends, as they were situated, was a difficulty which her 
 delicate mind shrunk from. She had feared to mention the story 
 of the insult that had been offered to her ; and feared still more 
 to make known the determination which had been its result ; 
 but now she found it necessary to avow her resolution,, and as 
 sign the cause. Having thus resolved what her conduct must 
 
A Renunciation. 35 
 
 be hereafter in respect to the theatre, she answered with all the 
 firmness of a philosopher, but with all the gentleness of her sex, 
 and peculiarly sweet character, " No cousin, I hope you will 
 excuse me." 
 
 " No ! why not V and both the ladies fixed their eyes in as 
 tonishment upon her. 
 
 " I hope my aunt, and you, cousin, will permit me to remain 
 at home this evening, and not even ask ivhy?" Again she felt 
 unequal to her task, and wished to avoid explanation. 
 
 " You may do as you please, certainly. But why not see the 
 play? The Wheel of Fortune is an unceptionable comedy." 
 
 " I have read it, and many by the same author. Mr. Cum 
 berland has been characterized by Goldsmith as the Terence 
 of England, the mender of hearts ; but I do not think his plays 
 unexceptionable. There are many objectionable passages ; and 
 in all his works he is an advocate for the absurd and unchristian 
 practice of duelling." 
 
 " O my Emma, you are a little prude," said Mrs. SpifTard ; 
 and rising, she took a seat nearer Emma, accompanying her 
 words with a playful tap on the cheek. 
 
 " I hope not, Cousin," said the blushing girL 
 
 " I can t see what objection you can have to seeing your 
 cousin s scenes," snuffled Mrs. Epsom. 
 
 " Will not my dear aunt permit me to remain at home ?" 
 
 " You grow more and more opposed to the theatre, 1 think," 
 was the reply ; " and with your voice and figure, it is exactly 
 the line of life you ought to choose, and I have told you so 
 again and again." 
 
 " But you have also told me, dear aunt, that you would have 
 me consult my own happiness. My needle, and my habits of 
 industry place me above the dread of want; and I have no am 
 bition to display my voice or figure." 
 
 " And then," continued the aunt, " what an advantage to 
 have the instruction of your cousin and myself." 
 
 " But Emma," added Mrs. SpifTard, " would feel herself de 
 graded by treading the stage." This was said with some 
 asperity perhaps from consciousness. 
 
 " Oh," exclaimed Emma, her beautiful cheeks glowing with 
 additional colour, u Oh, how I have dreaded and wished to 
 avoid this subject ! But I find that in this as in every thing 
 else, an honest, plain avowal of the truth, is the best mode of 
 overcoming difficulties." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, my dear," said Mrs. SpifFard, earnestly 
 and tenderly. "I did not mean to hurt your feelings,, or 
 
36 A Renunciation* 
 
 reproach you for differing from us in opinion. My education 
 has been very unlike yours ;" and she sighed. " But you 
 had better go with us perhaps you will be very lonely here. 
 Take your book, as you have before done, and sit in our room, 
 if you will not go in front and see the play." 
 
 " Unless for some very particular reason, cousin," said Em 
 ma, firmly, " I will never again enter the walls of that theatre." 
 
 " Heyday ! what have we now !" exclaimed the aunt. 
 
 Emma, then, with simplicity, related the insult she had re 
 ceived, and the fright she had experienced. She narrated the 
 occurrence, not as we have described it (we, to whom all things 
 are known,) but as it appeared to her. She apologized for let 
 ting so many hours pass without mentioning the circumstance. 
 She expressed her deep feeling of the insult offered to her from 
 some one evidently acquainted with the house, and, as she 
 could not but suppose, feeling at home in it. She expressed 
 strongly her gratitude to her protector, and added, " It is not 
 the fear of personal injury that has made me come to this reso 
 lution, but a sense of what is due to you and to myself; to 
 you, my aunt and cousin, as protectors of my orphan state ; to 
 myself, as one depending for future prosperity and usefulness 
 on present conduct. I ought, as the subject is now unavoidably 
 brought into discussion, to add that it is not alone the event I have 
 recounted to you that has caused my determination, but the im 
 proper words I have, at various times, been obliged to hear in 
 passing and repassing to your apartment in the theatre, and the 
 improper conduct I have been forced to witness. With you in 
 your company? I am protected from insult, and see T at least, the 
 appearance of decency among the people called supernume 
 raries, and others,. who y when unrestrained by the presence of 
 their superiors or employers y are not governed by laws or feel 
 ings which render them proper persons for a young and unpro 
 tected female to be placed so near, as to be within hearing of 
 their jests and ribaldry. You cannot be always with me your 
 duty calls you before the public and my appearance does not 
 command respect from the ignorant, or shield my conduct from 
 the suspicions or the censures of the libertine. My pleasure is 
 in retirement. The gay frequenters of the boxes or the glit 
 tering decorations of the proscenium of the theatre, give me, of 
 late, no delight ; I am isolated among the auditors ; and the 
 scenes which appear to please them, too often disgust me. If 
 such is my situation in front of the curtain, behind it I feel that 
 I am exposed to insult except in your immediate presence. 
 The gentlemen and ladies of the theatre are engaged in their 
 
A Renunciation. 37 
 
 respective duties ; and are, for the most part, unknown to me. 
 That I may be subjected to calumny is but too apparent, while 
 placed so nearly in contact with vulgar indelicacy not to say 
 indecency. I hope my good aunt and cousin will yield to me 
 in this, and not attribute my refusal to visit the theatre (except 
 on occasions when duty to them requires) to false delicacy or 
 any improper motive." 
 
 Her " good aunt" sat petrified during this address. She 
 had never heard any thing like it from female mouth before, 
 and thought the girl "possessed." Mrs. Spiffard s counte 
 nance had varied as Emma spoke. As she looked at her ani 
 mated face, her own dark eyes sparkled as she listened to the 
 accents of truth, purity, and feeling, she thought of the inno 
 cence of childhood, and the train of events which had since 
 occurred and changed her to that which she knew herself now 
 to be. 
 
 When Emma ceased to speak, her cousin dismissed these 
 remembrances of former days and subsequent events she felt 
 as if she would willingly be in union with the holiness of the 
 beautiful object before her, and at the same time be its prop. 
 All her better self filled her bosom and glowed in her counte 
 nance, as she exlaimed, " I will never ascribe any of my 
 Emma s actions to an improper motive !" and she kissed the 
 girl with enthusiasm, while tears of affection dimmed the lustre 
 of her eyes but the jewel, which nature has bestowed on all 
 her children, shone with its native radiance through those heal 
 ing tears. 
 
 " I don t know what is the matter with me this morning,." 
 said Mrs. Epsom. " I have not felt well since breakfast," and 
 she went to a closet, and mixing something in a tumbler ap 
 plied to it as a medicine. 
 
 Before the good lady had taken the emptied glass from her 
 mouth, Spiffard entered in that frame of mind which the 
 reader may imagine to have been the result of the conversation 
 and inuendos heard in the park, the ramble with Cooke, and 
 the soliloquy which followed ; all of which we have made the 
 world duly acquainted with. 
 
 The first thing that caught his sight was the tumbler at the 
 mouth of Mrs. Epsom. His eye was fixed upon it, and upon 
 the old lady, with an expression, the description of which, 
 words cannot convey. All the terrific images which he had 
 been combatting rushed again triumphantly upon his imagina 
 tion. His lips were compressed he was fixed to the spot 
 and the eyes of his wife and her mother were fixed upon him. 
 
38 Jl Renunciation. 
 
 The latter turned away, put by the tumbler, and resumed her 
 seat with great and dignified composure. 
 
 Spiffard turned his eye to his wife with a look of inquiry. 
 
 " What s the matter, Mr. Spiffard ?" she asked. 
 
 " The matter ? nothing I I have had a long walk with 
 Mr. Cooke I I am a little fatigued." And he sat down. 
 His feelings approached to that sickness which occasions total 
 prostration of bodily power some times called heart-sickness. 
 
 " I hope," said Mrs. Spiffard, " that the old gentleman was 
 gay and agreeable. He was not very clear at rehearsal, and cut 
 it rather short, leaving the prompter to supply his place. I am 
 afraid he has been busier with his bottle than his book." This 
 was spoken in a forced manner, and to hide the feelings occa 
 sioned by the previous scene. 
 
 " What a pity it is," said Emma, who had now resumed her 
 secluded seat by the window, " that a man of such talents 
 should be a slave to such a debasing vice." 
 
 " It is a great pity," said the old lady, with a most hypocriti 
 cal sigh, as she took a huge pinch of Irish blackguard. 
 
 "It is damnable," cried Spiffard, with a tone and look which 
 was as new to his auditory as it was unaccountable from any 
 thing that had occurred since his appearance among them. 
 
 It is thus that we bring into new scenes and companies the feel 
 ings acquired elsewhere and which are discordant, and some 
 times irritating, to those of the persons we approach ; and thus 
 we, by our ill temper, mar the social harmony of our friends. 
 How is this to be avoided ? By repressing our selfish sensa 
 tions, and adapting ourselves to those we mingle with. 
 
 " Perfectly damnable," he continued. "How can rational crea 
 tures be reconciled to the infamy which must attend so loathsome 
 a habit, even if they do not dread the misery that precedes the 
 death they purchase by their folly 1 We do not sufficiently show 
 our detestation of the practice in men, but even the most 
 thoughtless are shocked when they see it in a woman :" and 
 he looked at Mrs. Epsom, not unobserved by his wife. 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Spiffard, you take the matter up too seriously, 
 and speak too severely," she said. " A little stimulus is neces 
 sary, absolutely necessary after, and sometimes during the 
 exertions our profession demands." 
 
 " I deny the necessity, madam. If it exists, the profession 
 ought to be abandoned. This stimulating, when often repeated, 
 becomes a habit. The practitioner from a little goes to more, 
 until the stomach becomes vitiated, and the appetite depraved. 
 Then the time inevitably comes, when to refrain appears worse 
 
Ji Renunciation. 39 
 
 than death ; worse than the worst of deaths ; a death of madness 
 and remorse ! unless some friendly hand, or blessed circum 
 stance, snatches the victim from destruction." 
 
 " I believe there is much truth in what you say," said his 
 wife ; " but I do not see what has occasioned your great warmth 
 on the subject at this moment. Before you came in, we were 
 engaged in a very interesting discussion one in which you will 
 take part ; and I must make an appeal to you. What do you 
 think ? our little Emma has determined never to enter within 
 the walls of the theatre ; and I can assure you that she has de 
 livered her determination with an emphasis and manner not 
 to say discretion which has convinced me that she would be 
 the ornament of any stage in the world. But she abjures play 
 houses in toto at least all behind the curtain, if not both boxes 
 and stage." 
 
 " She is right !" said Spiffard, emphatically ; " the stage ! no ! 
 she is right !" 
 
 " Right V 9 exclaimed the two actresses. 
 
 " Yes, right. She is innocent she is pure she is unsophis 
 ticated and uncontaminated : and to remain so let her hold to 
 her determination." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said his wife, and her eyes flashed their 
 lightnings, and then were overclouded by the dark black des 
 cending brow ; while her previously flushed cheek blanched. 
 
 " My mother and myself are indebted to you !" 
 
 " The husband was silent. His silence was not that of one 
 who has said that which was wrong or untrue. He looked 
 firmly in the eyes of his wife, as if to read his destiny there. 
 
 Emma felt as if she was the cause of this threatening silence 
 the stillness which precedes the thunder s crash and she 
 wished to conduct, harmless, the lightnings of the gathering 
 storm. She lifted her sunny eyes as she spoke, and fixed them 
 upon Mrs. Spiffard. 
 
 " Nay, cousin, Mr. Spiffard knows, as we all do, that many, 
 very many ladies, exemplary for virtues, as well as conspicuous 
 for talents and acquirements, have not only frequented the thea 
 tre, but trod the stage. Ladies, who have adorned real life by 
 their good conduct, their prudence, and their charity, as splen 
 didly as they did the stage by their accomplishments and genius. 
 I need not go to a foreign land for examples, when I can name 
 so many at home and when I know and feel the purity and vir 
 tues of my kind and good cousin." 
 
 This was spoken by the charming girl with the full confi 
 dence of truth, for such was her conviction. But the words 
 
40 A Renunciation. 
 
 entered the soul of Mrs. Spiffard like a two-edged sword. The 
 blood rushed to her face her cheeks burned and from her 
 lowering brow and dark eyes, flashed a glance upon Emma, 
 such as only truth might bear unharmed. But it met the open 
 eye and arched brow of innocence, unconscious of offending, 
 and the glance of the conscience-stricken was cast on the floor, 
 with an expression of troubled emotion, confused ideas, and 
 wandering thoughts, almost too much for endurance. 
 
 Emma felt that she had failed to produce the good she wished ; 
 but could little conceive the cause of the failure. The gloomy 
 silence continued. At length Spiffard spoke, mildly and in a 
 subdued tone. " Mrs. Spiffard," said he, rising, and taking her 
 hand, " I have something to communicate to you." 
 
 The lady rose gloomily to accompany her lord. 
 
 " I will finish this ruffle up stairs, and bring it to you in a 
 minute or two," said Emma ; and without waiting reply she left 
 the room with an air as light and graceful as we may imagine 
 the waving of an angel s plumes, when winged to the regions of 
 bliss. 
 
 There was a pause of a few moments. Zeb seemed to think 
 that as the young lady had left the room, the old lady might do 
 the same ; but old ladies do not always follow the example of 
 young ones ; and when they do, they do not always move upon 
 angels wings. She did not seem inclined to move at all. The 
 husband sat down. His wi^e took her seat again in a dignified 
 sullen silence. He revolved in his mind the communication he 
 had to make. " Should he speak of the remarks of the young 
 men 1" He dismissed the thought. " How should he break the 
 subject ?" His reverie was interrupted by his wife s voice. 
 
 " Mamma, Mr. Spiffard, it appears, has some private com 
 munication to make to me. Shall we retire ?" and she again 
 moved from her seat. 
 
 " I am going, child." And the stately dame took a liberal 
 pinch of snuff, gathered together her sewing materials, and her 
 book, and with a swimming air and no very sweet expression of 
 countenance, left her son and daughter to the matrimonial hap 
 piness which appeared to await them. 
 
 Mrs. Spiffard looked gloomily upon her spouse. He started 
 up walked and then sat down again. 
 
 The importance of our subject viz. conjugal happiness, or 
 the reverse, is so great, that we are compelled to commence 
 another chapter before venturing upon it. 
 
Explanations and Concealments. 41 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Explanations and Concealments. 
 
 " will but join you together as they join wainscot ; then one of 
 
 you will prove a shrunk pannel, and like green timber, warp warp !" 
 
 "Wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig;****** the first full 
 as fantastical the wedding mannerly-modest then comes repentance and 
 *** falls into a cinque-pace till he sinks into his grave." Shakspeare. 
 
 IT is no trifling matter, gentle reader, for us to draw aside (he 
 veil of the matrimonial sanctuary -imd expose to your gaze the 
 mysteries of wedded life. Be assured it is not to gratify your 
 idle curiosity that we do it, but to show you the inevitable con 
 sequences of ill-assorted unions matches that smell of the 
 brimstone and to point out the blessings which as certainly 
 flow from a marriage in which the parties are induced to make 
 the important contract from a knowledge of each other s good 
 qualities founded upon long continued observation, and a sense 
 of their moral duties. To such, the quotations at the head of 
 this chapter do not apply. 
 
 Neither will we exclude from the list of good qualities, in male 
 or female, youth, health, or beauty. We would have you, 
 madam (or miss,) to marry a man a little older than yourself, 
 even ten years older if you should be foolish enough to think 
 of a husband at fifteen. Now, our hero, Zebediah Spiffard, 
 was five years younger than his wife, and this was not as it 
 ought to be, though the experiment may succeed. But, my 
 dear young ladies, as you value soul or body, do not marry an 
 old man or even an elderly gentleman of fifty wig or no 
 wig however tempting his riches, his accomplishments, his 
 knowledge of the world, or even his virtues. Nature has for 
 bidden it ; and she will be obeyed, or the pains and penalties 
 must be inflicted for the breach of her laws. She does not 
 bring those who break them into court, formally to arraign, try, 
 condemn, and punish them the crime, as in many other- 
 cases, " brings its own punishment." As to the old gentle 
 man, or man of fifty, if he must have a wife, let him be content 
 to marry merit, and waive pretensions to youth and beauty. 
 But it is time we return to the man and wife of our story. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Spiffard, were left, by the departure of Emma 
 Portland and Mrs. Epsom, to the full and free enjoyment of 
 
 VOL. i. 4 
 
42 Explanations and Concealments. 
 
 the bitter cup which they had been preparing for themselves 
 each for the other and each for self by precipitation on one 
 part, and deception on the other. 
 
 Spiffard still continued sitting, as if unconscious of the de 
 parture of the young lady or the old ; or as if he had no part to 
 play in the matrimonial scene. In truth he was at a loss how 
 to begin. 
 
 Before he had arrived at the theatre of action, he thought he 
 had resolved to tell his wife how evil tongues spoke of her ; 
 and to question her bluntly ; but now, that she was before him, 
 he had not the heart to do it. In truth, his nature was such 
 that he would not willingly inflict pain upon any human being, 
 and much less upon one who loved him. We say he would 
 not willingly, that is, when reason was unclouded by passion. 
 But it had become necessary that their marriage should be 
 announced that his wife s name ; that the words Mrs. Spiffard 
 should be in the play-bills. It had been at his request that the 
 union had been kept private, meaning to announce it at the end 
 of the theatrical season. The secrecy had originated in a fear, 
 which he did not avow to himself, of the ridicule of these same 
 young gentlemen, who had now, by commencing an attack 
 upon him, forced him to avow his blissful state. And what 
 reason should he give for the change of plan and opinion ? 
 
 Spiffard was a lover of truth ; a declaimer against disguise : 
 he had deviated from the path of rectitude in concealing his 
 marriage ; he had acted under the influence of self-delusion, 
 and contrary to sober conviction, in contracting it : he was 
 punished by the consequences naturally flowing from the fault. 
 
 Mrs. Spiffard had resumed her uneasy seat, and sat looking 
 at the livid countenance of her husband, and feeling that sick 
 ness of the heart which the consciousness of hidden acts, and 
 the fear of detection, causes. At length, impatient of a sus 
 pense which became more dreadful each moment, and tortured 
 by imaginings more harrowing than any reality, she started 
 from her chair, and arousing all that whirlwind of passion 
 which a bad education, and evil example from childhood, had 
 made her own, and, as it were, engrafted upon her better na 
 ture, (and a display of which had never been made before her 
 present husband, or even her cousin Emma,) she folded her 
 beautiful arms, and with a step which is called theatrical, but 
 which is the true indication of lofty feeling or great excitement, 
 and belongs to the nature of passion, she walked the room, 
 bending on her lord as threatening a look as ever Lady Mac 
 beth bestowed upon her wavering would-be-king when he 
 
Explanations and Concealments. 43 
 
 hesitated to do that which he wished done ; letting " I dare 
 not wait upon I would, like the poor cat i the adage." At 
 length she ceased her walk, and stood before him ; and, after a 
 pause, assuming a tone of irony, she said, " I thought you had 
 something of high import to propose, Mr. Spiff ard !" 
 
 " Please to sit down, madam," said Zeb, who had been 
 roused by his wife s tone and attitude ; " please to be seated," 
 and he led her to her chair. She resumed her seat with a 
 scornful toss of the head. He slowly drew his chair near, 
 and placed himself beside her. 
 
 " It has become necessary, Mrs. Spiffard, that our marriage 
 should be announced." 
 
 A weight was lifted from the lady s bosom she breathed 
 freer and replied, "the concealment was a plan of your own, 
 Mr. Spiffard." 
 
 "It was, madam, and like all concealments, was foolish if 
 not criminal, and rewarded accordingly." 
 
 Mrs. Spiffard felt the blood rush to her cheeks and forehead 
 again she breathed hard, as she said, " What has changed 
 your view of the subject? I mean w y hat 1" 
 
 Our hero felt unequal to the task of telling the truth, although 
 thus questioned. He shrunk from inflicting pain on one who 
 had committed her welfare to his keeping. He took refuge in 
 a second concealment, while reprobating the first. This is 
 weakness, but not uncommon. He hesitated, and then said, 
 " concealment looks like fear of shame or consciousness of 
 wrong." 
 
 " The concealment was in compliance with your wish," 
 replied his wife ; but in a tone faltering and subdued. 
 
 " My intention was, as I then stated to you, that your 
 name should remain unaltered in the bills until the end of your 
 present engagement ; when we would leave town, and an 
 nounce our marriage at the time. But circumstances imper 
 tinent in short, it is best to tell the truth openly and meet " 
 he hesitated. 
 
 Mrs. Spiffard again had been pale ; now, the blood rushed 
 to her face and neck. " Meet w r hat, sir ?" 
 
 " The consequences." 
 
 " The consequences !" she repeated. " The consequences !" 
 
 " At least," he continued, " when it is known that you are 
 my wife, I shall not hear or if I do I shall have a right to 
 resent as insults to myself " again he hesitated. 
 
 The haughty spirit of the unfortunate woman had been 
 aroused. She had begun the conversation in a strain of high 
 
44 Explanations and Concealments. 
 
 feeling, and a tone of offended pride, and assumed superiority ; 
 but conscience now asserted its rights. We mean, by con 
 science, the memory of past transactions, which reason pro 
 nounces to be wrong. And the inward inquiry of, "T\ 7 hat has 
 he heard 1" overpowered her. 
 
 "It is the misfortune of our profession its curse " at 
 length, she said, " that the idle, the mischievous, and the ma 
 lignant, feel at liberty to suggest any ill, or frame any report to 
 our detriment, and the world is ready to credit any story that 
 may be fabricated to the disadvantage of an actress." 
 
 " It is too true. But you can defy 1" 
 
 " I do defy, sir !" 
 
 Short as had been the time between the quailing of her lofty 
 spirit and the last question, she had rallied the energies of 
 her character, so far, at least, as to act the offended innocent, 
 but it was in a style of unnatural exaggeration ; which, al 
 though not satisfactory to her husband, gave an excuse and 
 opportunity for self-delusion ; and he resolved to believe, 
 where it was so much his interest that the belief should be well 
 founded. Much of the belief of this credulous world has the 
 same species of foundation. 
 
 All the native kindly disposition of the water-drinker return 
 ed or rather burst forth from the cloud which had obscured it 
 and taking his wife s hand, he said, " I have been urged to 
 uneasiness, irritation, anxious thought, and almost to unjust 
 suspicions, by the foolish babble of two or three gentlemen, who 
 no doubt knew, by some means, of our marriage, and took this 
 mode of punishing me for the concealment. They perhaps, 
 for the moment, think themselves justifiable ; though I cannot 
 see how the term quiz or hoax can justify falsehood of any de 
 scription. Truth is too sacred to be jested with ; and its vio 
 lation, in any shape, is a blot upon the character of man or 
 woman ; it is a fault that ought to be punished by the contempt 
 of the world, as well as by self-disapprobation. I will imme 
 diately announce our marriage. I wronged both you and my 
 self in the wish for a moment s concealment. Your name 
 shall appear as Mrs. Spiffard in the next bills of the theatre. 
 This will prevent any more hoaxing ; and I hope you will 
 forgive me for allowing the jests of these thoughtless young 
 men to have a momentary effect upon me." 
 
 Mrs. Spiffard burst into tears. She was moved by conflict 
 ing thoughts ; and, though tears were a relief, there was a 
 portion of bitterness mingled in the stream from the overflow 
 ing cup of conscience. 
 
Explanations and Concealments. 45 
 
 The husband spoke soothingly. " Come, come, no more 
 of this I am going out for a short time when I come back 
 let me see that this cloud has left no trace behind it." 
 
 " Oh, God ! oh, God ! what a wretch am I !" exclaimed his 
 wife, as soon as left alone. 
 
 Having thus introduced our readers (in that abrupt manner 
 recommended by critics, and long practised by story-tellers in 
 prose and verse,) to some of the prominent personages of our 
 history, we will now go to the beginning, and, soberly and 
 regularly, give an account of the birth, parentage, and educa 
 tion of Zebediah Spiffard ; and perhaps show that he is of 
 noble descent, and might bear heraldric honours on his coach, 
 if he had one that is as it may be. 
 
 We will speak of the water-drinker, showing how he passed 
 th ough the states or stages of life of a barefooted Green 
 Mountain boy a Boston lawyer s clerk and a travelling 
 yankee gentleman, to the stage, on which we found him, of the 
 New- York Theatre. But in all this it will be our pleasant 
 duty, more especially, to account for that morbid sensibility, 
 which was woven into his very essence, on the subject of 
 ebriety ; that dread which he entertained of the effects of any 
 approach to a habit of intemperance a dread, which, with the 
 species of fascination that every victim to the habit exerted 
 over him, formed the basis of his character. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 Beginning of a Town and a Man. 
 
 t: For the table, sir, it shall be served in ; for the meat, sir, it shall be co 
 vered ; for your coming in to dinner, sir, let it be as humours and conceits 
 shall govern." Shakspeare. 
 
 "Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 
 While proudly riding o er the azure realm, 
 In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; 
 Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm : 
 Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind s sway, 
 That hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey."-GVay. 
 
 GENTLE and courteous reader, or rather readers, (for like 
 Legion, ye are many that shall read these memoirs ;) fair read 
 ers for the life of Zebediah Spiffard will be read by every 
 
 4* 
 
46 Beginning of a Town and a JWan. 
 
 female that can read, (and all read in this our happy land ;) this 
 book will be sought after by the fair sex, inasmuch as it treats 
 of the gay and the grave the good and bad of ladies, and of 
 those who, next to soldiers, are the delight of ladies ; we mean 
 players ; those lively, happy, delightful children of the mimic 
 world, who present to the minds of youth a picture of en 
 chanting power, ever varying and ever bright. Kind readers, 
 of both sexes, we sit down determined to write for your amuse 
 ment, (far be it from us to attempt to instruct you,) a faithful 
 narrative of adventures appertaining to the romance of real life, 
 from the perusal of which you shall undoubtedly rise as tired in 
 mind and body, owing to excessive excitement and long con 
 tinued gratification, as ever you did from the representation of 
 a play, or even of an Italian opera. But as we have promised to 
 begin at the beginning, we must hasten to commence our story. 
 
 Zebediah Spiffard was born in the month of October, of the 
 year 1786, in an obscure but very pleasant village, appertaining 
 to the truly democratic state of Vermont. His father had been 
 one of the first settlers, a pioneer, and the village, in accor 
 dance with self-complacency, which makes so great an item in 
 the account of human happiness, was called " Spiffard Town." 
 
 Squire Spiffard, our hero s father, made the first clearing in 
 the valley of Long-pond, where he arrived with all his worldly 
 possessions, (an axe, a yoke of oxen, a wagon, and a wife,) 
 before a tree had been " felled ;" and where he, in a few years, 
 saw a thriving village, the fruit of his enterprising industry, 
 spread from his dwelling and surround him ; the inhabitants of 
 which were grateful to the man who had led them to the wilder 
 ness, pointing their way to a land flowing with milk and honey. 
 
 His first shelter, a log hut, now (that is, at this second be 
 ginning of our history, and the first beginning of the life of our 
 hero in 1786,) appertained, or was appended to the neat and 
 spacious white mansion that sheltered his numerous offspring, 
 and served as a wash-house, having previously served as a 
 kitchen, when the present kitchen was the mansion-house. 
 
 Such is the progress of a settler in the wilderness, and it is 
 but a few years since Vermont was such. The log hut is at 
 first " parlour, kitchen, and hall ;" then is erected the log house, 
 larger, better furnished, and more comfortably plastered with 
 clay ; then the hut becomes the kitchen, and shortly after, (a 
 saw-mill having been erected on a neighbouring stream,) the 
 framed and planked mansion arises, the house becomes, in its 
 turn, the kitchen, while the original germ, the hut, is degraded 
 to a wash-house or pig-sty. 
 
Beginning of a Town and a JWan. 47 
 
 Instead of looking, as he once did, from the door of his lowly 
 dwelling, on a thick and almost impenetrable forest, his own 
 clearing alone giving him a peep at the beautiful sheet of water 
 he called a pond, Squire SpifTard now saw a long street of com 
 fortable houses, each with its garden and orchard, while the 
 spires of the Court-house, the school, and the church, marked 
 the presence of justice, education, and religion. It is true that 
 the squire s house, like those of most of his neighbours, was not 
 finished. The upper story served, however, for bed-cham 
 bers and store-rooms ; and below, or en the ground flooj^ all 
 looked and was comfortable including the best bed-chamber 
 for the ever welcome guest. 
 
 So rapid is the progress of Yankee improvement, that by the 
 time our hero was qualified to appreciate its beauties, the valley 
 of Long-pond had become a little paradise. We do not mean 
 a heavenly, but an earthly paradise, with all its concomitant im 
 perfections, yet possessing that paradisaical feature, youth, with 
 its bloom and growing perfection ; and in spite of the diseases 
 incident to youth, a total absence of every symptom of decay. 
 
 A row of neat white houses, separated from each other by 
 cultivated enclosures, skirted the level road formed at the foot 
 of one of those hills that encircled this valley. This road was 
 on the margin of a lake, which, after the homely manner of our 
 country, was called a pond ; and which presented its sweet 
 waters to the eye, limpid as those of Lake George, so well 
 known to those for whom I write. 
 
 This lovely sheet of pure water extended for miles in front 
 of the dwellings occupied by Yankee yeoman, (not farmers of 
 the soil but proprietors,) serving and delighting their wives, and 
 swarms of white-headed urchins. The pond gave to the villa 
 gers fish and wild fowl, and afforded the male children opportu 
 nities for exercise in swimming, rowing, sliding, and skaiting. 
 Between the road and the lake, the cornfields and meadows 
 spread in rich luxuriance ; and as you ascended the hill behind 
 the houses, you were cheered, in the spring, by the fragrance 
 of the apple blossoms, and in autumn, by fruit of every tint and 
 flavour. In winter, the hearths blazed with piles of hickory, and 
 were made to resound with the shouts of gladness by the fre 
 quent husking frolic ; when the yellow ears of maize are stript 
 of their outward dusky covering, and the grain rasped from 
 the cob, and poured into the basket or bin ; while the rustic jest, 
 or the tale of grandfather s wars with the Indians on Connecti 
 cut river or father s adventures when opposed to Burgoyne, at 
 old Tye, Bennington, or Saratoga, mingle with the cracking of 
 
48 Beginning of a Town and a Man. 
 
 the kissleatomasses, the chesnuts, the butternuts, and walnuts, 
 and are interrupted by draughts of the precious juice of the crab, 
 the spitzbergen, and the red-streak, from the orchard exhaust- 
 less source of innocent exhilaration the gift of heaven, not yet 
 converted to a curse by the poison-making still. 
 
 It is not our intention to enter into descriptions of the life of 
 the pioneer on an American settlement ; let the reader look to 
 the pages of Flint, or the inimitable pictures of nature, charac 
 ter, and manners, in " The Pioneers" of Fennimore Cooper. 
 We merely wish to give some notion of the place of our hero s 
 birth, and of those scenes which surrounded his infancy and 
 boyhood at SpifFard Town ; for these scenes of early lite are 
 ever present to the adult, go where he will in after days, and 
 the impressions from them make part of his character, and in 
 fluence his actions, whether as a Ledyard, he explores the 
 Pacific ocean and the deserts of Africa, or as a Starke or a 
 Greene leads his brother yeomen to encounter the invader of 
 home and the homestead. The scenery and scenes of the Yal- 
 ley of Long-pond, tended to form a part of the character of Ze- 
 bediah Spiffard, and therefore appertain to his memoirs. 
 
 We have said, that behind the row of houses which formed 
 the village, was a gently-rising hill, on which bloomed the health- 
 giving orchard. A few gardens likewise decorated this beauti 
 ful hill, with here and there a grove of the undisturbed native 
 growth of the soil, giving a touch of the picturesque to what 
 would otherwise have been too uniform. Do not let it be sup 
 posed that we mean to insinuate that the gardens had too much 
 regularity, or neatness, or uniformity ; for, except the squire s 
 and the parson s, they exhibited a sufficient portion of luxuriant 
 negligence about them to avert that charge, and in truth were 
 many of them more abundant in weeds than in worth. The 
 church likewise ornamented this favoured hill (which in Eng 
 land would have been a mountain), and its rustic spire was a 
 heart-soothing feature in the landscape, whether seen from the 
 rock which towered above its vane, or from the lake in which 
 its peace-inspiring image was reflected. 
 
 We have given some account of the Adam or first man of 
 this paradise, by name Jeremiah SpifFard, and by title squire ; 
 but as there never was a paradise without an Eve, or a Zebe- 
 diah without a mother, it is incumbent upon us to introduce 
 the squire s lady, and Zeb s mamma, to the reader. The squire 
 had brought with him to the wilderness, as we have said, and 
 we do not like repetitions, but, at the same time, know that they 
 are very useful to the memories of novel readers, or even the 
 
Beginning of a Town and a Man. 49 
 
 readers of true histories like this ; be that as it may, we have 
 said, and we repeat* he brought with him to the wilderness a 
 yoke of oxen, an axe, a wagon, and a wife. Before the thicket 
 became a paradise before the swamps on the borders of the 
 lake became meadows, or the blessed sun had been permitted 
 to shine upon the earth and dissipate the encumbent fogs and 
 redundant moisture, poor Mrs. Spiffard died. The husband 
 was left wifeless, childless, and disconsolate. He had loved his 
 wife. She was his first love, and perhaps he never loved again. 
 Marry again he certainly did, or we should never have written 
 these memoirs of his oldest and lawfully-begotten son. 
 
 After bearing up manfully for a time without a help-mate 
 after seeing all clear around him settlers coming in upon his 
 land as fast as a land-owner could wish a school-house, a ta 
 vern, and a church built, he paid a visit to Boston, where his 
 elder brother resided, and in truth his principal business was to 
 seek a wife. He felt it to be his duty to contribute to the school- 
 house and church. Under such circumstances the object 13 
 soon found. Some of those who purchased his lands and 
 brought families into the settlement, said " they thought Squire 
 Spiffard might have found a wife among their daughters, as fit 
 for a squire s lady at the Valley of Lon^-pond, as any he would 
 be like to find among the fine ladies of Boston." Perhaps they 
 were right. We shall see. 
 
 An Englishman, Mr. James Atherton, had recently arrived 
 at the metropolis of Massachusetts, in search of what he had 
 lost in London fortune. He was what Shakspeare has called 
 an " ebbing" man ; and has said 
 
 "Ebbing men, indeed, 
 Most often do so near the bottom run 
 By fear or sloth." 
 
 He had run so near the bottom as to touch. He brought with 
 him a wife and three daughters, two of whom, although, until 
 the voyage of emigration, they had scarcely been out of the 
 sound of Bow-bell, and never in the first, or perhaps second, 
 circles of that country of circles, were nevertheless genteel, and 
 what is called well-educated ; the third was yet a child. A 
 knowledge of the new world into which their father had brought 
 them, had not been thought of, as a part of their education. 
 Their father knew as little of it, except as a mart for merchan 
 dise and a nursery of rebellion. .Europeans, then, disdained 
 such knowledge. They have since been induced to inquire 
 how it is, that a people of many millions manage to prosper 
 
5 Beginning of a Town and a 
 
 without the protection of kings or lords, or a national church, 
 or a standing army ; and by what contrivance they render harm 
 less the hosts of paupers and criminals, which want and worth- 
 lessness drive from the shores of the old world, for refuge in 
 the new. 
 
 The elder daughters of Mr. Atherton had the usual cockney 
 contempt for all foreigners, especially Yankees ; and although 
 conscious of their father s humiliating necessities, felt themselves 
 better than any thing in Boston. The oldest of these young la 
 dies, who was about five-and-twenty, was what is called showy ; 
 nay, she was handsome. Fine, dark, glossy hair, fine teeth, 
 fine complexion, brilliant eyes, tall person, fashionable dress, 
 and an animated manner, fascinated the Vermont yeoman ; who 
 would have been despised by the second sister, a more decided 
 beauty (though very like the first), and perhaps by Louisa, the 
 oldest of the three, if the prudent father had not given her some 
 hints which were not to be neglected. In short, Jeremiah Spif- 
 fard married the beautiful English fine lady, and took her to 
 SpifTard-town, at that time consisting of five houses, a school- 
 house, tavern, church, and blacksmith s-shop. 
 
 What a change was here ! From the metropolis of Great 
 Britain, to a paltry village in Vermont. From a Lord mayor s 
 ball to a husking frolic. To live in Boston was death to Louisa, 
 (so she said), what, then, was life in Spiffard-town ? Her hus 
 band s good sense and kind behaviour, with handsome furniture 
 and garniture brought from Boston, made this death in life 
 s6mevvhat supportable. Then there was some satisfaction in 
 showing off to the natives, and in being the great lady of the 
 place. Besides that, during the first year of her residence, she 
 experienced the fears, hopes, and joys, attending the birth of 
 our hero. Then came a visit to Boston to see her family, who 
 were preparing to return, disappointed, to England. They did 
 return ; and Mrs. Spiffard the second, returned to SpitFard- 
 town, feeling that she was abandoned by all that she held most 
 valuable in the world : for what, alas ! to a London lady, is a 
 Yankee husband, and a Yankee child, if she is doomed to live 
 in a Yankee village ? 
 
 Thus Squire Spiffard had not only got a town lady, but a fo 
 reign lady a London lady for a wife. Never let an Ameri 
 can marry an Englishwoman, unless he is willing and resolved 
 to abandon his country. We say English, because we know 
 more of them, and think higher of them, than of any other Eu 
 ropeans. If an American marries in England, and brings his 
 wife home, it is almost impossible but that domestic misery is 
 
JL Sporting Gentleman, and a Philosophic Lady. 51 
 
 the consequence. No Englishwcw has a just notion of this 
 country ; and we must not expect better information in the bet 
 ter sex, who are accustomed to rely for that article too much 
 upon the stronger. A woman, who, even under the influence 
 of love, gives up parents and country, will find every disappoint 
 ment doubled, and every sorrow aggravated, by the recollection 
 of what she left behind ; and disappointments and sorrows will 
 come, do what we will. Spiffard had the consolation of know 
 ing that he did not induce his wife to leave her country ; but 
 then he was the cause that she did not return to it. In short, 
 he had made a very foolish choice of a wife. Mrs. Spiffard 
 became a very discontented woman ; and not the less so, for 
 finding that her claims to superiority were resisted or laughed 
 at by the wives and daughters of the settlers, who rapidly in 
 creased her husband s village ; many of whom were, in all the 
 better part of knowledge, better instructed than the squire s 
 lady. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A Sporting Gentleman, and a Philosophic Lady. 
 
 " Alas ! poor hurt fowl ! Now will he creep in sedges." 
 
 To fright the animals, and kill them up 
 In their assigned and native place." 
 
 " A poor sequester d stag 
 
 That from the hunter s aim had ta en a hurt 
 Did come to languish." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 ANOTHER year passed, and another child was given to the 
 husband ; and early in the third year of her residence at Spif- 
 fard-town, the arrival of an English gentleman of fortune, with 
 his wife and two young children, gave a gleam of joy to the 
 misplaced Louisa ; but only to plunge her in deeper darkness. 
 
 The gentleman brought letters from Mrs. Spiffard s father ; 
 and having, as he thought, determined to make America the 
 
52 Jl Sporting Gentleman, and a Philosophic Lady. 
 
 place of his future residence, only inquired for a good sporting 
 country ; and being told that SpifTard-town and its vicinity 
 abounded in game, and was destitute of game-laws, he never 
 doubted that the pheasant of Asia (domesticated in his father s 
 park), and the partridge of Europe, were natives of the Green 
 Mountains; especially as he found " real English snipe" on the 
 borders of the lake, woodcock on the upland, and deer, by 
 the herd, " all along Champlain." He fixed, at once, on that 
 sequestered spot, purchased land, and began to plan a mansion- 
 house, park, gardens, and pleasure-grounds ; but, in the mean 
 time, found no difficulty in purchasing the house and " improve 
 ments" of a sturdy yeoman, who began to think he had too 
 many neighbours, and turned his thoughts to the Genesee 
 country. The lady of this gentleman had no apparent wish for 
 introduction to those of her own sex and station in Boston (the 
 port at which they landed), but seemed willing to seek romantic 
 solitude among those, whom she called " the unsophisticated 
 farmers of a new and innocent world." 
 
 This gentleman s name was Lovedog. This is not a coined 
 name to express character, like Fielding s Allworthy, or the 
 Lovegold, the Crackjaw, and the thousand others of Comedy, 
 but a real family, English name ; and that it should denote the 
 bearer s character, is not our fault. It certainly did so : for 
 Mr. Lovedog bestowed no small portion of his affections on 
 some very fine pointers, setters, and terriers, who had accompa 
 nied him from England. Until he could determine on a site 
 for his intended buildings and plantations, he endeavoured to 
 content himself in the house recently built by a Connecticut 
 settler, who, having got all comfortable about him, was very 
 glad to sell his buildings and go west, leaving the rich En 
 glishman to furnish his purchase by importations from Boston 
 and New- York. 
 
 The sportsman was out with his gun and dogs every day and 
 all day. Sometimes Spiffard accompanied, but generally he 
 went alone his dogs his only companions. Spiflard used to 
 say, that it was very pleasant to him, to ramble over hills and 
 dales, and that he felt great exultation when he attained suffi 
 cient skill to strike down a distant bird in its rapid flight, and to 
 be as expert with a double-barreled fowling-piece, as he had 
 from youth been with a musket and rifle ; but when he saw that 
 he wounded more birds than he killed that he frequently, after 
 having brought to the earth, with a broken wing, an innocent 
 and a harmless fellow-creature, had to chase it before he could 
 make prey of it, and while struggling in agony and terror, to 
 
Jl Sporting Gentleman, and a Philosophic Lady. 53 
 
 crush hs head or dash it on a stone through mere mercy, he be 
 gan to think that what was sport to him was worse than death to 
 creatures endowed with life by the same Creator who blessed 
 him with health and strength ; creatures enjoying the same 
 blessings in another degree ; this " gave him pause" and 
 reason told him that he was counteracting God s will. He fre 
 quently observed too that a bird though wounded escaped, and he 
 knew that there was no surgeon to cure the wound, or nurse to 
 attend the patient for " misery doth part the flux of company" 
 the herd shun the wounded stag the struck bird " seeks the 
 rushes" and there pines and dies in solitude. One day Spiffard 
 exultingly brought down a bird from its flight the fowl was 
 winged only, and ran. The triumphant man pursued overtook, 
 and placed his foot on his victim. He stooped to seize it the 
 bird turned up his eye and looked him full in the face with such 
 an imploring, such a reproving glance, that his heart smote 
 him ; and his reason rebuked him as a convicted murderer a 
 murderer for sport. In times lon^ after he has said, " I have 
 seen that eye a thousand times." He never discharged a gun 
 to kill for pleasure again. 
 
 At the proper season for the sport, for the time and season 
 for hunting each species of game was observed by the rough 
 Yermonters Lovedog was shown, by a neighbour, the manner 
 of hunting the deer in America. Here the free denizens of the 
 forest were as free as the citizens of the republic who trespassed 
 on their haunts, and sought their lives in sport. Lovedog had 
 been only accustomed to see the beautiful animal in the parks 
 of the lordly aristocrats of England, protected from commoners 
 by laws which seemed to value their lives as if equal to the lives 
 of men, but which only protected them from vulgar inter 
 ference with the lord s pastimes, to be sacrificed to the luxury, 
 the pleasures, and the pomp of the chosen few, the titled Nim- 
 rods, deriving what they call their rights from the conquering 
 Norman, who desolated provinces to form privileged hunting 
 forests for his own gratification. The English sportsman now 
 saw the beautiful animal in a state of nature, free to rove his na 
 tive woodlands. The novelty pleased the gentleman for a time, 
 but he soon became weary of the change; and the deer hunt of 
 Vermont suffered in comparison with the sports he had been 
 used to, as much as the shooting of the partridges, snipe, and 
 grouse of the country, appeared contemptible and laborious, 
 compared with the same kind of bloody amusement, of which he 
 had been a privileged participant in the enclosures devoted to 
 the lordly game. He sighed for the park and the race-course 
 
 VOL. i. 5 
 
54 Jl Sporting Gentleman, and a Philosophic Lady 
 
 of England. If he had sighed for the intellectual pleasures of 
 that favoured country, he might he pitied in his voluntary exile, 
 but such pleasures were to him unknown. 
 
 Therefore while Lovedog continued in Vermont, his pointers 
 and settere were almost exclusively his associates. Spiffard 
 said, some time after, that his dogs were his only fit companions. 
 In truth, it was hard to conceive that an English gentleman of 
 fortune (and fortune he certainly had) could be so profoundly 
 ignorant as Lovedog. Not so his wife. She was almost blue. 
 She had not only read, but conversed with the Darwins, Hay- 
 leys, Sheridans, Moores, and Sewards. But she was as totally 
 ignorant of the world she had come to, as she was of the world 
 to come. She thought she was a philosopher, and was willing 
 to be thought an atheist, rather than her philosophy should be 
 doubted. Voltaire, Rousseau, Condorcet, Helvetius, Hume and 
 Gibbon, were at her tongue s tip. She imagined that on coming 
 to America she should find an Arcadia, such as she imagined 
 Arcadia had been ; and was determined to be the lawgiver, the 
 female Solon of an Utopia, such as she thought an Utopia ought 
 to be. She found herself in Spiffard-town, among practical 
 pioneers, and was soon solicited for her contribution to the build 
 ing a new church, and the support of a new clergyman who 
 preached thorough-going Calvinism in the school house, until his 
 pulpit and steeple should be erected. 
 
 Disappointed in not finding an Utopia, she imagined herself 
 in a Botany bay. Mrs. Lovedog soon tired of, and became 
 tiresome to her neighbours. The yeomen s wives, (simple souls!) 
 were shocked at what they thought indecency, and she was dis 
 gusted by what she (enlightened creature !) termed mauvaise 
 lionte, false delicacy, and unphilosophical ignorance. Mrs. 
 Spiffard was neither a blue, nor a Yankee, and therefore was 
 treated with indulgent condescending politeness ; a mode of 
 treatment sometimes felt as insult: not so in this instance. 
 Being countrywomen, there was a bond of union which contin 
 ued unimpaired when the bonds were all broken which united 
 Mrs. Lovedog and the other females of the village. Mrs. Spif 
 fard, though she had conformed, by degrees, to the mode of those 
 among whom she had been thrown, was pleased to find that 
 bold and as we think, indelicate style of conversation and 
 choice of subject in Mrs. Lovedog, to which she had been ac 
 customed at home. She was become, in most things, a disciple of 
 the dashing female philosopher ; but at length Spiffard became 
 dissatisfied ; for he found that the learned lady prescribed 
 ether and laudanum to his wife as well as materialism and 
 irreligion. 
 
Jl Sporting Gentleman, and a Philosophic Lady. 55 
 
 There are many, male and female, who, living in what are 
 called Christian countries, have no notion of the essence of 
 Christianity. Many think only, (when they think at all, on the 
 subject) of abuses practised by nominal Christians. They are 
 taught to abhor the actions and teachings of wolves in sheep s 
 clothing, and to cry " all is false." There are many again, who 
 admit that the lessons and life of the author of Christianity are 
 truly admirable. If they would believe and imitate that life and 
 teaching, we should not deny them a place among Christians, 
 whatever name they may assume. Mrs. Lovedog could talk 
 of the beauty of that life and that teaching, as of an admirable 
 fiction she neither believed, nor felt. Her husband hated 
 priests, because he had paid tithes. He had been taught some 
 thing at school about Moses and Christ, but had forgotten 
 whether they were racers or pointers. 
 
 The female philosopher having discovered that her neighbours 
 were not unsophisticated shepherds and shepherdesses ef art 
 Utopian Arcadia, adopted an opinion on the other extreme, and 
 concluded that they were all sharpers or thieves. This led to 
 conduct which sometimes produced odd results, and often cover 
 ed her with ridicule. 
 
 The servants she brought from England soon left her in pur 
 suit of that independence which they saw others all around them 
 enjoying, or anticipating. Help she could not tolerate, nor 
 could the yeomen s daughters tolerate her manners or caprices ; 
 neither would they condescend to be servants. The name, and 
 state of servitude had been made vile in America by the English 
 traffic in African slaves* and the English policy in attempting to 
 poison their colonies with the convicted thieves and other out 
 casts of their prisons. Mrs. Lovedog had been reduced to the 
 pitiful establishment of an olcf negress as a cook, and a little 
 girl from a neighbouring settlement,- whose parents had on over 
 flowing log-house ; and were persuaded that the English lady 
 would instruct the girl and treat her as a companion, or child of 
 the family. Never were expectations less realized. Poor little 
 Sophy was a perfect slave to this lover of Utopian liberty ; and 
 was taught little else, than to tremble in the presence of this 
 fair disciple of universal benevolence. 
 
 Nothing went according to previous anticipation in this afflu 
 ent family, who were following their own unshackled wishes in 
 pursuit of happiness, but never suspected that the road to hap 
 piness was pointed out on a way-post in large letters, u Love 
 God and your neighbour." 
 
 It happened one day that a sturdy yeoman, who had a territory 
 
56 A Sporting Gentleman, and a Philosophic Lady* 
 
 on the other side of the lake, much more extensive than that 
 of many a German sovereign, having taken more fish in his net 
 than he wanted for his family and immediate neighbours, cross 
 ed over to Spiffard-town to find a market for the surplus, and 
 with the produce buy tea and sugar, for although princely in 
 territory, his treasury was not filled by the labour of slaves or 
 subjects. He was directed to Lovedog s house ; knocked : 
 *vas refused entrance at the street door? and told to go round 
 to the kitchen. Several messages and replies, reiterations, rep 
 lications and rejoinders, through the medium of momo Dinah 
 and Sophy, had passed and repassed between the Yankee and 
 the lady, until at length little Sophy came to inquire, from the 
 learned lady, " if the fish were salt-water fish ?" 
 
 This question excited the loud laughter of both the farmer 
 and the black cook. 
 
 " Who eber hear of such a ting in Varmount," said Dinah. 
 
 " O dang it, she s quizzing me," said the farmer. And he took 
 his basket of salmon-trout, and half laughing, half offended, he 
 trudged off, determined to give, or sell, or dicker, the fish at his 
 friend Spiffard s. 
 
 " Well Sophy ! What does he say ? Are they from the ocean?" 
 
 " Ma am?" said the timid girl, who had never heard the word 
 before. 
 
 " Are they salt-water fish, child ? WTiat is his answer ? ? 
 
 " He said you were quizzing him." 
 
 " I do not treat such folks with that familiarity. Tell him to 
 leave three or four with the cook, and call on Mr. Lovedog for 
 the money." 
 
 " He s gone, Ma am, r 
 
 " Gone ! He must have come with some sinister purpose I" 
 
 tk He only come with the fish, Ma am." 
 
 " Tell Diana to see that the spoons are all safe and the 
 silver forks and the silver handled carving-knife that she took 
 a few minutes ago from the knife-case." 
 
 Sophy went to the kitchen. The lady resumed her studies. 
 She was reading Zimmerman on solitude. " Charming writer ! 
 what a soothing quiet he sheds over the soul ! All perturba 
 tion ceases I And the stormy passions which assail us in the 
 great world are put to rest forever !" 
 
 Sophy returned with a report which tested the power of Zim 
 merman. A report confirming former opinions of the dishonest 
 propensities of the corrupted and debased population she had 
 been enticed to trust herself among. 
 
 " solitude ! how tranquilizing thy influence to the lover of 
 
A Sporting Gentleman, and a Philosophic Lady. 57 
 
 unsophisticated nature ! Well child ! What have you to say?" 
 " Momo Dinah says she can t find the carving knife." 
 The old negress, wanting pot-herbs, had taken the knife as 
 the first trenchant instrument she could lay her hand upon r and 
 having accomplished her purpose, left it in the garden ; she now 
 looked for it in every other place she could think of. 
 
 " I thought as much ! Sophy ! run after the man ! He s a 
 thief ! Tell him to bring back my carving-knife ! Why do you 
 stand gazing like an idiot ! Run ! instantly ! Where is there a 
 constable ? Why do you stop ? Run ! bring him back !" 
 
 The girl, who feared the lady more than she did any of her 
 own country folk, after recovering from her surprise, darted off 
 in pursuit,, and soon* overtook the heavy trudging yeoman,, who 
 was every now and then ejaculating, "-Well ! after all ! these 
 old-country folk are more queer than cute. Salt water fish up 
 here in the green mountains !" 
 
 " Mister!" shouted Sophy as she drew near. "I don t know 
 your name v sir !" 
 
 " No 1 suppose not," and he put down his basket of fish. 
 " My name s Bloodgood. Well,. my child, and what would you 
 have with me-? Why you are out of breath with running. Does 
 the fine lady want some lobsters ? You are a nice little girl,? he 
 continued,,as he smiled and patted her curly head, .** are y out 
 from the old country too ? I have half a dozen at home, and 
 not one as pretty as you." 1 
 
 " Mrs* ILovedog sir "and the child stopped partly from 
 want of breath, and partly from shame and reluctance to deliver 
 her message for she would as soon have suspected the parson 
 of stealing, as any other of the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. 
 
 " Ha ha ha ! salt water fish for Mrs. Lovedbg ! If she wants 
 the fish she must come arter um fresh or salt !" 
 
 " She says, sir she says you must bring back " 
 
 " Must ! No, no I ll be dang d if I do. I am not one of 
 your brook trout to be played back and forth with a hair line as 
 her husband catches um. I am not angry with you, my dear 
 but the fish won t bite again." 
 
 " She says, sir you must bring back the carving-knife*" 
 
 44 The what ? 
 
 " The carving-knife, sir." 
 
 My American readers will understand^ the feelings of the 
 Green Mountain yeoman, when the thought occurred that he 
 was suspected of being a thief. He repeated several times the 
 words " carving-knife," before_he formed any conception that he 
 had been accused of stealing. " When he understood the mes- 
 
 5* 
 
58 Jl Sporting Gentleman, and a Philosophic Lady. 
 
 sage, the blood rushed to his face and he shouted in a voice of 
 thunder, " What ! Does she take me for a thief?" 
 
 Sophy frightened, answered, u Yes, sir T " and made one of her 
 best curtseys. 
 
 " Well, that s too good ! Don t be frightened* child ! If her 
 husband ! Don t be scar t ! Go back and tell her, she may 
 go to England." And so saying, Bloodgood took up his bas 
 ket, turned and trudged on again towards Spiffard s, rather sul 
 lenly but SQon began to laugh. " W T ell, I will be the first to 
 tell squire Spiff ard of this, however \ A thief ! Steal ! a car 
 ving-knife ! Why the woman s mad !" 
 
 Poor Sophy returned with the message of, " He says, 
 ma am " 
 
 " W T here s the knife ?" 
 
 " He says, Ma am, you may go to England." 
 
 Just then Lovedog with his pointers at his heels and his game 
 bag full of woodcock, returned froin the chase. He had come 
 from an opposite direction to that yeoman Bloodgood had taken. 
 He was tired but there was no rest for him. He " must go," 
 so said his wife, " to Spiffard s, and take measures to apprehend 
 the thief of the carving-knife." 
 
 What would have been the result of the meeting under such 
 circumstances, between the English sportsman and the Yankee 
 yeoman^ we will- not pretend to say. May strife never again 
 arm the son of Old England and the New England man against 
 each other ! The trial of valour was not now destined to be made, 
 for happily, Dinah, wanting more pot-herbs for her cookery, 
 took another knife, and, as Shakspeare says, " shooting another 
 bolt the self-same way," she found the first. That is, carrying 
 a second knife to the parsley bed, she found the first where she 
 had left it.* 
 
 Such, sometimes, English men and English women appear 
 amongst Yankees. So they torment themselves, and are laugh 
 ed at by those around them and then they go home, and the 
 learned ladies write books, (Mrs. Lovedog published three vol 
 umes) to show, that men, where all men have equal rights, (and 
 are not divided into the two European classes of the oppressors 
 and the oppressed, the many and the few,) their manners and 
 pursuits are not the same as in Europe ; and to show, above all 
 things, their own ignorance. Surely, every thinking mind must 
 know that where none are exclusively the inheritors of riches ; 
 
 * This incident is founded on fact. 
 
Jl Sporting Gentleman, and a Philosophic Lady. 59 
 
 where none are in consequence of birth exclusively the highly 
 educated ; but, where neither honours nor riches are hereditary, 
 and the roads to wealth and the highest offices are open to all 
 equally ; the universal exertion for acquirement, whether of for 
 tune, fame, or official station, must cause a greater equality on 
 a higher level for the mass of the people ; and must give to so 
 ciety a greater proportion of those who attain high intellectual 
 powers and extensive knowledge, than in monarchies and aris 
 tocracies. It will be said, perhaps, that the inheritors of fortune 
 have a fairer starting post for the race, either of intellectual im 
 provement, or official rank but can it be a question which state 
 of society tends most to general improvement and national 
 happiness 1 
 
 " But what has all this to do with the memoirs of Zebediah 
 SpifTard ?" Reader, you must not only be gentle and courteous, 
 but patient. If you are used to novel reading, you must know 
 that you have waded through many a tedious introductory page 
 in the hope that all the present prosing is necessary to f and will 
 give clearness and additional zest to the future story. The 
 pl5t must be made intricate to be interesting, and what appears 
 dull now, will be bright as a sun-ray at the unravelling. We 
 have our plot too. Trust us now ; we will pay hereafter if 
 we can. 
 
 To conclude the history of the Lovedogs (who are rather ex 
 ceptions to, than examples of, the characters of English gentle 
 men and ladies) the sagacious reader will readily believe that 
 they did not settle at Spiffard-town. The lady, as we have seen, 
 had been disappointed in all her expectations ; and the gentle 
 man, who had at first been ddighted with the free range of un 
 limited sporting ground, and the novelty presented by the game 
 of another hemisphere r now bega-rr to sigh for the stubble fields 
 enclosed by hedge rows, where his dogs were always in view, 
 one backing the other on the scent of the covey for the phea 
 sant park, the fox hunt, the race-course, the cock-pit, the boxer s 
 ring, and all the many joys of his youth,- in short, this happy 
 pair sold off in disgust,, removed to Connecticut thence to 
 New-York and thence they returned home, the lady to write 
 books on American manners, the gentleman to pay tithes and 
 poor-rates, hunt, set up for parliament, and rail on republican 
 institutions. 
 
 In the meantime, Zeb, our hero, grew ; as is common with 
 other heroes between the age of ten and twenty, and he receiv 
 ed that common unheroic kind of education which resulted from 
 his father s circumstances, and the circumstances of the country 
 
60 We go from home to Boston. 
 
 at that time. He learned from Master McNorton, a teacher 
 from the north of Ireland, to read without the eastern accentua 
 tion or orthoepy, and was prevented, by his out-o-door prac 
 tice in language, from acquiring a slight touch of the brogue 
 which adhered pertinaciously to- his- teacher s tongue. He was 
 taught to write a decent hand (there were then no Wriffards or 
 other doctors, native or foreign,* travelling through the land to 
 teach elegant penmanship). He was taught to cipher as far as 
 the rule of three ; and at the same time he learned to take care 
 of the cattle, the horses and the sheep. He could run barefoot 
 into the meadow and halter a horse, first enticing him within 
 striking distance by holding out an ear of corn, he would then 
 mount him by placing his toe on the joint of sorrel s hind leg 
 " making stepping stones r " as Master McNorton said, " of the 
 poor brute s bones to get a saddle-sate on his bare back" and 
 he could then, without saddle or bridle r ride as fearlessly through 
 woods or over rocks, as a Virginia negro, or a wild Arab. 
 
 Such were the attainments of Zebediah Spiffard, and he might 
 have gone on in the steps of his father, that is stepped from 
 Vermont to Ohio, or further ; emigrating,, and clearing, and 
 settling, arid pulling up stakes,, and emigrating again ; or he 
 might have founded another Spiifard-town in the valley of the 
 Mississippi, and filled the great house of the founder with little 
 Zebs and Jerrys, never arriving at the prodigious honour of being 
 the hero of a book r .but for certain circumstances,, which though 
 still introductory, must be told before we can? get at the marrow 
 of our story. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 We go from Home to Boston. 
 
 "A barefoot pilgrim on a flinty world." Unknown Play. 
 
 "O that clear honour was purchased by the merit of the wearer !" 
 
 " I never knew so young a body with so old a head." Shakspeare. 
 
 IT is not a new observation that a man s destination for life is 
 often fixed at an age when animal spirits are most abundant, 
 and reason most powerless. Impressions then made are indel 
 ible, and habits are acquired which never, or at least not without 
 great trouble and pain, can be counteracted or shaken off. At 
 this perilous period of man s life our hero was sent from home. 
 

 We go from home to Boston. 61 
 
 A raw boy of sixteen, who had never been out of the precincts 
 of Spiflfard-town, or seen man greater than squire Spifiard, was 
 suddenly transported to the famous metropolis of Massachusetts. 
 
 In the town of Boston, celebrated as the cradle, if not the 
 birth-place, of American independence, lived the uncle of Zeb 
 Spiff (as his schoolmates persisted in calling him, and as his 
 intimates always called him) Mr. Abraham Spiffard, who having 
 attained the mature age of sixty-eight in a state of single blessed- 
 ness r and having made his property procreate as fast a.s Jacob s 
 flocks or Shylock s ducats, now looked about him for an hei/, 
 and bethought him of his long-neglected brother, who had tra 
 velled to the wilderness of Vermont at his father s death on 
 finding himself left nearly penniless by the will according to 
 the praiseworthy usage of the dvar mother country, and the still 
 more praiseworthy motive a desire to support the name of 
 Spiffard by devising his property to the elder born son. Th 
 brothers had not met since Jeremiah married the beautiful 
 Louisa Atherton. Abraham had at this time a two-fold motive 
 for thinking of one of his brother s children as an heir. He, 
 too, wished to keep up the august family name : and he had a 
 remaining sense of justice a sense which is inherent with and 
 strong in every man, if not stifled by worldliness and that sense 
 of justice told him, that every law or custom founded on a mis 
 called right of primogeniture^ is contrary to the law of nature 
 and of God ; and consequently,- that his younger brother had 
 been wronged, and he himself had been living and thriving on 
 the fruits of injustice. He therefore wrote to his brother, de 
 siring him to send his eldest boy (for still the old leaven stuck 
 to him r and the first-born must have preference) promising to 
 educate and adopt him as his own. This was an opening not to 
 be neglected, and Zeb was accordingly fitted out for a jouraey 
 to the far-famed town of Boston. 
 
 We musty before taking our hero from home, mention one 
 circumstance,- which had affected the domestic happiness of 
 Squire Spiffard s family, and made an impression upon little 
 Zebediah that moulded his character into the form which our 
 readers will find displayed, as we proceed with his story fixing 
 within him an image that was through his future life ever pre 
 sent to his mind, and was the moving cause of thought and 
 action. The scenes he had witnessed in his father s household, 
 mingled with all his ideas of his fellow-creatures, coloured all 
 the future scenes of his existence, and were the springs which 
 impelled him in his course through his journey, until they were 
 obliterated by the hand of death. 
 
62 We go from home to Boston. 
 
 We approach most unwillingly to this part of our subject. 
 To draw aside the decent veil that hides domestic misery, though 
 that misery proceeds from an accidental cause, is an irksome 
 task; but to expose the failings of one of that lovely sex from 
 which we have derived all the choice blessings of life, is inex 
 pressibly painful. But we owe it to truth and to the world, for 
 our hero s character and actions would be inexplicable if we 
 did not give our readers this key to them. 
 
 It has been said that Mrs. Spiffard, the beautiful London 
 lady, was discontented, although placed in the paradise of Spif 
 fard town. She regretted her banishment from her dear native 
 land. And who can blame her ? She had there enjoyed 
 luxuries of which she was here deprived, and she had there 
 enjoyed youth* beauty and flattery. She could not but feel, 
 that if she returned, she would find the same delightful articles 
 for in her mind they were associated with the place. In de 
 spite of reason or even of experience, the returning wanderer 
 still expects to find in home, the home of his youth. 
 
 Mrs. Spiffard s health declined in proportion as she filled her 
 husband s house with health and life in the shape of little Yan 
 kees. Her countrywoman, Mrs. Lovedog, had taught her that 
 ether and opium were most pleasant, and she said innocent 
 remedies for low spirits. In time other stimulants were resorted 
 to, " for it was necessary," as has more than once been said 
 in excuse for such acknowledged weakness, " to change the 
 current of her ideas, or she would go mad." The current was 
 changed ; but it was only to increase, not remedy ill to save 
 her from the apprehension of that madness we pity and deplore, 
 with sympathy in nature s frailty, and consign her to that which 
 we despise and turn from with disgust. 
 
 Can any situation in life be so deplorable as that of a husband 
 under such circumstances ? Yes. We shall see that that of a 
 wife, whose husband is a victim to this vice, is even worse. 
 Our business at present is with the first case. To see his neg 
 lected children gazing with expressions varied according to 
 their respective ages on the idiotic countenance and inconsistent 
 
 behaviour of their mother,, to no r we will not enter into the 
 
 disgusting detail. Spiffard behaved like a good and discreet 
 a humane and determined man. He did not invite (as was his 
 wish) his friends or strangers to his house ; his plea was his 
 wife s indisposition. He did not take her abroad ; for he dreaded 
 to expose her. He did not pretend to excuse her, when not 
 withstanding his care she was exposed ; nor did he by false 
 hoods outrage the good sense of his acquaintance. But it is 
 
We go from home to Boston. 63 
 
 the effect which this disgraceful conduct in a mother had upon 
 his eldest son, that is our only object in recording it ; and that 
 effect was seen, though not understood, in all he said or did to 
 the end of his life. 
 
 Asa child it was long before he could comprehend the nature 
 of behaviour, in his mother, which was apparently causeless ; and 
 was so unlike that of other females. When the truth burst upon 
 him, it produced a revolution in his feelings that seemed to 
 transport him from infancy to intellectual manhood made him 
 observant and thoughtful, instead of joyous and careless and 
 in short, was quickly indicated by appearances inconsistent with 
 his age and previous sprightly disposition. The further he ad 
 vanced in life and became capable of appreciating his mother s 
 degradation and his father s misery, the more intense were his 
 feelings until they became almost insupportable. He thought 
 as constantly upon the torturing subject as the nature of mind 
 will permit ; for happily we are so constructed that one unbroken 
 chain of thought cannot be continued. One continuous chain 
 or circle of thought is either the cause or the effect of insanity. 
 Yet he strove to banish other thoughts, and avoided the sports 
 and pursuits incident to his happy ago. He could not 
 speak of the subject of his meditations. There were none 
 to whom the deep coloured and indefinable images which poured 
 upon his mind could be communicated in conversation. He 
 feared lest his father should see that he noticed and understood 
 the cause of his woe. He became a recluse. Always devoted 
 to books,, although reading without plan and almost without 
 improvement, he now appeared more than ever studious, and 
 yet his mind was frequently far from the page over which his 
 eyes wandered. He watched the behaviour of his father and 
 mother anxiously, and as anxiously avoided the appearance of 
 attending to their conduct. He seemed to become years older 
 as months passed away, and to advance in knowledge as if 
 by miracle knowledge gained by thought self-examination 
 not reading. It was a knowledge as bitter as that of our first 
 parents and without fault in him, it deprived him of his para 
 dise, the joys without care of childhood. It is thus that by the 
 undeviating chain of cause and effect, even the lot of the guilt 
 less is not pure good, since we must partake of the good or ill 
 of others. 
 
 Our hero s father and the neighbours thought that Zebediah s 
 improvement was owing to his books, but it was the intense 
 operation of a vigorous mind set in action by one circumstance, 
 which affected him deeply and mysteriously; one spring, which 
 
64 We go from home to Boston. 
 
 became the mainspring of his life and actions ; and which 
 caused observation, comparison and combination in the boy, far 
 beyond his years in the man, a state of mind nearly mono- 
 maniacal. 
 
 When he was told 1hat his uncle had sent for him, the first 
 sensation was joyous. He felt as if he should escape from 
 what was ever present to his imagination ; his mother s infirmity 
 and his father s misery. But soon his heart sunk, and he could 
 not bear the thought of leaving the object which, as if by a 
 power of fascination, attracted his unceasing attention, and 
 bound him to the spot the object to which his eyes were con 
 stantly turned, as it is said the poor bird cannot be diverted 
 from its gaze on the hateful serpent doomed to destroy it. 
 These feelings however soon passed away, and the wish for 
 change prevailed. He was scarce sixteen years of age, and at 
 that time of life when all abroad is new, fresh and refreshing 
 when even the circulation of the blood is pleasure, and when it 
 is impossible, if in health, to be long unhappy at such an age, 
 to see the wonders of the great city and become one in a new 
 and loftier state of existence, raised hopes and images which, 
 though undefined, made him impatient to obey the summons. 
 The very consciousness of being alive as youth is alive is 
 happiness ; and though clouds and storms cross the morning of 
 life, they must pass away quickly, and the sunny beams of hope 
 and joy are sure to succeed. 
 
 Before we turn Zeb out upon the great world of Boston, ws 
 will describe his person, that the reader, who we feel assured 
 will go with him, may have a clearer idea of his travelling com 
 panion. We have seen what his appearance was at five and 
 twenty, but we cannot do him justice, or justice to our story, 
 without a full description of his beauties at sixteen. 
 
 Zeb was not only the oldest but the ugliest of his father s 
 children ; and was formed as if in direct opposition to the re 
 ceived notions of Yankee proportion and symmetry. At the 
 period of which we speak, he was exactly five feet two inches 
 in height, and from the strong knitting of his joints, and the un 
 common breadth as well as muscularity of his whole person, it 
 might have been judged that he never would attain a greater 
 altitude ; but happily, a few years after, a hard fit of fever-and- 
 ague shook him so long, that he became some inches longer. 
 Although remarkably square built and powerful in muscle, he, 
 yet looked meagre. His knees were rather bowed outwards,, 
 always a mark of firmness on the feet ; his joints were all large, 
 but his limbs well proportioned to his body. His head was 
 
We go from home to Boston* 65 
 
 large, his visage long, his nose thin, high and hooked (some 
 times called Roman and sometimes parrot-billed). His eyes 
 were dark hazel, the iris small, the balls very large and promi 
 nent, and the white of the eye disproportionably great ; the 
 upper lids covered the iris so as to give the idea of a West 
 India turtle. His mouth was wide, and garnished with strong 
 teeth, and his chin with the parts adjacent, assumed the appear 
 ance vulgarly called wapper-jaw d. His beard in its incipient 
 and downy state, promised to be what Shakspeare calls 
 " cane-coloured." A shock of coarse unyielding hair capp d 
 this unpromising physiognomy with deviously diverging locks, 
 in colours rather too red to be called carotty. With all this 
 picturesque diversity this variety of curve and line and angle, 
 in feature and in figure, there was an archness, an audacity, 
 and an expression of good nature in Zeb, that gained him a 
 firmer footing in the good will of those he happened to be 
 thrown among, than many a smoother form and face could 
 boast. His was an attractive figure. It did not pass unno 
 ticed in a crowd. The eye once fixed on such a face was 
 not rapidly withdrawn ; and when Zeb, in after times found 
 the looks of beauty rivetted on his form and features, he 
 enjoyed in return the privilege of gazing on sparkling eyes 
 fixed unconsciously on his odd physiognomy vermeil lips 
 half opened by surprise and the happy consciousness of being 
 an object of admiration, for such he certainly was. A female 
 feels ashamed to gaze at a pretty fellow ; but no one thought 
 it any harm to look at Zeb Spiff. 
 
 The aversion our hero felt to leaving home and his beloved 
 brothers and sisters, and schoolfellows, all endeared by scenes 
 of joy and, in years long past, by scenes of strife, was now ex 
 changed for a desire to see the world. Curiosity and ambition 
 triumphed so far over his tender feelings, that he became im 
 patient for the time of departure to arrive. The evening pre 
 vious to that important day which consigned our Zebediah 
 Spiffard to the stage driver and the world, his father took him 
 apart, and bestowed on him a roll of hard dollars, and a lecture, 
 longer and quite as heavy, upon his future conduct in life. 
 Zeb afterwards said that it was considerable lengthy ; but we 
 know that it was cut short by a loud snore unconsciously 
 sounded from the open mouth and nostrils of the patient, who 
 remembered nothing his father had said except that in great 
 towns young men were likely to be beset by temptations of 
 various kinds, especially in the form of beautiful young women, 
 who might distract his attention from business and interrupt his 
 
 VOL. i. 6 
 
66 We go from home to Boston* 
 
 studies. Strange as it may appear, our hero felt no alarm iii 
 looking forward to the dangers that awaited him nay he even 
 became curious and anxious to know how these allurements 
 would affect him, and to try his strength against temptation. 
 Every enticement that the glass, however filled, could offer, he 
 was amply prepared to repel ; and he had a fund of good sense 
 and sound morality to oppose to allurements which might war 
 with duty. 
 
 We have nothing of importance to record of our pilgrim 
 until he arrived at the end of his journey, and set foot in the 
 famous town of Boston. As the scenes and objects connected 
 with that image, the contemplation of which had formed as it 
 were the key-stone of his character, and had cast a shade over 
 all his joys as these objects were left behind, other associa 
 tions were created by the change, and his whole train of thought 
 and feeling received a new impulse and a new direction. He 
 still carried the arrow with him, but it ceased for a time to give 
 pain, or control thought or action. 
 
 He passed through Charlestown without knowing that close 
 at his left hand were the far-famed hills of Bunker and Breed s. 
 He was rattled over the bridge, and plunged among the intrica 
 cies of " North-end," his senses almost overpowered by the 
 awful delight which the rapid succession of new objects pre 
 sented by a dim light on entering a great city for the first time, 
 and the confused anticipations of the new life he was about to 
 enter into : while in silent expectation he awaited the long de 
 layed moment when the coach would stop and deposit him, he 
 knew not where, to be received he knew riot how. The coach 
 did at length stop at an inn near the market. The passengers 
 eagerly left the vehicle and each other, and Zeb found himself 
 about seven o clock in the evening of the seventh of November, 
 in the bar room of the stage house. He knew no one no 
 one knew him no one heeded him. 
 
 His trunk was thrown into the door. He looked around for 
 some one of his fellow passengers of whom he might inquire 
 his way to his uncle s ; but all were already gone ; each one 
 his own way, unmindful of the other ; and poor Zeb felt for a 
 moment that he was alone in the world. This was but a tran 
 sient feeling ; his mind and body were endowed with an elas 
 ticity fitted to meet circumstances, and boldly confront them. 
 
 He saw a person busily dealing out liquor at the bar, and 
 approached to make inquiry of him for direction to Mr. Abra 
 ham Spiffard s, but he was surrounded by a crowd boisterously 
 demanding " bitters brandy gin" and uttering coarse jests 
 
We go from home to Boston* 67 
 
 or coarser oaths. The noise the appearance of those around 
 him, (principally draymen, porters, hostlers, and others of the 
 roughest cast, the attendants upon the market and the stage 
 house) with the smell of liquors and tobacco smoke, made the 
 poor boy s heart sink a second time, and he retired, shrinking 
 from the loathsome scene, and sat down on his trunk to collect 
 his thoughts : his head was whirling and dancing, as if still 
 feeling the motion of the stage-coach, and his heart sickened 
 at the scene before and around him. He heard the coach 
 drive from the door. Even this was like the departure of an 
 acquaintance the last link that united him to home. In addi 
 tion to the disagreeable objects that offended his physical senses, 
 his moral sense was pained by that which was present, and by 
 the revival or awakening of the spectre that haunted him. He 
 thought of his mother. 
 
 This situation, either of body or mind, could not endure 
 long with a boy of sixteen. He knew he must not remain 
 where he was, and now recollected, for the first time, that his 
 father had given him a letter, with, of course, the address of 
 his uncle. It was locked up carefully in his trunk. The first 
 movement was to open his trunk and seek it : but the thought 
 occurred, that in such a place and with such company, that 
 would not be eligible ; he had read of tricks upon travellers. 
 He stood undetermined, looking at the depository of his worldly 
 treasure with somewhat of lack-lustre eye. 
 
 The suspicion that ill could be intended him by any thing in 
 human shape* had only entered his mind from books : and only 
 experience can make the innocent mind suspicious. He had 
 read of deceits and falsehoods, and in after life saw and suf 
 fered from them, as all must ; but suspicion never, even in after 
 life, made a part of his character. To utter any words but 
 those of truth, would have appeared to the Green-mountain- 
 boy as impolitic as it was absurd. This characteristic always 
 remained with him. In despite of experience, he never could 
 be brought to suspect his fellow-creatures of deceit ; and in 
 despite of the many inconveniences his frankness occasion 
 ed, he continued to love truth the more he suffered for truth s 
 sake. As a man is induced to love his country the more in 
 consequence of those miseries he encounters in her defence. 
 
 All the mental debate we have suggested, and much more y 
 had passed in a moment of time, and the rumbling of the coach 
 wheels had scarcely ceased in his ears, or the giddiness occa 
 sioned by riding, left his head, when once more looking around 
 for some one to whom he might apply for that information he 
 
68 Wt go from home to Boston. 
 
 had locked up in his trunk instead of his memory, he saw a 
 person near him whose appearance did not discourage the 
 address, and he asked this gentleman (for such he evidently 
 was) who happened to be near him, where " Mr. Abraham 
 Spiffard lived?" 
 
 The man was a tall f thin, upright figure, enveloped in an 
 ample blue cloak, clasped under his chin with silver : above 
 the collar of this cloak arose on each side of his parchment- 
 coloured face, three formidable curls, such as belles sometimes 
 think ornamental to the faces of girls of sixteen, but at that 
 period, confined to the well-powdered wigs of gentlemen of 
 sixty. This buckram-stiff pile was surmounted by a large 
 cocked-hat, rather brown than black not from any lack of 
 brushing. Below the cloak could only be seen high-topp d 
 shoes arid silver buckles ; both showing that they were daily 
 well cleaned, though now bespattered with mud from the low 
 and filthy place in which the stage-house stood. 
 
 ^Ican tell you, my little man," was the old gentleman s 
 reply,, as he looked down upon Zeb s queer face, turned up 
 towards his own, with a slight inclination to the right, and a 
 twist of the mouth to the left, while the earnest protrusion of 
 his dark sparkling eyes, and the honest confidence expressed 
 by all his features in combination v rivetted the stranger s atten 
 tion to the person of our hero, though at first overlooked in his 
 examination of the travellers who had arrived in the stage. 
 "And what may your business be with Mr. Abraham Spiffard?" 
 
 " I have been two days riding from Long-pond in the Green 
 Mountains, to come and pay him a visit," said Zeb, " and I 
 have got a letter from father to him, but it is in my trunk." 
 
 Mr. Abraham Spiffard^to whom these words were addressed, 
 had come to await the arrival of the stage, kindly anticipating 
 the wants of his adopted son. On finding that this, strange 
 figure was the object of his expectations, he stepped back 
 and surveyed the odd and uncouth appearance of the boy 
 with mingled sensations, in which pleasure did not predominate. 
 He had, in imagination, seen a tall, florid lad, rustic to be sure, 
 but looking as vigorous, towering, independent, and fresh as 
 the country of his birth ; and he in the reality, saw a creature 
 of diminutive height, pallid complexion and outre physiognomy ; 
 whose members appeared any thing rather than symmetrical, 
 and whove movements under present circumstances, gave n r > 
 indication of Green Mountain buoyancy, for though our hero 
 was in truth both independent in mind and vigorous in body, 
 his externals little denoted either ; and these externals were 
 in their worst dress. 
 
An old Bachelor s home, $c. 69 
 
 The uncle s good sense overpowered his feelings of chagrin ; 
 and telling Zebediah who he was, he welcomed him to Boston, 
 and hastily called the porter of the inn to bear the trunk of the 
 Green-mountain-boy to his future home. This done, he 
 courteously led his protegee to his house, which was pleasantly 
 situated near the summit of Fort-hill. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 An old Bachelor s house, a Lawyer s office, and a Play in 
 Boston. 
 
 The principal end why we are to get knowledge here, is to make use of 
 I it for the benefit of ourselves and others in this world." Locke. 
 
 THE reader doubtless has found out before he arrives at 
 the present chapter, that this book is not a romance, but a 
 story of every-day life. A fiction, it is true, but copied from 
 real life. Yet who does not know that the events of real life 
 are more astounding more difficult to reconcile to ordinary 
 reason than any romance ever written setting aside perhaps,, 
 the delightful Arabian Nights, and some other tales in which 
 supernatural agency is introduced 1 What romancer would 
 have dared to invent such stupendous events as history records 
 of the early crusades 1 Who would have dared to tell of thou 
 sands of children flying from their parents and congregating to 
 conquer Syria from the Mussulman : marching unappalled 
 by difficulties over a great part of Europe, without meeting a 
 power, moral or physical, to stop their progress to destruction 
 inevitable? What romancer, if he had con-ceived stzch an 
 event as the western world " loosened from its foundations 
 and precipitated upon the east," would have dared to describe 
 what he had imagined? or could have imagined,, that from cen 
 turies of war, during which rapine was- accompanied by disso 
 lute manners, and guided by ignorance and where famine, 
 disease, and the sword destroyed millions the blessings of 
 liberty,, science and the arts would arise ? But to recur to 
 later times to the days yet scarce gone by: could poet have 
 thought in his wildest dreams of an adventurer rising up from 
 obscurity and binding emperors and kings in his chains ; then 
 sinking, through overweening pride, to the state of an outcast 
 
 6* 
 
70 Jin old Bachelors house, a Lawyer s office, 
 
 from society? Yet this we have seen. But setting history aside, 
 it is sufficient for my purpose to refer the reader to the volumes 
 of the Causes Celebres. Our story is a story of real life and 
 real life is sufficiently seasoned, by the wonderful, to make it 
 interesting to those who look for the racy and the spicy in the 
 pages of a novelist. Not that I promise to spread such high 
 seasoned food before the reader of these pages. 
 
 Abraham Spiffard had commenced his career in this mutable 
 state of existence as an attorney, and having inherited his 
 father s estate (before our separation from Great Britain) by 
 the English laws of primogeniture, he did not, as is usual, 
 make it his business to dissipate it ; but, on the contrary, 
 feeling the comforts as well as consequence which property 
 gave him among his neighbours, he determined to increase the 
 sources of such" enviable possessions. He at first proceeded 
 slowly and in the way of his profession ; but his industry and 
 invariable attention to the interests of his clients, gained him 
 practice of the best kind, which gave him an opportunity to 
 make purchases of real estate in lands and houses, with advan 
 tages which none out of his profession could have. He was 
 honest, frugal, thriving, and became a rich man of unimpeach 
 able character. 
 
 His establishment was that of an old bachelor.. A neat and 
 well-furnished house, with a court yard before it, and a garden 
 behind. One man servant, who was gardener,. hostler, butler 
 and footman ; and one elderly female, who filled the station of 
 housekeeper,, and condescended to be cook and chambermaid 
 both natives of New England, and both white constituted 
 his household. Having long renounced his original profession, 
 Mr. Abraham Spiffard thus lived a life of retirement, with most 
 of the enjoyments which a mind of a philosophic inclination 
 could desire* 
 
 As the uncle had expected our hero, an apartment was in 
 readiness for him ; and after the refreshment of tea and toast, 
 by a cheer-ful hickory fire, he dismissed him to bed by remark 
 ing that he " was sure he must be tired," wisely determining 
 not to enter into an examination of his unpromising adopted 
 son until the morrow. 
 
 Being shown to his allotted apartment by his uncle, and left 
 with an injunction to extinguish the candle before he got into 
 bed, Zeb examined attentively every object about him, and in 
 truth felt much less sleepy than before he was ushered into a 
 domain of which he was told that he was the master, and be 
 fore the restraint of a strange old gentleman s presence was- 
 
and a Play in Boston.- 71 
 
 removed. He saw and felt, as soon as he entered, that- the 
 chamber had been prepared with a view to his permanent 
 residence and future comfort ; and that all around him had an 
 aspect very superior to any thing he had seen at Spiffard-town. 
 A narrow bed, much longer than necessary r with quilted calico 
 coverlet well stuffed with cotton wool ; surrounded by calico 
 curtains, on which were depicted Lord Anson, his ship, his 
 sailors, and the groves and fountains of the isles of those de 
 lightful climes, the thought of which made Rousseau exclaim, 
 " Tinian ! O Juan Fernandez !" Below this pictured 
 enclosure was a resting place of down (or goose feathers) 
 covered by sheets and pillow-case white as the driven snow. 
 A table (over which hung a mahogany framed looking-glass ; 
 and, on which stood a neat writing desk completely furnished) 
 was placed on the side of the room opposite the bed. Two 
 mahogany chairs, solid and heavy, with calico covered bottoms 
 were deemed sufficient for the boy and here again Lord 
 Anson, his ship, and his sailors, appeared in undiminished 
 beauty. But what gave most delight to Zeb was a handsome 
 chest of drawers (occupying part of the same side of the room 
 with tiie door) surmounted by a book-case with glass doors, 
 which showed rows of neatly arranged and well-bound volumes. 
 
 We feel assured, that our readers will be gratified, after 
 travelling from Vermont with the Green-mountain-boy, to 
 know*. even to particulars, that he was set down in good quar 
 ters after his long journey. 
 
 Tired as Zeb was, he could not resist the temptation to 
 examine the last-mentioned treasure. Delighted he took down 
 volume after volume, almost all new to him. A collection of 
 modern and ancient history. Pope s Translations ; Milton s 
 poems ; Dryden s Virgil ; Shakspeare s plays ; and a rich 
 store of voyages and travels ; a bible and a prayer book,, with 
 his name printed in gold letters on the coverof each,. completed 
 the arrangement and filled the shelves of this well-chosen piece 
 of furniture. AH thoughts of sleep fled before intellectual 
 excitement, and time passed insensibly, when a knocking at 
 his chamber door aroused Zeb from his enchanting occupation, 
 He opened the door. It was his uncle who had knocked and 
 now presented himself. He saw with astonishment what had 
 been the employment of the youth, and his eyes sparkled with 
 pleasure at the discovery. 
 
 " 1 observed a light under the door," said the old gentleman, 
 " and I was afraid you had gone to bed and forgot to put out 
 the candle." 
 
?2 Jin old Bachelor s house r a Lawyers office, 
 
 " I beg pardon, sir f but I could not help looking at them." 
 
 " You will have leisure enough, my son," said the old man. 
 It was the first time he had used that appellation. " You will 
 have leisure enough to examine them ; they are intended for 
 your use. They are your own. You are now fatigued, and 
 ought to rest, mind and body. To-morrow look at and open 
 the books, and every day after ; and remember that it is for the 
 truth they contain that you are to study them. You must learn 
 to study fiction for truth s sake ; and many a precious truth 
 you will find in the guise of fiction. The fables of Milton and 
 Sliakspeare are mines of truth and knowledge. Knowledge 
 will give you power ; if in the acquisition you do not destroy 
 your health ; without health there is no power. Therefore 
 diligently read the best authors ; and I have made choice of 
 some of those I think best ; but do not deprive yourself of the 
 rest necessary to health, otherwise the knowledge you attain 
 by study will be as useless to others as its acquisition has been 
 injurious ^yourself. The fatigues of your journey and the 
 excitement attendant upon a change of situation and prospects 
 render sleep doubly necessary to you now. Put out the light 
 and go to bed. I am pleased to see that you love books. 
 Good night ! Put out the light !" 
 
 " I will sir," said Zeb. 
 
 The uncle again wished him 4 good night , and retired to rest, 
 perfectly satisfied that the boy was such as he wished, notwith 
 standing first appearances. 
 
 Zeb replaced the books, threw off his clothes, put out the 
 fight, and as he laid his head on the pillow, thought he should 
 never be able to sleep : but that sleep that comes to all who are 
 healthy and guiltless, quickly came to the tired and delighted 
 boy, nor left him until the rising sun shone into his window and 
 on his bed. 
 
 He awoke only to renewed delight. He had sunk to forgct- 
 fulness amidst the images of his kind uncle and those who had 
 been his companions during the journey, fading and changing 
 kito a moving chaos of the forms he had seen the last day, min 
 gled with figures left behind at home; he opened his eyes upon 
 Lord Anson in Juan Fernandes his own happy situation 
 flashed upon him as he looked at his book-case ; and his soul 
 was filled with happy realities and overflowing with bright anti 
 cipations. It was a November sun that shone upon our hero, 
 but it was through the medium of a pure and elastic atmosphere; 
 for the west wind had sprung up during the night and brought 
 with it just enough of frost to harden the surface of the earth, 
 
and a Play in Boston. 78 
 
 and make clean walks for the early pedestrian. The youth 
 was quickly stationed at a window which gave him a view of 
 the waters of the wide spreading bay. All impatient to see 
 more of the wonders around and before him* it was but the 
 business of a few minutes to find his way out of the house, al 
 though somewhat puzzled when encountering bolts and bars in 
 his way, at the street door, things unthought of at SpifFard-town. 
 The key was in the lock, and Zeb unlocked, unbolted and un 
 bared with the dexterity of one used to bending both body and 
 mind to the overcoming of difficulties ; and nothing daunted by 
 the strangeness of his situation, or the novelties of the place, 
 he sallied forth, first observing the appearance of his uncle s 
 place of residence, and of its bearings with surrounding houses, 
 as he would the landmarks in the woods* and as he often had done 
 when there was no other means to find his way home again 
 while wandering on the hills of Vermont. 
 
 Soon he gained the top of Fort-hill. He had never before 
 seen the salt-sea, or the huge machines which float on it. He 
 looked enraptured and bewildered over the beautiful sheet of 
 water, and its islands. He saw ships under sail intermingled 
 with smaller vessels, all alive and glittering in the morning sun. 
 He looked down upon the roofs and chimnies of houses below 
 him, and the topmasts of merchant ships moored at the wharves* 
 He had seen such things only in book-engravings. He had 
 been instructed by books, and by his father, in the events of 
 that war which made his country the greatest republic in the 
 world, and he thought of the momentous events which took 
 place in and near the town of which he had now become a res 
 ident. His gazing and his reveries were interrupted by a 
 summons to breakfast. His uncle* from his chamber window, 
 commanded a view of Fort-hill, and he had seen the boy as he 
 stood wrapt in wonder, (gazing with delight at the many novel 
 objects before him,) and in due time sent for him. 
 
 It is not our intention, or our interest, to weary the reader. 
 We hope to engage his attention not only by the incidents of 
 our history, or memoirs, but by those fascinating fancy-stirring 
 changes of scene which delight the imagination, rouse it from 
 any tendency to slumber when one set of objects have been 
 too long before it, and make it subservient to the author s pur 
 poses. We will pass rapidly over the detail of those circum 
 stances, which, more than books or teaching, formed the second 
 part of our hero s education, and of course had their share in 
 moulding his character, for we are as impatient as our readers 
 can be to come to those great events which render him an ob- 
 
74 Jin old Bachelor s house t a Lctwye^s office, 
 
 ject worthy of their curiosity, and our labours. But let us never 
 forget that the foundation of education and character was laid 
 at SpifTard-town. 
 
 Mr. Abraham Spiffard soon saw in what points the artificial 
 education of his adopted son were most deficient ; and the 
 youth was placed in the best school Boston afforded, and Bos 
 ton has always had the best schools in the United States ; the 
 best teachers, the best systems; and is honoured accordingly. 
 
 Zeb improved rapidly, and was judged by his uncle, whose 
 scholarship was not profound, to be fitted for commencing the 
 reading of law in some counsellor s office, in rather less than a 
 year from the time of his arrival at the great city of the east, 
 modestly, (at the period of which we treat) called the 
 " town of Boston." To be sure he had, as said of another 
 great character, " little latin, and less greek;" but as Mr. zYbra- 
 ham Spiffard had never found himself much the worse, as far 
 as he knew, for his lack of the same commodities, he recom 
 mended to his nephew, that he should continue his study of the 
 dead languages in his leisure moments, for he had observed 
 that a quotation which neither jurors nor auditors of any descrip 
 tion understood, enhanced the character of the orator, and was 
 worth ten times the quantity of English. And you, courteous 
 reader, have thought more reverently of an author when you 
 have met a passage from Homer, Euripides, or Sophocles, in 
 the genuine Greek characters although " all greek" to you. 
 Thus fitted and advised, the prudent uncle placed the youth 
 with a young lawyer of brilliant talents, but whose principal 
 recommendation to the old gentleman, was,- that he had long- 
 known him as the son of an old friend. Mr. Spiffard did not 
 exert his usual shrewdness in selecting a teacher for Zeb, as 
 will be seen in the sequel. 
 
 Thomas Treadwell, Esq., in whose office our hero now 
 passed a great portion of his time,- was the son of a select man< 
 and had been carefully educated by his indulgent parent, who 
 justly admired his quick parts, (as all parents are in duty bound 
 to do,) and devoted him to the profession of the law, as the 
 surest road to the Presidential chair ; which he doubted not 
 Tom would attain. He had the reputation of being a bdle-ht- 
 irt scholar ; and he wrote verses with some skill, great spirit, 
 and sufficient obscurity ; unfortunately he was better versed in 
 the works of verse-makers, than of jurists unforiimalehj at 
 least for his clients. No young man ever started in the race of 
 life, under better auspices, than Tom Treadwell, but he never 
 " took kindly" to labour, and he had Ranger s authority for law 
 
and a Play in Boston. 75 
 
 being " a damned dry study," and Ranger was authority higher 
 with him than Blackstone or Coke. He found the drama much 
 more to his taste, and the Muses and actresses much more 
 fascinating, than reports, records, or deeds. His deeds, and 
 their record, will be found to agree with such taste and such 
 conduct. In fact, just about the time our hero was placed un 
 der his tuition, to be instructed in the depth and subtleties of 
 jurisprudence ; the tutor had, in defiance of all prudence, pri 
 vately married a very beautiful girl, without education, property, 
 or decent connections, and was enamoured for the moment 
 with his new situation, so much as to neglect the Ihealre ; 
 his office had been deserted before. Of all this Mr. SpifTard 
 knew nothing, he only knew the father of the man to whom he 
 had entrusted his son. The consequence was, as may be sup 
 posed, that Zeb was left pretty much to his own choice in the 
 course of reading he pursued at the office. 
 
 Blackstone is always at hand in a lawyer s office in case any 
 one comes to seek the man of science for advice in law or 
 equity ; and except on such occasions the knight is little at 
 tended to, even in appearance, by some students we wot of. 
 The love and practice of truth was never abandoned by our hero. 
 But insensibly this paltry mode of deception was becoming se 
 ductive. He once placed a book of reports on his desk, open, 
 while he read a novel. Happily he saw his error before it was 
 too late the first love prevailed he blushed at the meanness 
 of pretending to one thing and practising another, and ever af 
 ter, truth marked his character almost undeviatingly. 
 
 SpirTard read history with delight. The translations of all 
 the great poets, ancient and modern, became familiar to him. 
 Milton s great poems and Shakspeare s plays he devoured. 
 The novels of Smollet and Fielding added to his pleasures, and 
 he was too ignorant of vice to be injured by them, much. His 
 evenings were devoted to teachers of French, Italian, Spanish, 
 and German : nor did he neglect the studies commenced at 
 school ; he likewise took lessons in dancing and fencing. 
 
 He had been permitted, accompanied by his uncle, to see 
 some plays, immediately upon his arrival at Boston. The im 
 pression made upon him by the first exhibition of the kind that 
 he witnessed, though by no means singular in its general effects 
 must not be passed over in silence. All appeared as the work 
 of enchantment. Seated in the pit, he could see before the 
 play commenced the gayly decorated fronts of the boxes glit 
 tering with what was in his eyes gold and jewels. Beautiful 
 women, with all the advantages of dress entered those boxes. 
 
76 ./?n old Bachelor s house^ a Lawyer s office, 
 
 The gay company by degrees took their seats tier above tier 
 they sat, all happy, doubtless, for all smiled. Even the third 
 tier, or upper boxes, appeared to him the abode of happiness 
 and purity. To the pure, all is pure. To the ingenuous boy 
 the smiles he saw were innocuous. 
 
 The music of the orchestra struck up, and although others did 
 not appear to hear it, our hero s delight was increased almost 
 to intoxication. 
 
 But however much his sense of hearing was captivated by 
 the orchestra, or his eyes attracted to the brilliant company in 
 the boxes, above all he looked at the green curtain with inter 
 est, for the hidden and unknown is far more attractive than the 
 visible, however beautiful. After gazing with a wandering and 
 restless pleasure on the many-coloured objects around and 
 above, his eyes were fixed on the plain dull surface of the cloth 
 before him, which told nothing, but was pregnant with myste 
 rious meaning ; for he knew that behind that lay the something 
 that was to crown all when that should be removed his felU 
 city would be complete. How he knew not but he was sure 
 of it. A bell tinkled, and the front lamps rose as if by magic. 
 Another bell rung louder. The curtain vanished. All was 
 dazzling light and many-coloured brilliancy ; the silence of 
 breathless expectation succeeded. Then appeared beautiful 
 men and women, with fine dresses, and sparkling eyes, and 
 red cheeks ! surely actors and actresses must be not only the 
 most admired, but the best, most lovely, and happiest of mor 
 tals ! In the course of Zeb s novel reading he had not yet 
 read Gil Bias : and Wilhelm Meister was unknown to English 
 readers. 
 
 The play was the Jealous Wife. The boy s delight was ex 
 treme, except during that scene in which Charles is exhibited 
 in a state of ebriety. While others laughed, he was absorbed 
 in a melancholy reverie. He felt sick. He wished himself 
 at home, and sighed for the seclusion of his chamber. The 
 remembrance of his mother s infirmity took such possession of 
 him from that moment, that only the novelty of the enchanting 
 spectacle, and his interest in the story, especially in the fate of 
 Charles, would have made the general impression of the eve 
 ning s entertainment, when recollected, pleasurable. The after 
 piece (for he staid to the last, and wanted more,) the after-piece 
 was Rosina, which gave him pure delight. 
 
 Such was his first impression of the theatre. Now, that he 
 was with Treadwell, he had a full gratification of the desire 
 created by the few plays he had seen before he became a stu- 
 
and a Play in Boston. 77 
 
 tlent of law ; for his master gained him free admission to the 
 pit and boxes, and thus led him to the study of the dramatic 
 works of the French and English poets : of these he found 
 that Mr. Treadwell s office contained an abundance. Among 
 them was a complete old edition of Bell s British Theatre ; all 
 of which he greedily devoured ; a dose sufficient to poison a 
 regiment of Green-mountain boys ! If such reading did not 
 destroy all his moral and religious propensities, it was because 
 his natural tendency to good his love of truth his ignorance 
 of practical evil his habits and his abhorrence of ebriety, 
 .shielded him from the death-doing influence. 
 
 Before proceeding with the story, (notwithstanding the read 
 er s impatience,) we will, with permission, go back to the se 
 cond play our hero saw performed before his introduction to the 
 mysteries behind the curtain and the scenes ; this was Othello. 
 He had read Shakspeare ; yet did not know what to expect 
 from a representation of characters so remote from any thing 
 he had seen in real life. What ideas could a Green-mountain 
 boy form of a Moor a thick-lips a negro commanding an 
 army of white men of Italians ? It is the player, the skilful 
 artist, that gives reality to the pictures of the dramatic poet. 
 The young or uninstructed mind forms confused images while 
 reading, in proportion to its ignorance. 
 
 On Zeb s second visit to a play-house, the delight experi 
 enced from the proscenium and preliminaries, was not so 
 vivid as at the first ; but his impatience for the raising of the 
 green curtain was full as intense. The music gave him little 
 pleasure, and the beauties in the boxes had lost half their 
 charms. 
 
 The effect of this representation of one of Shakspeare s most 
 glorious productions upon our hero was such, that his reasoning 
 powers seemingly gained an advance of years. His intellect 
 grew almost perceptibly during the sitting ; or while, as the 
 French say, he assisted at the representation. His whole soul 
 was alive to the story : the apothegms sunk upon his young 
 and yielding mind with a thrilling sensation of approbation, 
 that made them part of his moral being. 
 
 Again he was shocked by the representation of ebriety ; and 
 his detestation ot" lago was more increased by his playing the 
 part of a tempter, and subverting the reason of Cassioby wine, 
 than even by his atrocious villany in deceiving the noble Moor, 
 and destroying the wretched Desdemona. Cassio, deprived of 
 reason, was, to Spiffard, a spjectacle of horror. While others 
 laughed, he experienced a sickness of the heart a sinking of 
 
 7 
 
78 &i old Bachelors house, a Lawyers office, 
 
 every physical power a confusion of his mental faculties 
 a loathing of existence ; feelings that can only be conceived by 
 those who have had their hopes blasted by the effects of this 
 accursed vice. He gazed on the representative of Cassio, but 
 he saw his own desolated home. When the virtuous and be 
 trayed lieutenant recovers his reason, and with disgust, repro 
 bates his folly in putting " an enemy into his mouth to steal 
 away his brains," the tears rolled down the cheeks of the boy, 
 and he sobbed aloud, until he found that he had become an 
 object of derision to those around him. 
 
 Shakspeare has truly represented intemperance as a vice 
 leading to certain degradation, crime, and self-reproach. He 
 has, in other parts of his works, shown it as the habitual prac 
 tice of the criminal, (as in Hamlet s uncle,) the murderer, 
 the usurper, and fratricide. He has portrayed it as the vice 
 of the weak-minded, and of the brutal and the vulgar ruffian ; 
 as in Sir Andrew Aguccheek and Sir Toby, in the Twelth 
 Night. But, generally, the stage has held up the drunkard 
 merely as an object of amusement, to be laughed at, not pitied 
 or detested ; and has thus been deficient or negligent, if not, 
 criminal, when it ought to have exposed its deformity, ami 
 pointed out its inevitable consequences, misery, madness, 
 death, and contempt. 
 
 His master s attachment to the theatre at length introduced 
 our hero behind the scenes. What he there saw at first dis 
 gusted him. It appeared as if Ithuriel s spear had, by a touch, 
 caused the angel form to vanish, and the fiend to appear ; had 
 changed beauty to deformity. That which had pleased the eye 
 as the glow of health, was, in reality, a coarse white and red 
 daubing, associated in his mind, from infancy, with disease or 
 moral depravity. The modest mien assumed before the audi 
 ence, was sometimes suddenly dismissed, after passing the side 
 scene, and replaced by coarse mirth, or coarser rage. The 
 devout or patient hero would instantly be converted into a fury, 
 venting curses upon the prompter or call-boy. The brilliant 
 dress, decorated with gold and jewels, was transformed to a 
 flimsy rag, covered with tinsel, glass, and foil ; the warrior s 
 mail, into paste-board and spangles ; all the order, harmony, 
 and splendour of the scenes, into confusion, wrangling, the 
 darkness of smoking lamps, and the jostling of dirty scene- 
 shifters and vulgar supernumeraries. Yet all this is only an 
 image of the masking and unmasking in every day scenes of life,. 
 To be sure, we do not see the mask lifted often ; when we do, 
 we are shocked as the boy was. Though shocked, yet the ugly 
 
and a Play in Boston. 79 
 
 chaos was recommended, in some measure, by novelty ; and, 
 by degrees, (as to other ugly things,) he became reconciled or 
 indifferent. In the green-room he found amusement; and 
 sometimes, very rarely, was surprised by finding wit. 
 
 TreadwelPs propensities induced a constant attendance, 
 (after the honeymoon,) upon those scenes either before or 
 behind the curtain, which his love of idleness had made 
 habitual ; and as he wrote prologues, epilogues, and puffs, for 
 the managers, and performers, he was a free and welcome 
 visiter. Spiffard, of course, made acquaintances among the 
 players. He was found to be amusing ; his voice was strong 
 and flexible, and it was discovered that his ear was quick for 
 music and mimicry. Thus he became transformed, by degrees, 
 from the plain green-mountain rustic, to a knowing frequenter 
 of the play-house ; but still he shrunk from the contagion of 
 the vice which too frequently congregates there. Two char* 
 acteristics distinguished hirn from the mass of his companions,, 
 even more than talents ; he never drank any thing but water, 
 nor spoke any thing but truth. He had another singularity, he 
 was as credulous as he was sincere. Time diminished this 
 characteristic, but could not eradicate it. 
 
 In the mean time, although Squire Spiffard, of Spiffurd-town, 
 frequently wrote to his son, and mentioned his mother, as usual, 
 as, "your mother sends her love, &c. ;" yet the son was ig 
 norant of what he most wished to know. He could not but 
 iiope that his father s patient and prudent conduct would pro- 
 duce the reformation he most desired. The father avoided 
 the subject how could he do otherwise 1 This one idea haunted 
 the son, and he knew not how to gain the information he wish 
 ed. He could only inquire after his mother s health ; and the 
 answer could only be "well," or "sick," "better," or "worse." 
 At length, he accidentally met in the street one of his father s" 
 neighbours, who had come for the first time to Boston, and was 
 gazing upon the wonders of the town open-mouthed. 
 
 Spiffard placed himself directly in his path, as he slowly 
 moved, with head turned aside, and eyes fixed on the treasures 
 of the shop-windows. The lord of an hundred acres, after 
 almost stumbling over the young man, stared for a moment in 
 his face, and then exclaimed, " Why, I ll be dang d, if here 
 is n t little Zeb !" After scrutinizing him from head to foot, 
 the yeoman exclaimed, " why, Zeb ! why you re not the same ; 
 and yet you are the same, too. Taller and handsomer, and yet 
 tfee same funny face. Well, Zeb, I seed your daddy and mam- 
 
80 n old Bachelor s Aow.se, a Lawyer s office, 
 
 my, and all the boys and gals ! And so here you be a fine 
 town gentleman !" 
 
 After a hearty shake of the hand, our hero was glad to carry 
 his friend to the solitude of his master s office ; feeling a little 
 prudent shyness, or false shame, in consequence of the loud 
 and hearty greetings of his townsman. 
 
 Farmer Freeman, after examining the premises, expressed 
 his admiration of Treadwell s book-cases. " Why, Zeb, what 
 a power of books you ve got ! Arnt you afeerd, as the bible 
 says, too much laming will make you mad ? : 
 
 44 No fear of that, Mr. Freeman. And so all the folks - 
 come sit down; and so all is well at Spiffard-town?" 
 
 "Why, pretty middling ; all stirrin." 
 
 44 The town grows!" 
 
 " aye, and the folks grow ; but I don t know that they 
 grow much better. Turner, the store-keeper, you know, jist 
 there t other side the church ; why he has run off to Canada, 
 they say, and took as many people in as he could : but there 
 are two stores set up since. And would you believe it 1 Bill 
 Tomkin s, your school-fellow, is married to Sally Bell ; he s 
 not nineteen yet, and she s sixteen next February ; and his fa 
 ther is building a right smart house for him, not far from ." 
 
 44 That s well ! And how does my father look? Is he well ? * 
 Zeb did not dare to ask first after his mother s looks, though 
 ;she was uppermost in his thoughts." 
 
 " W 7 hy the squire looks a little thinriish, I must say," was 
 Freeman s reply. " He seems a little under the weather, some 
 how ; and yet he s not sick. He looks as if he had been jaded 
 like." 
 
 Zeb sighed. " And my mother?" hesitatingly he asked. 
 
 44 Why she s more and more varysome : one day pale, and 
 another day red. I suppose its the natur of your old country 
 complexions. And you know your mammy is changeful in 
 her ways of acting and speaking too : sometimes mighty fun 
 ny, and sometimes a little snappish, and grumlike. The neigh- 
 tours do say " 
 
 Zeb felt as if sinking through the floor. The farmer con 
 tinued, " they think the squire s lady has Bever been herself 
 since that old country chap with his dogs, and his ne lady 
 wife lived among us. 5J 
 
 Zeb lifted his head breathed more freely and Freeman- 
 went on with his gossip. " She looks a little queerlike, some- 
 limes, and slamakin, and then her face grows fat, and her body 
 grows thin, and then " 
 
How to study Law. A change of destination. 81 
 
 M And the children ?" asked the miserable son, hastily inter 
 rupting thai of which he had heard but too much. " The 
 children they I hope are well ?" 
 
 " Yes, they are pretty so so not hardy, though : they 
 don t look like my boys and gals ; and the squire seems more 
 and more fond of them ; but somehow or another your mammy 
 seems " The yeoman paused, as if in want of a simile and 
 .Zeb quickly changed the conversation, by abruptly inquiring 
 what he had seen in Boston, giving him an invitation to his 
 uncle s house, and making offers of service, with perfect sin 
 cerity and goodwill. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 How to study Law. Jl change of destination. 
 
 "It was about to speak when the cock crew, 
 And then it started like a guilty thing." Shakspeare. 
 
 " To his trust grew stranger, being transported 
 And wrapt in secret studies. 
 
 " Der Mann muss hinaus 
 
 In s feindliche Leben, 
 
 Muss werken und streben " Schiller. 
 
 " By mine honour I will ; and when I break that oath, let me turn mon 
 ster." Shakspeare. 
 
 EXCERPTS, as headings to chapters, have been sneered at. 
 I am inclined to multiply them. If my reader passes them 
 over, he will miss that which is worth more than the whole 
 chapter following. 
 
 Mr. Thomas Treadwell abandoned his office so entirely, 
 that after a time, no one thought of inquiring for him at that 
 place ; or at any other, on business connected with his profes 
 sion : and Zeb mechanically opened the windows every morn 
 ing, and habitually sat down to his books, without thought of 
 courts, clients, or law. He was conscious that he was not in 
 the path intended for him by his uncle, and consequently the 
 course he was pursuing was wrong, but he was fascinated by 
 fhe opportunity that was afforded him of gratifying his passion 
 
82 How to study Law. Jl change of destination. 
 
 for reading ; and as long as no one interrupted it, he could not 
 or would not, see the necessity for a change. His imcle had 
 advised a course of history, and belles lettres reading, meaning, 
 ** when not employed in the study of legal science :" Zeb fol 
 lowed his uncle s advice literally and industriously neglecting 
 the spirit and intent and as no law reading was enjoined upon 
 him by his master, he quieted his conscience by acting up to 
 the letter of the instructions. He became a thorough historian 
 and belles lettres scholar, as far as English and French authors 
 could make him one. He partook of the Spanish, Italian, 
 and German ; and delighted to task himself in the Latin clas 
 sics his tasks becoming another source of mental improve 
 ment, another source of pleasure for it is a law of the bene 
 volent Creator, that perseverance in well-doing, although at first 
 a task, shall become more and more a pleasure ; knowledge 
 increases the facilities of attaining knowledge, and " the appe 
 tite grows by that it feeds on." 
 
 Of all the authors read by Spiffard, no one was studied with 
 so much pleasure as Shakspeare. The boy hat! early read him, 
 (for Shakspeare was found at Spiffard tow*n) but he now studied 
 him and his commentators. His thoughts and language by 
 degrees became in a measure imbued with the images and 
 phraseology of the poet. It was only when in after time he 
 was laughed at by his companions, that he was induced tc* 
 relinquish a mode of expressing himself which appeared to 
 some affected. 
 
 Mankind are not generally aware of the influence which one 
 book, or one man, may have, and has had, on a nation or a 
 world. Even those who cannot (or those who do not) read, 
 hear the precepts of the author, sometimes quoted as such, 
 oftentimes mingled unconsciously in ordinary conversation. 
 The maxims of the Koran, the Vedah and the Shastah are 
 mingled in the intercourse of every-day life, among their fol 
 lowers, as well as quoted from the desk or the pulpit ; and the 
 same or greater effect is produced by the Hebrew and Greek 
 scriptures. So the popular poet or author sheds abroad a light 
 upon society which in its effects is incalculable. 
 
 If the poet s precepts are poured forth year after year for 
 ages from the stage, as are those of the " Swan of Avon," 
 they make a part of the education of nations ; they are mingled 
 with the thoughts and words of all influencing their passions 
 and actions they become instruments of illimitable power on 
 the civilization and consequent well-being of man. 
 
 A shrewd and well educated person once said, "I went last 
 
How to Study Law *1 Change of destination. 63 
 
 evening to see Othello, and I have been thinking ever since or 
 the many beautiful passages which have been familiar to me 
 from childhood, and which are to be found in that play." 
 
 Our hero became acquainted with all the beauties and defects 
 of the mighty master. He read him, and heard him expounded. 
 He studied him, and saw him illustrated. But of law except 
 the poetic law of the stagyrite he was as ignorant as many 
 other young gentlemen who read, or smoke, in lawyers offices. 
 
 What was Uncle Abraham about all this time ? Reading 
 his favourite books, and indulging as much research into an 
 cient literature, as a defective early education permitted. Still 
 he entered into many speculative studies, and pursued them far 
 beyond the reading of mere men of this world ; and when he 
 questioned his nephew on topics, little thought of by most young 
 men, he was pleased to find him intelligent, inquiring, and in 
 possession of knowledge uncommon for his age. At length, 
 old Mr. Spiffard, the uncle, thought it time that Zeb should be 
 prepared for his examination. He had passed nearly the num 
 ber of years usual, and legally necessary, for reading law in the 
 capital of Massachusetts. " I ll go to Mr. Treadwell s office, 
 and talk the matter over with him, and with my nephew," said 
 uncle Abraham. Accordingly, one day, as story-tellers have 
 it, he appeared suddenly at the office, while Zeb was standing 
 in the most approved attitude for delivering Marc Anthony s 
 oration over the body of Julius Csesar. The door had been 
 left partly open, and his uncle entered, unperceived by the 
 young orator, who was practising postures before a mirror ; 
 which, .though only intended to aid Mr. Treadwell in adjusting 
 a cravat, before making his appearance in court, or in the 
 green-room, disclosed the graces of our hero s person and 
 action, (imperfectly it is true,) and at the same time served to 
 let him see that he had an admirer behind him. He was in 
 circumstances similar to the ghost of Hamlet s father, about to 
 speak " when the cock crew," but alas ! he could not vanish. 
 The uncle had been standing for a moment, before the young 
 lawyer was aware that any other than his own eyes witnessed 
 his attitudcnizmg. When he saw the reflection of Uncle Abra 
 ham, he dropt his outstretched arm, and looked like any thing 
 rather thaa a hero. 
 
 " That s right," said the old gentleman ; " I see that you 
 are preparing yourself for public speaking. It is the sure road 
 t,o wealth and honour in a republic." 
 
 The uncle certainly did not mean the same kind of public 
 
84 How to study Laic Jl change of destination. 
 
 speaking that occupied the mind of the nephew; but Zeb was 
 relieved from his embarrassment by the train of thought which 
 his preparation for enacting Marc Anthony had suggested ; and 
 his uncle proceeded to the business which had brought him to 
 the office. 
 
 The result of Mr. Abraham SpifTurd s inquiries was not so 
 favourable to the belief of his nephew s progress in the acqui 
 sition of that knowledge, necessary for the orator of the Bar, 
 the town house, the general assembly, or hall of congress. His 
 questions were answered with perfect frankness by Zeb, who 
 through life never lost his relish for truth or pure water. The 
 uncle was astonished that he had so long omitted those in 
 quiries which now elicited the astounding fact that Treadwell 
 had long neglected both his business and his pupil ; who knew 
 very little more of law, (particularly its practice,) than when he 
 entered the office. The answer to one inquiry led to another, 
 and the good old gentleman concluded his interrogatories by 
 asking mildly, " Why, my son, did you not tell me all this ?" 
 
 Zeb stood silent for some moments, before answering. Not 
 that he wished to evade the question, but he wanted time to ar 
 range his thoughts, like one of our Indians at a council-meeting ; 
 one of those men whom we call our red brethren, and shoot 
 when they do not get out of our way, exactly at the time we 
 wish to improve their lands for our profit, and plough up the 
 bones of their forefathers, with as little ceremony as we do 
 those of our own. Zeb was conscious that he had not been 
 doing as his uncle intended ; and that although he had not 
 planned to deceive the worthy man, yet he had suffered him to 
 deceive himself. After collecting his thoughts, Indian fashion, 
 he replied with perfect ingenuousness : 
 
 " I take shame to myself, sir ; I ought to have told you all 
 this, and not waited till you questioned me. I have reasoned 
 with myself repeatedly upon the subject, and rny reason al 
 ways told me that I was not employing my time as you intend 
 ed that it should be employed. But this self-examination did 
 not take place until in consequence of my teacher s neglect and 
 the love I had imbibed for the study of general literature, a se 
 cret dislike and afterwards to myself, an avowed determina 
 tion had been formed not to devote myself to the profession of 
 the law. To form such a resolution without consulting you, 
 was wrong. Nay, I knew it to be wrong, at the time. But as 
 every other study became more delightful to me, so, that for 
 which I was placed here, became more and more disgusting. 
 You appeared to be proud of my acquirements in languages 
 
How to study Law A change of destination. 85 
 
 and literature, and I cheated myself into the belief, that, if I 
 became a good scholar a well informed man and proved 
 myself by my conduct a moral man, 1 might be permitted to 
 choose some employment more congenial with my taste and 
 feelings, than the dry and formal, or the uncertain, intricate, 
 and oft-times disingenuous proceedings, connected with the 
 transactions in our courts of justice. And I I hoped Yes, 
 I will tell you all that as you had avowed your determination 
 to consider me in all things as your son, that you would permit 
 me to travel, first in our country, and then in foreign lands, 
 and thus to cultivate a knowledge of men, as well as of books, 
 of manners, as well as science and literature a knowledge 
 which would enable me on my return to my dear native coun 
 try, justly appreciating her institutions, to be an honour to you, 
 a comfort and support to my parents, and to enter the lists as 
 a candidate for office, with not only the desire, but the power 
 to serve my countrymen a power which should produce such 
 effects as seemed to be the ultimate object you had in view for 
 me such effects as would meet your approbation, and justify 
 the partiality you had evinced towards me." 
 
 The old gentleman was evidently agitated while his nephew 
 poured forth this address. He took a chair, and sat down du 
 ring its delivery with his eyes fixed on the floor, and his hat 
 pulled over his brow : at its close he looked up, with some se 
 verity of aspect, and replied in a tone of unusual asperity, 
 " So ! knowing that by a life of industry I had accumulated a 
 decent competency, you supposed that I would indulge you in 
 a life of idleness ?" 
 
 " no, sir" 
 
 The uncle would not be interrupted. " Your love of inge 
 nuousness induced you to deceive me ! You knew better, like 
 wise, what my wishes were than I did myself! You thought it 
 would be more to your advantage to visit France, Italy, and 
 Germany, and be presented at the courts of foreign princes 
 than to attend the courts of law in Massachusetts, and become 
 familiar with the institutions of the country you are to reside in : 
 now, I have served my country, and was supposed to be quali 
 fied to promote the happiness of those connected with me, or 
 whose welfare had been entrusted to me ; and that without fo 
 reign travelling or any other travelling. I have been content 
 with this town and this town has been content with me. I 
 have lamented the deficiencies of my education, and hoped that 
 by making you a scholar and a scientific lawyer, you would 
 have been able to do more and better than I have done. I chose 
 
 7* 
 
86 How to study Law Jl change of destination* 
 
 a path for you, and supposed that you were following its course : 
 but you have chosen another for yourself. Now, suppose I 
 was to say, I have been deceived, go ! pursue your own 
 course : I have done with you? " 
 
 * I cannot suppose it, sir." 
 
 44 Why not V 9 
 
 " Tt is not like you. Besides, I did not plan to deceive you." 
 
 " You saw me cherishing an error, and did not undeceive 
 me." 
 
 " I was wrong, sir but I deceived myself. I believed that 
 I was qualifying myself to become that which you most wished 
 me to become. I would willingly believe it still. I have 
 heard you complain of the drudgery you have gone through to 
 acquire wealth, and lament*that you had not devoted more time 
 to the more ennobling studies. I never doubted that you 
 wished me to profit by the means in your possession, to enter 
 into a wider field of action and competition than you had neces 
 sarily been confined to that you wished me to rise above the 
 professional technicalities and every-day labour of the court 
 and the office. I will believe still that my kind uncle my more 
 than father, will aid me in the path I shall choose, provided he 
 shall be convinced that it is the path of honour." 
 
 " The path of the lawyer is a path of honour. He may 
 build for himself a reputation which shall stand the assaults of 
 < nvy or folly ; but it must have its foundation in what you call 
 the technicalities of the office, and the habit of every-day la 
 bour. That necessary habit you have not acquired. The foun 
 dation of honour is truth. If I should aid you to pursue the path 
 you have preferred, and continue still to be a father to you, it 
 will be after the conviction that you will not in future deceive 
 another, or suffer another to deceive himself; and then make 
 .^elf-deception a plea, or an excuse for your conduct. I have 
 confided in you and I may say " here the old man s voice 
 faltered " I have loved you, because I thought I discovered 
 in you a rooted love of truth I thought it was habitual in act 
 as in word I thought " 
 
 The young man interrupted him, " Next to my love of the 
 Author of all Good, is my love of truth. My fervent desire is 
 to be habitually frank and sincere in all my intercourse with my 
 fellow-creatures. I have now received a lesson never to be 
 forgotten." 
 
 Mr. SphTard was silent for a moment : his tone was changed, 
 when he said : " I believe in the sincerity of your desire. The 
 belief that such was ever your disposition, has made me a con- 
 
We return home Medicine and Theology in Vermont. 87 
 
 ficling father to you. But the love of God, and of truth, must 
 be shown by obedience to their laws in deed and word." 
 
 4 * Here, sir, before heaven " 
 
 " No protestations, young man. Notwithstanding what has 
 passed, and my bitter disappointment, I will confide in you I 
 must confide in you. If I thought that there had been a deli 
 berate plan to deceive, confidence would have flawn forever. 
 We cannot believe at will. I intend that you shall be my heir : 
 and as you have given me to know that you will not pursue the 
 law as a profession, I will, inasmuch as you have arrived at an 
 age beyond childhood, consult your wishes, and we will be de 
 termined as to the future by our cool consideration of the 
 matter.- 
 
 Zeb attempted to speak, but his voice failed him. Tears 
 ran down his cheeks, and he sobbed aloud. Here ended this 
 momentous conference. Uncle Spiffard soon after had an 
 explanation with Mr. Thomas Treadwcll, and Zeb was with 
 drawn from the study of the law. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Wt return home. J\Iedicine and Theology in Vermont. 
 
 "Let us sit and mock the good housewife. Fortune, from her wheel, that 
 her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally. 5 
 
 "Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of nature." 
 
 " I never did repent of doing good, nor shall not now." 
 
 Skakspcare. 
 
 "One really does meet with characters that fiction would seem too 
 bold in portraying. This original had an aversion to liquor, which 
 amounted to abhorrence; being embittered by his regret at the mischiefs 
 resulting from it to his friends." Mr. Grant. 
 
 OUR hero had been between two and three years from under 
 the paternal roof, and, strange as it may appear, had never vi 
 sited the place of his nativity. One image, connected with 
 home, haunted him. He saw it in the streets, in various 
 shapes, and oft times followed its reeling and devious course, 
 as the bewildered traveller follows the meteor which leads into 
 Ifce marsh or pool, its poisonous origin. This image banished 
 
8 We return home Medicine and Theology in Vermont. 
 
 &om his mind all pleasing associations belonging to the scenes 
 of his childhood. It was an image of mourning and desolation. 
 It amounted almost to a monomania, that literally grew with his 
 growth, for he comprehended more and more the degradation 
 of his mother, and the misery of his father, as his mind ex- 
 pamled. He shrunk from a nearer contemplation of the scenes 
 feis memory presented, or his imagination suggested. He 
 dreaded the consequences of those too well remembered exhi 
 bitions in all their hideousness. A visit to his father s house 
 when thought of, awakened an expectation of witnessing reali 
 ties, which fancy conjured up to view, and reason forced him to 
 anticipate. He even avoided speaking of home. 
 
 Zebediah Spiffard was now nearly nineteen years of age, 
 and as tall as nature or circumstances permitted him ever to 
 be. He had attained his growth sometime before, but had 
 been shook somewhat nearer the common length of man by the 
 fever and ague. His uncle in due time consented to his plan 
 of travelling, and, the notion once adopted, the old man became 
 anxious that his adopted son should be qualified to talk as loud 
 f London and Paris, Vesuvius and Pompeii, Apollo and Ve 
 nus, RafFaello and Corregio, and all the rest of it, as the sons 
 f his neighbours ; but recommended, however, a short delay, 
 and a visit to his parents. Zeb felt and acknowledged the 
 propriety of his uncle s recommendation, but assented with 
 sad forebodings, and reluctantly prepared for a journey to Ver 
 mont, although his heart felt the yearnings of affection towards 
 Ms unfortunate father. 
 
 Three winters and two summers had passed since leaving 
 liome, and now, in the month of May, (so bright and warm in 
 Italy and Virginia, and so delightful in English poetry, although 
 so cold and dreary in both old and new England) young Mr. 
 Spiffard arrived safely at his native village of Spiffard-town, in 
 She beautiful valley of Long-pond. 
 
 Spiffard-town had grown faster than our Zeb. Two new 
 steeples decorated the hill, proving freedom, and, of course, 
 diversity of opinion. No old church claiming infallibility 
 and exclusive right of sway over the minds and actions of men, 
 because it could trace its origin to the times of mental dark 
 ness, was here suffered to blast the seed or the growth of God s 
 word, and man s happiness. 
 
 The melancholy thoughts which were suggested to the mind 
 of our hero as he approached the place, were dissipated, by 
 the air of improvement, and vigorous youth, that new houses, 
 recently cleared fields, with all the signs of a thriving commu- 
 
We return home. Medicine and Theology in Vermont. 89 
 
 nity presented to his eyes as he rode to the stage-house, de 
 nominated the United States Hotel, and Spiffard-town Coffee 
 House. Neither the house nor its master had ever been seen 
 by him before, and unknowing and unknown he passed on to 
 his father s residence, after seeing his baggage in the safe cus 
 tody of the bar. As he approached the parental dwelling, he 
 was struck by the external marks of premature decay. This 
 strongly contrasted with the youthful freshness of the newly 
 erected houses he had passed. They were neat and tastefully 
 painted white, with green blinds. The neglect on his father s 
 premises told a tale of sorrow. The white paint had not been 
 renewed since he left the village, and the once cheerful face 
 of home was spotted like an Indian with the leprosy, as if 
 giving note of the diseased state of things within. The palings 
 of the court-yard fence were broken, and the gate hung by 
 one hinge. A pane of glass in one of the upper windows had 
 been broken, and its place was supplied by an old white hat. 
 
 Every heart-sinking thought that had occurred to the sensi 
 tive youth during his journey, was revived, and rushed upon 
 him with double force: the recollections of his boyhood came not 
 as bright visions of past joy, but as images of loathsome reali 
 ties long detested, and oft banished ever returning, and now 
 mingled with misgivings increased at every step and by every 
 object that met his view. 
 
 A cold rain added, (to the sufferings of his mind,) those phy 
 sical achings, shiverings and chills, which must be taken into 
 the account of the estimate of all mortal woe or weal, whether 
 identified and specified or not ; and as Spiffard-town was with ] 
 out pavements, the slippery rain-wet-clay, and occasional mud 
 pits in his path, by no means cheered his walk or alleviated the 
 gloom, within or without. 
 
 He passed through the disabled gate and pushed open the 
 house-door, which had never been garnished by lock, and now 
 . had no latch. The old house-dog growled as he entered the 
 street door, but the next moment wagged his tail, tried to look 
 in his face with eyes covered by the film of old age, licked his 
 hand, and whined a mournful note of recognition. But poor 
 old Cato, like all that the youth had seen on his return to his 
 native place, bore the marks of neglect and decay ; and al 
 though his greetings were meant to be cordial, they took 
 naught from the weight which oppressed the young man s heart. 
 He turned into the well-known "keeping room," which appeared 
 as if diminished to half its former size. Here he found the first 
 human creature that had greeted him. In tne first apart- 
 
90 We return home. Medicine and Theology in Vermont. 
 
 ment that he entered the room where in days of yore he had 
 mingled with the family in all domestic appliances, he saw a 
 little girl, too young to be left unattended, who was sitting on 
 the floor by the hearth, and near to the remains of a fire : 
 .<he looked at him with a vacant stare, and said, whiningly, 
 " Mama s in the bed-room." 
 
 This was his sister his mother s youngest child. He bent 
 down to kiss her, but was repulsed with an exclamation, " Go 
 along ! you are an ugly man ! Don t come here again !" 
 
 " And where is your papa? 
 
 " Gone for the doctor." 
 
 Poor SpifTard ! he felt as though all his misgivings and surmi 
 ses were realized. Hardly knowing what he did, the youth 
 again attempted to kiss his sister, although her neglected ap 
 pearance little tempted him to the act ; he wanted to touch, in 
 sympathy, some being to whom his blood had affinity he could 
 have wept upon the bosom of the child but she turned from 
 him with " Go along ! You are ugly ! Don t come here any 
 more ! They are all in the bed-room." 
 
 At this moment his father and the doctor entered. Spiffard 
 saw that in less than three years his father had become an old 
 man. 
 
 We will pass over the particulars of his reception by his un 
 fortunate, kind-hearted father, and his interview with his 
 wretched mother, who was sinking into the grave, mind and 
 body exhausted, conscious of the cause of her own and her hus 
 band s misery tortured by the fears of death, and an eternity 
 for which she was little prepared. But a scene had passed in 
 the young man s presence, previous to his meeting with the un 
 happy invalid, which we must briefly notice. Such scenes 
 would be often repeated, if the medical men of our country towns, 
 had, generally, the good sense and determined spirit of the phy 
 sician who, as above mentioned, had been brought, by her hus 
 band, to visit Mrs. Spiffard. 
 
 The usual medical attendant upon the sick woman, was a 
 young professor of the healing art, who dwelt in Spiffard-town, 
 and had to establish himself in the world of Long-pond, by 
 yielding to the whims of patients, nurses, and visiters, temporal 
 and spiritual ; but the person now introduced to the house, and 
 not for the first time, was Dr. Woodward, a man of long esta 
 blished reputation for skill and knowledge, who lived near 
 twenty miles off, and only came thus far when called on parti 
 cular occasions. He had long attended the family of Spiffard, 
 when the urgency of the case required his presence, and at all 
 
Wt return home Medicine and Theology in Vermont. 91 
 
 times advised and directed the practice of the younger and re 
 sident physician. 
 
 Woodward was a rough-hewn yankee ; a man of talents, 
 study, and experience. Soon after entering the house, he had 
 left the son and father together, and with the familiarity of an 
 old acquaintance and veteran practitioner, licensed so to do, had 
 
 fone into the chamber of the sick woman. Zeb and his father 
 ad scarcely exchanged those greetings the occasion required, 
 and their feelings prompted ; those inquiries on the son s part,, 
 respecting his father s and his mother s condition, had been but 
 hegun, (inquiries that were answered more fully by the son s 
 presentiments than by the father s words,) before Woodward 
 abruptly entered, and addressed Spiffard thus : 
 
 " I have told you, squire, before this, that those cursed var 
 mint of croaking men and canting women are killing your wife. 
 And now I tell you, once for all, that you needn t send for, or 
 come for me again, unless you give me absolute power over 
 the sick chamber and the patient." 
 
 " Why, what s the matter, Doctor?" 
 
 ** Murder s the matter ! murder! You promised me that no 
 one should be allowed to disturb the poor critter. I told you 
 that all the chance she had from my medicine was by keeping 
 her mind quiet ; and I told Dr. Chubs the same. But he s 
 young, and thinks he musen t forbid that fellow coming with his 
 bellows and furnace, because he has got a barn to preach in, 
 and fools to groan with him. If she wants a clergyman, you 
 jiave one at hand in Parson Wilford, who knows his duty to 
 God and man, as far as I know." 
 
 " And have they taken advantage of my absence while going 
 to call you ? I ordered the nurse to admit no one." 
 
 44 The room is full. That yellow-faced crow, Martin, who 
 couldn t live by goose and cabbage, as a tailor, is howling like 
 a wolf; and a wolf he is in sheep s clothing : and a dozen 
 women are groaning and sobbing like a camp-meeting ; while- 
 your wife lies frightened into hysterics, and will die and 
 quickly too, if not rescued from the philistines." 
 
 "I will be obeyed," said the husband ; and was going 
 
 * Stop !" said Woodward ; " do you give me full powers ?" 
 
 * Yes. Your orders shall be obeyed !" 
 
 4k Then stay you here. I ll give them a touch of my prac- 
 lice." 
 
 Woodward again entered the sick woman s chamber. Spif 
 fard stood like a statue, waiting the event. His father paced the 
 rom. A noise, like the confusion of a miniature Babel, as- 
 
92 We return home Medicine and Theology in Vermont. 
 
 sailed their ears in every key (though not in every language,) 
 that the human voice can be screwed to by passion. Wood 
 ward re-entered, literally dragging the yellow-faced crow the 
 preaching tailor, into the " keeping-room," by the collar of his 
 coat, and followed by a mob of vociferous women. The phy 
 sician, the captured crow, the nurse, and every female, young 
 or old, protested, railed, exclaimed, squeaked, or shouted. 
 Every voice was exerted to the utmost, and they were of every 
 pitch and compass, from the commanding, deep-toned bass of 
 the doctor, and the hoarse croaking of the crow, to the cracked 
 treble of goody Stubs, the nurse. The tumult ceased a little, 
 as some of the out-criers saw that a stranger was present. 
 
 " Have you no respect for my cloth ?" said the tailor. 
 
 "Yes," said the physician, " when you are stitching it in the 
 way of your vocation, and in your proper place, mounted on 
 your shop-board ; but none for you, or your cloth, when stuck 
 up in a pulpit, you make it a covering for ignorance and kna 
 very, or intrude your noisy fanaticism where peace and rest are 
 necessary to alleviate suffering. 
 
 " I give you warning !" 
 
 " And I again warn you not to interfere with my practice. 
 When you spoiled my coat, I let it pass ; but you shan t kill 
 my patients." 
 
 " 0, the blasphemous ruffian !" exclaimed a squeaking 
 voice. 
 
 * I will save her precious soul !" cried the tailor. 
 
 " I ll maul your onprecious body, you croaking cormorant, 
 if ever you intrude within my province again." 
 
 " I ll do my duty." 
 
 " And I ll do my duty, you carrion-crow, and prevent mur 
 der ; which the sight of your yellow face, and the sound of your 
 sepulchral voice has more than once caused, by terrifying the 
 weak, and bringing despair to the convalescent. If you knew 
 your duty, since you cannot cut the pattern of a pair of breeches 
 without spoiling them, you would make yourself useful by cut 
 ting down trees, and ploughing up new land with a team of 
 stout oxen ; but you plough with other men s heifers, you phi- 
 listine. You find it more pleasant to manage a flock of geese, 
 whom you can pluck, than to wield one goose in the miserable 
 garret you have exchanged for that barn, you call a tabernacle." 
 
 While speaking, Woodward kept fast hold of Martin s col 
 lar, and with a hand like a blacksmith s vice, and an arm of 
 iron, had by this time dragged him from the keeping-room into 
 the hall or entry ; then thrusting him towards the street-door, 
 
We return home. Medicine and Theology in Vermont. 93 
 
 he continued, " When I give over my patients, which is no 
 till death takes them out of my hands, then come and catter- 
 waul over them if you like ; but if I can prevent it, you shall 
 not help to kill them that s my business." He then returned, 
 crying out to those who lagged, " Come ! clear out, all of you ! 
 out ! out with you !" he said, as he pushed the tailor s admirers 
 to the door, " follow your leader !" 
 
 " Mr. Spiffard, do you suffer us to be turned out of your 
 house ?" 
 
 " Yes, neighbours, I desire you to leave the place for the 
 present. You know that I have requested that " 
 
 " No ceremony," said Woodward, " it is life or death. I go, 
 or they go." 
 
 " You will repent this in fire and brimstone ; in the bottom 
 less" 
 
 " Any where, Goody Crank, out of your company." The 
 doctor having made a clear coast by putting the last of the vi- 
 siters out, turned to the nurse, " Look ye, Mrs. Stubs, I gave 
 you orders not to let that fellow and those women murder the 
 person entrusted to your care, by frightening her into her cof 
 fin before you and I have done with her ; and I now tell you t 
 that if you permit any more of mis infernal catterwauling where 
 I have a patient, I will present you to the grand jury as a nui 
 sance, if not an accessory in killing by torture or murdering 
 under false pretences." 
 
 " Mr. Doctor, I have too much feeling for the soul of " 
 
 " Hold your tongue, woman ! You are employed to take 
 care of Mrs. Spiffard s body ! what do you know about peo 
 ple s souls ? Ah ! here comes one to whom I am willing to 
 entrust my patients, body and soul." 
 
 At that moment a venerable man in a rusty black coat, over 
 the collar of which descended his silver-white hair, was seen 
 descending from one of those four-wheeled vehicles, since 
 called dearborns. He entered without knocking, and with the 
 courtesy of a gentleman, the bland air and cheerful counte 
 nance of an apostle of the religion of love, he saluted the Doc 
 tor and the elder Spiffard. 
 
 " You have had a numerous company I see by the many de 
 parting guests. Has any thing new occurred?" 
 
 " No, Mr. Wilford, the old story ! Murdering my patients 
 taking my trade out of my hands. I am legally authorized 
 to kill, and you have heaven s sanction and that of your own 
 conscience, to preach peace to those I dismiss to a better world, 
 if you find them fit for it ; I am willing to practice with you, but 
 
94 We return home. Medicine and Theology in Vermont. 
 
 I am chafed when I see all I can do to help the sick, undone 
 by ignorant impudent hypocrites." 
 
 " God only knows the heart, Doctor Woodward." 
 
 " But man can judge of the heart by the actions, Mr. Wil- 
 ford. Now, there are no two critters on God s earth more 
 dissimilar in most things, than you and I are : yet no man ever 
 thought either of us a hypocrite. But whether that stay-tape- 
 and-buckram-fellow, who has half the women of the country at 
 his beck, is hypocrite or fanatic, he must not interfere with my 
 patients. I can do my own business ask the sexton, if you 
 doubt iU" 
 
 " You are severe upon neighbour Martin, Doctor. I fear 
 you are intolerant in your religious creed." 
 
 " No, sir, I am in that, a disciple of Roger Williams and 
 Harry Vane. Let every man worship his own way ; I object 
 not, provided he does not serve the devil. I call no one infidel 
 or heretic for believing more or less than I believe ; but I re 
 sist the despotism of man over the conscience, whether he be a 
 tailor, a bishop, or a pope." 
 
 " May I let Mr. Wilford into Mrs. Spiffard s chamber, sir?- 7 
 asked the nurse. 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Stubs, he is a physician for the soul. How 
 ever, remember, he don t want any female apothecaries to as 
 sist him. But first I will visit my patient, and do you attend 
 me, and mind my directions." 
 
 Thus saying, the eccentric physician, attended by the nurse, 
 retired, leaving the two Spiffards, father and son, with the vene 
 rable minister of the gospel of peace. 
 
 In the infinite variety of contrasts which the human family- 
 presents to view, no two characters can form a greater than we 
 see in the enlightened and benevolent disciple of the Christian 
 religion, who sees in his God a father, and in his neighbour a 
 brother, and one of those ignorant egotistical men who represent 
 every one as an enemy to religion, and a child of perdition, who 
 does not believe that the Author of all Good is in a state of 
 eternal wrath with the creatures on whom he is showering, 
 every blessing. Mr. Wilford nursed the sick, (if his personal 
 aid was needed,) soothed the suffering, instructed the ignorant,, 
 and engaged the wise in active plans of benevolence ; not to 
 promote an exclusive sect, or propagate exclusive doctrines r 
 (for he opposed no doctrines but those which prohibited liberty 
 of conscience,) but to spread that knowledge which teaches 
 charity and forbearance towards others, with doubts of self, and 
 confidence in God. 
 
We return koine. Medicine and Theology in Vewnont* 95 
 
 Happily truth must prevail. Those dangerous doctrines 
 which enslave men politically under the mask of religion, are 
 sinking into contempt and abhorrence with the tyrannies which 
 supported them, and are supported by them. The struggle 
 may yet be protracted, for with the tyrants of the earth, and 
 their emissaries, it is a struggle for existence : but neither force 
 nor art can prevail against knowledge which has gained the 
 sanction of experience. Those monstrous errors which claim 
 authority from an antiquity surrounded by the darkness of the 
 middle ages, and stained with the crimes of murder, havoc, and 
 massacre, inflicted upon those who saw a beam of light, and 
 held fast to opinion for conscience sake those errors, will be 
 known hereafter only to raise the wonder of the hearer or 
 reader, that such fatal absurdity could have existed. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 We go to England, and what ive did there. 
 
 "Reason and love keep little company together now a days." 
 
 " I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse : borrow 
 ing only lingers and lingers it out; but the disease is incurable." 
 
 " Consent upon a sure foundation ; 
 
 know our own estate, 
 
 How able such a work to undergo, 
 
 or else" we are 
 
 "Likeone who draws the model of a house 
 Beyond his power to build it; who half through 
 Gives o er, and leaves his part created cost 
 A naked subject to the weeping clouds, 
 And waste for churlish winter s tyranny." 
 
 l< It is a figure in rhetoric, that drink being poured out of a cup into a 
 glass, by filling the one, doth empty the other." 
 
 "Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits." 
 
 "Now worth this, and now worth nothing." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 As we are writing the memoirs of Zebediah SpifTard, and 
 not of his mother, we will be as brief as possible in all that re 
 mains to be said respecting this weak and unhappy woman. 
 
 It is generally acknowledged that there is considerable af- 
 
96 We go to England, and what we did there. 
 
 finity between a man and his mother : and Zeb was not an ex 
 ception to the rule if rule it be. He was not only the son of 
 his mother, but his mother s character and conduct propelled 
 him through life they were present to his imagination in 
 every situation, to the day of his death. 
 
 The thoughts and images that passed* through our hero s 
 jnind during the scene of his reception, were never erased. He 
 found the state of his father s family worse than he could have 
 imagined from any previous information that he had received. 
 Of three sisters and a brother, the two elder girls (feeble and 
 .sickly) were at a distant school, the boy was a cripple, and 
 almost an idiot, and the youngest girl was such as we have 
 .described above. During this visit, poor Spiffard received im 
 pressions, or rather renewed and strengthened those already 
 received, which influenced his actions ever after. 
 
 Owing to the skill of Doctor Woodward, his mother became 
 convalescent ; but it was only a flattering ray of light on the 
 darkness of her condition. Her constitution was undermined; 
 her feeble body and feeble mind could not be sustained. 
 There was no redeeming spring in either. However, it was 
 -during the season of hope and re-establishment, that the young 
 man took leave of his father s house, and returned to Boston to 
 make preparations for his European tour. His indulgent uncle 
 furnished him with money and credit ; and in due season, the 
 green-mountain boy found himself in the great metropolis of 
 the great nation which he claimed as the source from which him 
 self and his ancestors issued. Relatives of his father, he knew 
 of none. No trace of the noble family of Spiffards existed ; 
 but to his mother s father, residing in Lincolnshire, he bore 
 letters ; and after seeing the lions of London, he took the mail- 
 coach for Stamford, and there found the house of his grand 
 father a scene of mourning and desolation. 
 
 His mother s second sister, Sophia, the beauty of the family, 
 the pet and pride of her parents, had eloped with a titled liber 
 tine of fortune, one of the hereditary lawgivers of England, 
 and was living in splendour in the great city her nephew had 
 just left. In the lap of luxury, devoted to infamy, she was 
 flattered by being the admired of depravity, though condemned 
 to be the companion of libertinism and prostitution. Her fall 
 and flight had murdered her mother. Her father, sinking to 
 the grave, was supported in penurious gentility by the energy 
 and industry of the youngest daughter, (who was a child when 
 in America,) one who had been the neglected of her foolish pa- 
 
We go to England, and what we did there. 97 
 
 rents, .because plain in person, and retiring in manners ; but 
 who had cultivated a mind of quick perception so as to rear 
 the fruit of filial piety ; and was adorned by that knowledge and 
 those virtues which shine brightest when the darkness of adver 
 sity falls on all around : like the good deed of the poet " in a 
 naughty world." Such was Eliza Atherton. 
 
 Spifiard was not made acquainted with the fall of his aunt 
 Sophia. He was told in such a manner, that they had lost 
 Mrs. Atherton and Sophia, as to lead him to suppose both dead. 
 Eliza said nothing on the subject ; and her father was confined 
 to a sick chamber. The young man felt that there was a mys 
 tery, but did not feel authorized to pry into it ; he saw that his 
 grandfather was in poverty; he admired his remaining aunt; and 
 he did his duty. 
 
 The first thing our yarikee water-drinker did, after leaving 
 his grandfather and aunt, was to purchase a small annuity for 
 ihe two lives, and transmit the necessary papers to them from 
 London. This left him almost without funds, but he felt richer 
 and happier for the transaction. Before visiting the European 
 continent, he determined to await the answers he should receive 
 from his uncle, to whom he communicated the particulars of 
 his journey, and made him acquainted with the disposal of his 
 funds, and the paucity of the trifle which yet remained to his 
 credit, with the banker. 
 
 His passion for the theatre was indulged, and grew with in 
 dulgence. It was connected with his love of literature. It 
 was a love for the drama, not for the playhouse. The desire 
 to become an actor was revived. He had leisure to acquire 
 those accomplishments so essential to the profession. He stu 
 died music, instrumental and vocal, assiduously; while the prac 
 tice of the sword of every description, and of dancing, gave him 
 that ease of deportment so necessary to those who aspire to 
 please on the stage. Zeb s voice was powerful and of great 
 compass. Ho became a first-rate burlctta singer, and his ac 
 curate ear, by cultivation, led to taste and execution which few 
 could rival. Always active and athletic, his skill in fencing 
 and every sword exercise, was uncommon. Grace as a dan 
 cer he could not acquire, and nature had denied him stature for 
 the heroic in tragedy, or beauty of form or face, to compensate 
 the deficiency. 
 
 There was, at the time of which we are writing, and perhaps 
 still is, a theatre for amateur performers, in the neighbourhood 
 of Soho Square, to which SpMfard had been invited. Here he- 
 soon found a congenial spirit, in some respects, and became 
 
98 We go to England, and what we did there. 
 
 intimate with him. This was Thomas Hilson, so well known 
 in America for his histrionic talents. To Hilson, Spiffard com 
 municated his desire to tread the stage for amusement, and 
 Tom promised him a trial. 
 
 "What part shall it be?" 
 
 " Alexander the Great." 
 
 " Oh, no, no, you are not up to that by a foot." 
 
 " Alexander was not tall." 
 
 " Always six feet on the stage. Suppose you try Scrub ?" 
 
 Never was poor hero more cut down. By way of compro 
 mise, it was at length decided that he should play Young Nor- 
 val, and appear as Caleb Quotem in the farce. 
 
 The important night came. Zeb exerted his heroics and 
 pathetics manfully; he was very serious, and the audience very 
 merry. At length he died, to the great relief of the company, 
 who applauded long and loud. The mist which besets young 
 actors on first appearances, and had enveloped Zeb s mental 
 faculties, during the tragedy, was not fully dispelled, but he had 
 an awkward kind of uncomfortable notion that all was not as it 
 ought to be in his reception. Hilson assisted to prepare him 
 for Caleb. The tragedians of the company complimented him 
 on his success in Norval, with as much sincerity as if they 
 belonged to a regular Theatre Royal. Hilson said nothing on 
 the subject. The farce began, and if the audience laughed a! 
 the tragedy, they laughed ten times more with the comedy of 
 the new performer. But when he gave the songs, the plaudits 
 were so dissimilar from those Young Norval had received, that 
 the mist was dispelled, and Zeb saw plainly that he was no tra 
 gedian at least in the opinion of his auditors. He felt that 
 his powers for creating merriment and delighting by song, were 
 rapturously acknowledged by all. Hilson shook him by the 
 hand, and without any of that paltry feeling which rivalry is 
 supposed to generate among artists of all descriptions, wel 
 comed the yankee as a brother, and true son of Thalia. 
 
 This was our hero s golden age his days were e&tdeur de 
 rose, and the intoxication of applause rendered his nights, it 
 not peaceful, yet pleasant. No other intoxication had charms 
 for him. He drank water, to the astonishment of hi$ male 
 companions ; and the ladies thought him utterly devoid of feel 
 ing. He never saw the preparations for riot or revelry, or wit 
 nessed its effects, without thinking of his father s house ; or 
 looked on the smiles which were meant to allure, but that the 
 desolation he had witnessed at Stamford, was shadowed to his 
 imagination. The egis of Minerva presented an image which 
 
IVe go to England, and what ivt did there. 99 
 
 turned the beholder to stone. The images impressed upon 
 Spiffard at home, and in Lincolnshire, made memory an regis 
 against the assaults of vice. The conduct of his grandfather 
 and youngest aunt, in respect to me lost daughter and sister, 
 had appeared mysterious to him, and although he had not pryed 
 into that which they did not think fit to reveal, he, since, had 
 recollected circumstances and words, which to his quick mind, 
 told the tale of a sorrow worse than poverty or disease can in 
 flict. 
 
 News from home was tardy in arriving. SpifFard s money 
 was exhausted. His uncle s banker would advance no more. 
 He found himself under the necessity of playing for bread, in 
 stead of playing for amusement. Once more he tried his tra 
 gic powers. He was permitted to appear at one of the great 
 Theatres Royal, (not yet like all royals, shorn of their beams,) 
 in Othello : but he was overwhelmed by an lago of six feet. It 
 was remembered that Garrick had declined Othello, for fear of 
 being compared to a black pompey handing the tea-kettle, and 
 that he had refused to play to Barry s lago, thinking he might 
 be said to bully the monument. Spiffard was condemned for 
 want of height, by those who were in raptures at the physical and 
 mental powers of the baby actors who wielded the broad-sword 
 or bullied the towering Palmers, Popes, and Barrymoces of the 
 stage. Again the comic powers and the musical skill of our 
 hero rescued him from utter failure, and he went down to the 
 provincial theatres as a star, though not suffered to shine per 
 manently in that heaven of the English theatrical system 
 London. 
 
 It is not my intention to follow our hero from Bath to Bris 
 tol, from Manchester to Liverpool. We are principally con 
 cerned in his adventures and his fate in America. We only 
 wish to account for the uncommon success of a yankee green- 
 mountain boy, on the metropolitan stage of New York, where 
 we found him one of the principal low comedians, at the open 
 ing of our story, which we now hasten to pursue for the gratifi 
 cation of our impatient readers. But we shall have to show 
 how his expected fortune vanished, how he became per 
 manently an actor, and the husband of the lady who made him 
 as happy as he appeared to be at the commencement of our 
 memoir, by the gift of her hand. 
 
 The first is a very short story, and the second not much 
 longer. Most of my readers will remember how often hope 
 has been disappointed ; and many a Benedict will bear me out 
 ia the assertion that there are those who say they will live ba- 
 
100 We go to England, andwliat we did there. 
 
 chelors, and only keep their promise until they are married. 
 Our hero feared the fate of his father : but no person on earth 
 was less like his mother than Mrs. Trowbridge: the towering in 
 person and thought, the high-minded, fire-eyed, black-browed 
 Mrs. Trowbridge. 
 
 As to fortune, we Americans know that men become rich 
 or poor as quickly as a scene changes at a theatre from a pa 
 lace to a prison at the slap of a Harlequin s sword. Zeb s 
 riches were only in expectancy ; and such are of the least sub 
 stantial kind. You, Mr. Broker, expected to make ten thou 
 sand dollars by the rise of stocks : they fell, and you lost what 
 you never had. You, young gentleman, expected a fortune at 
 the death of your father, and lo ! lie is a bankrupt. And you, 
 Madam, the lovely mother of those two fine boys, though your 
 husband possessed millions, you live to see them dependant 
 perhaps happily on their own exertions for bread. Our heros* 
 fortune was lost to him by the simple circumstance, that his 
 good old uncle Abraham, who had deferred making that will 
 which was to make his nephew rich, died unexpectedly, like a 
 great many other old men, although every step he took might 
 have warned him that he was tottering to the tomb. He died 
 unexpectedly of apoplexy, though neither fat nor short-necked, 
 and his property devolved on his brother. This would have 
 been no source of grief to the right-minded Zebediah, if that 
 brother (his father) could have been made happier thereby ; 
 but his mother, who had been partially restored to health by 
 the skilful Doctor Woodward, and the benevolent Mr. Wilford, 
 sunk under the loss of children who were the victims of her 
 misconduct ; and her husband lived but two weeks after her 
 just long enough to make him the legal heir of his brother, and 
 thereby deprive his son of the inheritance. He had been in 
 duced to buy lands on credit, to a great amount, in a cold and 
 barren northern region of the State of New York; he had bor 
 rowed money to a large amount on interest ; his property had 
 been so neglected of late years, that even the estate left by his 
 brother was insufficient to satisfy his creditors; and his son, in 
 stead of being a man of independent fortune, was only an inde 
 pendent man. Independent he was, as he possessed youth, 
 health, habits of temperance, and a profession for which he was 
 well qualified. 
 
 When Mr. Thomas Apthorpe Cooper went to England in 
 search of recruits for the New York theatre, his experienced 
 eye and ear determined him to engage Spiffard, whom he found 
 starring it at Liverpool. The success of the comedian was 
 
We come lack to the sfyrting plact. K) ^ 
 
 great at New York, his love of tragedy led him to become an 
 admirer of Mrs. Trowbridge. Her talents in her profession, 
 her decided manner, her ready wit, added to her known appro 
 bation of his efforts as an actor, fixed him as a lover of the 
 lady, and then, but what need \\Q say more, after saying that 
 he was a lover? He was blind, and his blindness, added to a 
 naturally confiding disposition, brought them to that precise si 
 tuation in which we found them in the month of October, in the 
 year eighteen hundred and eleven, when we introduced them to 
 the reader. 
 
 Between the time of Spiffard s return to America, and his mar 
 riage, the manager of the New York theatre had sent out George 
 Frederick Cooke,had come back to the United States himself, 
 had enriched the theatrical world with Hilson and many other- 
 events, in the real and mimic world, had occurred, of which we 
 say nothing, and perhaps know as little as we say. We gladly 
 return to the point at which we left the actors in our drama, and 
 now pursue our story with as few deviations as the nature of 
 the case (and the information necessary to be imparted to our 
 readers) will permit. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 We come back to the starting place Ji scene behind the 
 curtain. 
 
 "No epilogue, I pray you ; for your play needs no excuse." 
 
 "This palpable-gross play hath well beguiled the heavy gait of night.?*" 
 
 "As I do live by food, I met a fool." 
 
 " Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune." 
 
 " Since the little wit that fools have, was silenced, the little foolery that 
 wise men have, makes a great noise." 
 
 "O this learning, what a thing it is !" Shakapeare. 
 
 A HOPELESS task is before us. We have a long tale to 
 tell, and no chance, that we yet see, of introducing any duke, 
 marquis, earl, baron, or even knight, into our pages. True, 
 even princes have travelled through our republican land, and 
 
 VOL. i. 8 
 
- * We cme back to the starting place. 
 
 other worthies, from dukes to M. r s. but we never fell in with 
 them. We had no dinners to give, nor palaces to show. And 
 in truth, we felt ashamed of our fellow-citizens, when we saw 
 them running after, courting, and cringing, to creatures, merely 
 because exalted by institutions whose injustice they, (as well as 
 every other well-informed man,) abhor. We fear, gentle reader, 
 that our story must depend upon its moral worth, and the 
 interest it may create, without any showing-ofF of the higher 
 orders of European society. We have not even a colonel or a 
 captain to help us ; that is, one who is a hireling in a monarch s 
 service. As to an officer who only serves God arid his coun 
 try pah ! we might as well talk of a police officer. We shall 
 speak of as many foreigners as natives, and represent them as 
 we find them ; good and bad, like ourselves ; but all untitled. 
 It is a curious fact, that the greatest and best foreigner that ever 
 visited America, abjured the title inherited from his ancestors : 
 keeping that, he had earned in defence of the rights of man. 
 It was in the evening of that same day, in October, 1811, 
 which we have chosen as the time of commencing this history, 
 and near upon the stroke of six, by the clock of St. Paul s 
 chapel, that two inferior actors in life s drama (and ours,) sat 
 earnestly conversing in the dressing-room appropriated to 
 George Frederick Cooke, up the stairs formerly described, 
 in the rear of the Park Theatre. These members of my dra 
 matis personse were, the one, a tall, raw-boned, pale, native of 
 Massachusetts, who having been in London and Paris, and often 
 speaking of his perils by land and water, was called by the in 
 mates of the theatre, the Yankee traveller" by himself, Mr. 
 Cooke s valet de sham. The other, a short, square, red-faced, 
 Hibernian, who had found his way from Dublin to the new 
 world, in the capacity of a hair-dresser, was at this time a natu 
 ralized citizen, and entertained no doubts but America would 
 soon, as it ought, be governed by the " ould country folk" from 
 Ireland. 
 
 We have slightly noticed these persons before, but they are 
 deserving of a more formal introduction to the reader of this 
 tragi-comic-historical-memoir : tragi-comic because natural; 
 for unmingled mirth or sorrow is not of this world. 
 
 The " Yankee traveller" had made a successful voyage to 
 the West Indies, and in the true spirit of enterprise, had fol 
 lowed up his success, by investing all the proceeds of his sales 
 (of wooden ware,) in oranges ; and shipping them, with himself 
 as supercargo, for London. The " venture failed. Trust 
 worthy Davenport found himself, as he used to say, 4< tarna- 
 tionly swampt." The oranges having proved more liable to the 
 
A tcene behind the curtain. 103 
 
 wet-rot, than any wooden vessel is to the dry. The orange* 
 were damaged irrecoverably utterly spoiled and Trusty, as 
 we may call him for brevity, was left nearly penny less in the 
 great money-craving world of London. 
 
 Nothing daunted, he found his way to the American consul, 
 where he fortunately met Thomas A. Cooper, the then American 
 Roscius. Cooper hearing him tell his story with all the real 
 straight-forwardness and apparent twistification of an unsophis 
 ticated Yankee, was pleased; and induced him to engage as his 
 waiter. Trusty asserting that he would not call himself any 
 man s servant, except "at the bottom of a letter." 
 
 The young tragedian was at this time negotiating with. 
 Cooke, the older hero of the buskin, who, by rare management, 
 he sent out to America ; and he attached the " Yankee travel 
 ler" to George Frederick, as a safe-guard to the eccentric 
 histrion, and as an assistant in the plan of transporting him to a 
 new stage, for the exhibition of his rare talents. 
 
 There was one stipulation insisted upon by Trusty, before 
 closing his engagement with the manager, which caused some 
 delay. The " Yankee traveller" proposed that he should be 
 furnished with money in advance, and permitted to go to Paris, 
 before returning home. To this the manager objected. 
 l( Advance money to a stranger ! no, no, Jonathan." 
 " If you can t trust me, you d better not employ me. I don t 
 want much. I ll walk all the way, after crossing the channel." 
 " What do you want to go there for ?" 
 " To see Bonaparte." 
 
 To this Cooper raised many objections, but Trusty vowed 
 and swarfd that he had not come so far for nothing ; " and he 
 might as well see nothing, as not see the man all the world was 
 talking about." 
 
 The whimsical character of Trusty so pleased the manager, 
 that after having examined, like a man of business, into the 
 traveller s former trading affairs, and found his story correct to 
 the letter, he struck the bargain, furnished him with money to> 
 travel on foot to Paris, and back to London, with a little stock 
 * to trade on ;" and, as Trusty was just now telling Dennis, 
 he " made more by a speculation in teeth and hair, than he had 
 lost by his rotten oranges. 
 
 Dennis O Dogherty was as little like Trustworthy Daven 
 port, as Ireland is to Massachusetts ; but he had succeeded 
 admirably in gaining for himself the snug and profitable occu 
 pation of dressing the hair of the male actors, and manufactur- 
 
104 We come back to the starting place. 
 
 ing wigs for both sexes, (Trusty supplying the raw material ;) 
 besides furnishing soap, candles, and flour, for cleansing and 
 fitting for public inspection, those important personages who 
 represent the " reverend, grave, and potent signors," before 
 whom Othello pleads his cause ; the masters of the world, as 
 Rome s senators ; or the four and twenty champions of the red 
 rose and the white, who decide the fate of kings on the bloody 
 fields of Tewksbury, and Bosworth ; those heroes on whose 
 marchings and countermarching^, crowns and thrones and 
 empires halt or hang. 
 
 Such were the two worthies who now occupied Mr. Cooke s 
 dressing-room, and wondered that he did not make his appear 
 ance, as he had to begin the play, in the character of Penrud- 
 dock, and the time of ringing up had almost arrived. 
 
 Spiffard, who played Weazle, occupied a dressing-room in 
 common with Tyler, over that tenanted by Cooke, had just 
 been down, ready drest for his part, to enquire if Mr. Cooke 
 had come, or been heard from. The answer was in the nega 
 tive ; and Spiffard, after despatching a messenger for the man 
 ager, retired to his room, leaving the Yankee and Hibernian to 
 lesume their colloquy. 
 
 " I m thinking," said Dennis, " there s about to be a bother 
 to-night, Mr. Devilsport." 
 
 " Davenport filename s Davenport, Mr. Doghearty." 
 
 " Sure, that s what I said : and I m thinking there will be no 
 play to-night, if they can t play the play widout Mister Cooke 
 for here lies his wig, and there hangs his coat. May be, they 
 can play the play widout Penruddock?" 
 
 " That would be sufficiently difficult in my opinion. Some 
 thing like enacting Richard the Third, without the Duke of 
 Gloster." 
 
 " Why, what has the Duke of Gloster to do with it V 
 
 " Mr. Doghearty, they are one and the same person. Rich 
 ard is Duke of Gloster before he is King Richard the Third." 
 
 * You seem to understand these things, Mr. Devilsport 1" 
 
 " Davenport, if you please. I have been but too much at 
 tached to the Dramma." Trustworthy had not studied Walk 
 er s orthoepy. 
 
 <4 That s jist my case ; but fait it s a bad practice, any how. 
 But suppose we send over the way for a little brandy ; or as 
 we are alone, we will toss up which shall send t other." 
 
 " I never drink any thing stronger than switchel. I swan d 
 it with a bible oath." 
 
 " I thought you said you were fond of the dram V 
 
Jl scene behind the curtain. 105 
 
 " Dram? 0, the dramma ! that s dramatic literature plays 
 and acting poets and histrions." 
 
 " Sure I m bother d. I know nothing of history, only the 
 history of St. Patrick, and Bryan O Neil." 
 
 11 You don t read much then?" 
 
 " It s not the fashion wid us. The priest reads for us, and 
 that saves a mighty deal of trouble ; but I m still bother d" 
 said Dennis, " about your saying you loved the dram." 
 
 " The dramma, Dennis, the dramma, the art dramatic and 
 histrionic ; histrion means player or actor. I have talent for 
 the stage, myself, I could act, but somehow or another I don t 
 like to have such folks as I see in the gallery, or the pit some 
 times, and always in the upper boxes, put in power to hiss or 
 clap me, -when I can t get at them to give them my hand in re 
 turn, if I think them saucy. But to please a friend,* I can en 
 act a tragedy-part to the life. Did you ever hear me take off 
 Mr. Cooke ? Just give me his wig, and I ll put on hie coat, 
 and give you Penruddock to a T. I ll show you that I could 
 be his substitute." 
 
 Dennis assisted the actor. " By the powers, but the wig is 
 the thing, after all !" 
 
 " The wig fits very well, but the coat is not long enough, es 
 pecially in the sleeves. Now for one of his grand croaks." 
 
 While the yankee traveller was exerting himself, to the great 
 edification of Dennis, braying in discordant tones, which he 
 thought an imitation of Cooke, Spiffard again descended from 
 his dressing-room, to inquire for the veteran tragedian, and met 
 Cooper ascending from the green-room, on the same quest. 
 
 " Has he come ?" 
 
 " I think I hear him ; yes, he is rehearsing. Let us go in 
 t;nd see what state the old man is in." 
 
 " Bad enough, by the sound of his voice," said the manager. 
 
 They entered, much to the discomfiture of the traveller and 
 his hibernian admirer. Davenport stood towering, six feet two 
 inches, at his utmost height, with his enormous long arms out 
 stretched, his bony wrists, as well as fists, thrust several inches 
 beyond the cuffs of Penruddock s coat, which was ludicrously 
 projecting, its square skirts; not much below his hips the wig 
 but partly covering his stubborn bristly hair, gave as grotesque 
 an appearance to his sallow face, as the coat imparted to his 
 gigantic figure. The expression of the detected hero s counte 
 nance, between surprise, shame, and archness, was so comi- 
 
106 A scene, behind the curtain. 
 
 cally equivocal, that it produced an effect on SpifFard more al 
 lied to mirth, than any sensation he had felt for some days past. 
 The Manager s disappointment at not finding Cooke, and his 
 chagrin at the consequences which his imagination presented as 
 likely to occur from the absence of the veteran at this critical 
 moment, caused a burst of angry words on the traveller, whose 
 change from the heroic action, was a sheepish attempt to 
 crouch his long figure behind the short, square form, of the 
 Irishman. 
 
 * What are you about, you awkward booby ?" 
 
 Trusty made no answer, but Dennis undertook his excuse, 
 
 ** O, Mister Cooper, sir, don t be angry with Mister Devil- 
 sport, he s only preparing himself to be Mister Cooke s prosti 
 tute." 
 
 The ludicrous now prevailed. With another exclamation^ 
 which was more than half smothered by a laugh, the Manager 
 abruptly turned from the place to go in search of the incorri 
 gible truant. We need not say that the travelling yankee soon 
 doffed his borrowed feathers. Cooper found Cooke at Hodg- 
 kinson s public house, with an empty decanter before him, and 
 was received with, " Ah, Tom ! let s have another bottle." 
 
 With great difficulty, the intended representative of Penrud- 
 dock was removed to the theatre, and prevailed upon to suffer 
 Dennis and Davenport to array him for the character which he 
 was utterly incompetent to perform. Cooper determined to 
 let him begin the play, as the time of commencement was al 
 ready past, and retired to his room to dress for the part, and 
 wait the determination of the audience. 
 
 The play had been long delayed, the gallery had long been 
 uproarious, and the pit had become noisy. All the time-out- 
 of-mind overtures had been played, and apologies offered, until 
 the house would hear no more. Cooke was conducted to the 
 scene of action, and mounted, by the aid of Trusty, Dennis, 
 and Concklin, the head-carpenter, upon a platform behind the 
 " cottage scene," through the window of which he was first to 
 speak to Weazle. 
 
 " Is all ready behind ?" asked Oliff, the unintelligible promp 
 ter. 
 
 " No, sir 1" shouted Cooke. " What do you mean by plac 
 ing me here, with my back to the audience V 1 
 
 ** The audience are there, sir," said Concklin. 
 
 " There, sir ! Where, sir ?" 
 
 " There, Mr. Cooke, in front" 
 
A scene behind the curtain. 107 
 
 "In front, you yankee scoundrel, I know they are in front, 
 but the front is there, sir," pointing to Theatre Alley. " Do 
 you pretend to tell me where the front is ! Me ! George Fre 
 derick Cooke, tell me, sir! that have fronted the audience of 
 the British metropolis, and the Majesty of Britain ; would you 
 tell me when and where to] face an audience? Change the 
 scone, sir, put it here !" and he turned his back upon the pros 
 cenium. 
 
 But, Mr. Cooke" 
 
 Don t speak to me, sir !" 
 
 Mr. Cooke is right !" said Trustworthy Davenport 
 
 Ha ! are you there, little goodfellow?" 
 
 Mr. Cooke is right !" repeated Davenport. 
 
 44 To be sure I am ! Am I to be taught my 0. P. s and P. 
 S. s by a block of a carpenter?" 
 
 44 I ll change the scene, Mr. Concklin," said Trusty ; 
 4 please, sir, to stand still, as the platform is unsteady steady, 
 sir." And suddenly seizing Cooke in his long arms, he lifted 
 him from his feet, and whirling him round with the velocity of 
 a teetotum, replaced him on the platform as he was before; at 
 the same time shaking the scene, Trusty cried, " There, sir, 
 now all is changed, the audience are where they ought to be. 
 Don t you hear them, sir?" 
 
 44 To be sure I do. Very well, my good fellow, I knew 
 they were there. Prompter ! all s ready." 
 
 The curtain rose. The first scene passed off without any 
 disclosure of the grave Penruddock s most unsteady state, as 
 he spoke through a window, and was supported by his aids on 
 the platform ; but as the play proceeded, Penruddock 44 stuck." 
 Mr. Cooke s old complaint was pleaded, and the manager 
 being ready, was joyfully received by the audience as the sub 
 stitute, instead of Trustworthy Davenport. 
 
 In the course of this evening s entertainment at the theatre, 
 Spiffard, on going to the door of the dressing-room occupied 
 by his wife, and her mother, with intent to speak through the 
 key-hole to Mrs. Spiffard, (for such was the etiquette of the 
 house, and is, of course, the custom of all well-regulated the 
 atres,) as he approached the door, saw the female dresser 
 coming up stairs bearing something of most suspicious ap 
 pearance. The woman knocked at the door, and before she 
 could be answered, he asked "Who is that for?" 4 Mrs. 
 Spiffard, sir." 
 
 This moment was decisive of his future peace. The first 
 
108 We come back to town. 
 
 impulse was to dash the hated object to the floor. The next 
 moment caused hesitation; and reason came to his aid. He 
 turned, sorrowing from the door, before the knock of the dress 
 er could be answered, and supporting himself by the ballus- 
 ters, he slowly gained his room, and sunk in a chair, hopeless 
 and tortured by images, to him, of the most distressing nature. 
 We will not attempt to depict the misery of this ill-fated young- 
 man, who felt himself the doomed victim of that vice in ano 
 ther, which of all vices, he most abhorred. 
 
 He had previously engaged himself for the next day to a 
 dining party at Cato s, and had agreed to be the companion of 
 Cooke to the spot appointed. He willingly fulfilled the CD- 
 gagement it took him from home. In the next chapter we 
 \rill accompany them. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Jl walk out of town. 
 
 " I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than to be one 
 of the twenty to follow mine own teaching." Shakspeare. 
 
 " Twenty more, kill them too." Ben. Johnson, 
 "These lies are like the father that begets them. 
 " I ll after him, and see ihe event of this." 
 
 " Wit, and t be thy will, put me into good fooling." 
 
 " I knew ye, as well as he that made ye." 
 
 " Sack, two gallons, 5s. 8d. Bread, a halfpenny." Shakspeare. 
 
 11 Bring forth the amreeta cup ! * 
 Thus have I triumphed over death and fate ! * 
 And to his lips he rais d the fatal bowl. * * * 
 The dreadful liquor works the will of fate." Southey. 
 
 SPIFFARD found the veteran waiting for him, in full spirits, 
 and seemingly none the worse, at least to a casual observer, 
 for the excesses of yesterday. The colour of his cheeks was 
 
A walk out of town. 
 
 a little heightened, but his skin, otherwise gave no indication of 
 intemperance. There was, however, a something in the ex 
 pression of his eye, that rivetted Spiffard s attention. He had 
 noted it before, and it brought to him recollections of his 
 childhood, but not of its joys. To-day, there was a bril 
 liancy, a sparkling lustre in the dark grey iris, (almost convert 
 ed to black by the expansion of the pupil,) that arrested the eye 
 of Spiffard, and although it brought the sharpest pain to his 
 breast, by the mournful images recalled of what he had seen 
 at home, without understanding then the meaning of the ap 
 pearance; yet, even this pain and these reminiscences, attached 
 him the more to his aged companion by a species of fascina 
 tion. 
 
 Cooke had slept a death-like sleep after the excess of the 
 preceding day, and the exertions of the evening at the theatre; 
 and although he awoke with feverish symptoms, they were only 
 such as seemed, to him, to require drink, and that of no feeble- 
 character. He had taken a bottle of brown-stout with his 
 breakfast, or rather for his breakfast, it being in the toper s 
 creed both meat and drink, and bread was as little in demand 
 with him as with Falstaff. 
 
 Remembering his engagement to dine at Cato s, he had 
 been in good time dressed for the occasion, and then taking a 
 glass of stiff brandy and water, he awaited his young compan 
 ion with all the gaiety of renewed youth. Thus is the path to 
 ruin strewed with seeming flowers. 
 
 It may be observed, of the unhappy subjects to habitual 
 ebriety, that they have intervals free from delusion, during 
 which rational conduct is continued, for a longer or shorter 
 period, according to the circumstances in which the person is 
 placed. When the desire for the unnatural excitement occurs, 
 and is yielded to, it grows by what it feeds on, for a time, and 
 the victim of depraved appetite, glorying in his shame, goes on 
 from one stage of disease to another, each one rising above the 
 preceding, in symptoms of madness ; madness, hailed as 
 health, until nature fails, and the degraded being sinks, crying 
 for aid to the physician or the friend, to save him from the 
 yawning grave he suddenly sees open before him ; or the rack 
 ing pains which awakened reason, tells him are the fruits of 
 misconduct, and the precursors of death. Then comes that 
 pitiful repentance which knows not amendment, and that forced 
 abstinence, in which is no merit. Cooke was at this time ap 
 proaching the pitiable state above described, and had attained 
 its immediate fore-runner, that stage of the self-inflicted dis- 
 
 8* 
 
110 A walk out of town. 
 
 case, when the physical powers are screwed up to an unnatural 
 height, and the victim, notwithstanding repeated experience, 
 seems to feel assured that the poisoned cup contains the 
 draught that secures bliss and immortality the " amreeta cup" 
 of eternal happiness. 
 
 * Ha, my boy ! Here I am ! ready and waiting for you." 
 
 ** Ha\ 7 e you sent for a coach, sir?" 
 
 * A coach ! No. We will walk. I delight in walking. 
 Many a time have I left my lodgings, and rambled down to 
 Wapping, enjoying the scenes of that lower world, and then 
 along the Thames to Greenwich, and back again on that side 
 of the river." 
 
 " But do you know, sir, that it is four or five miles to Cato s ?" 
 
 " That s nothing ! Ha ! Some of my pleasantest days have 
 been passed in walking from morning till ni^tit in the environs 
 of London, when 1 could escape from the accursed enchanted 
 castle of Covent Garden and its keeper, the giant Black 
 Jack. 0, how I have enjoyed myseli" in a solitary walk up 
 Oxford street to Tyburn, through the Parks, or to Richmond 
 Hill ! At other times, it has been my whim to ramble among 
 the sailors and watermen down the river, either holding myself 
 aloof, and scanning the creatures I passed or mingling with the 
 motley herd, and enjoying my obscurity. We great men," he 
 added, " relish an incognito." 
 
 Thus commenced the walk to Cato s. The reader will 
 hold in mind, that at the time of which we write, this great city 
 of New York had no claim to that title from its size. None of 
 those magnificent streets, called avenues, existed. And ex 
 cepting the great commercial highways of river and ocean, 
 there were but two outlets from the town. One of these, 
 and the most frequented, our pedestrians followed, passing up 
 Broadway, then turning into the Bowery, and taking the old 
 Boston road where it diverges to the right at what was then the 
 United States arsenal, now the House of Refuge, a blessed in 
 stitution! where a system of education and reform, for children 
 of both sexes, is in. successful operation, by which hundreds are 
 restored to society as useful members, who had been abandoned 
 by ill fortune or bad parents, to vice and begrary. A more 
 touching exhibition than three hundred pretty and well-dressed 
 children rescued from destruction, and joining in hymns of 
 thankfulness to their Creator, seldom falls to the lot of any 
 one to see. 
 
 Without a cessation of interesting conversation or lively 
 chat, kept up by artificial excitement on one part, arid on the 
 
A walk out of town. Ill 
 
 other by the animation which exercise in the open air imparts 
 to youth and health, they were passing Kip s Bay, when Spif- 
 fard called the attention of his companion to the scenery on 
 their right, to Long Island and the waters dividing it from 
 Manhattan, alluding to the history connected with the spot. 
 
 " Kip s Bay," said the veteran. " Ah ! here we landed after 
 crossing from yonder shore. Ha ! how the Yankee-doodles 
 scampered when they saw our boats approach. They remem 
 bered the day before, when they attempted to make a stand 
 upon the heights of Brooklyn. If Sir William Howe had fol 
 lowed up, as he ought, where would have been your republic 
 now? // I myself, was in full pursuit of Washington when a 
 retreat was sounded. I should have hadhirn, and then the war 
 would have been at an end ! I should have been gazetted, 
 * Lieutenant Cooke, of the 55th, has put an end to the Ameri 
 can rebellion, by seizing with his own hand, that arch rebel, 
 George Washington. George named by his loyal father, af 
 ter the royal house of Hanover. All the Jacobites of England 
 called their sons Charles, and Charles Edward : the adherents 
 to the Hanoverian dynasty, named theirs George, and George 
 Frederick. My father, a captain of dragoons in the service of 
 his sacred majesty, George the Second, bestowed on me, 
 unworthy, the glorious appellation of George Frederick ; and 
 I have served my royal master, George the Third, faithfully. 
 Accursed be General Sir William Howe, that I did not send 
 the traitor Washington to London, to be dealt with according 
 to his deserts, and the v\ill of my gracious sovereign." 
 
 Thus did the excited romancer pour forth a stream of words 
 at the suggestion of his heated imagination. 
 
 The reader who is acquainted with the ground in the vicinity 
 of New- York, and the shores of that water which divides the 
 lesser island and its city, from the greater and more fertile, 
 stretching south to the ocean, and north to the land of steady 
 habits, will perhaps recollect that at the period of which we 
 speak, most of the houses standing between the old road and 
 the east river were not in existence. Still, as the road runs 
 through a hollow, the water was scarcely discernible from it. 
 " Let us leave the road, and ascend those higher grounds," 
 said Cooke. SphTard willingly assented, as he wished the 
 internal exciting causes, which existed with his companion, di 
 minished by time and exercise, before they should join the com 
 pany with whom they had engaged to dine. 
 
 They accordingly turned from the road toward the river ; 
 passing into a meadow through a gap in the fence. After 
 
112 Jl walk out of town. 
 
 crossing several enclosures, as they approached the water, they 
 gained an eminence crowned by a flat rock. From this point 
 they looked down upon the bay or cove, which takes its name 
 from the former owner of the land surrounding it "Kip s 
 Bay." 
 
 A more lovely landscape of the half marine kind is seldom 
 seen, than that our pedestrians might now enjoy. On their left, 
 the eye passing over a portion of a pleasure-ground, (whose 
 foliage glittered in] all the colours of the rainbow,) fell on the 
 calm water of the river, scarcely moved but by the eddies of a 
 tide-propelled current, and divided in the midst, between the 
 two larger islands, by the point of the islet called BlackwelPs, 
 and the rocks in which it terminates ; black dots on the surface 
 of the stream, marking the division of the main channel to the 
 pilots, whose white sails were seen on either side. To the right 
 might be seen a portion of the city, (not as now encroaching on 
 the great bay; not as now stretching eastward beyond the 
 Navy Yard, with its towering masts and close-housed line of 
 battle-ships,) and -the opposite fast growing town (now city) of 
 Brooklyn. Immediately opposite to the wayfarers, two reaches 
 or bends of a small serpentine river were visible, dividing the 
 meadows and groves of Long Island, and flowing to the sea- 
 water of the bay. The swelling hills with their gardens, 
 orchards, and cultivated fields, terminated the view. 
 
 "Aha!" cried Cooke, when he had mounted the rock; 
 ** Aha !" I see the whole of it now. Yes, sirr, down there to the 
 right, beyond the rocky and precipitous shore, is the bottom of 
 the bay where we landed. The wharf which you see was not 
 there then. But that rock, further south, afforded us a fine 
 shelter, if we had wanted shelter ; but your Yankees did not 
 even wait until we were with within gun-shot distance : and see 
 that causey that, too, is recent ; we had to charge through 
 that marsh, knee-deep in mud and water." 
 
 Thus, combining images which were before his eyes, with 
 historical recollections from his reading, and the creations of 
 his excited imagination, the old man indulged his romancing 
 vein, to the astonishment of his almost bewildered companion ; 
 who, finding that he paused, remarked, " It has always been 
 granted that General Washington displayed great skill in bring 
 ing off his undisciplined, discouraged, and defeated troops from 
 the opposite shore, and with so little loss landing them on this 
 island in the presence of a superior enemy an enemy boasting 
 the proud title of the mistress of the sea." 
 
 *" Yes, sirr ! he showed as great alacrity in running as Fat 
 
Jl walk out of town. 113 
 
 Jack did in sinking. Sir, I shot his horse, and was advancing 
 to seize him, but to my surprise he sprung on his feet, and with 
 his long legs he soon distanced me. Long legs are the dis 
 tinguishing marks of a Yankee." 
 
 " And long arms," added a voice close to the ear of the 
 actor. They turned, and saw a man of towering stature, who 
 had come from a field (by the side of, and below the rock on 
 which they stood,) where he had been digging potatoes. He 
 had approached unnoticed, with a well-filled basket hanging on 
 his arm, and his spade musket- wise on his right shoulder. It is 
 probable this personage would have passed on below the stand 
 our pedestrians had taken ; but attracted by Cooke s loud 
 harsh voice, and without being kept aloof by any repelling sense 
 of decency, (or perhaps thinking that what was uttered aloud 
 in so public a place, belonged to, or was intended for the pub 
 lic,} he heard the words without stopping to listen, and felt dis 
 posed to retort when the disparaging description of the distin 
 guishing marks of a Yankee struck his ear. 
 
 This interloper was as much above the Englishman s height 
 as SpirTard was below it, and stood at least six feet two inches, 
 as erect as a hemlock tree. His age was about fifty-five ; his 
 iron-grey locks peeped from under a slouched hat that had once 
 been white. He wore no coat. His cloth waistcoat was open 
 in front, and showed a clean coarse white homespun shirt, 
 which, tucked up at the sleeves, and open at the collar, display 
 ed arms and neck that might vie with a Grecian Hercules or an 
 Irish hod-carrier. His lower extremities were furnished forth 
 with woollen pantaloons and clumsy shoes, tied with strings of 
 black worsted. His whole appearance was that of an indepen 
 dent American yeoman. 
 
 There can be no doubt that our countrymen are a taller race 
 than the European family from which they sprung. They have 
 a national physiognomy, more resembling the English than any 
 other people, yet marked by a distinct character. This man s 
 face was long ; the muscles full and strongly marked. His eyes 
 were small, and expressive of humour : his nose broad and 
 straight ; his mouth large ; his lips thick ; teeth irregular, and 
 chin full. His complexion was a brown yellow, which only 
 glowed faintly with red when he laughed, and that was not un- 
 frequent. 
 
 Cooke eyed this giant from top to toe, and then said "But 
 at the battle of Brooklyn, if battle it may be called, they made 
 better use of their legs than their arms." 
 
114 A walk out of toum. 
 
 " We had to learn how to use our arms then ; our legs had 
 been taught their exercise before." 
 
 " Were you among the rabble-rout who fled at the sight of 
 the Union flag of Britain, and scarlet livery of your king !" 
 
 Spiffard, who although amused by the rhapsodies of his com 
 panion, was pained by the consciousness of the cause, and had 
 constrainedly kept up his part in the colloquy, was glad to find 
 that he might now become merely a listener to a dialogue be 
 tween two characters so opposite as the loyal representative of 
 Richard and lago, on one part, and a rough republican tiller of 
 Indian corn and buckwheat, on the other. 
 
 " I ll tell you what," said the yeoman, " we found that the 
 red coats were getting between us and the town, and that our 
 Lord Sterling as they called him, what had we to do with 
 Lords ? knew no more of manceuvermg than we did ; so we 
 thought we had better save ourselves for another opportunity, 
 and learn to handle our tools before we commenced the busi 
 ness of righting." 
 
 " The better part of valour is discretion. You were right 
 to run when you were over there, at Brooklyn, but here at 
 Kip s Bay, you had nothing to do but stand fast and shoot cur 
 men as they approached, cooped up in their boats, and exposed 
 where every shot must have told. What did you run for, then ? 
 There was no maneuvering here. Your hero, your Washing 
 ton, got you out of the scrape the night before, and very cle 
 verly, to give the devil his due, though, if Sir William Howe 
 had done his duty, you would all have been prisoners, and sent 
 home to be hanged as rebels ; but your commander saved you 
 during the night, while Howe kept aloof, why, no one knows." 
 
 " Perhaps discretion kept him at a distance ; that better 
 part of valour you talked of." 
 
 " What should have taught him that discretion, with regular 
 troops at his back, and raw yankees in front 2" 
 
 " Mayhap he remembered that he and them same rig lars had 
 been at Bunker s Hill a short time before." 
 
 " Why, there is something in that," whispered Cooke, look 
 ing over his shoulder at Spiffard, who enjoyed the farmer s re 
 tort. " But," he continued, raising his voice, " we showed no 
 discretion when we crossed here in open boats, huddled toge 
 ther, so that you might have shot us like black birds, or pi 
 geons, or any other defenceless animals, who congregate in 
 crowds, and sit still to be murdered ; but you trusted to your 
 legs again, and again Washington (and running) saved you." 
 
J&. walk out ofimcn* 115 
 
 " My friend, you seem to know a considerable of that time ; 
 where might you have been? 
 
 " Lieutenant Cooke, of the fifty-fifth was in the foremost 
 boat, and the first to land. I am the man !" 
 
 " 1 never heard of you before ; but you are not the only 
 hero who has been obliged to sound his own trumpet ; and I 
 don t like you the less for having been one of the rigglars of 
 that day, especially as it s all over a long time, and as I know 
 that though you landed in the summer of seventy-six, those 
 that were left of you, embarked from the same little island in 
 the fall of eighty-three. So, if you, and this little quiet gen 
 tleman, will jist turn in here," and he threw open the gate of a 
 fence a little below the height on which they had been parley 
 ing, " and go to my house, we ll fight over all our battles 
 again, while w 7 e wash down enmity with either cider or whiskey, 
 or brandy, as you like best, I don t keep wine, only currant, 
 home-made." 
 
 " That I will, with all my heart !" said the tragedian, and 
 down from the rock he hastened, by the side of the hospitable 
 farmer. Spiffard followed, mournfully, for he foresaw in the 
 invitation, an increase of mischief. 
 
 They entered a neat two-story wooden house, which fronted 
 the water, and had the hill as a shelter from the northern blasts. 
 All was comfortable within. The good woman sat knitting 
 yarn stockings for her long-legged husband ; and two pretty 
 girls, her daughters, were busied in preparing habiliments of 
 finer material, and more urbanity, for themselves. The matron 
 was portly, and the household duties of the morning having 
 been performed, she was dressed, as if she expected company, 
 in the seemly sort befitting her age and station. Her round, 
 good-natured face was bordered by a neat cap, which was tied 
 under her chin. Her gown of calico, and apron of white linen, 
 pure as snow, new fallen, corresponded with the well-starched 
 kerchief that rose from the shoulder to the cheek. She looked 
 like the fitting wife of the substantial yeoman. The girls had 
 more pretension in dress and appearance, as might be expected 
 from their youth and the encroachments of the city. In fact, 
 they emulated the style of young ladies, arid would, if they 
 dared, have protested against the rough guise, the basket, 
 spade, and naked arms of their father, who shouted on enter 
 ing, " Mother! I have brought these gentlemen in, to take a 
 drink after a long walk." 
 
 " I m glad to see them. Chairs, girls ! From town, gen 
 tlemen 1" 
 
116 Jl walk out of town. 
 
 " Yes, madam." 
 
 Come, stir your stumps, girls!" said the father. "Some 
 cool water from the well ; put down your trinkum trankums, 
 and take the pitcher, bring tumblers, and mother, turn out the 
 cider, the brandy, the whiskey, and your oldest currant wine." 
 
 All was soon before them. Cooke took his grog, nothing 
 loth, and Spiffard a glass of water. The farmer was pouring 
 out for himself, and without taking his eye from the glass, 
 " Wife," said he, " what do you think ? This old gentleman 
 says he made me run in the year seventy-six, when I was sod- 
 gering over there at Brooklyn." 
 
 " Like enough," said the dame, laughing, " I never believed 
 half the stories you have told me of your fights with the red 
 coats." 
 
 " Thank you for that, mistress." 
 
 * Was this gentleman among the British then?" 
 
 " Yes. He was a gay young officer when I carried a mus 
 ket in Sterling s brigade. He says we run like heroes." 
 
 " Ay, that ye did," shouted Cooke, who had already swal 
 lowed a second glass of the stiffest brandy and water, " that 
 ye did, and your General with you, your Washington, I was 
 close upon him, I had nearly caught him " 
 
 "But you didn t." 
 
 " No, he was too quick at retreat." 
 
 " You should have sprinkled some salt on him fresh salt, 
 the boys say. When you would catch an old bird, sprinkle some 
 fresh salt on his tail. My sarvice to you." 
 
 Cooke looked astounded. He drew himself up with all the 
 assumption of offended dignity, while he shot from his over 
 hanging eyelids glances that were intended to awe the rustic. 
 " Sir !" he began, but the ludicrous image suggested by his 
 blunt host, with the consciousness that he was playing the 
 braggart, overcame his acting and the desire to continue it ; he 
 suddenly changed from the heroic scowl to a look of arch good 
 humour, and stretching his hand out to the yeoman, " You 
 have beat me," he said, " give me your hand. I shall never 
 be able to fight the battle of Brooklyn again. That salt has 
 preserved Washington." 
 
 The yankee shook the outstretched hand with a hearty 
 laugh, and a grasp that made lieutenant Cooke flinch from the 
 encounter. " Wife," said the farmer, " you can give these 
 friends a dinner of bacon, eggs, and potatoes, can t you ?" 
 
 " Yes, and chickens and greens, and a good apple dumpling* 
 with a hearty welcome." 
 
The difference between a tavern and horse-shed. 117 
 
 " I wish," said Cooke, " we were not engaged. This is 
 new. This is fresh. This would not be believed t other side 
 the water." Then in full apparent possession of his gentle 
 manly manner, which was eminently prepossessing, he seemed 
 by an effort to regain the entire command of his rational facul 
 ties, explained the object of their walk, and took leave with 
 thanks for American hospitality, adding, " Your fresh-salt 
 shall preserve the memory of the master, the mistress, and the 
 beauties of Kip s Bay as long as George Frederick Cooke 
 lives to tell a story of yankee land. " 
 
 He bowed, and followed by the laughing girls, and smiling 
 matron to the door, the Thespians departed. The farmer ac 
 companied his guests until he saw them, by a shorter route, 
 gain the high road to Cato s; and then returned home, saying as 
 he left them, " I shall be glad to fight the battle of Kip s Bay 
 over again with you any day you have a mind for it." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The difference between a tavern and horse-shed. 
 
 "The beasts of the field know when lo return home from their pasture, 
 but the appetite of man is insatiable." Eddie poem. 
 
 "But that the poor monster s in drink, an abominable monster." 
 " This can sack and drinking do." 
 
 "I told you, sir, they were red hot with drinking; 
 So full of valour that they smote the air 
 For breathing in their faces." 
 
 " This drinking and quaffing will be the ruin of you." 
 
 "He will lie, sir, with such volubility that you would think truth were a 
 fool : drunkenness is his best virtue." Shakspeare. 
 
 " Hell always weaves its strongest web, not out of the conflict of pas 
 sions themselves, but out of the powerless exhaustion which follows upon 
 it."-n/r. 
 
 WHO has not heard of Cato Alexander s ? Not to know 
 "Cato s," is not to know the world. At least so it was 
 thought twenty-five or thirty years ago. But as all our readers 
 are not supposed to be acquainted with the world, we must 
 
118 The difference between a tavern and horse-shed. 
 
 point out the situation, and describe the localities of Cato s 
 that our tale may be duly understood, and its incidents appre 
 ciated. 
 
 Between four and five mites north-east from the building 
 called in New- York the City Hall, in front of which we first met 
 our readers, and introduced them to our hero, and other person 
 ages of note, yet to be made more intimately known between 
 four and five miles from this building, on the west side of the 
 old Boston-road, .stands this celebrated tavern, owned and kept 
 by Cato Alexander, and called, from the landlord, " Cato s." 
 
 Cato, the keeper of a road tavern ! Alexander the bearer 
 of gin-toddy to a whiskered shop-boy on a Sunday ! Cato 
 Alexander what awful names ! How full of associations ! 
 each singly denoting the conqueror of self, or the conqueror of 
 the world ; now united to designate a servant of vicious and 
 pampered appetites ! 
 
 Do not let us be mistaken. Cato of Cato s was no worse a 
 man than the tens of thousands with whiter faces, who admin 
 ister to the pride, passions, and vices of the multitude. He 
 was neither more nor less than the keeper of an eating and 
 drinking house ; one whose lawful trade is to tempt to. excess* 
 and who may legally live by administering poison. 
 
 It would puzzle any but a philosopher to find a reason for 
 that preference " Cato s" has enjoyed for many years over all 
 the many receptacles of idleness and intemperance which 
 stand invitingly open on the roads and avenues leading to and 
 from our moral and religious city. We, being a philosopher, 
 have found it, and can communicate. It is preferred to other 
 houses of refuge from temperance, that are known under the 
 appellation of retreats, (such as * Citizen s Retreat," * Fire 
 man s Retreat," Mechanic s Retreat," " Old Countryman s 
 Retreat," and a hundred other retreats from public notice, 
 or domestic duties,) not because its situation has more of rural 
 retirement for it stands full in view of the traveller or way 
 farer. It is not a retreat from noise, for that resounds within ; 
 nor from dust, for that it invites and receives from every wheel 
 and hoof that passes. It is not preferred because it enjoys or 
 gives its visiters better or more extensive prospects than its ri 
 vals, for it commands no view but of the dirty high-road, a cab 
 bage-garden, a horse-shed, and a sign-post ^ nor is it chosen 
 for that, the breezes of either land or sea bear health or re 
 freshment to its admirers ; for the land rises on every side, 
 barring every wind that blows from visiting it too roughly. 
 Neither is it the spacious apartments or elegant furniture that 
 gives it preference, for its inmates are cabined cribbed, and con- 
 
The difference between a tavern and horse-shed. 1 19 
 
 fined in cells like acorn-cups, compared with the halls and sa 
 loons of the town hotels and gambling-houses. But, Mrs. 
 Cato is a notable cook. The " cabin is convenient." There 
 are none but black faces belonging to the establishment. We 
 feel that we are " right worshipful." All around is subser 
 viency. Desdemona saw Othello s visage in his mind ; it is 
 to some, pleasing to see the badge of subserviency in the visage. 
 
 To this convenient court of conviviality our pedestrians ap 
 proached, somewhat fatigued, but more heated, by the long 
 walk under a clear October sun. The breezes from the mag 
 nificent sheet of water which ebbs and flows between the 
 islands of the city, and the harbour, would have been welcome 
 to the glowing faces of the veteran, and his young companion ; 
 but they never visited " Cato s." Iced punch was seized, to 
 supply the deficiency by one, water from the pump refreshed 
 the other. 
 
 " Why, Spiffard, what put it into your head to make Mr. 
 Cooke walk this infernal distance V 1 Such was the salutation 
 from a fat and heavy figure who had approached to meet them. 
 
 * He chose to walk, and I chose to please him. By-the- 
 by, I thought he would be the better for it. It has dissipated 
 some alcohol." This Spiffard spoke in a low tone, while 
 Cooke took another draught from the hands of Cato. 
 
 " Master Cato ! neither Rome nor Utica ever could boast 
 such a bowl of iced punch as this ! You are the Cato of 
 Cato s ! Blush not, thou flower of modesty. What do you 
 laugh at ? A flower may be dingy. Who calls you black ? 
 See how the red blood mantles in his cheeks ! The orange- 
 tawny and the crimson streaks, shine through the glossy ebony 
 like northern lights through the darkness of a polar-sky, cheer 
 ing a six months night. Cato of Utica ! thou pride of Africa ! 
 Give me the bowl again. 4 I m a horse, if I have wet my lips 
 these three hours. " 
 
 44 * These lies are like the father that begot them. " 
 
 " Ah ! Tom ! hah, are you there. Take away the temp 
 tation, Satan. Well, lads ! what s the sport V 
 
 * Sport ? We waited for you." 
 
 " True, there is no sport till I come ; as the thief said on his 
 way to Tyburn." 
 
 44 We have waited dinner for you. What put it into your 
 heads to walk ?" 
 
 " Lusty youth, vigorous limbs, active minds, hot blood, ha t 
 Was it not so, comrade ?" 
 
 "More of the last than the first," said Spiffard. 
 
120 The difference between a tavern and horse-shed. 
 
 * Envy, by the gods ! thou water drinker ! if I could find 
 epithet of more contempt, I would bestow it on thee, in thy 
 abject taste, thou likest thyself to the beasts of the field." 
 
 " Who are guided by unerring instinct to avoid poison." 
 said Spiffard. " Water drinker ! it is my title of honour." 
 
 " So be it then. Spiffard, the water-drinker !" 
 
 * Dinner, gentlemen !" 
 
 " Hold to the practice," said Cooke to Spiffard, as he took 
 his arm and walked to the dining-room. " Hold fast the prac 
 tice, my young friend, and deserve the title. Long may you 
 keep it, and you may laugh when you see us make wry faces 
 as we hobble and limp with gouty limbs, or pant for lack of 
 breath, our livers like sieves or gridirons, and our noses like 
 hot pokers. Sieves and gridirons, hot coals and pokers, -I 
 am a Cook, you know, and here s dinner I" 
 
 Leave we the company of thought-drowners, and meet them 
 again by-and-by. Some hours had passed. Spiffard had 
 tired of the noise of the table, wearied with flashes of merri 
 ment not inspired by wit, but by wine ; not the genuine and 
 healthy progeny of the reasoning faculty wiien indulging in 
 sportive recreation, but the mere empty ebullition of excited 
 animal spirits, without the guidance or control of reason. He 
 had walked up and down the road in search of a pleasant 
 place for retirement, but finding none, seated himself upon a 
 bench under a building erected for the reception of water- 
 drinkers, it was the horse-shed in front of the house. The 
 tavern has a piazza, but the noise of the revellers made it al 
 most as disagreeable as the smoke-incumbered dining-room. 
 The tumult increased so as to reach the place of refuge he had 
 chosen. Discordant sounds commingled in confusion, the 
 monotomy of which was broken by the high, harsh, screech 
 ing and croaking of Cooke s notes of inebriation. 
 
 " I m your man, sir ! a dead shot, birr ! George Frederick 
 is the name to cow a yankee !" 
 
 The whole party now issued to the piazza, and after a pre 
 liminary discussion of the mode in which wounded honour was 
 to be cured by the duello, (a discussion of which Spiffard only 
 heard pieces or snatches of sentences, as " ten paces five 
 paces, yankee actor, dead shot," they descended, and took 
 a station between the tavern and the horse-shed. 
 
 It now appeared that Cooke and Cooper were to be pitied, 
 not as actors, but as duellists. The seconds were busy load 
 ing the pistols, (an implement of death or amusement always 
 kept in readiness at Cato s.) Cooke became silent and digni- 
 
The difference between a tavern and horse-shed. 121 
 
 fled, only showing by increased energy in his step, (not always 
 properly applied,) and increased colour in his face, the increase 
 of his ebriety. His antagonist was all politeness the estab 
 lished etiquette with those who meet to murder. The seconds 
 and witnesses displayed to the eye of the water-drinker, or any 
 other rational animal, that they were all so far blinded them 
 selves, that they could not see how plainly they were exposing 
 their supposedly deep-hidden hoax, to any clear-sighted spec 
 tator. 
 
 The word was given. The two tragedians fired at th<3 
 same moment, or nearly so. Cooke s second took advantage 
 of the smoke and noise to thrust a stick through his principal s 
 coat, to produce a bullet-hole, at the same time he threw his 
 left arm around him, as if for support, crying, " He has hit you, 
 sir." 
 
 But Cooke was in one of those half-mad, half-cunning parox 
 ysms, which enabled him to act as the subject of the hoax, 
 while he in reality hoaxed the hoaxers ; and enjoyed all the 
 pleasure of acting the part of the dupe, with the assurance of 
 duping those who thought they were playing upon him. He 
 was assuming the madman, and sufficiently mad to enjoy all 
 the pleasure which 4i only madmen know." Pretending to be 
 lieve that he was hit by his opponent s ball, he, with a force 
 which only madness could give, threw out his left arm, and 
 hurled his officiously designing second several paces from him, 
 reeling until the cow-yard (the court-yard of the establishment) 
 received him at full length. As the smoke evaporated, Cooper 
 was seen extended in mock agonies ; his second and others of 
 the party, leaning over him in pretended mourning. 
 
 " Mr. Cooke, your ball has passed through the lungs of poor 
 Cooper, I m afraid. The surgeon is examining the wound. 
 There is little hope " 
 
 " None, sirr ! I never miss. He is the tenth. I am sorry 
 for him." He stalked up to the pretended hurt man with due 
 gravity. This was a precious opportunity, for the veteran to 
 mingle sarcasm and rnock regrets, and to pay the hoaxers in 
 their own coin, stampt anew in the mint of his brains, and he 
 did not let it escape him. 
 
 ; Poor Tom, poor Tom s acold ! I m sorry for him. I m 
 sorry that his farthing-candle-life was extinguished by my hand, 
 although he deserved death from none more. i This even-hand 
 ed justice commends the ingredients of our murderous pis 
 tols to our own breasts. I waraed him of my unerring aim ; 
 but the thief will seek the halter. How do you find his 
 wound sirr ?" 
 
122 The difference between a tavern and horse-shed, 
 
 44 1 am examining it, sir ; I am torturing him." 
 
 * 4 It is no more than he has done to hundreds of hearers." 
 
 44 I am afraid, sirr, he will never play again." 
 
 44 Then by murdering him honourably, I have prevented 
 many dishonourable murders. Shade of Shakspeare, applaud 
 me ! He will never again murder Macbeth instead of Duncan, 
 or throttle Othello instead of Desdemona. I am a second 
 Mahomet overthrowing idolatry ! The wooden god of the 
 Yankee-doodles lies prostrate ! Fie, George Frederick to tri 
 umph over a block. Farewell, poor Tom ! poor enough." 
 This was said over his shoulder. 4 I could have better spared 
 a better actor but let that pass, while we pass to our pious 
 meditations. Who takes order for the funeral? Bear tho 
 body in!" When sober none did more justice to his rival s 
 merit, although now so scurrilously unjust. 
 
 " He revives, sir. There is hope yet," said the surgeon. 
 
 44 Then may the poets mourn." 
 
 While the pretended dead duellist was removed into tho 
 house, Cooke s second approached him, exclaiming, " The 
 horses are ready, sir ; we must fly." 
 
 44 We, sirr ! when I fly or creep, I choose my company. 
 George Frederick Cooke never flies from danger. Fly, sirr, 
 if the idol of Yankee-land lives, there is nothing to apprehend 
 from his worshippers, nothing to fly from, except when he acts ; 
 and if he dies, and by my hand, I have honoured him, and be 
 nefited the world." So saying, the hero strutted most sturdily 
 to the steps of the piazza, where, feeling the difficulty of ascent, 
 he recollected his wound, called for assistance, and was sup 
 ported to the table, at which sat, like another Banquo, the man 
 whose fall he triumphed over. 
 
 SpifTard had looked on unmoved at this farce : unmoved 
 except by feelings peculiarly his own. He had been spell 
 bound. Although suffering, he had been unable to move or 
 turn his eyes from the objects that caused his pain. He was 
 fascinated. He gazed upon the scene as the bird fixes her 
 eyes on the serpent who approaches to destroy her young ; and 
 like the bird, he could not fly or withdraw his attention from that 
 which distressed him. His eyes followed the retiring company, 
 until they were again within the walls accustomed to revelry, 
 riot, and brawling. He then turned his head, and perceived for 
 the first time, that he had a companion. 
 
 Sitting on the same bench, under the horse-shed, and within 
 a few feet f him, he saw an old gentlemen in a brown suit of 
 clothes, coat, waistcoat, and breeches, (an article of clothing 
 even then rarely seen,) his cotton stockings, and well 
 
The difference between a tavern and horse-shed. 123 
 
 polished shoes, only soiled by recent dust, denoted him a 
 pedestrian. He supported both hands on his silver mounted 
 cane, and his eyes were fixed on his young companion. " You 
 appeared to be interested in the scene that has just passed. 
 Do you know any of the sportive gentlemen who have been 
 playing such strange gambols ?" 
 
 " I know them all. I am one of the party." 
 
 * But you have not joined in their frolicsome foolery." 
 
 " Perhaps because I did not partake of the exciting cause." 
 
 " I understand," was the stranger s brief reply. 
 
 Spiffard was pleased with both the appearance and the ad 
 dress of the senior, whose manner, and a something indepen 
 dent of dress, indicated good breeding and philanthropy, 
 mingled with eccentricity. Is it too much to say that all this 
 may be seen at a glance ? If not seen, it may be imagined. 
 Imagination is rapid in conclusions. 
 
 This person had walked into the horse-shed, and seated him 
 self, while Spiffard s attention had been so occupied that he was 
 unconscious of his approach. The old gentleman had marked 
 both the scene, and the absorbing interest the young man took 
 in it. 
 
 There was a pause in the conversation of these chance-con 
 nected and dissimilar interlocutors, during which, Spiffard took 
 note of the figure, dress, and attitude of the person to whom he 
 felt himself attracted by something stronger than mere curiosity. 
 In his sitting posture, the tall, thin person of the stranger was 
 supported, as he bent forward, by a cane, with a plain round 
 silver head, on which both hands, ungloved, rested, and a 
 mourning ring was displayed upon a finger of one. As his head 
 was projected, his gray locks, not time-thinned, fell on either 
 side of a face, pale, and marked by the furrows of at least fifty 
 years. His eyes were black as jet, and as brilliant as the most 
 vigorous intellect, or the most robust health and youth could 
 display. They were piercing ; but the bland tranquillity of the 
 surrounding features prevented the appearance of severity. 
 
 " You are one of the party," said the stranger ; but you 
 give as a reason for not joining in their antics, that you had not 
 partaken of the exciting cause ; that is, as I understand " 
 
 " Drinking madeira and champagne." 
 
 " And you V 
 
 11 Never drink any liquor but water." 
 
 " Is it possible !" 
 
 Here followed another pause. The old man seemed sr- 
 
124 The difference between a tavern and horse-shed. 
 
 prised. He repeated his last words several times, in a low 
 tone, as to himself. 
 
 The reader must recollect that I record events of five and 
 twenty years ago. There were then no temperance societies. 
 Gentlemen yes, gentlemen, did not think themselves degraded 
 by drunkenness. 
 
 At length the stranger resumed, " You dislike wine or spirit 
 uous liquors, perhaps t" 
 
 " No, on the contrary, I remember, as a child, being delight 
 ed by the taste, and eagerly desiring wine." 
 
 " And you deny yourself the gratification ! Why ?" 
 
 "I have seen the misery caused by indulgence." 
 
 " Have you, so young, seen enough to produce such a reso 
 lution ; such a determined abstinence ? If you had seen what 
 I have seen felt what I have felt ! you would curse the poison 
 that scatters shame and sorrow among so many victims of 
 intemperance, and their unhappy relatives !" 
 
 The colour had rushed to the old man s cheeks, and his 
 eyes, before bright, now shone with a brilliancy almost super 
 natural. 
 
 If I have made myself understood in the previous delineation 
 of SpifTard s character, and the circumstances which had formed 
 it, I need not say that the words and looks of the stranger had 
 on him the effect of magic. Those chords of the memory, 
 feeling, imagination, which, too strongly touched, tended to 
 intellectual derangement, were violently assailed. His excite 
 ment rose with the old man s voice, and the fire of his eyes 
 maddened him. " My curses join with yours ; I have seen and 
 felt all you speak of." 
 
 " Oh, no ! you have not looked on a face beloved, and seen 
 it distorted." 
 
 " I have !" 
 
 " You have not seen one justly beloved, flying from the 
 proud eminence his virtues had gained ; the beloved shepherd 
 of a Christian flock driven to despondency by admitting doubts ; 
 a despondency, the result of severe application upon a delicate 
 frame ; doubts, the effects of disease ; and beheld the victim 
 of overstrained research seeking a refuge from doubt in certain 
 destruction, until his only asylum was in a mad-house !" 
 
 Spiffard s feelings had so long been pushed beyond the 
 healthful medium, that his monomaniacal propensities had 
 gained full power over him. The images of his father and 
 jmother rushed before his imagination so vividly, that he ap 
 peared to see them with his bodily eyes ; and the form and 
 
Tke difference between a tavern and a horse-shed. 125 
 
 lineaments of the latter were strangely commingled with those 
 of his own wife: he uttered an exclamation that attracted tha 
 attention of the old gentleman, and his feelings were no longer 
 absorbed in self. 
 
 Admiration, produced by the conduct of a youth who appear 
 ed so strongly to sympathize with him in a sorrow happily not 
 common, took possession of the stranger, and changed his ex 
 pressive countenance from its wildness, to a softer and calmer 
 appearance. His voice faltered as he attempted to utter words 
 intended to soothe the agitation he had so unaccountably- 
 caused. At this moment the noisy bacchanalian rout issued 
 from the house, and the imaginary gave place to reality. Tho 
 shades of evening were closing in. Carriages and saddled 
 horses were brought to the door, and several voices shouted 
 " Spiffard ! Skulker ! Where are you 1 Where is the water- 
 drinker?" 
 
 Cooke insisted upon having his pedestrian companion as an 
 attendant in the carriage into which he was lifted ; for now, in 
 consequence of the additional cups taken in token of reconcil 
 iation with his late antagonist, (who had miraculously recovered 
 from his mortal wound,) and a parting glass, or stirrup-cup* 
 drank with Cato, who had been dubbed Emperor of Morocco, 
 and king of Utopia, instead of Utica, he could no longer 
 obtain command over any member but his tongue, which in 
 cessantly demanded Spiffard. 
 
 But Spiffard had, for the present, a stronger attraction in the 
 aged stranger; who, refusing to take a place in one of the hacks 
 had turned his steps to the road, as if determining to walk to 
 the city. 
 
 The young man resolved not to leave him, and seeing that his 
 former pedestrian companion was safely stowed in a carriage 
 with one of the youngest of the revellers, who promised to dcpos- 
 ite him at his lodgings and with trusty Trustworthy, the water 
 drinker followed his new-made acquaintance, and soon overtook 
 him, although he was walking with strides and vigour unpromis- 
 ed by his grey hairs and attenuated form. 
 
 Joining the old gentleman, Spiffard asked permission to ac 
 company him, which was readily granted, with an expression 
 of gratification that one so young should prefer walking with 
 him to the easier mode of accomplishing the journey. There 
 was a sympathetic attraction felt by these two dissimilar indi 
 viduals not commonly experienced by two of the male sex at 
 first sight 
 
 rot, i, 9 
 
126 The difference between a tavern and a horse-shed* 
 
 " You pay me a compliment by preferring my company to 
 that of your friends." 
 
 After a silence of a moment, Spiffard ejaculated, "friends." 
 * Perhaps companions would have been a more suitable 
 word." 
 
 " For most of them, sir : but there are some even in that 
 riotous company, who, I have reason to believe, are my 
 friends." 
 
 " Not any engaged in the farce of the duel]" 
 * Yes, both the principal actors in that farce ; one intended 
 by the authors as the butt even the long-erring eccentric 
 George Frederick Cooke : the other, the frank and liberal 
 minded Cooper." 
 
 " Can such a man as Mr. Cooke be the friend of any one ?" 
 " Yes, sir, if that one has shown an interest in his welfare 
 that could not be suspected to arise from selfishness. 1 may" 
 be mistaken ; but I think he is attached to me because I have 
 opposed his mad career, and have rejected firmly his excuses 
 while I endeavored to strengthen his (hitherto fruitless) resolves 
 to amend, and to give effect to his penitence. O, how truly, 
 in one of his comedies, Holcroft has called repentance a sneak 
 ing, snivelling fellow, when not accompanied by amendment. 
 I don t Ojiiote his words." 
 
 " The words of a play are seldom worth quoting." 
 " The words of truth are as acceptable from a play as from 
 a homily from a stage as from a pulpit falsehood is always 
 detestable and truth always to be reverenced." 
 
 " I spoke hastily I was occupied by my feelings respecting 
 that grey-haired actor whose folly I had been wifnessing. I 
 felt that plays were worthless, viewing the conduct of players. 
 I was wrong." 
 
 " You do injustice now to players, as then to plays. You 
 forget that men of every profession play the fool. Even in the 
 fools-play which you have witnessed, and which boys might be 
 ashamed of, there were only two players to ten men of other 
 denominations ; men with more fixed occupations and connex 
 ions ; more generally esteemed in society; but all as eager in 
 the childish game and as deeply involved in the guilt of intem 
 perance, as the man you stigmatize as the grey-haired-actor." 
 " Foliy is doubly despicable connected with grey hairs." 
 * True, sir, but not more in an actor than in a merchant*, 
 physician or lawyer." 
 
 " Your remark is just. But you have excited my curiosity. 
 What could have induced one so young and so firmly attached 
 
The difference between a tavern and horse-shed. 127 
 
 to habits of temperance, to seek the company of an old in 
 veterate, irreclaimable debauchee?" 
 
 " Old, inveterate, but perhaps not irreclaimable. While life 
 remains, there is hope. We do not despair of returning reason 
 for the lunatic or the maniac." 
 
 " True, true, thank God ! thank God !" 
 
 The pedestrians were by this time walking in that imperfect, 
 though oft times pleasant, light, which the stars alone shed over 
 an American landscape in autumn ; and Spiffard did not observe 
 t he change his words had produced upon his companion ; the 
 convulsive expression of feature with which he uttered the few 
 last words. 
 
 " Such being the nature of man," the youth proceeded, 
 " and the power of truth, persuasively employed, being great 
 beyond our knowledge, surely we ought not to abandon as ir 
 reclaimable any of our fellow-creatures who are not perma 
 nently deprived of reason. Mr. Cooke has a powerful mind, 
 and although perverted and debased by the second nature of" 
 habit, perhaps the inclinations implanted in the first, may be 
 restored, and the patient saved. I am influenced by motives 
 flowing from circumstances touching me nearly, as has been 
 already hinted." 
 
 "Yes!" said the old man. " Yes, I can understand. You 
 have witnessed the mental alienation of some one dear to you. 
 You are a stranger to me, and I have already spoken to you as 
 men of the world do not often speak to strangers, but it is evi 
 dent that we, however dissimilar in other respects, are alike suf 
 ferersfrom the same cause, and that is a source of sympathy 
 with, minds under the governance of reason. The loss of rea 
 son in one dear to me has caused the greatest suffering I havo 
 ever experienced. I have to-day, within a few hours, wit 
 nessed his deplorable condition ; and seeing, as I did in your 
 presence, such voluntary relinquishment of the greatest bless 
 ing bestowed on man, I lose my self-command, and utter that 
 which had better, perhaps, have been locked in the breast, and 
 guarded with close lips." 
 
 There was a long pause in the colloquy of the two pedes 
 trians. We will not continue to report in detail any more of 
 the conversation touching this subject. Our hero s return 
 walk from Cato s was a perfect contrast to that which car 
 ried him thither. His companion was equally an opposite, 
 in all but age, and in an alacrity for walking. The old gen 
 tleman was an habitual pedestrian, and could talk, although 
 walking at a good round pace. His feelings had been excited 
 
128 The difference between a tavern and korse-slied* 
 
 by circumstances ; his confidence was gained by the open 
 manner, and the truth-stamped physiognomy of our homely 
 hero. 
 
 They reciprocally imparted their names, and Mr. Littlejohn 
 (such was the stranger s appellation) made known many cir 
 cumstances relative to his domestic griefs, which were drawn 
 from him by the conversation we have related. He said that 
 he was returning from a visit to his unhappy son, (who was 
 confined in the lunatic asylum,) when he stopped at Cato s, 
 attracted by the scene he had there witnessed. 
 
 We will dedicate another chapter to the character and con 
 versation of Mr. Littlejohn arid his companion, by which the 
 reader will find, or may suspect, that the old gentleman will 
 perform no unimportant part in our drama. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The walk back to town. 
 
 "I could wish courtesy would invent some other custom of 
 ment." 
 
 " One draught above heat, makes him a fool ; the second mads him, aa<J 
 the third drowns him." 
 
 I * * * never was forsworn ; 
 Scarcely have coveted what was mine own; 
 At no time broke my faith ; * * * and delight 
 No less in truth than life." Shakspeare, 
 
 " A dramatic exhibition is a book recited with concomitants that m- 
 crease or diminish ita effect." 
 
 "It was said of Euripides, that every verse was a precept, and it may be 
 said of Shakspeare, that from his works may be collected a system of civil 
 and economical prudence." Johnson. 
 
 "He (Shakspeare) needed not the spectacles of books to read nature; ha 
 looked inwards, and found her there." Dry den. 
 
 SPIFFARD had a predilection for aged companions. Old 
 age is reverenced for its supposed concomitants ; as, perhaps, 
 Doctor Johnson would have said. If they are absent, old age 
 is poor, indeed. Our hero generally found age enriched by 
 experience, and sometimes by a well-stored memory, where 
 
T?ie walk back to tovm. 129 
 
 characters and events are recorded, that had escaped the his 
 torian or biographer ; and he found that the old, for the most 
 part, were pleased by his attentions, and rewarded them by 
 confidence. Age is garrulous ; but this, if the memory is per 
 fect and the love of truth strong, may be a source of great 
 profit to youth. A selfish, dogmatical, egotistical old man is a 
 nuisance, he is always, regardless of truth. Such was not 
 the character of Spiffards present companion. 
 
 James Littlejohn was a merchant, and a successful one. He 
 had imbibed a taste for books before he was confined to the 
 counting-house, and his knowledge was not limited to the ac 
 cumulation of dollars and cents, or his conversation to " the 
 market," or the value of stock. He was a rich and prosperous 
 merchant. A good man off and on change : beloved by his 
 friends, and trusted to any extent on the Rialto of Wall-street. 
 Was he happy 1 No. He had lost his wife. He loved her 
 more than rupees. She left him two sons ; the oldest a severe 
 student, lost health in seeking knowledge, and died at his desk ; 
 the youngest likewise an ardent student, had devoted himself 
 to theology, and had been admitted to sacerdotal power, by or 
 dination. The fair promise of his usefulness had been blasted 
 by an unhappy attachment to a beautiful girl, who, after encou 
 raging his addresses, threw herself away upon a worthless fo 
 reigner, an impostor, with an assumed title, who deserted her 
 to mortified pride, fruitless repentance, and early death. The 
 young man was changed, he shunned society, devoted himself 
 to abstruse metaphysical reading, and after a short career as a 
 preacher, admitted doubts and opinions which he honestly ex 
 pressed, and in consequence was obliged to retire from the 
 pulpit. The conflicts in his mind, with the disappointments 
 ambition and love had received, ended in his becoming a des 
 ponding maniac, and as such he was now an inmate of the lu 
 natic asylum. During the earlier progress of this disease of 
 the mind, he, for a short time, sought refuge from his perturbed 
 thoughts, his doubts and misgivings, in stimulants ; but his bet 
 ter feelings caused him to reject this miserable resource, which 
 only hastened the prostration of intellect, and he sunk into 
 hopeless melancholy, with occasional paroxysms of violence ; 
 during which he cursed existence, and accused the justice of 
 heaven. Many of these circumstances were imparted by the 
 afflicted father during this evening walk, and Spiffard frankly 
 made known the history of his brief life, and explained the 
 cause of his abhorrence of that particular vice, the con- 
 
130 The walk back to town. 
 
 templation of whose effects had temporarily united him and his 
 companion, and seemed to indicate further intimacy. 
 
 Various topics were discussed, in a walk of several miles ; 
 and Mr. Littlejohn was struck with surprise at the clearness 
 with which Spifiard spoke on many subjects not usually made 
 familiar to young men. He could not likewise but observe 
 the confidence Spifiard evinced in the kindly disposition of his 
 fellow-creatures, an absence of suspicion which bordered on in 
 fantile simplicity. He had no " art to find the mind s con 
 struction in the face." The seeming good, were, to his eyes, 
 truly good. 
 
 After one of those pauses, which must occur even when dia- 
 iogtsts are prone to communicativeness, Mr. Littlejohn broke 
 silence by saying 1 , " I was surprised when you told me that 
 you are a player by profession, for it is long since I have 
 thought of the theatre, or noticed a play-house placard. Your 
 appearance, manner, conversation, are all at variance with my 
 former knowledge of actors, and with my preconceived opinions 
 of that class of men. I must consider you as an exception to 
 a general rule. You have more acquaintance with literature, 
 more knowledge of history, and of the relative situations and 
 interests of the nations of Europe : you are better acquainted 
 with the laws and institutions of this country than belongs to 
 one whose pursuits are those necessarily connected with a pro 
 fession so superficial." 
 
 " The profession does not deserve the epithet, sir, and as tc) 
 my knowledge of American affairs, you must suppose that as 
 an American I am bound to know more of them than foreign 
 ers do : I certainly should be ashamed of myself if I did not. 
 A good actor must make himself acquainted with so many 
 things, that he can hardly be considered a superficial man, at 
 least when compared with the generality of mankind. The old 
 gentleman whose mock duel and bacchanalian behaviour at 
 tracted your attention, is no superficial man. He has read 
 much, thought much." 
 
 " Not to much purpose, or he would not pervert the gifts of 
 God in the manner he does. But in that he is not singular. I 
 do not charge this vice on your profession exclusively, but I 
 fear that those who are devoted to the stage are more in the way 
 of temptation than most men." 
 
 " Then sir," said the actor, " the stage must be an evil." 
 
 " As it has been, and is conducted in most countries, and 
 especially in England and America, I believe it is, J rejoined 
 the merchant. 
 
The walk back to town. 131 
 
 **Yet, sir," said Spiffard, "good men have advocated theat 
 rical establishments." 
 
 " In the abstract. The theory is beautiful. Moral lessons, 
 rendered as indelible as they are delightful. But if the mana 
 ger or director aims at pleasing rather than instructing, at filling 
 his purse rather than other men s minds, he seeks that which 
 will please the idle and profligate, because they are the majo 
 rity of mankind." 
 
 " Garrick has said, sir, those who live to please, must 
 please to live. " 
 
 " So the unhappy victim of seduction may excuse her flaunt 
 ing finery and painted face. It is the plea of the meretricious. 
 If it is necessary to flatter vice, and encourage folly for the 
 support of an institution, that institution is wrong, and must be 
 abandoned. I can conceive of a theatre which would be a 
 school of morality, but it must be directed by a wise govern 
 ment, or academical institution, and not by those who live to 
 please, and 4 must please to live. Temperance has not hi 
 therto been encouraged by theatrical institutions. Intempe 
 rance and its attendant vices prevail within and around the 
 atres ; and (he lessons of dramatists are little calculated to era 
 dicate the evil. Sheridan exhibits his hero and his compan 
 ions revelling in bacchanalian licentiousness, and makes vice 
 glory in her deformity. Who can calculate the mischief pro 
 duced and propagated by that one scene of revelry in the School 
 for Scandal, or of the one song, let the toast pass ? 
 
 ** Or of any other drinking song, sir, of which we have so 
 many not connected with the drama." 
 
 " True, but from the stage it is conveyed to thousands, in 
 its thousand-times repetition, who would otherwise never have 
 heard of it. Besides, sir, it comes recommended by the 
 wit of the author personified in the profligate Charles, who 
 is held up as the object of admiration and imitation. It 
 is recommended to assembled thousands, who thoughtlessly ap 
 plaud while poisoned by the cup they commend to the lips of 
 others. Who shall say that this very song did not cause its 
 author to live a scoffer at prudence, and die a bloated pau 
 per?" 
 
 " But, sir, the stage presents many of the finest lessons in 
 favour of temperance, and in the most impressive language." 
 
 " Its lessons are rendered of no avail by the frequency of ex 
 hibiting ebriety merely as a venial vice, and its subjects as 
 pardonable objects, to be laughed at merely, if not commend 
 ed. Whereas the dramatist who should do his duty, would 
 
132 Tne walk back to town. 
 
 show the vice as leading to all evil, and its subject such as he 
 truly is, disgusting, loathsome, and a cowardly suicide," 
 
 " You forget, sir, that men will not congregate to see the 
 disgusting and the loathsome," said Spiffard. 
 
 The merchant replied. " The skilful dramatist has shown 
 the miiery consequent upon the practice of gaming, and might 
 exhibit the sufferings which flow from the disgusting and de 
 structive vice of which we speak; and he should contrast 
 them with the strength, health, cheerfulness, and power of doing 
 good, which are the result of temperance." 
 
 " And so he has. The passages are numberless to that ef 
 fect, especially in Shakspeare s plays. How beautiful is the 
 picture of the faithful old servant in As You Like It, whose 
 temperance has given him the power to protect the oppressed 
 son of his deceased master !" 
 
 Beautiful ! but I fear that the picture of the guzzling, 
 bragging, lying, contemptible (yet favourite) Falstaff, is longer 
 remembered, and more often copied, than that of good old 
 Adam." 
 
 * Then the lesson given by the evils Cassio experiences in 
 consequence of yielding to temptation. His deep sense of 
 his own degradation. His bitter exclamation, that he is 4 huri 
 past all surgery. r 
 
 " I remember the scene well, and have often meditated on 
 it ; but common auditors see in Cassio s fall from duty, only a 
 subject for laughter ; while lago s wine is a good creature,* 
 makes a more lasting impression than Cassio s disgrace and 
 repentance. Why cannot some dramatist show the wife weep 
 ing over her children the live-long night, heart-sick at the an 
 ticipation, from experience, of a husband and father, returning 
 to his home brutalized, to insult her he had sworn to love and 
 cherish ; to mislead those who look to him for precept and ex 
 ample." 
 
 " The public would not receive the piece," said the actor. 
 
 ** I will not believe so meanly of the public." 
 
 Why, sir," persisted Spiffard, " even a novelist would not 
 dare to make so low and despicable a vice the theme of his 
 story." 
 
 * 4 Then," resumed Littlejohn, " the momentous moral les 
 son must not be given for fear of shocking the ears or eyes of 
 the polite ? Or, perhaps the poor author might write in vain, 
 as no publisher could be found to patronize his work." 
 
 44 Then I think, sir, it must be because the publisher thought 
 it would not sell," said Spiffard. 
 
The walk back to town. 133 
 
 * True, * said the old gentleman, " I believe that is the only 
 criterion, for 1 have known publishers who made the strongest 
 professions of religion and morality, giving to the world the 
 seducing scenes of Tom Jones, without scruple ; scenes in 
 which obscenity is only veiled sufficiently to be made more 
 dangerous." 
 
 " I think, sir, you can scarcely say it is veiled. - 
 
 While thus conversing, an incident occurred which was a 
 commentary on the subject of discussion. Our pedestrians 
 had left at Cato s a set of revellers who were distinct from 
 those they had seen and moralized upon. And their conver 
 sation was interrupted by shouts, cracking of whips, clattering 
 of hoofs, and the rushing sound of wheels. Two gigs rapidly 
 passed them, and the same moment, while striving for the glory 
 of precedence, came in collision. While yet the air resounded 
 with riotous shouts, one of the youths who had uttered them, lay 
 senseless and mangled by a rock which had received him 
 upon the overturning of the carriage. His skull was fractured. 
 The reasoning faculty which had been bestowed by the Crea 
 tor, to preserve life, with life had fled, after having been driven 
 from its post by the enemy of life and reason. The pedes 
 trians hastened to the spot, and found the youth dead. That 
 frame which a minute before was rioting in pulsation, and spurred 
 to madness by wine, was senseless ; irretrievably self-mur 
 dered. His immediate companion lay groaning at a short dis 
 tance, unable to rise, but reserved, perhaps, to profit by the 
 dreadful lesson. The hack horse had gladly stopped by the 
 overturned gig. The votaries of reason and temperance busied 
 themselves with endeavours to remedy the ills produced by the 
 folly they detested. 
 
 And where were the companions of the dead, the rivals in 
 the race ? 
 
 On they went, shouting in triumph ! With the recklessness 
 of irrational beings. On they passed, either careless of their 
 late associates in revelry, (for nothing hardens the heart so much 
 as the practice of what is called goodfellowship,) or thinking 
 lightly of the overturn, as of a frequent occurrence, in which 
 they had no part. 
 
 One of the youths was dead, the other stunned by the fall. 
 When assisted and led to the spot where the first lay a man 
 gled corse ; the full sense of his situation rushed with re 
 turning consciousness upon the survivor. The fumes of wine 
 were dissipated, he recollected the past, saw the horrors of the 
 present, and anticipated the scene that must ensue when the 
 
 9* 
 
134 Tfte walk back to town. 
 
 parents should see a son brought into their presence a corpse, 
 who had last been seen in all the pride of opening manhood. 
 When the unhappy youth was thus suddenly restored to rea 
 son, he uttered with a cry of agony, * My brother !" and fell 
 on the corse, senseless. 
 
 TVe pass over particulars. The brothers were placed in the 
 carriage, late so triumphantly mounted and impelled. One 
 brother supported the inanimate body of the other, while Mr. 
 Littlejohn walked by the side of the gig, and Spiffard led the 
 horse. They stopped at the first house on the road, and were 
 received with kindness, but no assistance could be rendered, 
 and in the same order they proceeded to town. 
 
 Our pedestrians left their charge at the house of the parents. 
 It was not for them to intrude, and they retired unnoticed du 
 ring a scene of confusion and misery too profound for us to at 
 tempt a description of. 
 
 Late in the evening, Mr. Littlejohn and his young friend, 
 now united in intimacy by these chance circumstances, sepa 
 rated for their several places of rest. The rich merchant, af 
 ter giving his card, and a hearty shake of the hand, to his 
 young companion, wended his way to a towering house, (at a 
 distance from his store-houses and compting-room,) where he 
 found every comfort and luxury but those of domestic society : 
 the poor player directed his steps to an humble dwelling, not 
 far from the theatre which he enriched by his talents. He 
 found society, but not such as was suited to him. That por 
 tion most immediately connected with his happiness had un 
 dergone a change in his eyes, and was daily deteriorating from 
 that alluring appearance which had caused him to become one 
 of the household. 
 
The Lwwiic Asylv**. 135 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The Lunatic Jlsylum, 
 
 " There s rue for you, and here s some for me." 
 
 " As the morning steals upon the night 
 Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
 Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that man tie 
 Their clear reason. - Shakspeare. 
 
 11 The praise of those who sleep in earth. 
 
 The pleasant memory of their worth, 
 
 The hope to meet when life is past, 
 
 Shall heal the tortured mind at last. 
 
 But ye, who for the living lost 
 
 That agony in secret bear, 
 Who shall with soothing words accost 
 Tha strength of your despair?" Bryant , 
 
 " One sees more devils than all hell can hold, 
 That is the madman." 
 
 " Prithee, nuncle, tell me, whether a madman be a gentleman or 
 yeoman. Shakspeare. 
 
 THE attachment felt by the two individuals who had beea 
 thrown together by what is called chance, at Cato s, was in 
 creased during their walk home, and each felt the desire to 
 know more of the other. They were drawn to this first meet 
 ing by an inscrutable succession of links, (a chain unknown to 
 themselves,) and although in most respects dissimilar, there 
 was one point which, after being brought in contact united 
 them ; and caused a determination in both, although separated 
 by diverse occupations and the numerous bars that society places 
 between the rich and poor, to seek each other ; and to com 
 mune freely on that subject which occupied their secret 
 thoughts. A subject on which they could not would not 
 speak to the crowds with whom they mingled in commoa 
 worldly intercourse. 
 
 Spiffard had his feelings strongly interested in all that con 
 cerned Mr. Littlejohn ; but particularly in the fate of his son. 
 The father was habitually a visitor to the asylum. He had 
 treasures on the sea and on the land ; on every sea and every 
 shore ; but, where his greatest treasure was, there was his 
 heart also ; and that was in a small room surrounded by keep 
 ers, and bolts, locks and bars, the maniac s shriek, the idiot * 
 
136 The Lunatic Assylttm* 
 
 laugh, and the unmeaning gabble of unfortunate creatures, 
 once rational. It was not difficult for Mr. Littlejohn to in 
 duce Spiffard, who cultivated the intimacy so strangely com 
 menced, to accompany him on a visit to the place where the 
 (not yet hopeless) wreck of his hopes the ruins not irretriev 
 able, as he thought, of his beloved son, were deposited. 
 
 They met the amiable physician of the institution at the 
 door. 
 
 " How is he to-day ?" 
 
 " Perfectly composed." 
 
 They found the unfortunate man reading his bible. He ap 
 peared between thirty and forty years of age. He looked up, 
 but scarce noticed their presence, resuming his studies as if no 
 one had entered the apartment. His fine features were colour 
 less. His black, strait, thin hair, was smoothed on his fore 
 head, and he repeatedly passed his hand over it, from the crown 
 of the head nearly to the eyes, seemingly unconscious of the 
 action. His left hand supported his head, or occasionally 
 turned a leaf, as he appeared to seek a text. His tall and finely 
 formed frame was clothed in sables. His bright, jet-black eyes 
 had rested a moment on his father, and then glanced vacantly 
 at Spiffard. No other motion indicated his knowledge of their 
 presence. 
 
 They unasked, took chairs ; and had been seated several 
 minutes, (the father s eye fixed on the son, and Spiffard earn 
 estly observing both) when Mr. Littlejohn drew his chair near 
 er to the student but the approach was not hseded. 
 
 * My son, " 
 
 " I do not wish to be interrupted, sir." 
 
 41 Is that all you have to say to your father?" 
 
 " By no means, all. But I do not wish to discuss the subject 
 now. I have been earnestly engaged for some time past in 
 this particular study ; and have been examining many texts. 
 But although I do not feel that I owe any thing to you as a 
 father, I owe to myself, to you, and to society, the attentions 
 due from one gentleman to another." 
 
 So saying he paused and shut the book. He then fixed his 
 penetrating eyes on the eyes of Spiffard for a moment ; after 
 which they wandered restlessly, and he burst forth wildly 
 
 ** You have brought a stranger with you to witness the havoc 
 that you and I have made upon one of God s creatures. Why 
 is it ? You have caged me here like a wild-beast, and now 
 bring the idle or curious to gee the monster. Fine sport ! 
 Fine sport !" 
 
The Lunatic Jisylvm. 137 
 
 * This gentleman, my son " 
 
 44 1 want no apologies sir. He is excusable let him go 
 home and triumph in his own superior intellect let him thank 
 Heaven that tie is not like others. I am aware of the cause 
 which did render it expedient to restrain me by bolts, and bars, 
 and keepers did ? Perhaps does. But I am, as I think, capa 
 ble of judging for myself, and have determined how long that 
 restraint shall last. You have exerted an authority founded 
 upon the supposed rights of a father : I have been inquiring 
 into those rights and rind them null, and the authority an usur 
 pation. I owe you no obedience. I renounce -what is mis 
 called filial duty. You are the cause of my existing in this 
 world of folly and misery I do not thank you for it." 
 
 This was said with more calm bitterness than might have 
 been expected from his state, or than the words indicate. He 
 had ceased the action of his right hand at the time that with his 
 left, he closed the book ; and clasping both, he now rested them 
 on the Bible, and looked full in his father s face. 
 
 ** The book on which you lean, bodily, and I hope mentally, 
 bids you honour your father and your mother." 
 
 ** * That my days may be long in the land. True. The 
 promised reward is earthly. All the promises to the Jews 
 were so. Warburton is right in that. That my days may be 
 long. Is that a blessing ? or a curse V* 
 
 " That depends upon ourselves," said Spiffard, seeing that 
 the afflicted father remained silent. 
 
 ** No sir ! 4 it is the cause my soul it is the cause it is the 
 hidden cause that controls all. I sought not this existence I 
 Bought not any existence here, 1 am and miserable !" 
 
 ** My son, the book on which you rest, and on which our 
 fcopes rest, has not inspired thoughts like these. They are 
 suggested by that which would lead to thanldessness towards 
 your God, as well as undutiful thoughts of your father and your 
 soother." 
 
 ** My poor mother !" 
 
 ** Happily she has been spared " The father checked him 
 self, and the son proceeded. 
 
 ** I did love her. Surely not because she was my mother. 
 That was no more her choice than mine. I loved her because 
 she was good, kind, affectionate as I ought to love all rny 
 lellow-creatures all all all God s creatures placed here 
 by his will, not their own : enjoying and suffering all all 
 Siled with life, and doomed to death by an unavoidable sen 
 tence, passed upon them before birth. A death they must as 
 
138 The Lunatic Asylum. 
 
 certainly undergo as though they had been arraigned before an 
 earthly judge, convicted of the most deadly crimes, and assign 
 ed to the tender mercies of the jailer and the hangman. They 
 are reprieved from day to day, only to be told by-and-by t * to 
 night you must surely die. " His father interrupted him. 
 
 " After the free gift of life, health, enjoyment " 
 
 The insane man continued " All ! yes, all ! before the mo - 
 ment in which they breathe, are doomed to sickness, sorrow, 
 death, the grave and the worm ; 4 to lie in cold obstruction and 
 to rot. " 
 
 " And rise to light and life and immortality !" 
 
 44 The death is certain; but " 
 
 44 Hold ! I command you. Your father commands you to 
 forbear such language, and dismiss such thoughts." 
 
 Here there was a long pause. The agitated father sat erect, 
 and with a flushed countenance, darted a look of authority upon 
 his son, who momentarily quailed under it. He lifted his arms 
 from the bible on which he had been leaning, and, as if sur 
 prised, threw himself back in his chair, opening his large and 
 brilliant eyes with a confused expression ; but another train of 
 thought and feeling soon came over his mind, and his face as 
 sumed an expression of irony, bordering on contempt. 
 
 44 Command ! That s well enough said. Command ! As 
 if one man could control the thoughts of another. Thought, 
 that is set in motion by circumstances unforseen and uncon 
 trollable. Words may be commanded ; that it is which makes 
 hypocrisy so easy damnable hypocrisy ! Words ought to be 
 controlled, so as not to injure the hearer. I will be silent if my 
 words offend you, but for my thoughts they are uncontrollable. 
 You have come hither unbidden by me ; contrary to my wish 
 or will have you come hither and broken in upon my studies, 
 as, without wish or will of mine, you were an agent in bringing; 
 me into existence ; for both, or either, I owe you neither thanks 
 nor ill-will. My good will towards you is founded on my 
 knowledge that you are a creature like myself, with like pas 
 sions, like sufferings, and doomed to a like end." 
 
 " And is that all, my son?" 
 
 44 No, no, not all. We have been thrown together so inti 
 mately, that the joys and sorrows of life have appeared to flow 
 from one to the other, sometimes ; and sometimes to both from 
 the same source. Remembrance of the past, gives more power 
 to your will, than to the wishes of another so far, so far, an4 
 no farther, no farther. I can see no farther, no farther I 
 1 you have confused me, sir. I wish you would depart*" 
 
Tlie Lunatic Asylum. 139 
 
 He arose to his utmost height, and frowned. 
 
 " God bless you, my son. I will see you soon again." 
 
 " Well, well, well ; good by ! Come alone. Good by !" He 
 looked scowlingly on Spiffard ; and as his visiters withdrew, 
 resumed his seat. His eyes were fixed upon the door, until it 
 closed after them. 
 
 Mr. Littlejohn was sometime silent as they descended the 
 stairs, and his companion felt no disposition to intrude upon 
 his thoughts. At length the afflicted father exclaimed " It is 
 awful to witness the aberration of intellect ; but cheering to see 
 that reason is making advances to her throne." 
 
 " It is a blessed hope. You see amendment, sir ?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 The worthy physician of the institution now met them, and 
 confirmed the father s hopes. It happened that the committee 
 of directors who, in turn, visited the institution, to see that the 
 benevolent intentions of the founders were duly carried into 
 effect, at this moment arrived ; and the physician politely in 
 vited Mr. Littlejohn and his companion, to join them in their 
 progress through the various departments. The merchant was 
 but too well acquainted with every thing relative to the place ; 
 but to Spiffard all was new, and intensely interesting. 
 
 Their first visit was paid to that part of the building which is 
 assigned to the most outrageous, or the most hopeless cases of 
 insanity. Spiffard here found a few whose deranged intellects 
 and enfeebled bodies were the consequences of intemperance ; 
 and these were of course the most attractive subjects of his 
 curiosity. The physician told him that in the apartments ap 
 propriated to convalescents, more of this class were to be found ; 
 for generally, when debarred this fatal indulgence, (the unnatu 
 ral cause of their malady,) health and reason were restored. 
 
 How interesting ! how humiliating ! is the spectacle which 
 a mad-house presents. Our fellow-creatures, in form like our 
 selves, deprived of the portion of man which distinguishes him 
 from the brute creation. The senses, those inlets of ideas to 
 the mind, so diseased or perverted as to give false impressions ; 
 or the mental faculty itself so disordered, as to combine all im 
 pressions and recollections erroneously. The varied forms and 
 degrees of the malady ; its suspended operation and renewed 
 action ; its various causes, and the varied effect of those causes ; 
 what constitution of body, what mode of life, most tends to pro 
 duce mental alienation : what subjects are these for inquiry ! 
 All these and their remedies were familiar to the urbane physi 
 cian who accompanied the visiters, and who was accosted bj 
 
140 The Lunatic Asylum. 
 
 the patients in a manner that proved their confidence in his hu 
 manity, and reliance upon his skill. He appeared among them 
 as an acknowledged friend. Have we, when deprived of rea 
 son, an instinct that acknowledges worth 1 
 
 Yells, more dreadful than ever struck the ear of traveller in 
 desert or wilderness, from wolf or hyena ; sounds more heart 
 rending, because, though not resembling any thing human, they 
 were known to proceed from human organs ; shrieks, unlike 
 the cries of man or woman, were heard from one of the apart 
 ments, and a keeper, at the bidding of the superior, unlocked 
 the door. The naked wretch within ceased his yells, turned 
 his eyes on the intruders, then quickly averted them, and pulled 
 the straw on which he lay partly over his body, covering his 
 nakedness, as if conscious of his degraded condition. 
 
 Strange as it may appear, the physician addressed him as if 
 speaking to one possessed of reason, and kindly inquired, 
 * How do you feel to-day, Burford ?" 
 
 " Better, better," was the answer. 
 
 * If you will keep your clothes on, you may come out to 
 morrow." 
 
 The spectators turned away. The door was locked and the 
 most heart-piercing yells succeeded instantly on turning the key. 
 
 " During these paroxysms, he will neither suffer bed, bed 
 clothes, or clothing to touch him, but rends every thing to 
 pieces." 
 
 44 Such are the changes in this unhappy young man s dis 
 ease," remarked Mr. Littlejohn, " that a few days past I saw 
 and conversed with him in the visiters parlour, quietly and 
 cheerfully. I found him there, well-dressed, and looking in 
 health ; he was in attendance upon a female relative, who had 
 come to see him." 
 
 44 Were there no symptoms of derangement about him ?" 
 inquired SphTard. 
 
 44 To an observer, there were. His attentions to the lady 
 were over-done. But I have seen an awkward youth, many 
 miles from a mad-house, behave in much the same manner. 
 Then, when excited by conversation, he began to talk of pur 
 chasing large tracts of waste lands, and laying out towns in the 
 wilderness ; but that being the common talk of our country, I 
 should have thought nothing of it, if I had not heard it within 
 these walls. What we know to be madness here, passes else 
 where for common sense ; and when we hear wisdom among 
 worldlings, we say 4 surely the man s mad. " 
 
 Although this gallery, and its suite of neat, airy, and com- 
 
The Lunatic Asylum. 141 
 
 fortable apartments, was but too well filled with the most un 
 governable patients of the institution, there was but one other 
 who appeared to be under restraint. This was a man of mid 
 dle age, and vulgar appearance. He had the liberty of the 
 gallery in common with others ; but his e arrns were secured by 
 a leathern belt, passed around his body, which left the hands 
 only a partial and circumscribed liherty. This person appeared 
 ashamed of the addition to his equipage, and followed the 
 doctor with importunities, uttered in whispers. 
 
 " When you are better your arms shall be liberated. You 
 know that you attempted to strike your friend. You will soon 
 be well, and then you will go home." 
 
 * I am very well, very well." But he averted his eyes from 
 the steadfast examination of the physician, and silently turned 
 away. 
 
 A few of the inmates of this hall or gallery, were silent, de 
 jected, melancholy. One was sunk into perfect idiocy, a more 
 hopeless state, a more humiliating spectacle to the sane, than 
 even the raving maniac. Generally, the patients were lively 
 and talkative. A genteel appearing man addressed SpifFard ; 
 and with a manner little denoting insanity, requested him to 
 note the physiognomy of a person at a little distance from them. 
 SpifFard, who was deceived by the manner and appearance of 
 the lunatic, and thought him either a visiter, like himself, or 
 perhaps, an assistant to the physician, followed where he led. 
 You will say he has the finest face in the world, and a head 
 like an antique statue." 
 
 They stopt before a figure who stood to be gazed at, with an 
 unmeaning smile ; and whose countenance, head, or person, 
 had neither expression, form, nor proportion, but of the most 
 ordinary description. 
 
 * Behold that face ; what a contour ! what symmetry ! 
 there s a head of intellectual indications!" and the sprightly 
 iunatic placed his hand on the head of his silent brother ; treat 
 ing it as familiarly as a phrenologist does a skull or a block, 
 submitted to his fingers. " He s an Indian to be sure, or a 
 half-breed, but Greece nor Rome never produced such a fore 
 head :" putting back the coarse black hair of the tall, swarthy, 
 stupidly-passive subject. " There s a face ! It is more than 
 human ! The countenance of a god, rather than of a man !" 
 SpifFard had, befere this, perceived his mistake, and notwith 
 standing the morbid melancholy which all appearance of intel 
 lectual aberration caused in him, he could not but smile, as he 
 bowed assent, and hastened to join his companions. He soon 
 
142 The Lunatic Asylum. 
 
 after saw this lively admirer of beauty showing a small japaned 
 tin box to the visiters, and expatiating upon the form, brilli 
 ancy, and immense value of a collection of pebbles, which it 
 contained. " Jewels of the first water." 
 
 Perhaps the most extraordinary character in this portion of 
 the building, was an insane man, who had been tried for mur 
 der, and found guilty ; but as insanity as well as murder had 
 been proved by the trial, he w r as sentenced to perpetual con 
 finement, instead of the mosaic penalty which still holds a 
 place in modern codes of justice. This person appeared to be 
 about fifty years of age, and was indulged in the whim of wear 
 ing his beard uncut, which floated in waves of iron-grey over 
 his breast. His scanty hair corresponded in hue, but was 
 trimmed short. His figure was athletic, of moderate height, 
 and his dress a grey suit of coarse texture, furnished by the 
 institution, well suited to his condition, but by no means cor 
 responding with the oriental condition of his beard. He ap 
 peared to recognize the directors, and to be pleased by their 
 salutations. He answered some ordinary questions rationally, 
 but soon commenced talking with a volubility, rapidity, and 
 wildness, that were astonishing to Spiffard. 
 
 The wretched man we have attempted to describe, imagined 
 himself to be gifted with power more than human ; and to be 
 likewise one of the crowned and anointed rulers over the earth. 
 He consequently appeared to delight in the destruction of life. 
 But, unlike his brethren of the sceptre, he made no pretence of 
 shedding blood for the sake of religion, peace, mercy, charity, 
 or even honour ; he seemed content to have it thought that he 
 destroyed, to show his power to destroy. A murderer, he was, 
 like other sanctioned murderers, inclined to talk of death in 
 flicted, and atrocities committed by his orders ; although he di 
 not pretend that his murders were perpetrated for the good of 
 the human race. 
 
 One of the visiting directors asked if he would be glad to see 
 the governor. 
 
 " No. He is my enemy ; and you are my enemy." 
 "Would you know him, if he should be present?" 
 * How should I know him, when I never saw him ?" 
 " Is this gentleman the governor ?" pointing to Spififard. 
 " No. How do you do, sir ?" shaking hands with the 
 comedian, without any assumption of regal dignity ; or, as 
 appeared by his subsequent words, without having the idea of 
 his royal worth suggested, until that of blood had preceded it. 
 " Do you live in New-York ?" 
 
The Lunatic Asylum. 143 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You have but just come here. Are you mad ?" 
 
 " Not more than most folks." 
 
 44 That s what most people think. I like your looks. But. 
 you are mad. You do not know me ; but I have a power 
 which enables me to see ; a power you must have heard that 
 a man was shot at Claverick yesterday. I shot him. I killed 
 that man. My orders are obeyed promptly on the instant. I 
 say shoot that man, and it is done. They fire when I give the 
 word of command, as a regiment obeys the order of its colonel. 
 I say it, and they are dead. When the powder-mill blew up in 
 Rhode-Island, and all the workmen were torn to pieces, scat 
 tered limb from limb, tossed in the clouds and smoke, mangled 
 by the beams and rafters, I did it! Talk of power! There s 
 the Emperor of China, and the Emperor of Russia. Talk of 
 holy alliance ! There s an alliance more than holy. The Em 
 peror of Morocco s sister is to be married to the Emperor of 
 Austria, and the Autocrat of all the Russias, whose present 
 wife, you know, is sister to the Grand Turk but the pope will 
 absolve Prince Metternich, and then " 
 
 His " bald, disjointed" talk, became each moment more in 
 coherent; but occasionally reverted to his own destructive 
 power, and his delight in human misery ; always connecting 
 these with his kingly condition, which, very naturally, sanc 
 tioned his desires. He was, in fancy, an Emperor ; and doubt 
 less, as such, an appointed scourge of the human race. Yet 
 his imperial majesty very submissively filled the station of 
 scullion in the kitchen of the hospital ; and while his will dealt 
 destruction as a king or an autocrat, his hands very mechani 
 cally washed dishes. 
 
 After an examination of the comforts which enlightened 
 benevolence bestows upon the afflicted, the visitors were con 
 ducted to an open place, or enclosure, where, the day being 
 fine, the convalescent or tractable patients, took exercise. 
 Some were amusing themselves, or basking in the rays of the 
 sun. Some walking or lounging under a long shed, or covered 
 way, erected for their accommodation. They had all dined, 
 for the insane dine at mid-day, the reasoning and refined 
 at night. 
 
 A young gentleman was walking under the shed, and intently 
 engaged with a book. One of the directors asked, " What 
 are you reading?" 
 
 " Freneau s poems. There is much good in them." 
 
144 The Lunatic Asylttm* 
 
 " Poor Phillip ! He is almost forgotten, like some other of 
 our literary pioneers," said the director. 
 
 " Sir, he deserves better of Americans," was the reply. 
 
 This patient entered freely into conversation, in a connected, 
 but rather hurried manner. He appeared cheerful, inquiring 
 after friends in the city, but did not appear to regret his con 
 finement, though he indirectly alluded to it. The director, to 
 whom he spoke to as a friend, he was well acquainted with, 
 asking him if he was not coming to town. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Mrs. Tourberville and her daughters often inquire after 
 you." 
 
 "Do they live in Pearl-street still 1" 
 
 " In the same place. One of the daughters is lately married." 
 
 * Which ?" He was told, smiled, and resumed his reading 
 and walking, as one content with his condition. 
 
 Several of the patients importuned the physician for permis 
 sion to go home ; assuring him that they were perfectly well. 
 He, with great address and amenity, evaded their re quests, and 
 they gave up the point, seemingly impressed with the idea of 
 complete restraint upon their will. One man very sportively 
 invited each person w r ho approached him to play at tossing 
 coppers or cents. 
 
 " Come doctor ! head or tail? I want to win some silver. * 
 
 " What do you want with silver?" 
 
 " To buy cigars." 
 
 " There are none to be bought here." 
 
 "I ll toss, heads or tails for a box, and send to town for 
 them. Here goes ! I cry head, no, tail. I ve won, I ve won I" 
 
 " You must win if you take both sides." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha! well said. But I m staunch for Jefferson ! 
 No Jay s treaty for me." 
 
 The doctor told Spiffard that electioneering and drinking, so 
 fatally common at the houses in which the polls were held, had 
 brought this person to the state in which he saw him. This 
 touched our hero s sympathetic string, and he eagerly inquired 
 into his case, and the probabilities of cure." 
 
 " He is recovering ; and if he refrains from ardent spirits 
 after his return home, as he is obliged to do here, he will be 
 again a sane and useful citizen." They left him shouting, 
 ** Jefferson forever! Ten to one on our candidate." 
 
 Returned to the house, they passed through several galle 
 ries, looked in upon the convenient and airy sleeping apart 
 ments, and visited a room where there was a small library. 
 
The Lmatic Asylum. 145 
 
 At a table several of the inmates were reading. One was 
 writing. His letter he willingly exhibited, requesting that it 
 might be put in the post office. It was filled with offers to 
 purchase vast tracts of soil, and addressed to a well known 
 land-speculator, who had rested upon a very small territory in 
 the church-yard some years before. This patient had lost 
 both fortune and reason in schemes, which still with delusive 
 hope bewildered him. 
 
 "Without the aid of alcohol?" asked Spiffard. 
 " Yes. Cupidity the inordinate desire to possess, is suf 
 ficient of itself to turn the brain and the madness is incura 
 ble." 
 
 Among these patients, Spiffard recognised a man of the 
 name of Knox, whose insanity had been produced by extreme 
 intemperance. He was subject to outbreakings even here, 
 although debarred from alcohol in any shape. He was at this 
 time calm and appeared well; indeed much better than when 
 he was at liberty, and engaged at the theatre, (for he was an 
 English actor,) where he was seldom free from the tyranny of 
 the appetite he served. His great desire was to obtain his 
 discharge. This is the same person of whom it is recorded 
 in Cooke s memoirs, that being as usual imperfect in his part, 
 and playing Gloster to Cooke s Lear, when he uttered the 
 words " Ye gods, give Gloster his discharge ;" the old tra 
 gedian said in an under tone, "wait till Saturday, and the man 
 ager will give you your discharge, you black-guard." He was 
 discharged ; and Cooke in pity for a time supported him. 
 
 Their last visit was to the gallery, and to its adjoining apart 
 ments, appropriated to the female patients. As they approach 
 ed, a confused, but not discordant, sound of many voices was 
 heard. Loud but cheerful and silver tones, mingled with 
 playful laughter. As the attendant opened the door of the 
 gallery while the inmates, (owing to their own merriment,) 
 were unconscious of the approach of intruders, several of the 
 ladies were surprised in the midst of their unrestrained, infan 
 tile playfulness. The mask was off. For the insane carry 
 the social mask even into the madhouse. 
 
 One lady for such her dress and manners spoke her was 
 sitting on the floor, as if at a game of romps with her compan 
 ions who stood laughing near. On the entrance of the visit- 
 ers, she jumped up smiled blushed and as though 
 ashamed of being caught romping, ran into a side apartment : 
 she soon however returned, and addressing Littlejohn by the 
 appellation of" Grand-papa," asked him to take a walk with 
 
146 The Lunatic Asylum. 
 
 her, at the same time placing her arm within his. Before he 
 could answer, one of her companions cried " Fy, fy ! Mary 
 Ann," and the playful challenger looking at the doctor, who 
 shook his head, withdrew her white and slender arm, laughed, 
 and again vanished. 
 
 One of these apartments was devoted to female occupation 
 of a graver kind ; reading and needle-work ; and several well 
 dressed women were happily employed, patients and their at 
 tendants, in orderly work and cheerful conversation. 
 
 On the return of the visitors from this quiet scene, some 
 objects presented themselves that were more or less distress 
 ing to their feelings. A very pretty, delicately formed and 
 tastefully dressed lady, who had been conversing with one of 
 the visiting committee, approached gracefully to Spiffard, and 
 accosted him. 
 
 " I am told sir, that you are the celebrated actor, Mr. Spif 
 fard." 
 
 44 Spiffard is my name, madam." 
 
 44 You don t look like an actor." 
 
 44 How so, madam 1" 
 
 44 1 hardly know. I thought you were old." 
 
 44 Actors assume all ages take all shapes." 
 
 44 So do all men. But you look very serious as well as 
 very young. I declare I should almost think you had been 
 crying, and that I saw tears still in your eyes." 
 
 Such had been and was the fact, although unobserved by 
 Spiffard s sane companions. He smiled and said, " I am 
 a poor actor, madam." 
 
 4 Don t say so : I have heard of you. Do you think I 
 should make a figure on the stage ? r) 
 
 44 A most interesting one." 
 
 4 Pshaw ! I don t mean so but you men are ever ready 
 to flatter. But I do think I could play Ophelia. 4 There s 
 rue for you O, no ! not for you for you, naughty man," 
 and she turned playfully to the doctor. t4 You are the king, 
 you know." 
 
 44 But not a murderer." 
 
 44 I don t know that." Then addressing SpirTard again she 
 added 44 Ophelia must be played by a singer and I can sinjj, r 
 and with wild and sweet expression, and a voice such as Mrs. 
 Merry possessed, she sung 
 
 " He is dead ami gone, lady, 
 He is dead and gone; 
 At his head a grass-green turf, 
 
 Ai Lu* keel* a uuu. : 
 
The Lunatic Asylum. 147 
 
 But I won t sing if it makes you sad. I thought actors were 
 always merry." 
 
 Spiftard turned away to hide his emotion ; and the physician 
 led the songstress off, whispering in her ear, " You see it makes 
 him weep." 
 
 Their inspection of this noble building terminated with a 
 view from the roof, which presented one of the most magnifi 
 cent panoramic pictures the eye of man is ever permitted to 
 behold. Cheerful, thriving villages, fields rich in culture, roads 
 thronged with carriages, cities, and their glittering pinacles, only 
 divided from each other by the waters and ships that enriched 
 them. The greater of these cities, like the proud mistress of 
 the east, projects a garden, (unpolluted by the crimes of a serag 
 lio,) into her own Bosphorus and Marmora ; and receives in 
 her golden horn, the flags and the wealth of every land and 
 sea, while she smiles on a Galata and Pera, where the same 
 laws and interests prevail among the same free and happy peo 
 ple. From these sublime prospects, our friends descended, 
 to be reminded of what immediately surrounded them, and of 
 their own personal and physical wants. 
 
 By invitation, Mr. Littlejohn and his companion partook of 
 the dinner provided for the visiting committee. Spiftard re 
 marked that the philanthropic physician had, previous to taking 
 his place at the board, employed himself in persuading a gen 
 tleman, who paced up and down the hall, to join the company, 
 He succeeded in placing the melancholy man at the table, and 
 induced him to eat, and even to take one glass of wine ; for 
 wine w r as not banished from the temperate board of the asylum ; 
 neither was it ev r er abused. 
 
 This person, who now attracted SpifTard s special attention, 
 was a patient whose malady permitted that he should have the 
 freedom of the house and garden. After dinner, Spiftard learned 
 that this gentleman s insanity is what is called a religious mad 
 ness ! He had been a merchant became a preacher and 
 finally, under the oppression of bodily disease, carne to the 
 maniacal conclusion, that he was selected from all mankind to 
 suffer a state of hopeless reprobation ; that no redemption 
 availed, nor repentance could save him. 
 
 While talking with his informant, the unhappy gentleman 
 approached, and Spiftard had an opportunity of hearing him on 
 the subject of his misery. 
 
 " You are better, Mr. Treffil, for joining us, and taking a 
 glass of wine." 
 
148 The Lunatic 
 
 " Yes ; for an instant. But the sense of my condition re 
 turns with redoubled force the next moment." 
 
 " Sir, instead of avoiding cheerful company, you must seek 
 it. You are labouring under a mistake ; and when restored to 
 bodily health, you will be convinced of the falacy of these tot*- 
 menting phantasies." 
 
 The sufferer shook his head. " It is vain for me to fell ymi 
 of the communications I have had with the world of spirits. I 
 know you cannot conceive of them, or believe me. My doosn 
 is fixed irretrievably." 
 
 " God is good beyond our conception, and infinitely mer 
 ciful." 
 
 " I know what you would say ; I have, myself, talked thus 
 to others. To others the words may apply. I have heard 
 reasons for my condemnation that are incontrovertible. My 
 sins are unpardonable. I know that there is no hope for me. 
 I have heard it proclaimed to all the worlds of the universe. I 
 have been transported from planet to planet bodily. I know 
 that you do not believe it. From star to star, through the 
 immensity of space, filled with . What I have seen and 
 heard, I am forbid to tell." 
 
 " Before SpifFard and his friend left the asylum, the latte^ 
 paid another visit to his son. He went unaccompanied. On 
 his re-appearance, SpifFard asked, " How did you find him 
 sir?" 
 
 " In tears. He seemed to be conscious that his former re 
 ception of me had been harsh. He took my hand, and ten 
 derly pressed it at my departure, begging me to see him soon. * 
 
 As the evening approached, our pedestrians, notwithstanding 
 kind invitations to ride, returned as they came, on foot ; musing; 
 and conversing on the scenes they had witnessed, thia bsg; 
 to SpiiTard, a most instructive day. 
 
149 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 The result of intemperance, and a sick chamber. 
 
 " Show not thy valiantness in wine, for wine hath destroyed many. EC- 
 clesiasticus. 
 
 " Is man no more than this?" 
 
 "They are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they that slave with 
 nothing." Shakspeare. 
 
 " Honour a physician with the honours due unto him, for the uses which 
 ye may have of him." Ecclcsiasticns. 
 
 " Bardolph. Why, sir, for my part, I say the gentleman had drunk him- 
 celf out of his five sentences. " 
 
 " Slender. I ll ne er be drunk whilst I live again, but in honest, civil, 
 godly company. " Shaksptare. 
 
 "A wise sentence shall be rejected when it comes out of a fool s mouth, 
 for he will not speak it in due season." Ecclesiasticus. 
 
 11 1 would rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience to make 
 me sad." 
 
 " Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie. 
 
 " Cease to lament for thatthou canst not help ; 
 And study help for that which thoulamcntest." Shakspeare. 
 
 WE will now return to George Frederick Cooke. Among 
 the many who have placed themselves aloft, as beacons on the 
 hill-top, to warn mankind of the evils that threaten them ; or who 
 serve as buoys, to mark the hidden rocks and sands, where the 
 gallant argosei of life, (freighted with youth and health, and all 
 the ingredients of happiness, and onward borne, her bellying 
 sails filled with the gales of hope,) must sink if not avoided: 
 among these warnings, buoys, and beacons, few have been 
 more conspicuous than this highly-gifted man. 
 
 While Spiffard and Littlejohn pursued their walk from 
 Cato s, as we have seen, Cooke, under the care of one of the 
 younger revellers, who was either more prudent or more hard- 
 headed than his companions, returned to town in a hack coach, 
 which had been in attendance on the party. The young man, 
 who although but too conversant with scenes of dissipation, had 
 never been confined with such a companion, was occasionally 
 
 VOL. I. 10 
 
150 The residt of intemperance, and a sick chamber. 
 
 amused by his extravagance, shocked at his profane vulgarity, 
 and puzzled by his loud demands to be set down, and orders 
 to the coachman to stop. 
 
 It seemed as if every vile image or word which had been 
 presented to the eye or ear of the unhappy man during a long 
 life, (a life partly passed among the licentious and frequently 
 among the vilest of the vile) were called into existence and 
 action by the demon who possessed him. The young man 
 tired out by insolent repetitions, finally thought of governing 
 by force, or at least threats. He had fallen on the remedy. 
 For the tragic hero was never so far lost as to forget what was 
 due to self-preservation when danger appeared. He could 
 distinguish real from mock threatenings ; and although he 
 braved, as in the recent duel, the one, he shrunk from the 
 other "upon instinct." 
 
 Tedious the ride to the young man, ere they arrived at the 
 Tontine Coffee House : but arrive they did, and found Trust 
 worthy Davenport ready to receive the man he faithfully serv 
 ed, and even deigned to call master. Cooke, who had been for 
 some time in a quiescent state, was roused by the stopping of 
 the carnage and the ceasing of the rumbling noise which 
 seemed to soothe him. He now vociferated his orders to the 
 coachman to drive on, as loudly as he before commanded him 
 to stop. His young companion gladly made his escape, re 
 signing his charge to Trusty, who, presenting himself at th 
 coach-door, solicited his patron to take his arm and alight. 
 
 " Coachman ! Drive on ! Stand out of the way and shut 
 the door, you thrice three times elongated yankee son of a pu 
 ritan praise-god-bare-bones ! Coachman ! Drive on ! " 
 
 " This coachman says he can go no further, but I ll find a 
 carriage for you in a jiffy, or I ll be swampt. Where shall I 
 order your carrier to go?" 
 
 44 To church, sirr ! To church !" 
 
 * Jist git out of this coach, sir, and I ll see that you go, 
 where you ought to go where you want to go I mean so, 
 sir, softly !" 
 
 The " yankee traveller" needed not to have changed his 
 phraseology, for his patron was incapable of making nice dis 
 tinctions. " He made an effort to leave the carriage, but fell 
 headlong into the grasp of his long-limbed valet, who in less 
 than five minutes deposited him in the easy-chair by his bed 
 side. 
 
 Nature, abused, and struggling against the abuse, notwith 
 standing uncommon physical powers, at length gave way. A 
 
The result of intemperance, and a sick chamber. 151 
 
 helpless, senseless mass, the admired of thousands, was depos 
 ited in that bed where he could only awake to regrets for the 
 past, loathings of the present, and dread of the future. 
 
 Before morning, Davenport, who slumbered in the chair by 
 the bedside, was awakened by the groans of the tortured man. 
 He found him almost suffocated. By changing his position 
 he saved him from immediate death, and then hastened for one 
 of his physicians. The nearest of the many who gladly en 
 deavoured to prolong the .life of this infatuated man, was doc 
 tor McLean ; and happily he was brought in time to afford 
 relief. 
 
 Such was the termination of the excesses at Cato s or ra 
 ther of that series of excesses, which had been rising from 
 stage to stage, until the fabric which supported them broke 
 down. With some constitutions this termination is a hopeless 
 state of despair, madness and death. With Cooke it brought 
 on severe pains, difficulty of breathing, which if relieved bjr 
 blood-letting, left him a miserable penitent as long as weak 
 ness and sickness continued and no longer. 
 
 The symptoms which at this time marked his disease were 
 the same that ultimately in a more aggravated form, preceded 
 immediate dissolution. Two of the best physicians of the 
 city attended him ; and although restored to comparative ease, 
 he was confined to his bed for several days. 
 
 During this state of pain and s )ber reflection, he was attend 
 ed by Spiffard with the assiduity of an affectionate son. Oc 
 casionally he brought Mr. Littlejohn with him, at that gentle 
 man s request, and when the tragedian was sufficiently re 
 covered to converse, both his guests were delighted with his 
 stores of anecdote, sketches of character, and sallies of hu 
 mour. 
 
 One day that Cooke and SpifTard were alone, the old man 
 expressed his desire to know by what train of extraordinary 
 circumstances his young yankee friend had become a member 
 and a distinguished member of the profession to which he 
 had devoted his own extraordinary powers. 
 
 " You are the strangest young man that ever I met with 
 young man ? young or old, you are unlike any thing that 
 ever fell in my way. You tell me that you are a yankee from 
 Vermont, yet you are a finished English actor, fit for Drury or 
 Covent Garden. You are a very young man, yet you attach 
 yourself to an old worn out fellow like me : you are a tea-sot 
 and a water-drinker, yet you delight in the company of a vet 
 eran known proclaimed shameless votary of the bottle! 
 
152 The result of intemperance, and a sick chamber. 
 
 Why is this 1 Come tell me what induced you to try the pro 
 fession you have chosen how you obtained your knowledge 
 and skill in it, and how you have escaped the vices that hang 
 about it." 
 
 Spiffard recounted his story, omitting some circumstances 
 with which we have made the reader acquainted, and dwelling 
 upon many theatrical adventures and characters with anecdotes 
 more interesting to an actor than to any other person. He 
 gave his reasons for embarking in an English ship for Quebec 
 rather than the direct route and better sailors to New-York. 
 He had no inducement to be in that city until late in the theat 
 rical season, as such suited the manager s arrangements, and 
 the desire to visit the British provinces whose history is so inti 
 mately connected with that of his own country, caused him glad 
 ly to seize the opportunity. Besides that, he wished to linger on 
 the shores of Lake Champlain, and visit the Green Mountain 
 spot where his father had flourished, decayed and died. 
 
 " I will not recount," he said, " the events of a passage across 
 the Atlantic, though I might speak of clouds and winds, and 
 dolphins, and whales, and the hopes and fears in meeting ano 
 ther storm-tossed bundle of planks and ropes on the ocean, and 
 all the other pretty occurrences, from the common-place book, 
 which occupy so many pages of modern prose nainby pamby. 
 Three times the number of days were wasted on the voyage 
 that are sufficient to waft one of our passenger-packet-ships 
 from Liverpool to this port. We escaped the hazards of the 
 gulf, and in November were gladdened by the sight of the stu 
 pendous banks of the St. Lawrence, that majestic stream pour 
 ing the waters of so many inland seas into the fathomless ocean. 
 As we approached Quebec and I saw the towering battlements 
 of the upper town and castle, bristling with cannon, tier above 
 tier, overhanging the houses and shipping which lay dim and 
 dark in the shades of evening, while the sun yet played on the 
 glittering spires and waving colours floating over them, I felt 
 repaid for all the tedious hours I had passed on the weary 
 weary sea. As I gazed, the eventful struggles of the brave 
 men who fought and fell on this once important spot, rushed 
 upon my mind with a pleasing soul-elevating melancholy. 
 Early the next morning I landed, and found my way to the 
 plains of Abraham. I sat on the stone which pillowed the head 
 of the dying conqueror. I stood on the spot where one master 
 spirit decided the fate of the western world. I thought of Wolfe 
 and the glorious day of his triumph and death. That day 
 which broke the power of despotic France in the west, over- 
 
The result of intemperance, and a sick chamber. 153 
 
 threw at a blow her mighty plans of empire, and secured to the 
 sons of English republicans the immense region from the At 
 lantic to the Pacific oceans, from the north pole to the table 
 land of Mexico a region destined for the propagation of in 
 numerable free states, bound together by the same institutions, 
 the same languages, the same interests and a religious free 
 dom, as dear as all which rejects the dogmas of any usurping 
 hierarchy. 1 
 
 As the young man spoke, his tone had become elevated, his 
 cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkled, and Cooke, who had 
 raised himself in his bed, could scarcely believe that it was the 
 low comedian who talked of states and empires in terms so 
 lofty, and so little suited to his usual style. Spiffard observed 
 the veteran s surprise, and said, " I have ever been an enthusi 
 astic admirer of the institutions of my country, Mr. Cooke, and 
 feel the attachment of a grateful heart to your native land, from 
 which they are partly derived. I am proud that my forefathers 
 sprung from England, that I can claim part with Englishmen in 
 the glories of Shakspeare and Milton, Locke, Bacon, Newton, 
 JIampden, Sydney, Pym, and Vane, and hundreds more, whose 
 minds have enlighted the world, and continue, to this day, to 
 foil off the clouds with which tyranny and superstition would 
 envelope us. I am proud that my ancestors were among the 
 puritans of New-England, who abandoned their lovely country, 
 that they might be free to live as republicans, and worship their 
 Creator as their consciences dictated ; and I am happy that my 
 .grandfather served with Shirley at Louisburg, and bled with 
 Wolfe on the plains of Abraham, by the side of gallant English 
 men, in opposition to those powers who then, and now, would 
 enslave the souls and bodies of mankind." 
 
 " I see you are a thorough Yankee ; and I suppose as you 
 travel this way from Quebec, you will treat me to a dissertation 
 on Saratoga and Bunker hill." 
 
 " No. The sympathetic chord that made Englishmen and 
 Americans one, was severed before the seventeenth of June, 
 seventeen hundred and seventy-five ; and you are an English 
 man." 
 
 Cooke looked up with his peculiar side-long glance, and 
 said, " Thank you, thank you ! Do you know that I have been 
 thinking, while ycu were speaking, that if your head, by any 
 chance, had been raised twelve inches higher, it might have 
 been a head of eminence, and looked down on little men with 
 the frown, or the condescension, of a hero a leader of senates 
 or armies at least on the stage." 
 
154 The result of intemperance, and a sick chamber. 
 
 This touched a string in our hero s composition, which totally 
 changed, not alone the current of his ideas, but the very nature 
 of them. 
 
 "Yes, sir," he replied, (with that simplicity which rendered 
 him so remarkable, and so obnoxious to be played upon by 
 those of inferior intellect or acquirement.) " Yes, sir, I have 
 thought that my face might, with the aid of histrionic art, repre 
 sent a mimic hero, however unfit I may be to lead real senates 
 or armies. My features are as boldly marked as John Kem- 
 bles ; my nose as prominent ; my eye as capable of expressing 
 passion. I have as great power over my countenance. I have 
 studied the dramatic authors as assiduously, though not for so 
 longatime as he has. But because, according to certain arbitrary 
 rules, it is found that my face is too long for the height of my 
 person, it is concluded that I cannot rise to the pitch of tragic 
 dignity required for the stage, or give effect to the precepts or 
 pathos of the poet." 
 
 * Did you ever try ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What was the result ; how did the audience receive you t ?> 
 
 " The fools laughed." 
 
 ** Well, well, never mind ; punish them as you have done 
 ever since, by making them laugh whenever you show your tra 
 gic phiz on the stage ; leave strutting, roaring, and scowling to 
 me and black Jack." 
 
 So saying, the old man laid his head on his pillow with a 
 good-humoured laugh, in which Spiffard could not but join, 
 though at his own expense." 
 
 " I had got no further in the story of my home ward travel " 
 Spiffard recommenced, and might probably have given a tole 
 rably correct picture of Canadian manners, customs, costumes, 
 rivalries, jealousies, and contrasts ; and the conflicting interests 
 of a conquered province, where ignorance and superstition is 
 cherished as the precious reserved rights of the conquered ; but 
 at this moment his rival traveller and actor, Trustworthy Daven 
 port, ushered Dr. Hosack into the apartment. 
 
 After the first salutations, the physician inquired if Cadwal- 
 lader, McLean, or Francis, his coadjutors in the task of 
 repairing the injuries nature had received, had visited the 
 patient, and then remarked that he looked better. 
 
 " I always feel better, Doctor, when this tea-sot, this water- 
 drinker, is with me ; but I am puzzled to know what he can 
 find attractive in the bed-side conversation of an old worn-out 
 winebibber like me." 
 
The result of intemperance, and a sick chamber. 155 
 
 u His admiration of your talents as an actor, is sufficient to 
 account for Mr. SpifTard preferring your company to that of 
 men of less experience and knowledge." 
 
 " No, no, that s riot it. He has seen Sarah, and Black Jack, 
 and all the rest of them. No, I will tell you what I suspect. 
 He is studying the effect of wine on the human constitution ; 
 and when he sees me snug under the sod, he will give lectures 
 on temperance, making old Cooke the foundation on which to 
 establish his theory, and build his fortune. But I ll cheat the 
 water-drinker by out-living him. I ll play Shylock at ninety, 
 as Macklin did." 
 
 " May you live to ninety, and I live to see it! But what says 
 the doctor to the question of wine or water?" 
 
 44 Pooh, pooh, what signifies what he says. Look at his face, 
 and then turn to the mirror and look at your own pale visage. 
 There s a complexion where madeira always meaning in 
 moderation sparkles " 
 
 44 Let me see your tongue." 
 
 44 That s by way of stopping its motion. As much as to say, 
 * hold your tongue. But a tongue is not a member to be looked 
 at, but listened to." 
 
 41 Yet to the physician, even its appearance can tell tales. 
 There, that will do. Mr. Spiffard, I must prohibit my patient 
 from further exertion, or even attention to the conversation of 
 his friends to-day. His tongue speaks of fever. Let me feel 
 your pulse, sir. That will do. Let me place iny hand so, 
 sir. Are your ankles swelled ?" 
 
 The doctor proceeded with his examination. Cooke was 
 silent, but appeared less concerned than either Spiffard or Da 
 venport ; for the last-mentioned of our actors stood anxiously 
 listening and looking on, evidently taking great interest in the 
 fate of the patient. 
 
 44 The symptoms are decided. There is water in the abdo 
 men." 
 
 Cooke turned his head away, and cast a look from the cor 
 ners of his eyes on the physician, at the same time holding his 
 face close to the pillow, and repeated the word " water," in a 
 tone of surprise. 
 
 44 Yes, sir," said the doctor, and was going on seriously to 
 prescribe certain remedies, when all gravity was set at defiance 
 by the patient exclaiming " How should water find its way 
 there ? No, no, doctor, never risk your reputation by telling 
 the world that you found water in the stomach of George Fre 
 derick Cooke ! What say you, you long-visaged, lank-sided 
 
156 The result of intemperance, and a sick chamber. 
 
 yankee philosopher? Did ever water approach these premises 
 since they were in your keeping ?" 
 
 Davenport, thus addressed, and finding the eyes of the com 
 pany turned upon him, answered with a drawling tone, and 
 great deliberation " If I might venture to propound an opinion 
 upon sich a deep and profound subject " 
 
 " As my stomach ! Both deep and profound, ha ? I have 
 sometimes thought it had a double profundity. Well, Mr. 
 wise man of the east, go on your opinion ?" 
 
 " I have a notion, (without pretending to give an opinion ;) I 
 have a notion that that critter man, is a compound of the ele 
 ments of arth, air, fire, and water; and that, for one thing, 
 makes him sich a contrarious animal ; and for another thing, it 
 makes it necessary for his bodily health, that all these elements 
 should be replenished as fast as they evaporate, or are exhaust 
 ed. Now, if I may he permitted " 
 
 " Go on propound thou learned Theban." 
 
 " If a man denies admittance to water through the proper 
 and natural door, by which it brings health and strength, it will 
 find another inlet, and then it causes diseases and weakness : 
 and in Mr. Cooke s case, it being always refused entrance 
 above, it has taken advantage of the warm bath ordered for his 
 feet, and has crept up through his toes." 
 
 " He has hit it, Doctor. The philosopher has found the 
 cause. The disease has outwitted the physician. Most learned 
 Doctor Davenport, see who knocks." 
 
 " I prohibit any more company this day. Mr. Cooke is not 
 well enough to see any of his friends until to-morrow." Spif- 
 fard followed Trustworthy ; and the doctor enjoining quiet for 
 his excited patient, soon after left him to the care of the faithful, 
 eccentric philosopher. 
 
157 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A little mystery, and an old acquaintance. 
 
 "Of what incalculable influence, then, for good, or for evil, upon thedear- 
 est interests of society, must be the estimate entertained for the character of 
 this great body of teachers, and the consequent respectability of the indivi 
 duals who compose it." Verplanck. 
 
 "You have often begun to tell me what I am, butstop d, 
 And left me to a bootless inquisition." 
 
 " Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, 
 That sees into the bottom of my grief." 
 
 "It is the show and seal of nature s truth, 
 Where love s strong passion is impressed in youth. 1 Shakspsare. 
 
 "Whose power hath a true consent, 
 Wilh planet, or with element. Milton. 
 
 " truth shall nurse her, 
 
 Holy and heavenly thoughts siill counsel her." 
 
 " my mother you wot well, 
 
 My hazards still have been your solace." 
 
 "If that thy father live, let him repent." 
 
 " Lepidus is high-coloured. They have made him drink." 
 
 "Faster than spring-time showers, comes thought on thought." 
 
 Sliakspeare. 
 
 I WILL introduce my reader to another sick chamber of a 
 very different aspect from the last. Indeed, a greater contrast 
 to the commodious apartments and assiduous attendants which 
 surrounded and administered to George Frederick Cooke v 
 could not well be imagined, than the mean and scantily fur 
 nished hovel-like house of Mrs. Johnson, and the feeble assis 
 tance which could be rendered to her, (suffering and sick as 
 she was,) by her only permanent attendant, a poor little 
 Degress. True, she had the occasional consolation of her son s 
 presence, and that of Emma Portland : the consolation of 
 duteous affection, sympathy, charity, and love. When thoscx 
 occupations which enabled him to procure the scanty sum 
 necessary for his mother s support, would permit, she had the 
 
 10* 
 
158 JL little mystery, and an old acquaintance. 
 
 attendance of the best of sons. But his days were passed in 
 laborious preparation for his mother s future welfare, and even 
 his nights were devoted to gaining the pittance required by their 
 necessitous condition for present support; especially since a 
 chronic disease had rendered his beloved parent incapable of 
 those exertions which once had made their situation comforta 
 ble, and enabled her to give him the education of an enlightened, 
 efficient citizen. She had frequently another attendant, (as 
 noticed above,) whose sex made her more competent to know, 
 and more skilful to perform, the offices which the sick require. 
 Emma devoted to Mrs. Johnson as much of her time as she 
 could ; but she was wanted at home to assist her aunt and 
 cousin ; and abroad, by others who were sick and poor. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson had one attendant in common with Mr. Cooke. 
 Of the many physicians who exerted their skill for him, one 
 had been led to the house of poverty, and administered that 
 relief which his professional skill and benevolent disposition, 
 enabled him to give. Emma Portland had a tie stronger 
 than pity and charity, or even sympathy toward a person so 
 like herself in disposition, and so like her lost mother in senti 
 ments, accomplishments, knowledge, and resignation to the will 
 of heaven. Emma had become acquainted with Henry John 
 son before his mother s illness, when she, by her industry, aided 
 by strict economy, had supported her little establishment, while 
 her son was obtaining that knowledge in a merchant s count 
 ing-house, which might lead to a competency for her future 
 comfort. 
 
 This young couple, (for they were already united in the 
 purest bonds of affection) had become acquainted in a manner 
 and in a place, of all others, most likely to create a pure union 
 of hearts, because the employment which brought them in the 
 presence of each other evinced the congeniality of their dispo 
 sitions and the kindred feelings of well regulated minds. They 
 were both teachers in the same sunday school : both employed 
 in the diffusion of knowledge to those whose condition in life 
 rendered it most difficult of attainment : both endeavouring to 
 rescue from vice those most exposed to become its victims 
 the children of the ignorant and vicious. Sunday was the only 
 day that Henry Johnson was free from the labours of the 
 counting house ; and until his mother s illness required his 
 presence in attendance on her, he had devoted it to the in 
 struction of those whose avocations or situations prevented or 
 prohibited other modes or opportunities of acquiring know 
 ledge. The form, the face, the general appearance of Emma 
 
A little mystery, and an old acquaintance. 159 
 
 Portland, were sufficient to attract the admiration of Henry ; 
 but he was captivated by her demeanor while bestowing in 
 struction on the little ones around her ; who soon learned to 
 look upon her as a friend, and to love the lessons she bestowed, 
 for the love they bore their beautiful and kind instructress. 
 
 Some of the same causes operated to produce the same 
 effects in the breast of Emma Portland. She observed the 
 punctuality with which Henry attended to his voluntary duties, 
 and the patience he exhibited in performing them. His manly 
 form and expressive face might have passed unnoticed ; but 
 his suavity of manners, his devoted attention to the welfare of 
 those who were entrusted him, attracted her attention and 
 gained her approbation. They had occasion to commune in 
 this their benevolent employment. They mutually made in 
 quiries respecting each other. The interchange of civility and 
 words led to the interchange of esteem, and finally of love. 
 
 The situation of Emma, with her aunt and cousin, was by no 
 means agreeable to Henry, and it was not until he knew 
 the refined and just sentiments, and had learned the his 
 tory of the lovely orphan, that he suffered love to lead his 
 hopes on to the anticipation of happiness with such a partner. 
 Love, with minds well regulated and accustomed to self-con 
 trol, is not that blind and irresistible passion which poets and 
 novelists have described. Once convinced of the worth of the 
 object of his admiration, the youth felt resolved to remove her 
 from her present situation, and doubted not that his resources 
 were equal to the task. Before sickness had reduced his mo 
 ther to the helpless state in which we now find her, Henry had 
 communicated his views of future domestic happiness, and had 
 obtained her approbation of his choice : those views were at 
 present obscured ; but youth can see beyond the clouds. 
 
 They were no common clouds that enveloped the Johnson?. 
 Loss of health had caused the gradual approach of that ex 
 treme penury which threatened to render the remnant of this 
 unfortunate lady s days peculiarly cheerless. The little shop 
 she had attended to, and in part supplied with needle-worked 
 articles for sale by her own industry and ingenuity, had 
 dwindled away, had been closed, and its remaining stock sold 
 at auction. Henry had discharged all debts, paid the rent of 
 the house they had occupied, and removed, with his parent, to 
 the hovel they took refuge in, there to meet the winter s storms 
 and hide from the cold looks of worldlings. All the poor 
 were not yet thrust into the suburbs of the city or the adjoining 
 villages, and this mean habitation was in the way of Emma 
 
16 3 Jl lilllc mystery, and an old acquaintance. 
 
 Portland in her walks of duty, she seldom passed the house of 
 Mrs. Johnson without paying the tribute of affection to suffer 
 ing merit. She seldom saw Henry there ; and, indeed, his ab 
 sence sometimes appeared to her mysterious. We need not 
 say that the attentions of Emma to the invalid increased the 
 attachment of the son, and caused the mother to place her 
 hopes of that son s future happiness on the prospect of his 
 union with a creature of such rare virtues. 
 
 It was noon on Sunday Henry, who at this period, passed 
 that day in attendance upon his mother, had been reading to 
 her in the family bible. He had ceased, and a few minutes of 
 silence had elapsed. He turned to the leaf on which is usually 
 recorded those important events in domestic history, the mar 
 riage of the father and mother, and the day and hour on which 
 it took place : this, in most cases, is happily followed by the 
 dates of the birth of each child. Henry looked, as he had 
 often before done, mournfully upon this leaf in his mother s 
 bible. It was mutilated. The top of the leaf on which the 
 date of the marriage of his father and mother had been, as it 
 would appear, written in the accustomed manner, had been cut 
 off. There was no record on the leaf, save of the birth of a 
 son on the 16th of June, 1791, baptized in blank church, (the 
 name of the church carefully erased,) Manchester, by the 
 name of Henry. 
 
 " Mother, it is long since you promised me, that, in due 
 time, you would tell me who and what my father was. You 
 know that I look often at every part of this book ; but, since I 
 first could read, this leaf has fixed my attention more than any 
 other. I know your worth too well to entertain a thought to 
 your disadvantage ; but it sometimes occurs painfully to my 
 mind, that only some act committed by my father, either dis 
 graceful or criminal, could induce you to permit me to arrive 
 at man s estate ignorant of even the name of one of the authors 
 of my being. Relieve my mind from this impression, and say, 
 at least, that my father s name is not dishonoured in his native 
 country." 
 
 " I am sorry that you recur to this subject, Henry." 
 
 * It grieves me to cause you sorrow ; but, believe me, dear 
 mother, if you should be taken from me, and leave me in this 
 incertitude, I would not rest until I had searched the records of 
 every church in Manchester, with this leaf in my hand ; if by 
 no other means this mystery could be cleared and my curiosity 
 satisfied. I pain you, madam, but forgive me. For your 
 
A little mystery, and an old acquaintance. 161 
 
 sake I have deferred pressing this question, although it is sel 
 dom absent from my thoughts for your sake I would still 
 defer it but another is now interested in it. Emma Portland 
 is entitled to ask, and should know, that the father of the man 
 she looks forward to honour, was not one whose nam4 shall 
 hereafter cause a blush on that face which was never suffused 
 with the livery of shame. If your strength does not suffice to 
 enter into a full explanation of the meaning of this mutilated 
 leaf in the sacred volume, at least say that my father s name is 
 not a reproach and a by-word in his native land." 
 
 " Henry, I cannot now enter into a painful story but I re 
 peat my promise you shall know all even if I should die 
 this day you will know all." 
 
 " And my father s name is not pronounced, (when he is 
 spoken of) with epithets of contumely attached to it 1 ?" 
 
 " On the contrary in terms of admiration." 
 
 " And yet you are in a foreign land and his son is igno 
 rant of that name. Mother ! you are as pure as the mind of 
 man can imagine, or the heart of a son can desire. You have 
 bred me in the love of truth, and abhorrence of mystery and 
 yet" 
 
 " And yet my son, I cannot willingly pronounce the name 
 of your father. Forbear I entreat you you cannot long re 
 main in ignorance. It is my wish to inform you of every cir 
 cumstance before my death, and that must be in a few weeks 
 perhaps days I am ill give me that glass of water 
 quick" 
 
 With affright and contrition her son obeyed her. And 
 while tenderly supporting his parent s head and in broken ac 
 cents asking her forgiveness, Emma, who with the little black 
 girl had been at St. Paul s chapel, entered and flew to his as 
 sistance. 
 
 In such hands the fainting woman soon revived. With 
 such a nurse sickness and sorrow were soothed to serenitv. 
 The mother banished the recollections of former woe, and 
 blessing the virtuous pair who revived her hopes of happiness 
 in an earthly futurity, though not for herself, she sunk sobbing 
 on her pillow, her overcharged heart relieved by a shower of 
 salutary tears. 
 
 Such was the scene at the bedside of the poor unknown. 
 We have seen what was passing by the sick-bed of the rich, 
 the famous, the idolized George Frederick Cooke more ot" 
 both, anon. We will return to Zebediah Spiffard. 
 
 About this time the comedian s recollections of Boston 
 
162 A little mystery, and an old acquaintance. 
 
 were revived by an accidental meeting with a person whose 
 conduct had materially affected the course of those events 
 which we have recorded, and of course those yet to follow in 
 our story. The chain of the past, the present, and the future, 
 is never broken. 
 
 As SpifFard passed through Nassau-street, he was accosted 
 by a man who came at the moment from a public house, no 
 torious as the resort of those who, like Bardolph, carry faces 
 that might be mistaken for my landlady s red petticoat. This 
 person stopping directly in the footway, cried, " sure it is 
 Mr. Spiffard !" 
 
 " That is my name, sir." 
 
 Why, Zeb, have you forgotten your old master t" 
 
 The truth flashed upon SpifFard, and with it a pang shot to 
 his heart a pang only to be accounted for by the circum 
 stances of his childhood, the last scenes in his father s house, 
 his present doubts and fears, and the peculiar susceptibility of 
 his character, on the subject of the species of moral degradation 
 which he at once perceived written on the countenance of this 
 unhappy man. He gasped for breath as he exclaimed, " Mr. 
 Treadwell !" 
 
 41 Ay ! I am very glad to see you my boy! Come in come 
 in," and he turned to the door he had just left. " Come in 
 I have been inquiring for you, and was going to see you 
 come in you can help me you can give me the information 
 I want." 
 
 He led him, though reluctant, first into the bar room of the 
 tavern, and then into a private apartment. He loathed the 
 sight and smell of the place, but he could not refuse to follow 
 one who revived recollections of a happy period of his youth, 
 and who he had once been accustomed to respect and obey. 
 He was urged on likewise by the feeling of shame at being 
 seen in the street with a man whose appearance denoted the 
 effect both of past and present excess. 
 
 In despite of Spiffard s remonstrances Treadwell ordered 
 brandy ; and talking with rapidity soon made known the cause 
 of his journey to New-York. He displayed his own turpitude 
 with an assurance which nothing but his present excitement, 
 and a belief in the laxity of morals attached to the profession 
 his quondam pupil had chosen, could account for. 
 
 Mrs. Tomlinson, a favourite actress, had been engaged 
 for the New- York theatre, after a separation from her hus 
 band, an event which had taken place in Boston, and Spiffard 
 now learned that his former legal instructor, although married 
 
A little mystery, and an old acquaintance. 163 
 
 and the father of a family, had been the cause of the divorce. 
 With the recklessness which the progress in guilt naturally in 
 duces, he had come on to effect a re-union with the un 
 happy woman, by inducing her to return to the place of his 
 residence. She had, however, formed another attachment in 
 New- York, and, hearing of Treadwell s arrrival, secreted her 
 self from his pursuit. 
 
 Little doubting but that Spiffard could give him the desired 
 information, he concluded his communication with " you 
 will tell me where she is to be found." 
 
 I do not know, sir." 
 
 * My dear fellow, that is impossible. She is of too much 
 importance in die theatrical world to allow me to believe that. 
 You may as well tell me, for I will know. Thomson, to 
 whom I gave her letters when she left Boston, shuns me and 
 I suspect but I have come here to see her, and I will see 
 her." 
 
 * I know nothing of her, except as I have seen her on the 
 stage ; and her character is such that I wish no nearer ac 
 quaintance." 
 
 " That s too good ! Your wife does not associate with her V 
 
 44 Certainly not, sir." 
 
 * That s very well ! very well, indeed ! When all the world 
 knows how her character stood before " 
 
 " Stop, sir !" 
 
 " Mrs. Spiffard, or Mrs. Trow.bridge " 
 
 Stop, sir !" and Spiffard s eyes flashed fire, his face was 
 flushed, and his limbs were braced to the tension of the tiger s, 
 before he springs on his prey. " Stop, sir, one word spoken 
 disrespectfully of my wife, will be resented on the instant. 
 Contrary to my wishes, you have told me your own infamy, 
 and that of the person you seek ; yet you have dared to ask 
 me if she is the companion of my wife. I despise your insin 
 uations, but I will not suffer them to be repeated." 
 
 " Why, why, why, my dear fellow, why do you fly out in this 
 manner ? We all know that is come, come, take some 
 brandy and water." 
 
 " Mr. Treadwell, you have already taken too much. If you 
 had not deprived yourself of the sense of shame, as well as the 
 power of reasoning, you would not have exposed yourself and 
 the unhappy woman, who, perhaps, but for you, would have 
 been a respectable wife and mother. I must leave you, sir." 
 
 " What 1 Why, Zeb ? Don t you ask your old friend to 
 come and see you 1 What ! cut me !" 
 
164 A little mystenj, and an old acquaintance. 
 
 " I am obliged to believe your own account of yourself. 
 When I heard your story from others, I tried to disbelieve it. 
 Our acquaintance ends here." 
 
 Spifiurd did not listen to his reply, but left the house abruptly. 
 He left the house, but another arrow had entered his inmost 
 soul, his heart s heart, and was borne away with him. The 
 words he had heard in the Park, when we first met him ; the 
 mystery which hung over some passages of the life of one 
 whose fame and welfare he had rashly united to his own ; the 
 consciousness of precipitancy in contracting an engagement 
 for life, so vitally important to his peace ; all rushed upon his 
 tortured mind as he left the tavern ; and Ihe unhappy Tread- 
 well s looks, as well as the inuendos he had given, continued 
 to haunt him with horrid recollections. He passed through the^ 
 bar-room to gain the street. When on the pavement, he heard 
 from within a shout of laughter from those who surrounded the 
 bar ; and his imagination pictured a crowd of bloated fiends, 
 sitting in the clouds, and rejoicing at his misery. 
 
 Treadwell sought to drown the voice of conscience, and the 
 sense of humiliation, on the spot. A few words will terminate 
 his story. While unsuccessfully seeking the woman for whom 
 he had deserted his home, and whose infamy he was proclaim 
 ing by the search, her husband arrived in New-York, on his 
 way from south to east, and hearing of Tread well s presence, 
 and avowed object, he sought him, and in a public place inflict 
 ed the chastisement of the most contumacious words, accompa 
 nied by blows. The wretch returned to his native place ; he 
 had no home ; he died neglected by all but the wife he had 
 deserted. 
 
 The unfortunate husband whose domestic peace had been 
 invaded, his wife, and the friend of the seducer, who appro 
 priated the guilty consignment to his own use, all perished 
 early and miserably. Such things have been ; and, perhaps, 
 if mankind knew that their deeds of evil would not be covered 
 by the veil of charity, but proclaimed for the truth s sake, many 
 might be checked in the downward course, and brought to 
 real repentance ; which is amendment. 
 
165 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A dinner party in 1811. 
 
 "Your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant 
 without scurrility, witty without affectation, audacious without impudence, 
 learned without opinion, and strange without heresy." 
 
 " Some sports are painful ; but their labour, 
 Delight in them sets off." 
 
 " The rich wine first must rise in these fair cheeks, my lord, then we shall 
 have them talk us to silence." Shakspcare 
 
 "When a rich man hath fallen, he hath many helpers; he speaketh 
 things not to be spoken, and yet men justify him. The poor man slipped, 
 and yet they rebuked him too ; he spake wisely, and could have no place." 
 
 Ecclesiasticus. 
 
 " Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders ; and let Time 
 try." Stiakspeare. 
 
 "Experience, though none authorite 
 Were in this worlde, is ryght ynowe for me." Chaucer. 
 
 TIME rolled on, or flew, or crept, or limped, according to the 
 circumstances or the feelings of his children ; those children 
 who murder him, and whom he, though murdered, never dying, 
 devours. 
 
 Winter had arrived, and the many-coloured leaves of autumn 
 had been scattered to the winds, or fallen to the earth, as a 
 covering for the roots from which they had derived their sum 
 mer nourishment ; the long protracted rain-storms of Novem 
 ber had given place to the freezing blasts of the north-west, 
 before George Frederick Cooke had so far recovered, as to be 
 permitted by his physicians to resume his place at the festive 
 boards of his numerous admirers. 
 
 Doctor Cadwallader, (who had attended the old tragedian, 
 in conjunction with Doctors Hosack, McLean, and Francis,) 
 had long promised his friends the pleasure of dining with the 
 eccentric thespian ; accordingly, having stipulated that the 
 bottle should be under the control of two medical attendants, 
 a day was fixed when Cooke was to be the lion of the party ; 
 and exhibited in the evening, to the female acquaintance of Mrs. 
 
166 jf dinne r party in 1811. 
 
 Cadwallader, and as many of the elite of the city as the draw 
 ing-rooms might accommodate. 
 
 Spiffard was invited to the dinner and tea party in due form ; 
 for he had become acquainted with all Cooke s physicians, from 
 the circumstance of being found so frequently at the bed-side 
 of their histrionic patient. As we have said, Cooke was attend 
 ed by no less than four of the faculty, of the highest grade ; but 
 Cadwallader took the lead as the senior, although Hosack, 
 McLean, and Francis were all consulted : all separately visited 
 the invalid at times, and sometimes altogether. 
 
 The young comedian declined the invitation. He had deter 
 mined not to make one in parties from which his wife was 
 excluded. Mrs. Spiffard was one of the acknowledged heroines 
 of the stage at this time, but as utterly shut out from female 
 society as if she had been infected with the most deadly conta 
 gion. Spiffard had thought little of this before marriage ; it 
 was one of the after-thoughts that tormented him. 
 
 Actresses have never been received into society, in this 
 country, on a footing of equality. Some are visited, sought 
 after, and invited into the circles of the rich and fashionable, 
 when they have recently arrived from Europe, under particular 
 circumstances ; but even then, they are rather considered as 
 objects to gaze at, and show off, than as persons belonging to 
 the class who pay them these attentions. This class consider 
 themselves as patrons. The patronized are generally superior, 
 both in talents and accomplishments, to their patronizing enter 
 tainers ; yet are they never considered as other than inferior 
 to those who show them off, and pride themselves upon their 
 liberality in so doing. 
 
 It is in vain to deny, or endeavour to conceal from the actress, 
 that the very circumstance of publicly exhibiting for hire, that 
 person, and those talents, so admired and applauded, has de 
 graded her in the eyes of the world. Be it just or unjust, 50 it 
 it ; and, perhaps, so it ought to be. 
 
 That this is unjust, in some instances, is certain. We have 
 known ladies of superior talents and education, who have 
 made the stage their profession, under the immediate guardian 
 ship of their parents, that they might retrieve the fortunes of 
 their fathers, and support the younger branches of their family 
 in a necessary course of education. The tribute to these ladies 
 from justice, ought to be reverential respect and praise. 
 
 The knowledge we all have of the character of an audience at 
 a theatre the mingled character, in which so much of the baser 
 material preponderates the conviction that the plaudits of a play 
 
A dinn er party in 1811. 167 
 
 house are sought with avidity almost valued as the supreme 
 good by many, and boasted of by the individuals, as " I got 
 three rounds * " the pit rose to me." The certainty that the 
 actress must come in contact with (and the world knows not 
 how intimately) those of the same profession of both sexes 
 known to be impure, although of equal or superior talent to 
 herself on the same stage behind those mysterious curtains 
 and scenes in those dark recesses, of which the secluded ma 
 tron, or even the dashing woman of fashion, knows no more 
 than she does of the world beyond the grave the knowledge 
 of these circumstances, and the considerations and impressions 
 flowing from this knowledge all these items ever did, and still 
 do, make the world pause and hesitate and feel shy and queer, 
 when required to associate with an actress, however much it 
 may admire the skill or talents of the individual. 
 
 Spiffard had not thought of all this before his marriage. As 
 a boy, in Boston, he only saw the stage to admire ; in Eng 
 land, he had only seen the bright side of the picture which the 
 drama exhibits. He was pure himself, and void of suspicion 
 in a degree that exposed him to ridicule. He knew nothing of 
 the higher class of English society, except as represented in 
 books, and he knew that actresses were admitted amongst the 
 nobles of the land, and even united in marriage with them. 
 Now that he was married to an actress of talents, he was at 
 first surprised to find, that his wife was considered of an infe 
 rior caste by those who applauded her ; and that, although 
 they invited him to their parties, his domestic partner was not 
 thought of as his and their companion. He had made other 
 discoveries not less inimical to his peace ; and although he had 
 no wish to lead Mrs. Spiffard into the drawing-room of Doctor 
 Cadwallader, or any other magnate of the city, he felt that 
 where his wife was doomed to linger, he ought to remain ; and 
 that, content or not, he must rest wiih her. They were united 
 for better for worse. It was worse than he expected it will 
 Happen so sometimes he hoped to make it better. He had 
 chosen, and chose to abide by his choice. 
 
 Such was the ground Spiffard took in respect to receiving 
 the invitations of those who admired his talents and those of 
 his wife invited him and neglected her. He therefore accepted 
 no invitations. But in the present instance, Cooke prevailed 
 upon him to go with /itm, as his protector from himself. The 
 physicians urged him to comply. The tragedian at length re 
 fused to go without him, calling him his mentor, his guardian, 
 and promising to be guided by him. The water-drinker was 
 
168 JL dinner party in 1811. 
 
 persuaded to waive all objections (the objections, as may be 
 supposed, were neither stated nor discussed), and finally to 
 yield. 
 
 The party at the dinner-table was large. The physicians 
 of the theatrical lion made a part. Mr. Littlejohn and his 
 friend Governor Tompkins sat near Spiffard and Cooke. Op 
 posite to them was a gentleman Spiffard had never seen be 
 fore : a man far past the meridian of life, tall, above the usual 
 height of Americans (and that exceeds the European standard): 
 this height was reduced, however, by a habit of courteous bow 
 ing. His face remarkable for symmetry ; his complexion fair, 
 but rather ruddy ; and his full blue eyes were half closed with 
 smiles while attending to the words of every speaker. The 
 dinner was good, ample, and served with taste. When I speak 
 of a good dinner, I mean such as might have been thought 
 good in England fifty years ago, before gastronomy was a sci 
 ence, or cooks, artistes. The wine was good, and of every 
 choice kind. The host was a man who knew how to welcome 
 his guests and make them at home, by freeing them from su 
 perfluous attentions. The ladies of the family, Mrs. Cadwal- 
 lader and daughters, with a favoured few, graced the table, and 
 according to the custom of those days, soon withdrew after 
 the dessert, taking with them several other nymphs related to 
 them, called Temperance, Sobriety, Moderation, and some 
 times Decency. 
 
 Cooke, who was, to use a green-room phrase, " the great 
 pan of the dairy," had great attention paid to him, and it was 
 evident that much was expected from him ; but nothing came. 
 He was courteous, reserved, not quite silent, but very cautious. 
 When challenged to a glass of wine, he touched the brim or 
 sipped. Tho master of the feast observed his caution, and de 
 ferred any attempt to draw him out for the present. Spiffard, 
 who had been introduced to Governor Tompkins by his friend 
 Littlejohn, was by far the most of a star : for he shone upon 
 every topic which he touched in the course of conversation, 
 without any of the affectation of the theatre, or the forwardness 
 of the traveller ; and displayed a knowledge of subjects so fo 
 reign to what is generally considered the train of study a co 
 median would pursue, that he excited the admiration and fixed 
 the attention of all who were in his vicinity. 
 
 A subject happened to be started which gave Mr. Littlejohn 
 an opportunity of entertaining those near him, and especially 
 Spiffard, by detailing circumstances connected with a scene 
 dear to every American of right feeling. It is one of the pri- 
 
c2 dinner party in 1 8 1 1 . 169 
 
 vileges of age to be sometimes interesting, merely as witnesses 
 of by-gone events, if a habit of observation has charadterized 
 the youth of the witness, and a love of truth accompanies the 
 decline of life. 
 
 A difference respecting the date existed between governor 
 Tornpkins and the remarkably handsome tall gentleman who 
 sat opposite to him. Few men, for beauty or courtesy, could 
 compete with the governor ; but his present opponent, though 
 older, was more dignified in appearance, and would in most 
 eyes pass for the handsomer man. The general, for that was 
 the title by which he was accosted, was a more fashionably 
 dressed man than the governor, or perhaps any person present ; 
 his fine formed face showed little mark of age, except about 
 the eyes and brows, and the brilliancy of his florid complexion 
 the smoothness of his skin, as well as demeanor, turned away 
 all suspicion, which times powder-puff or crows-feet might 
 have excited. As we have said, he was tall above the average^ 
 of even American height, and might be said to be a very hand 
 some as well as very well dressed geatleman. 
 
 Such were the courteous disputants. 
 
 " Mr. Littlejohn, I dare say, can tell us," said the governor. 
 
 " His knowledge," said the referree, "is at all times at the 
 service of the man of the people s choice." 
 
 " We were at a loss for the date (that is, the day, for no one 
 can forget the year) of a very important transaction ; no less 
 than that which put a seal to the federal union and the consti 
 tution of the United States." 
 
 " The doctor s library would resolve that question, but to 
 save trouble I will be your authority. It was the thirtieth day 
 of April, 1789. I believe you, governor, are too young to have 
 been present, but the general might have witnessed the scene." 
 
 Littlejohn looked at the general with an expression which 
 Spiffard noticed, but which was mysterious 1 , and at the time, to 
 him, inexplicable. 
 
 " I was in France at the time," said the geneial. 
 
 " Were you present at the ceremony V asked Spiffard with 
 enthusiasm, addressing the merchant. 
 
 "I was, and assisted, in the capacity of grenadier ; standing 
 in front of the building erected on the site of the old provincial 
 town-house, for the accommodation of Congress, and which 
 was called Federal Hall after the adoption of the consti 
 tution." 
 
 " My dear sir," said Cadwallader, whose attention was at- 
 
170 A dinner party in 1811. 
 
 tracted by the subject, as well as by reverence for the speaker, 
 " as the building you mention has been long swept from the 
 face of the earth, and the place where Washington pledged 
 himself to support that constitution his wisdom aided in form 
 ing, has been devoted to the children of mammon, and to the 
 strife between cupidity and tax-gathering, your description of 
 a place, the memory of which is hallowed in my mind, would 
 be very interesting to us men of these utilitarian days." 
 
 " And a description of the ceremony," said Governor Tomp- 
 kins ;" for though I was old enough to have seen it, I was at 
 Westchester, probably playing the idler at the time, for I wait 
 on a visit to my father, and glad to escape from my master s 
 office, and the study of Coke upon Littleton." 
 
 " Federal Hall, as well as the building which gave place to 
 it, projected into Wall-street where Broad-street terminates, 
 on the one side, and Nassau on the other. A covered way 
 accommodated foot-passengers ; over it was a balcony, the 
 pediment surmounting which was supported by massive pil 
 lars, swelling fancifully in the centre, rather according with the 
 architect s whim than with any known order." 
 
 " Who was the architect, sir?" asked the general. 
 
 " Major L Enfant." 
 
 11 Aha ! a Frenchman. How infinitely are Americans in 
 debted to France. She stepped forward in the cause of free 
 dom, and with unexampled liberality sent her fleets and armie 
 to rescue America from oppression." 
 
 " When I hear of the liberality of Louis the Sixteenth s go 
 vernment in the cause of liberty, and of the debt we owe to 
 France for seizing a favourable opportunity to cripple the 
 power of England, I can only express my dissent by one word 
 a very expressive old English word, though not perhaps 
 classical." 
 
 * What is that, Mr. Littlejohn ?" asked the governor. 
 
 " Fudge!" 
 
 "Ha! ha! But we must not lose Federal Hall and the 
 first presidential inauguration. You have described the pedi 
 ment and its pillars or columns." 
 
 " These pillars divided the open space within which the in 
 auguration took place into three parts, making a picture to 
 those in front of the building, like Raphael s apostles at the 
 beautiful gate of the temple. As Broad-street terminated at 
 this spot, forming an open space, the persons on the balcony 
 were in full view of the populace. The volunteer companies 
 
A dinner party in 1811. 171 
 
 of militia, in full uniform, paraded in front of the Hall, on Wall- 
 street. Some troops of horse, well mounted and equipped, 
 two companies of grenadiers that might have pleased old Fre 
 derick, the one filled by the tallest youth of the city, the other 
 composed of Germans ; many of them men who had found 
 means to remain, as citizens and freemen, among the people 
 their masters had sent them to reduce to the condition of 
 slaves. These, with a company in the garb and military equip 
 ment of Scotch Highlanders, were drawn in line with several 
 bodies of artillery and infantry. My good friends, Generals 
 Morgan Lewis, and Jacob Morton, were both active officers 
 on the glorious day, and could give you many interesting de 
 tails which may have escaped me, a private, and confined to the 
 ranks. Both houses of Congress being assembled, they, with 
 foreign ambassadors and other distinguished persons, filled the 
 balcony and the space behind it. From this elevation, the view 
 of Broad-street was of one living mass, a silent and expectant 
 mass; with faces upturned, they gazed upon the man of their 
 hearts as he walked from the interior of the building, and took 
 his place in the centre of the balcony, between two pillars 
 which bounded the compartment, and formed the principal 
 group of this great historic picture." 
 
 " Mr. Spiffard," said Cadwallader, " precious as youth is, 
 one would almost consent to be old, to have seen such a 
 day !" 
 
 " Not only almost, but quite, sir !" replied Spiffard. 
 
 Cooke listened without appearing to attend. The handsome 
 general bowed, saying, " You have an excellent memory, Mr. 
 Littlejohn. It is a great blessing." 
 
 " That depends upon circumstances, sir," was the reply, ac 
 companied by a glance such as he seemed to keep in store for 
 the general. "It is sometimes convenient to forget and 
 memory may be a curse." 
 
 Cadwallader appeared to notice the look and the reply, al 
 though the general s face gave no symptoms of any movement 
 within ; and the doctor adroitly said, " It was indeed a great 
 historic picture ! You can, perhaps, not only remember the 
 persons present, the figures of the price, but their situation on 
 the canvas." 
 
 " As though it were yesterday." 
 
 " Pray give us the picture," said the doctor. 
 
 * In a painting, costume is essential to truth ; and if I paint, 
 truth shall be my first object." 
 
 Cooke observed in a whisper, " Then you will be the first 
 
172 dinner party in 1811. 
 
 historian (writer or painter) that ever paid her ladyship such a 
 compliment." 
 
 The merchant proceeded. " The president elect made his 
 appearance, that day, in a plain suit of brown cloth ; coat, waist 
 coat, and breeches ; the dress was homespun home-manufac 
 tured, even to the buttons ; which my old friend Rollinson, the 
 engraver, takes pride in saying, displayed the arms of the 
 United States, chased by his graver. White silk stockings 
 showed the contour of a manly leg : and his shoes, according 
 to the fashion of the time, were ornamented with buckles. His 
 head was uncovered, and his hair dressed and powdered ; for 
 such was the universal custom of the day. Thus was his tall, 
 fine figure presented to our view, at the moment which forms 
 an epoch in the history of nations. John Adams, a shorter 
 figure, in a similarly plain dress, but with the (even then) old- 
 fashioned Massachusetts wig, stood at Washington s right 
 hand ; and opposite to the president elect stood Chancellor 
 Livingston, in a full suit of black, ready to administer the pre 
 scribed oath of office. Between them was placed Mr. Otis, 
 the clerk of the senate, a small man, bearing the bible on a 
 cushion. In the back-ground of this picture, and in the right 
 and left compartments formed by the pillars, stood the w r arrior& 
 and sages of the revolution. The men who forgot self for the 
 sake of their country." 
 
 " O, for a painter !" cried Spiffard. 
 
 " Go on with the accessories to your picture, 5 said the 
 doctor. 
 
 " The man on whom all eyes were fixed, and on whom all 
 hearts rested, stretched forth his hand with that simplicity 
 and dignity which characterized all his actions, and placed it 
 on the open book. The oath of office was read. The bible 
 was raised, and he bowed his head upon it. The chancellor 
 announced that it was done that George Washington was 
 the President of the United States of America. The silence 
 of thousands was at an end ; and the air was rent with accla 
 mations, bursting simultaneously from the hearts and tongues 
 of men who felt that the happiness of themselves and their pos 
 terity was secured."* 
 
 * Thank you, sir," said the dactor. 
 
 " O, what a contrast is this simple picture, to the impious 
 mockery and insulting pageantry which attends the coronations 
 
 * This is the description of an eye-witness of the scene. 
 
Jl dinnerparty in 1811. 173 
 
 of European potentates," was the exclamation of the Yer- 
 monter. 
 
 " Those imposing ceremonies, sanctioned by religion, and 
 made sacred by time, have their effect," remarked the general. 
 
 " Imposing ceremonies ! Yes, they have their erfect on 
 those who are kept in ignorance by impostors." Then turning; 
 from the general (who bowed, but could not smile) to SpifFard, 
 the merchant continued. " My young friend, every American 
 must feel proud when contemplating the simplicity and wis 
 dom of our institutions." 
 
 " Will they not last forever ?" 
 
 " Forever is a long day," whispered Cooke. 
 
 * That is a question not for us to answer. It is certain that 
 they will be imitated, and as certain that they will be looked 
 upon with jealousy and enmity misrepresented and plotted 
 against by those who will be interested to destroy them, and 
 perpetuate their own power." 
 
 Doctor Cadwallader seeing that many of his guests were 
 evidently disappointed in not finding the entertainment they 
 expected from the eccentricities of George Frederick, and 
 concluding that it was only when the wine was in, that the hu 
 mour would come out, addressed the tragedian in a tone, and 
 with the intent, to attract the attention of the company. " I 
 have had my professional and guardian glances unceasingly 
 directed to you, my patient, knowing how long you have suf 
 fered from your late illness, and I perceive that you are more 
 afraid of madeira than I think necessary." 
 
 " Doctor," said Cooke, with a glance from the corner of his 
 eyes over his shoulder, " I need not tell a man of your expe 
 rience, that a burnt child dreads the fire. I believe I shall 
 for the future follow the example of this venerable gentleman 
 at my elbow, Mr. SpifTard, who has, like myself, in early life 
 drank so freely of wine, that now, to qualify it, he takes nothing 
 but water." 
 
 " But, as you have not yet attained his venerable age, or 
 had either opportunity or inclination to injure yourself in that 
 way, I advise, as your physician, that the water-drinking be 
 put off until to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. " 
 
 " So, here s a bumper toast. The first cultivator of the vine. 
 I prescribe a bumper of madeira to you, and one of Manhattan 
 water to your venerable neighbour unless he returns to his 
 former ways, and takes wine for the remainder of the day 
 come, fill ! Here s to the memory of the first cultivator of the 
 
 VOL. i. n " 
 
1 74 A dinner parly in 1811. 
 
 Tine, and inventor of the exhilarating liquor pressed from its 
 fruit." 
 
 Every glass was filled with madeira, except that of the 
 water-drinker. Every one repeated the toast literally, except 
 Cooke, who added the name of " Bacchus," as the inventor of 
 ihe liquor he loved. 
 
 " Another bumper for Mr. Cooke, as a punishment for alter 
 ing the toast," cried out one of the company who had not been 
 so cautious in his libations during the feast. 
 
 " I submit to the punishment. I have generally found it 
 easier to receive than to pay. I am bound to take what my 
 physician prescribes." Arid having drank a second bumper, 
 he added, " This is better than any prescription I have swal 
 lowed of your ordering of late, my dear doctor. Call you this 
 punishment V 9 
 
 " I think, sir," said Spiffard, addressing Cadwallader, " that 
 Mr. Cooke ought to be enjoined to take a tumbler of the me 
 dicine Doctor Davenport prescribed when called in at the late 
 consultation." 
 
 " That would be punishment." 
 
 " And you deserve it for robbing the inventor of wine of his 
 due, and giving it to another." 
 
 " What, sirr, what ! Would you transfer the worship from 
 Bacchus to any other hero or divinity ? Who, sirr, who ? 
 Who but the jolly god invented this heart-cheererl" 
 " Cassio says, the devil." 
 
 False reading ; he called the invisible spirit of wine by 
 that name not this visible and beautiful creature, nor its cre 
 ator. Besides, sirr, that was when his head ached." 
 
 " But, sir, I appeal to Doctor Cadwallader. Who did you 
 mean, sir, by the iirst cultivator of the vine and inventor of the 
 wine-press V 
 
 " Noah, to be sure." 
 
 " What, old Captain Noah ?" said Cooke. 
 " Surely." 
 
 " Then, Mr. Cooke," said the governor, " I fill your glass^ 
 again, arid drink with you to Captain Noah." 
 
 " With all my heart. I will do him all the justice in my 
 power, and endeavour to make up for my unintentional dis 
 respect." 
 
 " O, thou invisible spirit of wine !" slyly whispered Spif 
 fard. 
 
 " I do not wonder," Cooke continued, " that the old gentle 
 man exerted his wits to invent wine after being so long water- 
 drenched. A good rule should work both ways. * Mix water 
 
JL dinner party in 1811. 175 
 
 with your wine, says the philosopher ; if the rule is good, then 
 it is good to mix wine with your water." 
 
 "Good, good!" 
 
 * Most assuredly I am not an admirer of that word mix ;* 
 but these grave and learned doctors, who are my very worthy 
 and approved good masters, say (and I doubt them not, though 
 I cannot account for the fact) that I have too much water in 
 my system. What, then, is the remedy 1 Captain Noah s, to 
 be sure. Wine! generous wine !" 
 
 The visible wine and the invisible spirit of wine, had pro 
 duced very visible effect ; and but for the interference of the 
 young Mentor at his elbow, the convalescent tragedian would 
 have soon shown symptoms of his old complaint. SpifFard, 
 assisted by one of the physicians, contrived to substitute a de 
 canter of wine-and-water for that of wine which was at his 
 side, and by filling for his friend, kept him in that moderate 
 state of excitement which merely exhibited him to advantage. 
 
 A few songs were introduced ; and in this part of the enter 
 tainment Spiffard amply contributed ; for his knowledge of 
 music, and stores of the best songs of every description, made 
 him an invaluable guest at any musical or convivial party, and 
 rendered it easy for him to prescribe his own course, and per 
 severe in it, in respect to his water-drinking. 4 Nor numbers, 
 nor examples, with him wrought to swerve from his resolves. 
 
 The conversation turned naturally upon actors and acting. 
 Cooke s remarks on his contemporaries of the stage, were al 
 ways liberal when he was himself. He gave Kemble all the 
 praise he deserved, although it was evident that he placed him 
 far below Mrs. Siddons, in the s,cale of histrionic excellence- 
 Garrick and Henderson he had only seen, but never played 
 with. He professed to aim at the one in Richard, and the other 
 in Falstaff. In Sir Archy and Sir Pertinax, he remembered 
 their author, old Macklin ; but he played them even better. 
 When descanting on the merits of others, he undesignedly im 
 pressed upon his hearers a conviction of his own pre-eminent 
 talents in his profession. 
 
 Surely actors should avoid the appearance of slighting those 
 who preceded them. The fame of an actor only lives in the 
 praise of those who follow him. He leaves no impress of him 
 self, but as he is imitated by others. We are apt to bestow our 
 admiration on those who " strut their hour on the stage" before 
 us, and doubt the testimony of writers who have recorded the 
 merits of their contemporaries. This was not a failing of 
 Cooke s. Happily this day was one of his brightest. He ex 
 erted himself to please, and was successful. 
 
176 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Conversation and coffee Politeness and hartnony. 
 
 " Black spirits and white, blue spirits and gray, 
 Mingle, mingle, mingle ; ye who mingle may. 
 
 " It is certain that either wise bearing, or ignorant carriage ; is caught as 
 men take diseases, of one another: therefore let men take care of their 
 company." 
 
 " L e t m e see wherein 
 
 My tongue hath wronged him : if it do him right, 
 Then hath he wronged himself; if he be free, 
 Why then, my taxing like a wild goose flies, 
 Unclaimed by any man." 
 
 " How blest are we that are not simple men! 
 Yet nature might have made me as these are, 
 Therefore I will not disdain." 
 
 " Their own hard dealings teaches them to suspect 
 The thoughts of others." 
 
 {t Of government the properties to unfold 
 
 Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse. 
 
 * * * * The nature of our people our city s institutions 
 
 You are pregnant in." 
 
 :t Sour-eyed disdain and discord shall bestrew 
 The union of your bed with weeds so loathly 
 That you shall hate it both." 
 
 " Who can come in and say that I mean her", 
 When such as she is>, such js her neighbour." 
 
 " My face is visor-like, unchanging." Shakspearc. 
 
 THE company removed early from the dinner-table and th 
 Avine, exchanging the fumes of (he cigar for those of the fra 
 grant berry, the exhilarations of the decanter and the song tor 
 those of the tea-pot and the music of female conversation. 
 
 The handsome general left the dining-room before the com 
 pany broke up, and was not found in the drawing room. Thitf 
 gentleman had not been introduced to Spiffard ; and although 
 he most courteously addressed the young man with smiles and 
 a manner intended to be condescendingly encouraging, the 
 water-drinker shrunk from him with a sensation approaching 
 
Conversation and coffee, $c. 177 
 
 to something between dread and loathing. He answered his 
 questions politely, but with great brevity, and withdrew his 
 eyes from the fine features and mild glances as soon as his 
 unwilling reply to the superficial remark would in decency 
 permit. Yet, by a strange anomaly of feeling, he looked for 
 this man in the drawing-room, and seemed to be relieved when 
 he discovered his absence. Cooke was here really the lion of 
 the evening. He was fully alive to the pleasures of society, 
 and in that happy stale of confidence and self-possession, which 
 prompted to eccentric sallies, and enabled him to meet on 
 equal ground the opposition of those who did not choose to sub 
 mit to his occasional dogmatism. The water-drinker was al 
 ways the same, when not assailed on his weak side : and he 
 was at this time in unusual spirits. His musical powers and his 
 conversation had produced their full effect, and he was pleased 
 to see that the man, in whom he took so great interest, had 
 escaped unscathed from the dangers of his recent situation. 
 
 Doctor Cadwallader, one of the oldest and most popular 
 physicians of the city, well known and highly esteemed in every 
 literary as well as fashionable circle, had issued invitations 
 very generally for this evening, and Mrs. Cadwallader had 
 done the same ; consequently the suite of apartments were filled 
 by the young of both sexes, companions or admirers of the 
 young ladies, and with professional men of every description, 
 somo of whom were expressly invited for the purpose of meet 
 ing the famous tragedian : the females of the doctor s family 
 alone formed a brilliant circle ; but, in addition, the rooms were 
 almost crowded by belles and their mamas, who wished to see 
 Richard and Sir Pertinax surrounded by a dramatis personse of 
 every-day life. 
 
 Cooke went through the forms of introduction with all the 
 easy ceremony of the old school, and by the suavity of his 
 manners, softness of his voice, good humoured smiles, and 
 occasional archness, won the hearts of the old ladies, and the 
 admiration of the young. 
 
 * I never will believe," whispered Mrs. Temple in the ear 
 of Mrs. Cadwallader, * I never will believe that such a plea 
 sant old gentleman can be guilty of the acts which have been 
 attributed to him." 
 
 " My dear," said the elegant Mrs. Cadwallader, " these 
 men are strange deceitful creatures. Even our husbands are 
 not always the same amiable pieces of perfection they once 
 were, or as we wish them to be." 
 
 Mrs. Temple s husband seldom came home sober, aad 
 
178 Conversation and coffee. 
 
 never in tolerable humour unless fortune had favoured him at 
 the pharoah or brag table. 
 
 Cooke was at this moment examining a miniature picture (by 
 the accomplished and amiable Malbone) that Miss Cadwal- 
 lader had asked his opinion of. He immediately saw that it 
 was the portrait of the lovely girl herself. 
 
 " My dear young lady, I can only say that it is extremely 
 beautiful and extremely like. I must confess my ignorance 
 of all that relates to this delightful art. Likeness I can see. 
 I peer at those soft eyes and almost imagine that through the 
 long lashes they are peeping at me I look at these swelling 
 ruby lips and think they are breathing odours, and just opening 
 to accost me but, when I turn to the original, I spy a thousand 
 faults in the copy." 
 
 " What are they, Mr. Cooke?" 
 
 " I cannot perceive the laugh that lurks between the eye 
 lids, and about the dimpling cheeks or curling lips there 
 now it is less and less like. I cannot find the rows of pearl 
 that should be here or the blush that spreads and deepens 
 every moment truly the artist s colours have no life in them ! 
 What do you think, madam?" addressing Mrs. Cadwallader, 
 who then joined them. 
 
 " You do the artist injustice, and flatter Louisa at his ex 
 pense." 
 
 " Nay, mama, I think Mr. Cooke is a very good judge of 
 painting, said the laughing Louisa. 
 
 " If my friend Pope were here," said Cooke, " he could 
 talk learnedly on painting, as he is not only actor but painter, 
 and in this same style. He would point out the merits and 
 demerits of this very beautiful portrait for such I can see 
 that it is although I can see that nature possesses many more 
 beauties than art has portrayed. He could descant on colour 
 and keeping, on tint and touch, and tell you why this eye does 
 not spcrrkle like that," and he archly turned his own up to the 
 laughing eyes of the lovely girl " but I have no skill in these 
 things I can paint no face but my own, and burnt cork and 
 brick-dust are the principal colours I require." 
 
 " But, Mr. Cooke," said Mrs. Temple, " is not every actor 
 necessarily a painler? Is he not obliged to conceive an image 
 of the figure, costume, expression, of the character he wishes 
 to represent, and to make his own appearance conform 
 thereto ?" 
 
 " He ought to do all this, madam, and he ought to under 
 stand grouping, that himself and those acting with him may 
 
Politeness and harmony. 179 
 
 present true and graceful pictures to the spectators ; but he is 
 generally content to leave the first to the wardrobe-keeper or 
 tailor, and the last to the stage-manager or prompter." 
 
 " I feel confident," said Dr. Hosack, who with Cadwallader 
 joined the group, " that you, and your friends Cooper and 
 Kemble, do not trust for stage grouping, or dressing, to the 
 prompter or the tailor." 
 
 " Why Tom and black Jack arc generalissimoes : they com 
 mand by virtue of proprietorship." 
 
 " And you," said Mrs. Cadwallader, " by talent. When 
 you call up the image of Richard, lago, FalstafT, or Sir Per- 
 tinax, you see in imagination a countenance and costume con 
 forming to the character, in the same manner that the painter 
 who wishes to represent on his canvass a madonna or a saint." 
 
 " I understand you, madam ; so far the actor is a painter. 
 Both must be imaginative ; or steal, as both do, from those 
 who went before them. But the actor must paint, as the savage 
 does, on his proper person." 
 
 " Or as we do," said Louisa, 4< when preparing for a party 
 or ball." 
 
 * No, no : your care is, only, that grace and beauty may 
 have fair play ; and nature appear in her true loveliness, ac 
 companied by art, not disguised by it. But the actor must 
 be himself the mere board on which to daub the character he 
 is to exhibit a walking piece of paste-board or bundle of 
 rags. He bears his own work about with him on his own 
 person, and is exposed, with it, to be hissed, or hooted, or pelt 
 ed, by the congregated mob of a playhouse." 
 
 " Or to see the effects of his skill," said Cadwallader, " re 
 flected in the eyes of beauty, and hear the enthusiastic plaudits 
 of the thousands attracted by his celebrity." 
 
 Spiffard was in another part of the room with Littlejohn ; 
 well pleased that his aged friend could give him the characters 
 of the various individuals who were grouped in the apartments 
 or occasionally entering. Mr. Littlejohn did not appear averse 
 to playing the part of Asmodeus for the gratification of his 
 young acquaintance. 
 
 " Who is that tall and heavy moulded stupid looking man, 
 who is gazing around him with an inquiring and sinister eye, 
 and an air of vulgar confidence?" 
 
 " Bless me," said Asmodeus, " what brings him here ? He 
 has mistaken the doctor s house for a political tavern-hall, or 
 this congregated assembly for a ward meeting. He is out of 
 place here. 
 
180 Conversation and coffee. 
 
 " Nature has been bountiful to him in bulk." 
 
 " And extremely parsimonious in every intellectual quality, 
 except cunning ; but the deficiency is supplied by dollars and 
 cents ; brawn, cunning, and impudence, qualify him as a 
 brawler at an election, or an intriguer in the lobbies of the legis 
 lature ; consequently he is a man of no small influence. Aha! 
 I see now what has brought him here. He has found the go- 
 Ternor and has taken him aside." 
 
 " Has he influence with him ?" 
 
 ** Yes. Because he can serve him : and our democratic 
 governor knows, that in our democratic government the work 
 of the ruler must be performed by tools of forms as various as 
 their worth. 
 
 " Do you not apply the term democracy and democratic 
 government, incorrectly ?" 
 
 " In my opinion," said the merchant, " a democratic go 
 vernment is one in which the people rule, whether by elected 
 representatives or in their own persons. In the latter case it 
 may be, and has been, an odious tyranny ; in the former it is 
 the perfection of government by law. Both are, in rny accep 
 tation of the term, democracies; because the people govern, 
 sind there are no hereditary rulers, and no privileged class. 
 When I speak of democrat, I mean one who opposes all 
 usurpations upon the people s rights, and submits himself to 
 the laws." 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed SpifFard, " there is our friend the manager. 
 Who is that with him 1" 
 
 " That," said Littlejohn, " is, in my opinion, the best painter 
 in the United States." 
 
 * You forget Stuart, sir," 
 
 " Every man has his taste : I like that young man s pic 
 tures better than Stuart s." 
 
 * You do not tell us his name." 
 
 " Sully. Did you never hear Mr. Cooper, your manager, 
 jspeak of him." 
 
 ** Not that I remember. They appear intimate." 
 
 11 Did the manager never mention any particulars of the 
 painter s life ?" 
 
 44 No, sir." 
 
 " That is because he must have been the hero of his own 
 tale. Sir, one of the first acts of his management was to exert 
 his influence and advance funds to bring forward the young 
 painter by an opportunity of exerting his talents. 
 
Politeness and harmony. ISi 
 
 " Bravo! But, sir, when you speak of our best painters, 
 you forget that we have West, Copley, Trumbull." 
 
 " West and Copley have abandoned us, and Trumbull has 
 been many years a resident of London. If I had thought of 
 the beautiful pictures painted by him, which I saw in this city 
 ten or twelve years ago, representing, in small historical paint 
 ing, some scenes of our revolution, I should not have placed 
 any one before him." 
 
 " There is another American," said Spiffard, " now painting 
 in London, that, I think, excels them all." 
 
 "Indeed! Who?" 
 
 44 Allston." 
 
 " And when I visited Philadelphia, I saw the works of a 
 boy I think his name was Leslie who, in scenes of delicate 
 humour, promises to stand unrivalled." 
 
 This conversation was interrupted, very much to Spiffard s 
 surprise, by the approach of Mrs. Cadwallader, Mrs. Temple, 
 and four or five young ladies, with as many laughing girls, 
 whose sparkling eyes were fixed on the comedian. 
 
 "Mr. Spiffard," said the matron, "your friend Cooke has 
 assured these girls, and given us all assurance, (for we are 
 equally interested,) that you will favour us with a specimen of 
 your skill on the harpsichord, and some of your songs. I have 
 been appointed to make the request." 
 
 " What he has promised, I will endeavour to perform, 
 madam. His assurance of my will is correct, and of that he is 
 a judge ; of my skill, I disclaim his judgment. He cannot tell 
 the difference between a street-ballad-bawler and a Billington 
 or Mara. You shall judge of the worth of his commendation, 
 by the precipitate retreat he will make as soon as he hears the 
 ftound of the instrument." 
 
 So saying, the young actor, attended by the group of female?, 
 and by his friend Littlejohn, moved towards the harpsichord. 
 Cooke walked into the adjoining apartment, which was farthest 
 from the common door of entrance for the company. The in 
 strument at which Spiffard prepared to place himself, was oppo 
 site to this door, and his back, of course, turned to it ; but 
 unfortunately, he cast his eyes upon a mirror, suspended over 
 the harpsichord, and saw an apparition which deprived him of 
 the power of motion, as though he had been transformed to a 
 statue of marble. The chord was struck which shook his rea 
 son. His eyes were fixed ou the mirror ; his face was colour- 
 Jess ; his hands fell upon the keys of the instrument, which 
 emitted a discordant sound, and his pale lips were opened as 
 
 11* 
 
182 Conversation and coffee. 
 
 he gasped for breath. The gay party who surrounded him, 
 stood a moment, as if petrified: their eyes followed his to the 
 mirror, and they instantly turned them to the door ; there the 
 cause of his strange conduct was in some measure accounted 
 for, by what they saw. 
 
 The remarkably tall, well dressed, and handsome gentleman, 
 who had been placed opposite SpifFard at the dinner-table, and 
 who had been addressed as general, but whose name he had 
 not heard, entered the room with a female hanging on his arm, 
 whose rich and splendid attire, tall, slender figure, as well as 
 the wild expression of her countenance, were sufficient to 
 attract a stranger s attention, but not to account for the young 
 man s extraordinary emotion. 
 
 The general advanced, bowing courteously, with the same 
 unchangeable face, that seemed, at table, to defy scrutiny, and 
 only express a desire to please. His companion saluted Mrs. 
 Cadwallader, who received her as if taken by surprise. The 
 younger ladies withdrew, and the general s consort, quitting his 
 arm, followed them. 
 
 The attention of those who were near the musician w r as again 
 attracted to him by the exclamation of * My mother!" and by 
 his falling senseless on the floor. 
 
 Here was " confusion worse confounded." Doctor Cad 
 wallader, who was advancing to meet the newly arrived guests, 
 had his attention called to Spiffard, and, with Mr. Littlejohn, 
 ran to his assistance. Cooke, as we have seen, had retired to 
 the next room. 
 
 Spiffard having recovered sufficiently, was led by the gentle 
 men into a private apartment ; but the doctor was called away 
 by a messenger from his wife, and left the young man with the 
 merchant. 
 
 After a few words interchanged between Mrs. Cadwallader 
 and her husband, he sought the lady whose appearance had 
 produced this strange effect on Spiffard. He found her seated 
 on a sofa with three of his daughters, and apparently reprov 
 ing them. The girls willingly gave place to their lather, who, 
 after a few minutes, left her, proceeded to the general, and ap 
 peared to speak to him very earnestly. 
 
 " I wish, doctor, you would persuade her to return home ; 
 she is very nervous. The coach is still at the door. You have 
 great influence over her." And he turned to a gentleman near 
 him with exquisite nonchalance, and continued a conversation 
 he had been previously engaged in, respecting the want of re 
 finement in American society. 
 
Politeness and harmony. 183 
 
 The doctor cast a scornful glance at him seemed to hesi 
 tate, as if debating internally how to proceed then returned to 
 the lady, arid a few minutes after, they were seen leaving the 
 room together. 
 
 The general had continued to address his neighbour, without 
 appearing to notice the conduct or departure of Cadwallader. 
 
 " You, Mr. Transcript, not having resided any time abroad, 
 are not conscious of the infinite distance that the people of this 
 country are behind those of Europe in all that pertains to po 
 liteness, and, I may say, civilization in general. But as I have 
 passed most of my life in Paris, I am incessantly shocked ; it 
 plays the devil with my wife s nerves, to find a coarseness of 
 manners in the best society, and a vulgar imitation of what she 
 has been used to at home, that is sometimes ridiculous, and 
 always disgusting." 
 
 The person to whom this was addressed, did not seem to 
 relish it ; and his face not being so well disciplined as the gene 
 rals, he coloured, as if offended, and showed other signs of 
 uneasiness ; but as the general was tall and handsome, and 
 very well dressed, and withal, his senior by many years, he only 
 remarked, " I think, sir, our countrymen always become ridicu 
 lous, or worse, by imitating Europeans either in manners or 
 opinions." 
 
 In the meantime, Mr. Littlejohn could not but express his 
 surprise, when alone with Spiffard, at the sudden and strange 
 illness that had overcome him ; for he had observed the change 
 in the young man s countenance, before he fell, fainting, from 
 his seat. 
 
 " Why, my young friend, what is the matter ? What over 
 came you so strangely and suddenly 1" 
 
 " If I did not know that she died years ago, I should say thai 
 woman is my mother !" 
 
 " What woman ?" 
 
 " She, so richly dressed so unlike every other person in 
 the room ; she who entered, leaning for support on the man 
 you called general." 
 
 " O, Mrs. Williams. Were you not introduced to the 
 general?" 
 
 " No ! nor wished to be." 
 
 " He is called a very handsome and very polite man. A 
 traveller, and man of the world." 
 
 " His face appeared to me like a beautiful mask, and I could 
 not but fancy that it was kept on to hide deformity." 
 
 " You show yourself a physiognomist." 
 
184 Conversation und coffee. 
 
 " It is rather feeling than observation." 
 
 General Williams and his wife move among our fashionable 
 people ; but they are becoming rather remarkable." 
 
 ** They are not Americans?" 
 
 " He, is. He is one who has been seen by Europeans wan 
 dering abroad, and from his specious appearance and manners, 
 has been unhappily considered a fair specimen of his country, 
 although ever villilying her institutions, and belying her char 
 acter, in word and deed. l Leaving the fear of heaven on the 
 left hand, he has been fain to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch, 
 to keep up false appearances, or minister to depraved appetites. 
 He married in England, and now lives in a style of splendour 
 betokening riches, probably derived from his wife. Courteous 
 behaviour, and costly entertainments, have ranked them with 
 those who rank themselves highest among us ; but those who 
 look beyond the surface, or see, even there, indications of 
 something within, not corresponding to the without, are giving 
 symptoms of shyness. He is noted for imitating the aristoc 
 racy of Europe, in bows, smiles, and sarcasms ; and her ap 
 pearance is such, not unfrequently, in public, as may be thought 
 at least equivocal. But why should such an apparition effect 
 you in this extraordinary manner?" 
 
 " The resemblance to my mother both in person, feature, 
 manner, style of head-dress, and that indescribable expression 
 of countenance which you have hinted at, took me by surprise. 
 You are aware of my susceptibility on a subject that has 
 entwined itself with my very being ; and this extraordinary like 
 ness to one so connected with all my early associations, over 
 powered my reason. Features, complexion, eyes, dark glossy 
 hair ; my mother had a sister, but she was no heiress she 
 could not " 
 
 " Such resemblances and coincidences frequently occur." 
 
 " I am ashamed that I have caused so much trouble and con 
 fusion." 
 
 " You have told me of the misery your father endured, and 
 have spoken of the cause. He did not brave the opinion of the 
 world." 
 
 " O no ! He bore his sorrow patiently, and endeavoured to 
 hide its cause." 
 
 * But here is one who looks as if that did not exist, which all 
 sees, and he ostentatiously exhibits." 
 
 l How can such conduct be accounted for?" 
 
 " It would appear at first view unaccountable ; but the mind 
 
I . 
 
 Politeness and harmony 185 
 
 f>f man is ever active and that which is strange, leads to sus 
 picions and conjectures, all perhaps, unfounded." 
 
 * And you say this man married in England ?" 
 
 * Yes. But except the fortuitous resemblance you spoke 
 of, all this does not touch you so nearly as it does those who 
 have been the intimates of the parties. Come, let us return to 
 the company." 
 
 " I am sick sick, sir. I must go home. I will explain ta 
 you another time. But, notwithstanding discrepant circum 
 stances, I cannot discard a belief that I have seen the sister of 
 my mother." 
 
 " Discard all unpleasant thoughts ; you owe an apology to 
 our kind hostess ; and see, here she appears, anxiously looking 
 for you." 
 
 Mrs. Cadwallader having ascertained that Spiffard had reco 
 vered; now joined them, and exacted his promise to return to 
 the drawing-room ; and after answering a question of Mr. Lit- 
 tlejohn s, by telling him that Mrs. Williams had gone home, 
 left the friends to follow at their leisure. 
 
186 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 J\fidnight, and an apparition, 
 
 "And didst thpu not, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no 
 more so familiarity with such poor people." 
 
 " I myself could make a chough of as deep chat." 
 <( But this is worshipful society." 
 
 "It is said, labour in thy vocation ; which is as much as to say, let the 
 magistrates be labouring men ; and therefore should we be magistrates." 
 
 " George. Thou hast hit it ; for there s no better sign of a brave mind, 
 than a hard hand." Shakspeare. 
 
 The madness of a lawless mob, 
 
 Is rife to do the devil s job ; 
 
 More fierce, more pittiless, more fell, 
 
 Than any king that groans in hell. Anon. 
 
 "Approve the best, and follow what I approve." 
 
 " Love 
 Leads up to Heaven, is both the way and guide." Milton. 
 
 " A young negro look our horses, with that affectation of extreme polite 
 ness and good breeding, which is so highly amusing in many of his colour, 
 and which inclines me to think that they appreciate the character of a fine 
 gentleman, more than any part of the community." Latrobe. 
 
 DOCTOU CADWALLADER, whose patient she was, having con 
 ducted Mrs. Williams home, returned to the company, and 
 found the general bowing, smiling, conversing, or listening, 
 apparently as much at ease as if nothing had happened in any 
 way extraordinary. The doctor passed him without speaking, 
 and assiduously shunned him for the remainder of the evening. 
 
 Mrs. Cadwaliader took her hushancl aside, and spoke to him 
 with warmth in a low tone. His reply wag, " Never again ! 
 But where," added he, " is the young gentleman who fainted 
 so unaccountably at her appearance ?" 
 
 " Still with Mr. Littlejohn, in your study." 
 
 She joined a group of ladies, and, at the moment, Littlejohn 
 and Spiffard entered, the latter intending to make his apologies, 
 
Midnight, and an apparition. 187 
 
 and retire ; but his intentions were prevented by the doctor, 
 who immediately addressed him with inquiries, and cheerful 
 assurances. 
 
 " It is strange, Mr. Spiffard, that the entrance of Mrs. Wil 
 liams should have such an effect upon you. Gentlemen of 
 your profession see such a variety of character, that one might 
 expect you to be proof against any exhibition. I am sorry 
 that my house should have been the theatre where such a 
 scene occurred." 
 
 " My apology must be, sir, that I saw or fancied a resem 
 blance to a person in whom I was formerly much interested. 
 The sudden recurrence of images exceedingly painful threw 
 me off my guard and overpowered mind and body. I hope 
 you will excuse and forget my behaviour. I wish to apologize 
 to Mrs. Cadwallader and then steal away, unnoticed. I have 
 caused a great confusion where only pleasure ought to reign." 
 
 " No, no. You were not the cause. Why should you think 
 more of the affair when you see how coolly the general takes 
 it. He is a better actor than you are." 
 
 " That may well be, sir." 
 
 " At least" said Littlejohn, " on the great stage, where all 
 are merely players. Williams, like the old greek actors, 
 plays in a mask. If I am not mistaken in Mr. Spiffard he is 
 only an actor in the mimic world, and has no disguises for the 
 great masquerade of real life. My young friend will excuse 
 me, I hope, for saying, that, my attachment to him, recent as 
 our acquaintance is, proceeds principally from a conviction 
 that in private life he is no actor. He appears to me to be a 
 creature without disguise himself, arid without suspicion of dis 
 guise in others." 
 
 Spiffard looked serious, paused a moment, then replied, "As 
 I feel the necessity of speaking of myself, permit me to say, 
 that, at my first entrance into life as a man, I found the com 
 mon opinion in respect to players was, that they were more 
 artificial in their intercourse with the world than other men ; 
 and having from my earliest infancy a most devout love of 
 truth, I determined that my love of the drama should not inter 
 fere with what I considered the very essence of moral worth. 
 I have been and I trust I shall always remain, rather one that 
 wears his heait upon his sleeve for daws to peck at, than a 
 hypocrite or an actor in my intercourse with society ; perhaps 
 these feelings may render my manners less acceptable, but I 
 would rather be esteemed unpolished by others, than know 
 myself, false." 
 
188 Midnight, and an apparition. 
 
 The doctor shook the young man by the hand cordially, and 
 after a little more conversation, persuaded him to remain, for 
 at least a part of the evening. Cooke, who had been engaged 
 in chat with Governor Tompkins and knew nothing of what had 
 befallen Spiffard, advanced from the inner apartment with his 
 companion. Littlejohn introduced the two last mentioned, and 
 the conversation that the Governor and the tragedian had been 
 engaged in, which was theatrical, was continued ; until Wil 
 liams, with his courtly smiles approached and joined them. 
 Cadwallader walked away. Doctors Hosack, McLean, and 
 Francis advanced, and the first accosted Tompkins with a 
 question relative to the western part of the state. Spiflard 
 shrunk from the courteous general s approach, and appeared to 
 place Littlejohn between him and the man of bows, as a safe 
 guard. No introduction took place. The frank and urbane 
 manners of the governor led to ease and cheerful chat, as was 
 customary wherever he came ; and a colloquy ensued, of which 
 we will endeavour to give the reader a part, at the risk of hold 
 ing him too long from the stirring incidents of our story. 
 
 Doctor Hosack s inquiries led to the first subject of discus 
 sion. 
 
 " Before I was married," observed Littlejohn, " I indulged 
 jrny propensity to travel, which has always been very great." 
 
 " I thought, sir, you had never been in Europe," said Wil 
 liams. 
 
 * Never, sir, nor in Asia or Africa. My first wish was to 
 gain a knowledge of my native land ; hoping afterwards to see 
 others, when qualified to make comparisons. My most ardent 
 desire at that time, governor, was to pry into the manners, 
 and study the character of the aborigines." 
 
 " The opportunities for that study are much greater now," 
 said Tompkins. " I have, probably, while travelling the circuit 
 when I was a judge, passed over more Indian ground than you 
 could penetrate through in your early days, by any effort that 
 a white man might then be able to make." 
 
 " True, sir, but not find so many Indians." 
 
 " They have been sadly abused and cheated," said Williams. 
 
 The merchant continued. " My first journey was made un 
 der the wing of your predecessor, Governor George Clinton, 
 when he made our treaty with the six nations, which opened 
 the way for that immense display of the arts of civilization, 
 now rendering the then wilderness, from the Mohawk to Lake 
 Erie and from the St. Lawrence to the Alleghanies, a land 
 flowing with milk and honey ; teeming with beings united as 
 
Midnight, and an apparition. 189 
 
 brethren and cultivating science while they cultivate the soil. 
 I then saw enough of the red men to excite my curiosity in 
 tensely ; and I prevailed upon one of the interpreters, (a white 
 man who, when a child had been carried off and adopted by 
 those who murdered his parents,) to be my guide into that 
 country of the west, which although now smiling with orchards, 
 gardens, meadows and corn-fields ; studded with villages, 
 towns and cities ; was then an almost impenetrable thicket, 
 forbidden to the white man unless he passed over it with fire 
 and sword. With this guide, and after the treaty which open 
 ed my path, I commenced my journey ; and I look back upon 
 it as the most delightful portion of my life ; probably because 
 the most teeming with novelty, at an age when all is new." 
 
 " But," said Williams, ".I should think it very monotonous ; 
 and peculiarly unprofitable, unless it led to a speculation in 
 furs." 
 
 " My speculations, although a merchant, have been aimed 
 to penetrate beyond the skin, or any other covering, whether 
 in the desert or the drawing-room. The speculations I then 
 made, and the knowledge I obtained of facts, traditions, cus 
 toms, manners, religion, superstition, impostures, (for there 
 are impostors even among uncivilized men,) most unblushing 
 and steady-faced impostors, wearing masks more impenetrable 
 than any I have met with in refined society : fellows who, 
 though never trusted as leaders, have an influence in savage 
 life, as great as their brethren exercise over the ignorant in 
 polite society." 
 
 " The result of your inquiries would be very acceptable," 
 said the governor. 
 
 " The result of my inquiries, at that time, and some little 
 since, compared with what I can gather from books, has pro 
 duced such opinions respecting the character of our Indians as 
 differ from those of most men." 
 
 44 And they are " 
 
 " First," said Hosack, "let me help you to a glass of this 
 Madeira. " 
 
 " And I will," said Tompkins, " with his permission, fill a 
 glass for Mr. Cooke. Cadwallader keeps the best madeira in 
 the state. What do you think of that colour, Mr. Cooke 1" 
 
 " It is brighter than that of an Indian painted for a war-dance 
 or scalp-hunt." 
 
 ** As deceitful and as deadly." 
 
 " O, no ! Mr. Spiffard, when not abused, it is as hospitable 
 and as generous," was the apology for the bright liquor 
 made by doctor McLean. 
 
190 Midnight, and an apparition. 
 
 At this moment two black waiters bowed before them, 
 dressed with as much attention to the fashion of the day, as 
 any person in the room, not even excepting the handscme 
 general, and with all the tact of European footmen they pre 
 sented the splendid salvers, bountifully laden, the one with 
 porter, wines and cordials, the other with cakes, fruits, and 
 sandwiches. 
 
 Character is shown in trifles. Cooke threw down a bump 
 er at one toss of the glass. Tompkins and Hosack held up 
 the wine and looked through it at the brilliant chandelier above 
 them, seeming to enjoy the flavour through the eye by antici 
 pation. McLean and Francis touched glasses, and made less 
 of the imaginary but quite as much of the real taste of the li 
 quor. Littlejohn touched his lip to the glass, filled for him by- 
 doctor Hosack, and put it away. Williams took a plate and 
 filled it with eatables after tossing off a tumbler of foaming 
 brown-stout ; and Spiffard gently declined the proffered tempta 
 tions by an inclination of the head. 
 
 " And now, my dear sir, your opinion of our red-skins." 
 said Tompkins. 
 
 " Or rather," said Cooke, " the red-skins of the forest. We 
 do not ask our own characters." 
 
 " Our Indians appear to me so essentially different from all 
 the other races of men," said the merchant, " that the more I 
 have examined the subject, the more wonderful it has appear 
 ed to me. The wide difference between the savage and civil 
 ized man is obvious, and easily explained. But the very na 
 ture of the American savage, is the opposite in many respects 
 to the savage of any other part of the globe. We have just 
 seen two negroes, whose ancestors were brought hither as 
 slaves, by the ships of speculating Christian merchants, free 
 men of England or her colonies these were savages in the 
 literal acceptation of the word I meant the African negroes, 
 not the European merchants " 
 
 " Thank you, sir, for the commentary, " said Spiffard, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Whatever lexicographers may say, I never could confound 
 the words savage and barbarian. The first may be innocent, 
 the last must be cruel." 
 
 " A nice distinction, Mr. Cooke." 
 
 " Sirr, the merchants who fit out slave-ships are barbarians. 
 They send forth their hell-hounds to hunt men for the torture of 
 the sugar mill, as the pious cavallieros of Spain halloo d on 
 their blood-hounds in chase of Indians for the living-death of 
 
Midnight, and an apparition. 191 
 
 their gold-mines. A savage may be a barbarian a slave- 
 dealer must be one." 
 
 The general had finished one plate-full taken a glass of 
 champagne, and was helping himself to another supply of 
 jelly, when he observed, "the African is benefited by the 
 change, in my opinion as for slavery all are slaves but those 
 who command by virtue of knowledge or riches." 
 
 The merchant proceeded, "The fathers of these two cring 
 ing waiters were savages, whose black skins have been orna 
 mented with lines, circles, and crescents, scored by a flint- 
 knife or sharp-edged shell, and whose intellectual attainments 
 might be estimated by the insuperable difficulty of teaching 
 them to count ten. Now, see their sons, as courteously ser 
 vile as the descendants of the European kidnappers who en 
 slaved their fathers ; and probably as well versed in vice. 
 They imitate the white in every species of foppery, folly, ab 
 surdity and crime. They imitate him as tyrants and as slaves. 
 Not so the Indian. The conformation of his head shows his 
 great superiority to the imitative negro ; and he feels in his 
 woods and prairies superior to the encroaching white-man, 
 The vices of civilization brought in contact, undermine him 
 and he perishes ; but he never bows. He is eloquent and 
 polite never cringing. Two young Osages or Iroquois could 
 never be induced to carry the delicacies of a drawing-room 
 around, like those black*, and bow, and cringe, and fly, at the 
 nod of the white man, although they see the white man do it." 
 
 " They are not too prord to serve us as warriors, hunters, or 
 voyageurs." remarked the governor. 
 
 4 True : but without servility. They are at home in the fight 
 the chase and the canoe. They adopt our weapons and excel 
 in their use. They serve us in the forest or on the rivers and 
 lakes, and are proud to show their superiority to us. You 
 could not by the training of centuries bring the descendant of 
 an Indian to bear himself like yon black." 
 
 " Or like yon white," said Cooke. 
 
 " Yet, they are great beaux," said the governor. 
 
 " True, sir, no beau in this assembly, and I can see a great 
 many periect coxcombs, is more attentive to ornamenting his 
 person than a young Indian brave. Both their men and women 
 are as fond of show, and as much tickled with tinsel, as we 
 are ; but the Indian would not, like the black, or the white, 
 dress himself like a chief and conduct himself like a slave." 
 
 " This may be all true," observed Dr. McLean, " but is it 
 not his pride that makes him suppress any token of admiration 
 
192 Midnight and an apparition. 
 
 at the inventions and improvements of the white man, although 
 he wishes to imitate them ?" 
 
 " He values his independence too highly to pay the price." 
 
 " He is revengeful." 
 
 " As a white." 
 
 " Deceitful." 
 
 " To destroy his enemy. It is the theory and practice of 
 European warfare." 
 
 " He is a drunkard," said Spiffard, " and to obtain the 
 Means of excitement, will degrade himself to become a liar 
 and a thief." 
 
 " In this, I acknowledge that he imitates his white neigh 
 bours. This is one feature which puzzles me in the char 
 acter of this proud people. Their religion, their liability 
 to be deceived by false prophets and conjurers, and some other 
 points may be accounted for; but their obstinate rejection of the 
 truths of Christianity, or, if apparently received, its utter ineffi- 
 *acy, is, to use the same word, another puzzle. The present 
 race of Europe is a mixture of the three divisions of the old 
 world. All nations, while in a savage, or semi-savage state, 
 have bowed the head to the law of the gospel. At first to the 
 outward forms, and by degrees to the spirit, more or less, ac 
 cording to circumstances. If a king, chief, or leader, was in 
 duced to receive the sign of the cross, all his nation, people, 
 or followers, professed themselves Christians. But the abori 
 gine of America either rejects peremptorily, or acquiesces 
 from politeness. He will hear sermon, kneel at mass, hang a 
 cross among his ornaments, bat he remains ever ready for the 
 chace of beast or man, ever delighting in blood and torture." 
 
 The success of some missionaries, particularly the Mora- 
 yians, may be objected, but their great and exemplary efforts 
 produced but transient and partial effect. Individuals doubt 
 less became Christians, (at least I am willing to believe so) but 
 never did an Indian profess Christianity because a king or chief 
 called himself by that name." 
 
 " Is it not because they will not submit to law," inquired 
 Spiffard. 
 
 " They have an inexplicable moral law, to which they sub 
 mit more willingly than civilized men submit to any legal re 
 straint, however trifling, which interferes with their passions 
 or interests. If an Indian has, in the opinion of his tribe, in- 
 cwrred the penalty of death, and is by the council adjudged to 
 die, although he may be far from home, and beyond all control 
 by coercion, if notified of the doom pronounced, he returns and 
 
Midnight and an apparition. 193 
 
 offers his life to expiate his fault. If he is in debt to any one, 
 he asks time, and life, for a hunt ; brings home the product, 
 settles his pecuniary account, and then meets the final settle 
 ment of the death-blow, without any apparent reluctance." 
 
 As Cooke moved from the group we have been attending 
 to, he repeated, " there are more things in heaven and earth, 
 Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 
 
 " Hypocrisy is carried farther with these savages than with 
 any other people in the globe," was the general s remark. 
 
 " I love them for their democratic independence," said 
 Tompkins. 
 
 " Democracy !" said Williams with a sneer. " They cer 
 tainly are good democrats in filth, drunkeness, deceit and 
 violence." 
 
 " I am sorry, General Williams, that your long residence in 
 Europe has prejudiced you against the institutions of your 
 country. Democracy, government by the representatives of the 
 people, natives of the soil, is the palladium of America. Yoa 
 resided in Paris during the reign of terror, and, excuse me, 
 your prejudices may be derived from what you saw of mobs." 
 
 " No, sir, I was then a pure democrat, but I have since had 
 experience of the vast superiority of European society, and my 
 judgment of the government necessary to produce this superio 
 rity, is founded upon long observation. Every thing in thi* 
 country appears little and mean, with great ostentation and un 
 bounded pretension." 
 
 " Humph! pretension," said Littlcjohn. 
 
 " Your countrymen," said Tompkins smiling, " are muck 
 obliged to you." 
 
 " Nay you must not misunderstand me. I love my coun 
 try sincerely. But you will allow that the vulgar herd think of 
 nothing but levelling. I remember in this city of New- York, 
 and its environs, beautiful and commanding hills, from whose 
 summits we might contemplate the neighbouring islands, with 
 the plains and mountains of New-Jersey, the majestic rivero 
 and bay, and even look to the Atlantic ocean. Then, when 
 entering the superb harbour from the sea, the city appeared to 
 rise from the waters, hill above hill ; now, a foreigner in ap 
 proaching, cries how flat the land is upon which that town is 
 built. He sees nothing but marks of mediocrity and token* 
 of trade." 
 
 " And you may remember, as I do, between these toweling 
 hills, enveloped in mists, like many a haughty European head, 
 deep ponds of stagnant water, the receptacles of filth and 
 
194 Midnight and an apparition. 
 
 sources of pestilence ; low and wide spread marshes, where 
 the bittern fished for the frog, and the snipe hid his long bill 
 in the mud. Where are they now 1 It is true we have a level ; 
 but it is a wholesome level. The materials of superfluous 
 heights have been made useful. The lowly morass has been 
 lifted to the level of the adjacent plain, and is covered with 
 the neat abodes of thousands the fountains of disease are 
 converted into the habitations of health. Thus it is that de 
 mocracy would and will, by degrees, leave no head so high as 
 to be lifted to the clouds and see mankind through a mist, and 
 will raise from the pestilential miasmata of vice and ignorance 
 those who had been doomed by the aristocracy of former days 
 to the slough of despond or the stagnant pool of corruption." 
 
 " All a dream, sir, a dream !" 
 
 " A glorious reality ! Our institutions are raising millions 
 to the level, and above the level of European society. Our 
 schools daily increase. Millions are imbued with the love of 
 their country ; become familiar with her institutions ; obedient 
 to her laws ; and rich in her literature, and that of their father- 
 Ifcurf." 
 
 " Bravo, governor! Democracy has a worthy champion in 
 the West-Chester farmer s son." 
 
 11 Give me your hand, my old friend, and the friend of my 
 father. You are not afraid of that system which would lift 
 the poor and the ignorant to the level of good citizenship, and 
 reduce the usurper of power to a state wherein he may be use 
 ful instead of prejudicial." 
 
 " All this is very pretty, gentlemen, and very specious. 
 But you are teaching the ignorant and vulgar, who must ever 
 be the mass of society, that they ought to be the rulers of the 
 well bora and well educated. Mere number, that is, brute, 
 force, will govern. The consequence is, that if I, or any 
 other gentleman, come in contact with one of the very lowest 
 of the people, provided the individual does not wish any fa 
 vour, or has no design upon my purse, his language or beha 
 viour will be insolent or brutal. Go into a mechanic s work 
 shop and ask an apprentice for his master : the answer is, I 
 have no master that is, you get no answer. One of the 
 journeymen, if an European, may, perhaps, say, the boss is 
 not here. The meaner officials of the country, from the same 
 cause, assume a tone of familiarity that calls for correction, but 
 which their superiors in office dare not attempt. I have seen 
 a constable in this city put his thumb and finger into the 
 mayor s snuff-box, when offered to a distinguished guest of 
 
Midnight and an apparition. 1 95 
 
 the corporation, and take his pinch with the sangfroid of perfect 
 equality." 
 
 " I am an old man, Mr. Williams I beg pardon general 
 I should have said," and Littlejohn fixed his eyes on the per 
 son he addressed with an expression that might have made 
 the blood mount to the forehead of any other man. " I have 
 Jived many years, and never found that my countrymen were 
 deficient in civility, unless provoked by the assumption of su 
 periority." 
 
 " I think the action I have mentioned was neither civil nor 
 proper." 
 
 * Where," asked Governor Tompkins, " where was the of 
 fence if a constable put his finger and thumb into a mayor s 
 snuff-box ? They are both servants of the same sovereign the, 
 sovereign people ; and both part and parcel of sovereignty. 
 I am an officer of higher grade than the mayor, and 1 have 
 taken my pinch from the box of Jacob Hays, and Jacob has 
 had thumb and finger in mine many a time." 
 
 " Ah, there it is you all look forward to the time of 
 election." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha! May be so ! But my snuff received no injury 
 except from diminution ; for Jacob has a broad thumb and 
 finger, and makes a grasping pinch, as many a greater sufferer 
 than my snuff-box can testify." 
 
 44 Say what you will, governor, I wish to find respect paid to 
 my my " he was going to say rank, but his eye met Little- 
 John s, and he changed his word to "appearance." 
 
 " It is a trite saying, that appearances are deceitful," ob 
 served the last mentioned interlocutor. 
 
 " If I go into an inn," said Williams, " I may stand in the 
 common bar-room for minutes before I can be told whether I 
 may have shelter or refreshment. Whereas, in England, the 
 moment I appear, I am saluted with proper respect, and usher 
 ed into an apartment fit to receive a gentleman." 
 
 " By an obsequious cringing menial, who, not being paid by 
 the keeper of the inn, anticipates, in you, the bearer of his 
 wages," said Littlejohn. 
 
 " Jemmy Bryden, of the Tontine, tells a story of himself when 
 he kept the Fountain inn at Baltimore, perhaps apropos to ap- 
 pearancss" said Tomkins. " Notice had been given to the 
 landlord that President Jefferson would, on a certain day, ho 
 nour the Fountain inn with his presence, and pass the night. 
 Greatly pleased was Jemmy Bryden. He boo d in anticipation, 
 and much he talked of the expected honour. Every preparation 
 
196 Midnight and an apparition. 
 
 was made, and the landlord stood ready on the appointed day to 
 receive the president of the United States with every attention 
 due to his rank. At this crisis a stage-coach drove up to the door, 
 and a tall traveller stept out, with saddle-bags on arm, and 
 was stalking through the hall to the interior of the Fountain 
 inn. 4 Ye canno go in there, said Jemmy, * sit ye doon, mon, 
 in the bar-room. The tall man did as he was desired threw 
 his saddle-bags on one chair and himself on another, with per 
 fect nonchalance ; took out his snuff-box, and after helping 
 himself, offered it, open, to Jemmy, who was in the act of 
 popping in thumb and finger, when a well dressed gentleman 
 approached, and asked, of the tall man, (with the saddle-bags) 
 * when will your excellency have a carriage ordered? at the 
 same time demanding of the astonished landlord why he had 
 not shown the president to the apartments ordered for him V " 
 
 Spiffard seized the opportunity offered by Mrs. Cadwaliader * 
 approach to propose the amende honourable, by taking a place at 
 the harpsichord; and, with her, left the group of gentlemen who 
 had been attracted to listen to the amiable governor. 
 
 Again Spiffard approached the harpsichord, which, as we 
 have seen, was opposite the door of the outward apartment : 
 again he was seated opposite the fatal mirror. Again the ladies 
 surrounded him at the call of Cadwaliader. And this time he 
 was permitted to show his skill both as a vocal and instru 
 mental musician. He sung a plaintive ballad it was thought 
 he had composed it himself and his auditors were melted to 
 tears. He changed suddenly to a strain of mock bravura, 
 and gave a comic song with characteristic expression. The 
 effect his efforts had produced the attentions of the elegant 
 Mrs. Cadwaliader the inspiring looks, and half suppressed 
 sounds of delight, escaping from the lovely girls around him 
 nil tended to encourage the young comedian, and his animal 
 spirits were exalted to their highest pitch, when other sounds, 
 most discordant and shrill were heard, and the company turned 
 to the door from whence they proceeded. 
 
 The first words were indistinct, although screamed by a 
 voice scarcely human. Then was heard, " stand out of the 
 way, fellow ! I will go in !" 
 
 The hand of the musician was arrested his voice faltered 
 he lifted his eyes to the mirror, and again saw the dreaded vi 
 sion which had before deprived him of self-government and 
 stopped the beating of his heart. 
 
 Mrs. Williams burst into the apartment a perfect image of 
 raging insanity, The elegant dress with which she had pre- 
 
Midnight, and an apparition. 197 
 
 viously appeared, when she entered hanging upon the general s 
 arm, and was still, in part upon her, but in utter disorder ; 
 appearing as if the act of disrobing had commenced before the 
 impulse of madness had seized and hurried her from her cham 
 ber to this second humiliating exhibition. No cloak, shawl, 
 or hat, served to hide the ravages made in her habiliments, or 
 veil her distorted maniacal countenance. Her first appearance 
 had been, in part, maudlin ; the second was that of furious 
 passion and raving insanity commingled. Every feature was 
 distorted, and although inexpressibly wild, yet the open mouth 
 and muscles reluctantly obeying the confused intellect, dimmed 
 that brightness which flashes from uncontrolled passion, when 
 its madness is not under the influence of poison. 
 
 Her dark hair hung in disorder, made more conspicuous by 
 the previous care which had been taken in its arrangement, 
 and the remains of ornaments which had been lavished upon 
 the now straggling tresses. In this plight she had walked, or 
 glided, a hideous spectre, through the streets, from the splendid 
 mansion of the general to that of Doctor Cadwallader. 
 
 "Williams! Williams!" she shouted, as she entered, in a 
 tone high, hoarse, discordant. "Williams! I will bear it no 
 longer! Why am I to be left alone? Why am I to be aban 
 doned? I am betrayed! deceived! I will expose the hypo 
 crite. I will let the world know " 
 
 While uttering these ravings, which seemed to threaten some 
 disclosure, as a punishment to be inflicted upon the courteous 
 general, she had advanced, and the receding company gave 
 her ample space to exhibit the wildest contortions of body and 
 limbs. 
 
 The cry of " SpifTard Mr. Spiffard?" was heard, and he 
 was seen by those near the harpsichord, pale, and sinking from 
 the music-stool. Again he might have fallen to the floor, but 
 for the aid of Doctor Cadwallader, and an exertion of mind made 
 by himself, when he found that he was a second time causing 
 a confusion, which to the company must appear inexplicable or 
 ridiculous. 
 
 The unhappy woman ceased her call upon her husband, as 
 soon as the name of Spiffard struck her ear. She stood still a 
 moment. " Who says Spiffard ? Where is he ? Where s the 
 Yankee farmer 1 Where s my sister ? Let me see Spiffard ! 
 Let me see my sister! My father! My mother! O, my 
 mother !" 
 
 Williams, who had been seated on an ottoman, making him 
 self agreeable to a lady, at the time his wife entered, was, for 
 
 VOL. i. 12 
 
198 Midnight, and an apparition. 
 
 once, taken by surprise. He at first strove to appear uncon 
 cerned ; but when certain words reached his ear, he started 
 from his seat, and hurrying through the retreating crowd that 
 had made a circle round his wife, arrived in time to prevent her 
 falling on the floor, as she called upon her father and mother, 
 in a tone that indicated exhaustion and returning reason, ac 
 companied by deep, heart-breaking sorrow. 
 
 The physicians hastened to her assistance, and the unhappy 
 woman was conveyed home ; this time, accompanied by the 
 general, who had murmured something, in broken sentences, of 
 " delicate health unhappy disease nervous affection," to 
 those who assisted and rode with him to his door, in a coach 
 offered by one of the company. 
 
 Spiffard was surrounded by friends, among whom was Little- 
 john, all interested in his apparent suffering, and all very much 
 at a loss to account for the extraordinary incidents of the even 
 ing. He soon took leave of his kind hostess, and retired. 
 After much whispering, tale-telling, and many grave looks, and 
 foreboding shakes of the head, the various groups dispersed, 
 and left the doctor and his lady to form plans for their future 
 conduct towards those of their guests who had been most con 
 spicuous in the scenes of pain and pleasure, on which we now 
 drop the curtain. 
 
 Before we proceed with our hero s story, which is becoming 
 more interesting as it approaches the catastrophe, it is neces 
 sary to go back, and see how, and by what means, General 
 Williams, the handsome American, and his English wife, had 
 become connected with the fate of the Yankee water-drinker. 
 
 We are not practised in the delightful art of story-telling, 
 whether true or false, real or imaginary ; but we find that others 
 who have practised the art with success, have thought it not 
 inconsistent with that interest which they wish to excite in their 
 readers, to skip backwards and forwards in their narrations ; 
 now dropping the chain of events (as a housewife drops a 
 stitch in her knitting work ;) now taking it up again, and filling 
 the void skilfully, (like the aforesaid industrious dame :) so that 
 their work (like the glove or stocking,) may be made to suit 
 those it is intended for. This being the established mode, wo 
 shall in all humility follow it. 
 
 The reader has seen that our lover of truth and water found 
 his maternal grandfather, Mr. Atherton, when he visited him in 
 Lincolnshire, reduced to poverty ; that he had lost his wife ; and 
 that he was dependent upon the exertions of his only remaining 
 daughter for subsistence. This daughter, once thought little of 
 
Midnight, and an appantion. 199 
 
 in comparison with her beautiful sisters, had proved the only 
 solac of his age. This neglected one was not adorned by 
 polished skin, or Grecian feature, but she possessed the lasting 
 beauties of the mind. Cheerful, pious, dutiful, and industrious; 
 she was the prop of the paternal tree, that had not afforded 
 her a due portion of its protecting influence, when its stem was 
 vigorous, and its branches flourishing. 
 
 The neglect which Sophia Atheiton had experienced from 
 her father and mother, taught her to rely upon another parent ; 
 and caused her to seek instruction from the sources which that 
 parent had placed within her reach. 
 
 We have seen that our hero did his duty, in placing his 
 grandfather and aunt beyond the reach of want. We will go 
 still further back, take up another stitch, and bring up another 
 thread of our knitting work, in another chapter. 
 
200 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Things as they were, thirty years ago. 
 
 "A paramour is, God bless us, a thing of naught." Shakspeare. 
 
 " O, what a tangled web we weave, 
 When first we practise to deceive." Scott. 
 
 " Smile in men s faces, smooth, deceive, and cog; 
 Duck with French nods, and apish courtesy." 
 
 " Methought a serpent eat my heart away." 
 
 " Cupid is a knavish lad, 
 Thus to make poor females mad." 
 
 "One man holdeth troth, a million false." 
 
 " Which is the villain 1 Let me see his eyes ; 
 That when I note another man like him, 
 I may avoid him." 
 
 "O what authority, and show of truth, 
 Can cunning sin cover itself withal." Shakspeare. 
 
 " Meine Ruh 1st hin. 
 Meine Herz ist schwer ; 
 Ich finde sie nimmer 
 Und nimmerrnehr." Goethe. 
 
 " Wrong has but wrong, and blame the due of blame." Shakspeare. 
 
 I HAVE pledged myself to give some account of the hand 
 some and courteous General Williams, and to explain his 
 connection with the fate and story of Zebediah Spiffard. 
 
 William Williams, (who had contrived to assume, with some 
 plausibility, the title of general, in consequence of a short period 
 of enrolment in the French republican army, at the commence 
 ment of their struggles for liberty,) was one of those unprin 
 cipled speculators, who have, in the minds of the superficial, 
 left a stain on the American character in Europe. He was a 
 Pennsylvanian by birth, and descended from one of the com- 
 
Tilings as they were thirty years ago. 201 
 
 panions of William Perm ; but had very early in life, thrown off 
 both the principles and garb of the primitively apostolic society, 
 of which his ancestor had been a member and leader. 
 
 By the death of his parents, he was left in possession of 
 some property, which he dissipated even before he " was read 
 out of meeting." After sponging upon such of his countrymen 
 as his exterior and professions could deceive, (and he had " a 
 tongue could wheedle with the devil,") he sought a wider field 
 for the display of his abilities in Europe. He did not go empty* 
 handed to Paris ; and arriving at a time when his professions 
 of zeal in the cause of liberty, as well as his being an Ameri 
 can, were recommendations, he entered the army under the 
 auspices of the good LaFayette ; but found means to retire, 
 before seeing any active service, with the rank of major, which 
 was easily advanced to that of general, after going to London. 
 
 The vicissitudes occasioned by the many revolutions of 
 France, enabled him to gamble, or speculate, to advantage in 
 Paris : he, however, found it convenient to cross the channel, 
 and he arrived at the metropolis of Great Britain with a full 
 purse, splendid appointments, and an honourable military title. 
 All this was not sufficient to gain him an introduction to the 
 higher classes of that great city. He imitated their vices and 
 extravagance ; but his schemes upon their gold and bank notes, 
 though backed by skill, failed, at the outposts of nobility, the 
 gaming tables, to which he had gained admittance. Many 
 other schemes failed, although some succeeded, and he was 
 nearly at the bottom, where ebbing fortune threatened to leave 
 him, when, at a public place, he met the attractive Sophia 
 Atherton. 
 
 The outward marks of wealth had not been stripped from the 
 general, and he succeeded in gaining an introduction to, and at 
 tracting the attention of this fallen, and now neglected, victim of 
 seduction. Though much her senior, he was younger, hand 
 somer, and more attentive than her noble seducer ; and found 
 no difficulty in commencing a suit which ended in a very dif 
 ferent manner from his first intentions. 
 
 Williams, who was in all things as great a libertine as the 
 hereditary lawgiver of Great Britain, with whom Miss Ather 
 ton lived, met her at one of those ball-rooms, where persons 
 who had fallen, like her, but were yet of the first class of the 
 degraded, (and who resorted to this place by permission, and 
 under certain restrictions, appearing in splendor, attended by 
 the carriages and servants of their illegitimate lords,) were ac 
 customed to assemble ; and where a show of decorum was pre- 
 12* 
 
202 Things as they were thirty years ago. 
 
 served. He gained the information he wished from the proprie 
 tors of this dancing assembly ; and with the cunning of the 
 unwise, conceived a plan for restoring his shattered fortunes, 
 arid escaping that royal seat, called the King s Bench. 
 
 He was informed that my lord was about to marry, and 
 would willingly make pecuniary sacrifices to get rid of the 
 beautiful frail-one in question. My lord was extremely rich 
 a legitimate heir to his estates and titles was his object and 
 the general s informant hinted that his lordship would probably 
 pay well to be relieved from the presence of the lady who had 
 been exhibited in triumph, but was now tolerated as a burthen, 
 which he wished to remove without resorting to harsh, or what 
 might be considered, dishonourable measures. 
 
 The unhappy Sophia, disappointed in her hopes of continued 
 attachment from the man who had gained her heart, (we do not 
 say her love ; heart may mean wishes, desires, hopes, whether 
 of admiration, or riches, or splendor;) disappointed in all her 
 yain expectations, tormented by conscience, cut oft from such 
 society as she could esteem, and made daily more sensible of 
 her deplorable fall, was pleased by the particular attentions of 
 the handsome general ; who appeared as a man of fashion, dis 
 tinction, and wealth. They met frequently at the before-men 
 tioned dancing assembly, and after, by appointment, at other 
 places ; she guardedly preserving with fidelity, that treaty with 
 my lord, by the terms of which she enjoyed the liberty she ex 
 ercised; and always accompanied by his lordship s servants, in 
 attendance, or by some person appointed by him. Of course, 
 he was apprised of Williams s attentions to his protegee, and she 
 knew that he had such information. After a time, my lord told 
 her that if the gentleman would marry her, he would yield his 
 consent, however unwillingly, and would settle a handsome 
 annuity upon her for life. 
 
 Williams found the charms of the beautiful Sophia, (who 
 communicated the munificent intentions of my lord,) increase 
 as his funds and credit diminished and became more pressing, 
 in proportion to the pressing calls of his creditors. The dread 
 of that resting place, before named a place not unknown to 
 several of our republicans who have made their visits too long 
 to the land of their fathers increased. This uneasy bench 
 began to appear in his dreams ; the fear of it made him more 
 fervent in protestations, and more assiduous in attentions. 
 
 The lady, on her part, became, in some measure, attached to 
 her professed admirer. Her hopes rested on him. To become 
 a wife, was, of itself, a circumstance ardently to be desired. 
 
Things as they were thirty years ago. 203 
 
 She hoped that she might again be received as a child at the 
 paternal hearth. She saw, or imagined, a way opened by which 
 she might escape the tortures of an upbraiding conscience ; for 
 conscience, though lulled by the opiates of dissipation, would 
 awake, and the voice was louder at every awakening. She 
 hoped yet for the blessing of her father, and to have the stains 
 of sin washed from her by the tears of repentance and forgive 
 ness, shed and mingled on the bosom of her mother ; for yet 
 she knew not that she was the murderer of that too fond and 
 indulgent parent. She encouraged the adventurer s addresses, 
 in the delusive hope of retrieving character, and finding happi 
 ness ; for " hope is swift, and flies with swallows wings." Wil 
 liams pursued her to avoid a prison, satisfy his creditors, and 
 secure the means of living, if not in splendour, at least in sen 
 sual indulgence. Her beauty, for yet her brilliant complexion, 
 (aided by the arts of the milliner, mantua-rffaker, and other 
 coadjutors of the toilet,) lent to Sophia Atherton no small por 
 tion of attraction for such a man as William Williams. 
 
 The other party to this bargain, the noble peer, who could 
 trace his blood to one of the robbers attending upon the Nor 
 man conqueror ; (and who had, as we have seen, watched the 
 progress of the intrigue,) chose his opportunity to bring it to a 
 close. One morning, (that is, a little before sun-set in June,) 
 when he, by appointment, met Sophia, he, assuming an air of 
 badinage, and exercising a degree of frankness, not often put 
 in requisition, told his victim that he thought " the Yankee gen 
 tleman" would " serve her turn," and advised her to secure 
 him. His frankness, however, did not extend so far as to make 
 known to her that the general was no general ; and tint the 
 splendid equipage, furniture, and other indications of wealth, 
 were unpaid for. 
 
 " I will do my endeavour to arrange matters in such a man 
 ner that you shall have no just cause to complain of my want 
 of liberality. The general will make you what is called * an 
 honest woman ; and if he takes you to Yankee-land, you will 
 shine as a brilliant star among the pine-knots of New-England, 
 or a sun, illuminating with your splendour, the fashion-aping 
 coteries of Boston or Washington." 
 
 We will not record the answer of the humbled and penitent 
 Sophia. The interview ended in an understanding that Wil 
 liams should be invited by her to see my lord s collection of pic 
 tures, statues, medals, and other evidences of his virtu ; and 
 a concerted-accidental meeting should take place between the 
 noble peer and the ignoble general. 
 
204 Things as they were thirty years ago. 
 
 This happened as was arranged. Let it be observed that 
 the female partner in the transaction was the only one who did 
 not attempt to deceive. The general imposed upon her, and 
 wished to impose himself upon the noble, as a man of honour 
 and wealth. The noble had obtained a knowledge of the worth- 
 lessness of the impostor upon whom he intended to place the 
 ostensible responsibility for the future welfare of the woman he 
 had ruined ; but was satisfied that he acted as a man of hon 
 our, in providing her with a husband, and securing her from a 
 want of the luxuries she had been accustomedto. Sophia impart 
 ed to the man on whom her hopes now rested, all her former 
 aberrations and future aspirations. She was again deceived ! 
 
 The two gentlemen alas ! that the term should be so pros 
 tituted the nobleman and general (these words must pass 
 for designations of the individuals who met to complete the 
 bargain and sale,) concurred in deceiving the object of the 
 traffic. The general, accompanied by his intended wife, ad 
 mired the \vorks of art he ostensibly came to see. My lord 
 dropped in by chance, was introduced ; and the negotiators, at 
 a signal given by the master of the mansion, were left tete-a- 
 tete* by the withdrawing of the lady the property to be bought 
 and sold. 
 
 My lord told Williams that he was aware of his pursuit of 
 Miss Atherton, and added : 
 
 " She is a lovely woman, sir, a treasure, of which, I am con 
 scious that I am unworthy. My age is unsuited to her youth 
 and beauty. She has confessed that you have engaged her 
 affections. Family reasons render it proper that I should 
 marry, and my union with a lady of rank is arranged the time 
 fixed. Now, sir, you are a man of honour a general in the 
 American service " 
 
 " No, my lord I have been in the French army." 
 
 * True, I recollect for to be frank, I have not been so in 
 attentive to Miss Atherton s future prospects, as not to make 
 certain inquiries. You live in style, keep your carriage, and 
 all that but to be plain, I understand that your circumstances 
 are not such as appearances indicate, or, as Miss Atherton 
 thinks them." 
 
 The peer paused. The general determined to throw off a 
 mask which he found was no longer a disguise. He confessed, 
 that he was a bankrupt; but ho was too much under the influ 
 ence of habit not. to begin some smooth sentences respecting 
 remittances and expectations, which the hereditary lawmaker 
 interrupted by proceeding thus. 
 
 " Sir, I believe we understand each other, and may as well 
 
Things as they ivere thirty years ago. 205 
 
 come to the point. We are both men of the world, but I am 
 the greater favourite of fortune, and you the happier as un 
 homme a bonnes fortunes. In plain English, I am rich and you 
 are poor." 
 
 The countenance of the peer was as he spoke the last lines, 
 very like that which Moritz Retzch has given to Mephistophiles 
 in his sketches from Faust. The general kept his own coun 
 tenance bowed and smiled. The rich man proceeded. 
 
 " I will come down handsomely if you will publicly marry 
 Miss Athertori." 
 
 " Publicly (" 
 
 " Publicly. That is, in the presence of undeniable witnes 
 ses. You hesitate. Your friends, you know, need not be 
 made acquainted with any particulars of the lady s former his 
 tory. Your honourable character must be her passport in either 
 hemisphere." Mephistophiles again. 
 
 " Certainly, Sir." 
 
 " I will settle upon her for her life, one thousand pounds of 
 course sterling per annum." 
 
 " For her life." 
 
 " Her life. She is still young true, the young die well, 
 then, if you survive, five hundred a year for your life you 
 shall be a general on half pay." Mephistophiles again. 
 
 " But my present debts ?" 
 
 * What ! must I wipe off all old scores ? well, well, so be 
 it. We will make a clear field." 
 
 Such was the bargain and sale. It is sufficient for us to 
 know that it was fulfilled honourably. The general introdu 
 ced his beautiful wife to his friends, who, being principally 
 Pennsylvanians of a respectable class, were less liable to know 
 the history of Miss Atherton, whose name alone, was made 
 known to them by the husband, with the addition, that her fami 
 ly resided in Lincolnshire ; and the bride and bridegroom left 
 London for the country seat. That she was an heiress was 
 very clear, to the general s creditors. 
 
 Sophia had stipulated that she should visit her parents and 
 sister. Her mother was dead. Her father refused to see her, 
 or forgive her. The knowledge that her mother died in conse T 
 quence of her flight and infamy, was a sore blow, awakening 
 anew her lulled conscience. Her hopes of reconciliation were 
 blasted. Her sister Eliza saw her privately and wept over her. 
 She remembered what had passed in the days of early youth, 
 * school-days friendship childhood innocence," for though un 
 like and differently treated by their parents, there still were " ma 
 ny hours that they had spent together," when they " had chid the 
 
206 Things as they were thirty years ago. 
 
 hasty-footed time for parting them." Besides, religion had 
 taught Eliza forgiveness ; she practised its precepts. To " do 
 as she would be done by," and "to render good for evil," were 
 laws her pure heart never rebelled against. She endeavoured 
 to be a mediator between the father and repentant daughter ; 
 but even her influence the influence of wisdom, puritv arid 
 love, could not bend the obstinacy of a w r eak-minded man, 
 whose hopes had been blasted where he placed his fondest 
 expectations. 
 
 The wretched Sophia was doomed to further disappointments 
 on her return to London: trifling in comparison with those she 
 had last experienced, but they were additions ; and when the 
 cup is full, a drop causes overflowing. Riches command out 
 ward tokens of respect ; but the heart requires more ; and 
 neither Williams nor his wife found it. The reception Mrs. 
 Williams met w 7 ith from those to whom her husband introdu 
 ced her was cool. There was some mystery identified with 
 her and her marriage, and mystery begets suspicion. 
 
 Shortly some good natured friend, with the best intentions in 
 the world, informed her that it was said, and positively assert 
 ed, notwithstanding that she had contradicted it, that, Mrs. 
 Williams had been divorced from a former husband in conse 
 quence of certain indiscretions : " only think how ridiculous, 
 iny dear," and another had said that a certain peer had been 
 noticed (while looking at her through his glass, at the opera- 
 house,) giving intimations of former intimacy ; and then whis 
 pering to some of his companions : and it was reported that 
 the peer a newly married, though an old man, had been a par 
 ticular friend of Mrs. Williams. Other reports said that she had 
 been separated from her husband and a flock of fine children, 
 by a private compromise between general Williams and the 
 injured party. In short the unhappy woman found that the 
 past was incessantly intruding upon the present, not only by 
 the busy suggestions of memory, but by circumstances which 
 to the sound would have caused no pain. She saw that there 
 was no rest for her in her native land. 
 
 To add to her misfortunes, she had, when first conscious of 
 the falling off, and increasing neglect of her seducer, sought in 
 the wretched resource of the wretched, a temporary relief from 
 mortification and grief; and now, under the affliction caused by 
 the failure of her hopes, she again had recourse to the same 
 aggravating palliative. 
 
 Williams found his situation disagreeable, and proposed a 
 visit to his native country. Sophia, although she had no favour- 
 kig recollections of her former residence in America, and 
 
Things as they were thirty years ago. 2C7 
 
 might have objected to Boston, gladly agreed to the proposal 
 of visiting the relations of her husband in Philadelphia. To 
 go where she was unknown, seemed desirable; but to seek a 
 refuge in such obscurity was like the hopeles attempt to fly 
 from the observation of a Roman tyrant when Rome was the 
 world, and the only refuge of the guilty was death. A change 
 of place was, however, a revival of hope. 
 
 The soi-disant general had no brothers; and but one sister 
 living. She had never deviated from the sect of which her 
 ancestors had been shining lights, and had married, in meeting, 
 (with all the decent and rational forms of quakerism,) a man 
 like herself. She was now a widow, residing in Philadelphia, 
 in circumstances which assure competence to those whose 
 desires are moderate, and surrounded in her simple dwelling by 
 four daughters as prudent, neat, and unpretending as she had 
 been when at the SLime joyful epocha of life, the age of expec 
 tation. To this sister the general announced his intentions of 
 visiting his home, and being her guest until he should establish 
 himself and her new sister, in a suitable dwelling, as her neigh 
 bour. 
 
 The travellers were anxiously expected by the quaker widow 
 and her daughters. Their plain domicil was prepared to receive 
 them, and their hearts were as open as their doors. They 
 received notice of the arrival of the long expected guests, who 
 had left the ship and come up to the city in a steamboat. A 
 trusty porter was in waiting to conduct them to the retired 
 dwelling of Mrs. Smith, which, surrounded by other quaker 
 families, stood in a court-like street, a cul de sac, which was 
 not in existence when her brother left home. The travellers 
 were espied as they entered the secluded place. Williams 
 approached the door of his only remaining relative. His sis 
 ter and her daughters stood at the entrance to receive him, and 
 one they were prepared for his sake to love. Mrs. Williams, 
 who more than divided the attention of the female group, hung 
 on his arm. They were followed by the black porter with his 
 wheelbarrow of baggao-e, two servants, a man and woman ; 
 two dogs, favourites of the master, were close at his heels, and 
 a third, the pet of the mistress was borne in the arms of the 
 female servant. The kind faces of the quakers beamed with 
 pleasure as they saw the near approach of the new sister and 
 aunt. She had already ascended the first step of the porch, 
 already the sister had advanced with outstretched hand when 
 Fidelle uttered a cry and escaped from the arms of his convey- 
 
208 Things as they were thirty years ago. 
 
 er. The lady shrieked, " run Williams ! see what s the matter 
 with Fidelle!" 
 
 This want of tact, not to say feeling, can only be accounted 
 for by what has already been hinted at. I only state the fact. 
 As to the expecting ladies, I can give no adequate net-on of 
 the change of feeling which took place in them, when they 
 saw the new-come relatives retire from them in pursuit of a 
 little yelping cur ; and then saw the general, (having capiured 
 the puppy) advancing again his attentions and caresses be 
 stowed upon the brute animal, while his wife stretched her 
 arms to receive Fidelle, and turned her back on her husband s 
 relations. When they saw this specimen of their guests, the 
 reader may imagine the shock their affectionate hearts received. 
 Their countenances I cannot describe, except that of the 
 youngest girl, who, seeing nothing but the ridiculous in the 
 scene, stood behind her mother, and showed by her laughing 
 face that she was only restrained by the matron s presence from 
 giving audible indications of her delight. 
 
 Even the neighbours had been drawn to their windows 
 for neighbours love to participate in neighbours pleasures 
 and some of them drew in their heads that an indecorous srnile 
 might not be observed, or laugh heard. And many a heart and 
 door was shut to the visiters, by this freak of the dog, the 
 gentleman, and the lady. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Williams, after a time, commenced house 
 keeping, in an expensive style, in Walnut-street. They were 
 discontented, and passed a winter in Washington. It was 
 worse there. They removed to Richmond, and finally to New- 
 York. They lived in splendour they gave dinners and 
 parties, and were in return invited and feasted. All looked 
 beautiful, for a time, without, but the canker-worm feasted 
 within. In the winter of 1811-12, the once beautiful Sophia 
 was reduced to the state in which we have seen her at Doctor 
 Cadwallader s. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
MEMOIRS 
 
 WATER DRINKER. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE HISTORY OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE ARTS OF DESIGN IN 
 THE UNITED STATES," <( A HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN THEATRE," AND 
 "A HISTORY OF NEW YORK FOR SCHOOLS." 
 
 TWO VOLUMES IN ONE. 
 VOL. II. 
 
 Seomfr 32irttton, 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, ANN STREET. 
 1837. 
 
ENTERED, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1836, 
 
 By WILLIAM DUNLAP, 
 In the Clerk s office of the District Court of the Southern District of New-York. 
 
CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 CHAP. 1. Manoeuvering and plain dealing 5 
 
 2. The beginning of a hoax 15 
 
 3. Our Heroine in Theatre Alley 30 
 
 4. The hoax progresses 43 
 
 5. More hoaxing. Mr. Smith and Captain Smith . . 58 
 
 6. Winter. An English Heroine 63 
 
 7. The hoax renewed, and a mystery in Albany . . 74 
 
 8. Mystery in New- York, and another Hero ... 82 
 
 9. A death, and a snow storm ...... 91 
 
 10. Effects of intemperance. A Scene from real life . . 97 
 
 11. A water-drinker and a wine-bibber in a snow storm . 103 
 
 12. An unexpected family meeting Ill 
 
 13. Domestic life of the intemperate 115 
 
 14. A morning after a snow storm 119 
 
 15. Some sunshine 129 
 
 16. The hoax goes on. Confidence, and the lack of it their 
 
 consequences in domestic life 137 
 
 17. Hoax continued. A sick-bed repentance . . . 145 
 
 18. Hoax continued, The button duellist . . . .153 
 
 19. Another victim 158 
 
 20. The plot unveiled almost 165 
 
 21. Real repentance. Love 171 
 
 22. The hoax concluded 177 
 
 23. A promising match ; and an old acquaintance very un 
 
 promising t84 
 
 24. The denouement of a tragedy 193 
 
 25. A discovery : and another 199 
 
 26. The death of G. F. Cooke 206 
 
 27. All disposed of . .214 
 
THIRTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 ilttn&xvring and plain dealing. 
 
 " Be just, and fear not." 
 
 " Corruption wins not more than honesty." 
 
 " We call a nettle but a nettle : and 
 The faults of folly but folly." 
 
 A sick man s appetite, who desires most that 
 Which would increase his evil." 
 
 " And, since you know you cannot see yourself 
 So well as by reflection, I, your glass, 
 Will modestly discover to yourself 
 That of yourself which yet you know not of." 
 
 " He would not flatter Neptune for his trident. 
 Or Jove for his power to thunder. 1 
 
 THE wretched Williams, a slave to sensuality, and involved 
 in a labyrinth by his own practices, lived in perpetual fear of 
 losing the reward of his meanness ; of being exposed to infamy 
 by the disclosure of that transaction which had given him the 
 means of indulgence. He feared to thwart the perverted in 
 clinations, or the frenzied whims, of his partner. She had 
 been long convinced that his professions of love had been false, 
 and that she had cause for jealousy. She knew, however, that 
 her hold upon him, that grasp which gave her power, was the 
 secret : and she had cunning enough, even in her moments of 
 passion or of voluntary madness, to preserve unbroken the 
 bonds by which she controlled him. She suspended over his 
 coward head the lash he feared. Often she appeared to tri 
 umph in the power she possessed, and, in part, revealed the 
 cause. 
 
 After the last exhibition at Doctor Cadwallacler s, there ap 
 peared but little hope to escape from exposure. Still the man 
 
 VOL. II. 1 
 
6 JVfanceuvring and plain dealing. 
 
 of art flattered himself that his address, and the doctor s in 
 terest, might suspend, if not ward off, the blow that threatened. 
 He soon had his suspense removed. 
 
 It is not well to repeat epithets, or, in speaking of our hero, 
 I might say the wretched Spiffard, for he retired from Doctor 
 Cadwallader s in a plight almost as lamentable, (though from 
 very dissimilar causes) as the man who proved to be the hus 
 band of his aunt ; but we will simply say that Zebediah Spif 
 fard, on going home, found Ernma Portland alone ; employed, 
 as usual, with her book and her needle. His wife and her 
 mother were still at the theatre. Mrs. Spifiard had, en this 
 evening, represented the heroine of the " Taming of the 
 Shrew," a character in which her tall and noble figure, power 
 fully expressive features, flexible, sonorous and overwhelming- 
 organs of speech, and great discrimination in giving the lan 
 guage of the poet, made her a favourite of the public. Cooper 
 was equally excellent in Petruchio, and the curtailed play 
 being performed as an afterpiece, he had made his appearance 
 at Cadwalladar s before attending to his duties as an actor. 
 
 Spiffard left Emma and proceeded to the play-house to 
 meet the ladies of whom he had become the protector. We 
 have seen -what the feelings of the actor were in respect to ac 
 cepting invitations to parties in which ladies participated, nnd 
 to which his wife was not asked. It may be imagined that the 
 actress, such as we have endeavoured to describe Mrs. Spif 
 fard, would feel as little pleased as her husband at the dis 
 tinction. He had talked the matter over with her previous to 
 going to the doctor s, and she, although by no means objecting 
 to his determination, had expressed no little bitterness on the 
 subject generally. In truth yhe felt mortified and degraded : 
 whether she played the shrew better or worse that evening we 
 do not pretend to say. When Cooper appeared in the green 
 room, she asked if he had seen her husband. He answered, 
 carelessly, " O, yes ! he is the fiddle of the company. I hope, 
 like the man in Joe Miller, he does not hang his fiddle up be 
 hind the street-door when he comes home. He is as gay as a 
 \ar\\tfaisant PagreobU, and quite the ladies man." 
 
 The call-boy cut off further remark by interrupting the col 
 loquy ; as frequently happens, (and sometimes very apropos) 
 to green-room conversation. 
 
 Spiffard found the ladies ready to depart, and, with hi* 
 thoughts still occupied by the events which had shocked and 
 overpowered him, he placed himself in melancholy silence be- 
 
ring and plain dealing. 7 
 
 tween his towering spouse and her lofty mother, the three form 
 ing the figure of an inverted cone. 
 
 " You have passed an agreeable evening, I hope V 9 
 
 " All the great folks of the city were there, I suppose," 
 added the mother, before he could reply to his wife s question. 
 After a moment s silence Mrs. SpifFard added, inquiringly, 
 u a great many ladies I 11 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " All very gay ?" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " Very agreeable and amiable 1" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Ah," thought the wife, " the fiddle s hung up before we 
 reach the street-door." 
 
 The lady had been excited by the plaudits of the theatre. 
 She had been further excited by what her mother had urged 
 her to take after the fatigue of the stage ; notwithstanding a 
 promise she had made her husband, who, in kindness, though 
 with firmness, had remonstrated against the practice. She 
 knew not the cause of his taciturnity, and remembered the idea 
 that had been given of his gaiety in the company of others. 
 The darkness might have veiled the lowering of her heavy 
 brows, even had SpifFard looked up to them ; but the thunder 
 that broke from the cloud startled him from the gloomy mus 
 ings of his afflicted spirit. 
 
 And a shower of words on " the insolence of the rich the 
 injustice inflicted upon genius the unhappy fate of actors, 
 particularly females " lasted until they had reached their 
 home ; where, in the happiness of innocence, combined with 
 intelligence, still sat Emma Portland. 
 
 The quick perception of Spiffard on the subject nearest his 
 heart, left him as miserable for the night (perhaps more miser 
 able) as the man I have termed wretched at the commence 
 ment of this chapter. 
 
 The colloquy of Doctor Cadwallader and his wife was not 
 as pleasant as usual with people so truly high-minded and in 
 tellectual. The subject was not agreeable. It was the unto 
 ward events of the past evening. Williams had been received 
 by the doctor, who was a Philadelphian, and knew the excel 
 lent quaker relatives of the genera!, with the warmth of a fel 
 low townsman. Cadwallader had been employed as the family 
 physician. He had faithfully forewarned the wife, and un 
 dauntedly remonstrated with the husband. He was no flatterer* 
 
 After a serious consultation, (to use a medical phrase) with 
 
8 Manoeuvring and plain dealing. 
 
 his best friend, the doctor waited upon Williams, the day after 
 the party, and, with very little previous ceremony, addressed 
 him in the following manner : 
 
 " I have come to perform a duty which is extremely disa 
 greeable, but, as it is a duly, I shall not shrink from it." 
 
 " You have always done your duty." 
 
 " And will now. After the scene of last evening, at my 
 house, and before so many witnesses, I must be explicit with 
 you in respect to our future intercourse." 
 
 " What do you mean, my dear friend." 
 
 " Sir, I mean, that after the exhibition made by your bring 
 ing Mrs. Williams to my house, when you knew the impro 
 priety of so doing, I must come to a clear understanding with 
 you respecting the future intercourse between my family and 
 the person in question." 
 
 41 Mr dear sir, you astonish me ! You know her unfortunate 
 nervous temperament the affection " 
 
 * Sir, I am a physician." 
 
 44 Known to be the first in the- western world." 
 
 I have acted as physician to your family, probably called 
 , because we are both Philadelphians, arid, as a physician, I 
 know the cause that is, the immediate cause of this deplor 
 able effect. The more remote is probably only known to 
 yourself." 
 
 " A delicate constitution morbid nervous susceptibility " 
 
 " Sir, you seem to forget, that, as your physician, I have 
 before told you the nature of the disease. I have never flat 
 tered you, and never shall." 
 
 " My dear sir, you know " 
 
 " Sir, sir, I know too much. I have witnessed too much. 
 I have been forbearing : but I now tell you plainly, that, when 
 the disease prevail?, the patient must be kept at lion.e. The 
 alienation of mind, inflicted by natural causes, can never bt; 
 mistaken. I tell you, sir, that the true, immediate cause, is 
 known ; and a remote cause imagined. For my own part, 
 sir, I must decline all further intercourse between the two 
 houses, except such as may be called for in my profcs?io:ii;l 
 capacity." 
 
 ** Sir, I do not understand this " 
 
 " You may as well understand, without forcing ILO to speak 
 plainer." 
 
 " Such language, sir, calls for explanation." 
 
 " It had better be avoided ; but I am ready to give a plain 
 answer to any question you may propound." 
 
Manoeuvring and plain dealing. 9 
 
 " My dear doctor, you must not take offence. Yon are tny 
 friend. My fellow-townsman. I perceive that that the 
 meeting with a young gentleman at your house, has made it 
 necessary that you should be made acquainted with the pre- 
 vims history of your patient it is necessary that you should 
 know circumstances which the meddling world need not be 
 made acquainted with." 
 
 " I bcj* that no secret may be confided to me, sir." 
 
 " You arc my friend. You have always been sincere, and 
 1 value sincerity as the first of virtues. I hope you will listen 
 to me." And the accomplished courtier related such parts of 
 his wife s early history, as he thought necessary to account for 
 the scene connected with Spifian , as Jar as he himself knew or 
 could understand his behaviour. 
 
 Doctor Cadwallader entered into sonic further explanations 
 in respect to the causes which were suspected or imagined, 
 for the general s extraordinary conduct. He dwelt at some 
 length upon the tendency of mystery to create suspicion. But as 
 we know that the reader is sufficiently acquainted, by this time, 
 with the "VVilliams s, we shall not repeat more of the conversa 
 tion. The general winced but bowed, and praised his friend s 
 candour. The doctor concluded by saying, " My advice i* 
 that, not only of a physician, but of a friend a friend to my 
 i ellow-creatures. There is a point to which the world may be 
 led blindfold. Men are not averse to being hoodwinked ; but 
 if they do open their oyes, they are very apt to believe their 
 testimony. Good morning, sir." 
 
 Thus ended the interview between the general and his towns 
 man, the doctor ; who, having made his bow, was attended to 
 the door with congees and smiles, mingled with sighs and a gene 
 ral humility of demeanor suited to the occasion. Left to him 
 self, Williams burst forth into passionate exclamations and 
 bitter curses. The pent-up tempest had free vent; and he 
 traversed his splendid apartment with such furious looks and 
 gestures as might be attributed to a disappointed demon. 
 
 He bethought himself of the necessity for seeing his wife s 
 nephew. The necessity for gaining his good will, and secur 
 ing his silence. This operated likeloil upon the surface of the 
 agitated waters. He became outwardly calm. The storm of 
 passion appeared to subside ; and again arranging his feature?, 
 und even his thoughts, the accomplished courtier and despica 
 ble hypocrite sought at the box-office of the theatre a direction 
 to the comedian, and presented himself at the door of Mrs. 
 Epsom. 
 
10 Manoeuvring and plain dealing. 
 
 The ripened age, commanding person, and courteous man 
 ners of the soi-disant general, insured him a reception any 
 where. The only servant of the house introduced him to the 
 room in which our hero sat in meditating mood. 
 
 " I speak to Mr. Spiffard ?" said Williams, bowing with an 
 air and look something between the friendly greeting of an ol vl 
 acquaintance who wishes to renew intimacy, and the conde 
 scending, patronizing, gracious, encouraging, and affable ex 
 pression of a superior to a favoured inferior. 
 
 The words, the bow, and the condescending smiles, were 
 only answered by a formal and repulsive inclination of the co 
 median s body. 
 
 The general had a practised face, carefully educated, as wr 
 have seen, to mask the movements of his mind ; and although 
 he felt the repulse, he did not show the shock his pride had 
 received, or evince his surprise at the return to his courtesy 
 from an actor "and such an ugly litde fellow too." 
 
 He proceeded. " I was prevented, last evening, by one cir 
 cumstance or another " 
 
 The words "last evening" called up the scene (which had 
 been from the time recurring to Spiffard s imagination) in the 
 most vivid freshness. It was present to him. His colourless 
 cheeks became blue ; his long chin dropped ; and his pale lips 
 quivered. For a moment the upper teeth were visible, owing 
 to the convulsive motion of the muscles of the mouth ; but by 
 an effort he closed his thin lips, and held them firmly com 
 pressed while the general continued, 
 
 " I was prevented asking an introduction to you, but I deter 
 mined to seek you immediately, and assure you, that your aunt 
 and myself will both be extremely happy to see you at our 
 house." Zebediah bowed coldly, and there was an awkward 
 pause. At length he said 
 
 " I suppose, sir, that you expect me to thank you for your 
 invitation? 
 
 Even the general s educated visage could not stand this. If 
 became a blank. It denoted a chaotic state within, that is any 
 thing but comfortable. The water-drinker proceeded. 
 
 " Until I know more of you and of Mrs. Williams for 
 Williams I understand is your name until I learn something 
 more, and something different from what I gathered last even 
 ing, I beg leave to decline your invitation, or more intimate 
 acquaintance." 
 
 The general s face almost forgot its lessons. Even prac 
 tice had not made perfect. It was suffused with red, far be- 
 
Manoeuvring and plain dealing. 1 1 
 
 yond the medium colour of tranquil beauty ; but its master re 
 membered that there was a point to be gained in a game of 
 some moment ; and he composed it to an air of surprise before 
 he said " Very extraordinary !" 
 
 "Is it extraordinary that a man of common prudence or 
 common sense, should decline the acquaintance of a person, 
 whom he has only seen in a light by which he appeared to great 
 disadvantage to say the least 1 Or is it extraordinary that 1 
 should shrink from contact with one, although the sister of mj 
 mother one, who, from some cause, which probably you can 
 explain, was considered by her father dead, although living? 
 one, whose name was prohibited the lips of her pure sister? 
 one, who, though not physically lost to life, was dead and out 
 cast from the heart and hearth of her father?" 
 
 Williams, glorious actor as he was, could act no longer. 
 Spiffard had not asked him to be seated. He leaned on the 
 back of a chair ; and as the young man s face flushed with in- 
 digaation, and his eyes flashed the meaning his words express 
 ed, the self-condemned deceiver became pale, cast his troubled 
 glances on the floor, and sunk into the chair he had caught at 
 for support. 
 
 Spiffard stood firmly before him dignified by the conscious 
 ness of sincerity and rectitude. Williams at length said, * I 
 perceive, sir, that you know ," and he paused. 
 
 "Sir," said Spiffard, "you will pardon me, perhaps, if I 
 quote a line from a play on so serious an occasion, but * I 
 have been used all rny life to speak, if not to hear, the plain 
 and simple truth, and I will not deviate from it now. I have 
 been at the house of my grandfather the father of your wife. 
 I was for days together a guest and a child in the family, after 
 your wife had become an alien to it." 
 
 Williams started. He recovered himself, and stood up 
 not erect but he stood up. Your habitual man of courtesy, 
 or your sycophant, never stands perfectly erect. 
 
 " You would not wish to injure to destroy your unfortu 
 nate aunt? Already broken down by disease, which is cruelly 
 misrepresented ! After what she has suffered, to be banished 
 from the society in which she new moves, would murder her ! 
 You are not called upon to mention the the cause of her 
 leaving the house of her father. You will not ?" 
 
 " I will make no promise, sir, but will act to the best of my 
 judgment, as circumstances may appear to require. I will not 
 wantonly or unnecessarily injure you or your wife by speaking 
 of you. My relationship to her is unknown." 
 
12 Manoeuvring and plain dealing. 
 
 Here the habitual inclination to prefer falsehood to truth, 
 prompted Williams to assent, and leave Spiffard in ignorance 
 of his having divulged so much of the secret history ; but he 
 thought of the danger of leaving him in ignorance, and con 
 cluded that it would be best to mention that fact. 
 
 " Unfortunately, perhaps, my love of candour and open deal 
 ing has caused me to communicate the circumstance of your 
 relationship to Mrs. Williams, in explanation of the words your 
 aunt made use of in public, occasioned by the surprise at hear 
 ing your name." 
 
 " Then, sir, I can promise nothing." 
 
 There was a long and very awkward pause. Both parties 
 continued standing. Spiffard stiff and strait, as is very much 
 the case with men of his scanted height an uprightness for 
 which there is an anatomical cause, separate and independent 
 of any moral impulse. He looked up in the face of the gene 
 ral, whose eyes were cast down as if examining ihe texture of 
 the common coarse carpeting on which he stood. At length 
 Williams broke the silence. 
 
 " You will, however, Mr. Spiffard, not mention " 
 
 And he paused, as if at a loss for words to address a being 
 so dissimilar to any he had been accustomed to a being of 
 whose nature he had not a distinct notion a man of truth. 
 Spiffavd replied to the broken sentence. 
 
 "I will not start the subject ; I will even avoid it, or any 
 thing that might lead to it ; but if directly questioned by any 
 one to whom I think an answer is due, my answer shall be 
 truth." 
 
 Another pause ; and the discomfited general moved towards 
 ihe door. The unbending, arid, in this case, inhospitable co 
 median, followed him in silence. 
 
 . When in the street, and before covering his head, although 
 ihe cold wind no flatterer waved and ruffled his silken 
 locks discourteously, the retreating tactician once more bowed 
 aad said 
 
 " We shall be happy to see you at our house." 
 
 No answer was returned, and the door was shut, almost be 
 fore the back of the bower was turned. 
 
 Neither the man of truth nor the man of deceit were the 
 happier for this interview. The latter felt that the foundation 
 on which he relied for his standing in the American world, 
 was sliding from under him ; and the depth to which he was to 
 sink, was not defined. lie saw the net-work he had woven 
 
Manxuvring and plain dealing. 1 3 
 
 and patched for years, whenever a hole happened to be made 
 in it, now dissolving like a thing of mist, or the delusive ban 
 quet raised, to cheat the eyes of his dupe, by a necromancer. 
 The light was pouring in, and he shrank from it appalled. He 
 had not altogether lost confidence in his long tried powers ; but 
 no redeeming scheme presented itself. He would willingly have 
 cursed the insolent actor, but, like Balaam, he was constrained 
 to bless for involuntary praise is blessing. " This fellow is 
 too honest to be tampered with." After his interview with 
 Cadwallader, equally a man of truth and honour, he had burst 
 forth in exclamations and curses. He had reviled his country, 
 her institutions, and her society. But as he walked from the 
 player s modest dwelling, he experienced something of the 
 calmness of despair. He strove to rally his thoughts, and to 
 send them on service to the dark depths of his sink-like soul, 
 to seek auxiliaries in the narrow precincts and obscure corners, 
 where cunning always dwells. As he passed slowly on toward 
 his proud dwelling, his outward man had reassumed its wonted 
 appearance ; he went on bowing and smiling in courteous re 
 cognition of every genteel acquaintance he met, until he reach 
 ed his house home he had none. 
 
 SphTard had of late been in a constant state of excitement. 
 It had been wrought to a most painful height by the events of 
 the last evening. His tendency to monomania was daily in 
 creasing. He did not accuse himself of acting wrong in his in 
 terview with Williams ; but his nature was of the kindliest sort, 
 and he felt a pang in consequence of having treated a fel 
 low-creature harshly. 
 
 He turned from tne street door, which he had with good will 
 interposed between the general and himself. He regretted that 
 he had pushed it so violently. He strode through the short 
 and narrow entry to the room he had just left, which was still 
 vacant, the females of the family avoiding it, as they had heard 
 from the maid-servant that a strange gentleman was below. 
 He put to the door softly, and approached the tire. He saw 
 in the red hot coals the faces of Williams and his wife, and 
 that of his own mother. He looked up, and ejaculated " God 
 forgive me ! poor creatures I" Who he meant by the last two 
 words may be doubtful. He wiped the tears from his cheeks 
 before he sought the company of his wife^ He felt the neces 
 sity of hiding his emotion, and of evading any questions re 
 specting his visiter. " Should he tell her that there were cir 
 cumstances of moment to him which he could not confide? 7 
 
 1* 
 
14 Manoeuvring and plain dealing . 
 
 If such a necessity existed, it was a sad and ruinous necessity. 
 "Should he preserve silence altogether? He knew that 
 every man should look for advice and support in difficulty, and 
 for increase of joy by sharing it, both from his life s partner ; 
 still he had douhts ; late circumstances bewildered him. He 
 decided wrongly. 
 
15 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The beginning of a hoax. 
 "Thus his special nothing ever prologues." 
 
 -let times news be known 
 
 When tis brought forth." 
 " Puck. Lord, what fools these mortals be !" 
 " When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer." 
 
 - tis meet 
 
 That noble minds keep ever with their likes : 
 For who so firm that cannot be seduced T 
 
 "The seeming truth which cunning "oft" puts on 
 T entrap the wisest." 
 
 " None are so severely caught when they are catch d 
 As wit turn d fool." 
 
 "Wink at each other, hold the sweet jest up; 
 This sport well carried shall be chronicled." 
 
 "Folly in fools bears not so strong a note 
 As fooleries in the wise." 
 
 " It is much that a lie, with a slight oath, and a jest with a sad brow, \yiil 
 do with a fellow that never had the ache in his shoulders." 
 
 "You have some offence upon your mind, 
 Which by the right and virtue of my place 
 I ought to know of." Shakspeare. 
 
 YOUTH ! how delighted dost thou revel in the full flow of 
 nature s bounteous stream, swelling to expected perfection ! 
 To the present feeling of enjoyment, and to the unbounded an 
 ticipation of future bliss, how open is youth ! How full of de 
 light and how beauteous in infancy, although, like the early 
 blossom of spring, it feels the chills that its nature is heir to. 
 We press the elastic muscle, full and soft, of the healthful 
 child, and pass our fingers through the glossy curls, and fondly 
 pinch the rosy, dimpled cheek, and gaze in the laughing eyes, 
 and express with enthusiasm our admiration of the promise na- 
 
16 The beginning of a hoax. 
 
 lure gives of its future perfection we know not what ; but 
 we feel and know that we love youth even in its imbecility. 
 As it approaches to and attains maturity, how admirable, how 
 lovely is youth in its pristine purity ! 
 
 Such is man s love of youth, and so prone is he to compare 
 and measure all else by himself, that, as he experiences age 
 and decay, and sees that generations after generations have 
 sprung up, bloomed, performed the acts assigned to them, sick 
 ened, withered, and died ; and the cities and kingdoms of the 
 earth have in like manner had their feeble beginnings, growth, 
 and death their childhood, youth, maturity, splendour, decline, 
 and fall. When he looks to the past, and sees that his species 
 and all connected with it, have ever had the same unvaried 
 path and progress through life to extinction : that the infant, the 
 man, and the tomb, are but types of the building s corner 
 stone, erection, existence, dilapidation, and ruins ; and both 
 but symbols of the empire s commencement, growth, glory, in 
 toxication, reeling, subversion, and utter destruction : so that 
 he looks in vain for the traces of its existence. While he con 
 templates on all this, the thought occurs, that even " the great 
 globe itself, and all that it inherits" this glorious orb, for whose 
 use the sun and the moon and the stars seem to have been 
 created and even more, that this immeasurable universe, of 
 which they are a puny part, has had its childhood, its youth, its 
 maturity, and must have its decay and extinguishment. Tims 
 man measures the infinite by his own finite. But shall we 
 say, that all these myriads of light-darting suns, with their 
 countless revolving planets, the proofs of the Eternal One, his 
 goodness and power, are only formed to cease ? May we not 
 think that the Eternal has impressed upon them the image of 
 his eternity "? Even in this our planetary habitation, though 
 ever moving) ever changing, we can perceive no indications of 
 decay. Though life is ever ceasing, it is ever reviving. As 
 the sea recedes here, it advances there. The mountain sum 
 mit is washed to the plain and to the ocean, or sinks into the 
 bowels of the earth but another mountain ascends from the 
 plain or from the great deep. Wh<irc the arid sand of the do- 
 sert now lies, denying sustenance or being to animal or vege 
 table life, once flourished the date and the palm, and every 
 living thing in its full perfection man, in his greatest pride. 
 And who can say, that the same power which caused its former 
 fertility, will not cause the mountain to start from the sands of 
 the desert, and pour the river from the hill upon the barren 
 plain ; causing the fountain to spring, the herb to grow, and 
 
The beginning of a hoax. IV 
 
 every living thing to flourish ; peopling the same region agair, 
 with life, and youth, and joy not again and again to see dis 
 ease, decay, and death, but perfection and immortality? 
 
 Though man may not measure the power of God by his 
 own weakness, he may, and must, love youth, beauty, and pu 
 rity ; and while such love is active in him, he must adore hi& 
 infinitely good Creator. 
 
 But while we- talk of youth, we are growing old. Time flies, 
 and our story is yet to be told. 
 
 The incident in the life of Zebediah Spiffard, which I ai& 
 now to relate, produced consequences which could not hava 
 been foreseen by the most quick-sighted. The actors in the 
 scenes, connected with this incident, were of course blind to their 
 results ; nor could they, by any knowledge of the past, have 
 the most remote conception of the events which followed; 
 otherwise they would have refused their participation ; or in 
 phraseology suggested by the words 4 actors" and " scenes/ 
 they would have thrown up their parts. But in this, as in many 
 other instances, jocund youth led on to sport, ending in repen 
 tance and sorrow. 
 
 The train of unintended and unexpected events, materially 
 affecting our hero s future life, must be ascribed partly to the 
 discrepancy existing between Spiffard and his companions of 
 the theatre, (and the associates of those companions,) and partly 
 to the circumstances attending his various domestic ties. 
 
 The opening scene of these volumes has given the reader 
 some notion of the contrasted characters of the water-drinker, 
 and the gay young men his choice of profession had brought 
 him in contact with.* The dinner at Cato s further introduced 
 these gentlemen to notice. 
 
 This discrepancy, combined and mingled with domestic cir 
 cumstances, made the winter of 1811 and 12, productive of a 
 succession of miseries, a complication of in hating and stinging 
 tortures, to the hero of our tale, such as few, .with his purity of 
 mind and action, have been called upon to endure. The suf 
 ferings he experienced were occasioned, in part, by faults of 
 commission and omission, with which he is justly chargeable* 
 (as is the case with most, perhaps, all men ;) and these faults 
 might be traced to the early incidents of his life, his defective 
 education, and his unguided, unrestrained modes and habits of 
 thinking as well as acting. 
 
 His natural good temper, and his musical as well as conver 
 sational talents, made him a welcome guest among the gay 
 .young friends of the manager, at the same time that hut 
 
18 The beginning of a hoax. 
 
 artlessness tempted them strongly to amuse themselves by 
 what they intended as innocent tricks, and playful pranks, to 
 the effects of which his unsuspicious nature made him ob 
 noxious. These sports might have passed off harmless, and 
 oflen had done so ; sometimes ending in the triumph of the man 
 of temperance ; but the unhappy position in which he found 
 himself placed at this time, by his hasty matrimonial con 
 nexion, and the effects of meeting his mother s sister, were 
 powerful causes in producing most untoward effects. He was 
 involved in perplexities, which, as we have seen, ho feared to 
 communicate the knowledge of to that person, whose duty as 
 well as interest, it was, most of all others, to assist him with con 
 solation and counsel : the person, of all others, who, it is the 
 duty as well as interest of every man, to trust with his fears, his 
 doubts, and his perplexities his wife. With every disposition 
 to frankness, he became incommunicative where most he should 
 have confided. We shall see the result. 
 
 While our hero s affairs were in this posture, and his natu 
 rally imaginative and irritable mind, in this state of excitement, 
 he and the young gentleman we have before mentioned by the 
 name of Allen, met at the front door of the theatre ; the latter 
 lounging toward the boxes, more to kill ennui, than from love 
 of Shakspeare ; the first hastening from the green-room, where 
 his majestic wife was left adjusting the robes of the Thane s 
 ambitious lady, before a mirror capable of reflecting her lofty 
 and splendid figure, previous to her first entrance on the stage 
 for the evening. Already Mrs. Spiffard had established her 
 fame in this character ; still, her husband was anxious to see 
 the reception she would meet from a brilliant audience, many 
 of whom were already thumping with sticks, and stamping im 
 patiently, for the show to commence ; for to the thumpers and 
 stampers, Macbeth was little more than a show. 
 
 Mrs. Spiffard, as my intelligent reader already knows, was 
 eminently gifted by nature for the representative of the ambi 
 tious, guilty, and sublime Lady Macbeth. Her tall and 
 masculine frame : powerfully expressive eye ; strongly marked, 
 black, flexible brow, and mental energy in the expression oi 
 passions, (by no means uncongenial to her nature, or stranger* 
 to her vigorous but ill regulated intellectual faculties,) would 
 have made her, had they been brought together, no contempti 
 ble rival to the great Lady Macbeth of the English stage. 
 
 "Ha! Mr. Spiffard, I am glad to encounter you for*," said 
 Allen. " You must give me your opinion of the play and the 
 acting. Cooper has got it up in magnificent style ; and has 
 
The beginning of a hoax. 19 
 
 added to his reputation by playing Macbeth. Don t you think 
 so ? Is it not his best part 1" 
 
 " We actors must be cautious when we speak of actors. I 
 think the Hamlet of Cooper even better than his Macbeth. But 
 we shall see Cooke likewise, though not to advantage. I will 
 speak frankly of the play and the players generally, provided 
 you give me your opinion of Mrs. Spiffard s performance." 
 
 " Agreed. I have seen her in the character before ; by Jove, 
 she is superb ! Let us go into this box." 
 
 " No. These boxes are crowded. There is more room 
 aloft : besides I don t like to sit below I am too notorious." 
 
 " Well, well ; but not the upper tier ; that is truly too noto 
 rious. Let s go into the Shakspeare." 
 
 This was a spacious central box in the second tier ; prin 
 cipally occupied by men, and supposed to be the resort of 
 critics. They took their seats accordingly, rather back from 
 the stage, the front seats being already crowded. The play 
 commenced. 
 
 Allen would have spoken, but SpiiTard quietly remarked 
 " Between the acts there is time enough to compare notes. 
 Let us now see, hear, and observe." 
 
 Mrs. SpirTard outdid herself, and exceeded her husband s 
 expectations. She was, indeed, the undaunted leader of the 
 wavering Thane. The instigator to atrocious murder. The 
 woman who could unsex herself to place a crown on the head 
 of her husband. Who could herself have done the deed of 
 blood, but that the victim resembled her father. She embodied 
 herself with the character ; for it suited, as she felt, her appear 
 ance, and her histrionic powers. The soul with which the poet 
 had endowed his creation, was transfused into the actress, as 
 the fabled magician, leaving his own body, could animate the 
 body of another, and accomplish his wishes, by appearing in the 
 corse of one he had murdered. She possessed the queen-like 
 port and towering height of Siddons, though not the elegance of 
 her form. She could assume the insidious smile and courteous 
 action, when she welcomed the good Duncan to the castle, 
 where the nest of the swallow betokened purity of air, although 
 she had already plotted the manner of his death. The high tone 
 of her ill-governed mind enabled her to conceive and express 
 the feelings of the haughty Scottish dame, while urging the 
 Thane to treason arid inhospitable homicide. 
 
 With an elevated head, surrounded and coped with locks 
 and braids, glossy and black as the raven s plumage ; with 
 murky brows, that could be elevated to a crescent, or bent 
 
20 The beginning of a hoax. 
 
 into the contorted wavings of a serpent ; with a voice deep 
 toned and clear, she spoke and looked the destiny of the man 
 who would, but dared not. 
 
 All the scenes in which these terrible powers were displayed 
 by the actress, had been witnessed by her husband, before the 
 occurrence, which, as we shall see, occasioned his leaving the 
 front of the theatre. Allen remained, and saw the consumma 
 tion of her art ; the triumph of her power over the audience. 
 
 When in the troubled wanderings of guilt-directed somnam 
 bulism, the actress appeared in her white night clothes^colour- 
 less, desolate, the black masses of dishevelled hair streaming 
 portentously over the snow-white dress ; her glaring eyes start 
 ing from their sockets, to gaze upon the little bloody spot thai 
 would not "out." That head so lofty and regal, which,at theban- 
 quet, had been decorated with a royal diadem, now devoid of 
 ornament or covering. The tresses which then had been min 
 gled with sparkling jewels, now hanging in lines on each side 
 of the pallid countenance, and only striking the beholder with 
 admiration of their unusual profusion, as they float over her 
 snowy garments, forming a long black veil, almost sweeping 
 the floor as she stalks, ghost-like, and with her -death-white 
 fingers strives to erase from her hand the stain fixed upon her 
 soul. When the spectators beheld this, breath seemed sus 
 pended, and silence was only broken, when, by the vanishing of 
 the figure, the magic of the scene ceased. 
 
 This last great exhibition of his wife s tragic powers, Spif- 
 ford had not seen. For while, in the pride of his heart, he had 
 been absorbed in admiration of the previous incidents of the 
 play while he was administering balm to his soul by the 
 thought, " surely such a mind will rise superior to all that in 
 unworthy" while filled with new hope, and elevated by a dig 
 nified matrimonial reflection from the mirror of the stage, two 
 rough and clownish fellows, enveloped in coarse furzy over 
 coats, boisterously entered the box. They might, from their 
 exterior and manner, have been two frequenters, if not inha 
 bitants, of the Five-points, who had mistaken their way, and 
 stumbled upon the haunts of refinement instead of those devoted 
 to noise and vulgarity. They strided from seat to seat, leaving 
 on eac i the marks of their dirty boots, as I have seen men in 
 better clothing do upon the benches of the pit. These ruffians 
 taok a station, standing, by the side of Spiffard, almost touch 
 ing his elbow as he sat. 
 
 The noise they made in the lobby, and on their entrance, 
 
The beginning of a hoax. 21 
 
 had annoyed our sensitive man of temperance. Their mode of 
 approach and attitude annoyed him still more. His sense of 
 propriety, and his physical senses, shared in the suffering ; he 
 heard the crackling of roasted pea-nuts, and his olfactories 
 were assailed by tho smell of those rivals of Shakspeare, 
 mingled with others, of tobacco and alcohol, brought in their 
 clothing from the last tavern they had loitered in. The senses 
 of a temperate man are acute in proportion to their purity. 
 The moral as well as physical sense of Spiffard was oiil-r. 
 his peculiar circumstances increased the offence. 
 
 The total indifference to the passing scene, which the.-e in 
 truders evinced, aggravated the irritation of SpifTaid. He arose. 
 He looked in their faces. They looked over his head. He 
 mounted on the seat and stood beside them, swelling with in 
 dignation as near as might be to the size and height of the 
 offenders. They heeded him not. He resumed his scat, that 
 he might not disturb the performance. 
 
 " Who is that tall raw-boned grenadier of a woman ?" said 
 one. " She s a thunderer." 
 
 " That s Lady Macbeth." 
 
 " She s a roarer. Any thing but a lady, thank ee ! Unless 
 its a landlady. Fine feathers make fine birds ; or else she 
 looks more like a landlady from Banker-street, than a woman 
 fit for a room like that. See how she tosses her black mop 
 about, and knits her burnt-cork eye-brows at Cooper." 
 
 This dialogue attracted the attention of Allen, who had been 
 carried away by the passing scene of the stage. Spiffard saw 
 this, and felt as if it was incumbent upon him to repress the in 
 solence of these disturbers of peace and defiers of decency. 
 The neighbouring young men, too, had their attention drawn 
 from the stage, and with the levity of youth began to laugh : 
 and one or two of them looked at Spiffard, as if recognising hi 
 him the husband of the actress on whom these indecent re 
 marks were made. At least he thought so. Again he tried 
 to look them into silence. That again failed. His choler 
 rose and he rose. Spiffard was conscious of his own ex 
 traordinary muscular strength, his agility, and his skill in all 
 the arts of defence. He felt, and perhaps truly, that he could 
 throw either of these big bullies into the pit ; but he made a 
 marked a distinction as Sir Charles Grandison, between de 
 fence and offence ; and such an act might be particularly of 
 fensive to the quiet people below. He squared himself with 
 an air of defiance, and of threatened hostility. The aggressors 
 
22 The beginning of a hoax. 
 
 still overlooked him. When the drop-curtain fell, at the ter 
 mination of the act, he sprung upon the seat, and his enemies 
 not only looked towards him but made way for him. 
 
 Fixing his eyes on the nearest of his unwelcome neighbours, 
 Spiffard said, with firmness and deliberation, " You may 
 imagine yourselves wondrous witty in your remarks on 
 the play and actors ; but you may be assured they savour 
 more of ignorance than humour. Before you recom 
 mence, what I consider impertinence, I must inform you, 
 that the lady of whom you have spoken disrespectfully, is mj 
 wife. To disturb an audience is a mark of blackguardism in 
 which I did not think fit to imitate you. But, if the imperti 
 nence is repeated, I am willing and able to punish it." Spiff 
 ard appeared to be in earnest. His antagonists felt that they 
 were wrong. The offenders looked first at Spiflard and his 
 handsome herculean companion, Allen then at each other 
 laughed and as they meant nothing by their frivolous and 
 thoughtless ribaldry, they turned away from the incensed come 
 dian, and, quiting their conspicuous situation, silently left the 
 box; not without covering their retreat by an affected laugh." 
 
 Spiffard felt himself a victor. The enemy had fled, and ha 
 was undisputed master of the field. He had been the cham 
 pion of decency, good order, the fair sex generally, and hi* 
 own wife in particular. He enjoyed the glow of self-approba 
 tion, and after having retained his triumphant stand for a few 
 moments, he resumed his seat ; but soon left his^companion 
 descended from the Shakspeare passed through the lobbies 
 with longer strides than usual walked somewhat heroically 
 out of the theatre passed through the crowd of blackguard* 
 in its front groped his way through Ann-street and Theatre- 
 alley (places at that time the resort and habitation of vice and 
 depravity) and, having entered the back door of the play 
 house, marched into the green-room with a dignified air, ap 
 proaching a little, to swagger passed unnoticed by the students 
 who were conning their parts, at the last moment, before the 
 expected summons of the call-boy and took his stand with 
 his back to the fire, (a coat skirt under each arm) as much 
 like a thorough John Bull, as could be expected from one of 
 John s Yankee progeny, even when swelling with the pride of 
 self-approved prowess, and longing for an opportunity 10 relate 
 the circumstances attending upon recent victory. 
 
 If our readers think such feelings incompatible with our 
 water-drinker s good sense and real dignity of character, let 
 them look back to their own lives, and examine the motives 
 
The beginning of a hoax. 23 
 
 for many of their past actions. Let them seek for the causes 
 of those moments of exultation in which they have felt like 
 heroes of romance, defying fortune or foe to harm them : or 
 of those sinkings of the soul, when humbled in spirit, nothing 
 on earth or in the air nothing in mar, " or woman either," 
 delighted them ; and probably they will find their causes for 
 pride or despondency as little " german to the matter" as those 
 which now swelled the bosom of Zebediah Spiftard. Disease, 
 water-gruel, nausea, sea-sickness, or dire, indefinable dyspep 
 sia, are the devils which pull down courage : while good appe 
 tite, a good dinner, and good digestion, lift a man to the skies, 
 as surely as gas does a balloon, unless he is well providcdjwith 
 ballast. Now, the consciousness of having prevented the in 
 terruption of rational enjoyment in hundreds of well-disposed 
 citizens, and of having put down, by just reproof, the insolence 
 directed against a female, is a better cause for exultation than 
 beef or pudding, even when " good digestion waits on appe 
 tite and health on both." 
 
 Spiffard s recreant adversaries only laughed at the adven 
 ture, and soon forgot the tall lady with black hair and eye 
 brows, or her short sturdy husband. The incident I have re 
 lated produced no effect on their future lives, that I know of. 
 Not so with our hero. Trifling as the circumstance may ap 
 pear, it was one, among other seemingly trifling, but realljr 
 potent causes, which affected all the future course of his life; 
 and aided in inflicting the keenest pangs of misery, and a de 
 plorable death, on a highly gifted being. 
 
 We left Spiffard backing the green-room fire. The warmth 
 of a good fire is no inoperative cause when properly applied 
 and philosophy has determined that heat expands matter. 
 
 It was Mr. Cooper s custom to walk into the green-room - 
 occasionally in his way from his dressing-room to the stage. 
 Zeb tried to catch his eye in vain. He was too full of his own 
 kingly attributes to notice the low comedian. lie proceeded 
 to and fro, he visited his festive hall, or his castle of Dunsinane, 
 without appearing to note any thing of the real life of these de 
 generate days, when men die if their throats are cut, or the 
 * brain is out," and do not rise to " push us from our seats." 
 
 Spiffard s desire to communicate grew with disappointment. 
 He found an opportunity to mention the incident to the stage- 
 manager, Mr. Simpson, who approved his conduct, but did not 
 appear to enter sufficiently into the victor s feelings, or appre 
 ciate fully the service he had done. 
 
24 The beginning of a hoax. 
 
 He ascended to Cooke s dressing-room, and finding the 
 veteran at leisure, and disposed to listen, he related his adven 
 ture a second time. The variation was very little from the 
 first, which was very literal. Cooke, who, as has been said, 
 played Macduff to Cooper s Macbeth, the two tragedians occa 
 sionally playing second to each other, was not called to <; go 
 on" until he had heard and warmly approved his young friend s 
 conduct. lie was cool and collected, for his late sufferings 
 had not yet lost their salutary effect. He was at leisure, for 
 Macduff was in England and had not yet heard of the masuacre 
 of his " little ones. That important personage, the cull-bov, 
 (whose usual duty only extends to calling performers from 
 ths green-room, but is stretched to the dressing-rooms of the 
 magnates of the drama) at length appeared, and shouted, 
 44 Macduff." Macduff hastened to the scene of action, and 
 Spiffard was left with trustworthy Davenport, who opportunely 
 entered with the call-boy. 
 
 " A great house to-night," said Trusty. ;i They swarm like 
 a snarl of bees, before hiving, at the sound of a warming-pan. 
 I don t wonder at it, when there is three sich great actors, and 
 sich a play to be seen. 
 
 " A fine house," said Spiffard. 
 
 " To my notion," continued the traveller, " Mrs. Spiifard 
 beats all the world to-night. I m not easily frit, but darn me, 
 if she didn t almost scear me just now." 
 
 " Why? have you been in front, Davenport?" 
 
 " No, sir, I have been standing behind the prompter, and 
 looking over his head. I should be puzzled to do that tiling, 
 if Mrs. Spiffard was prompter, for she is a most a magnificent 
 woman most as tall as I be." 
 
 Zeb stretched himself as high as Davenport s shoulder. 
 
 44 Did you notice any disturbance in the boxes while Mr>. 
 Spiffard was on the stage?" 
 
 u *Not the dropping of a feather : only when they made all 
 shake again with applauding her. What a thunder-clap that 
 xvas, to be sure !" 
 
 Spiffard could not resist the tempting opportunity ofiV-rcd 
 by his brother Yankee s leading remarks, and he told, for the 
 third time, the adventure of the Shakspeare box, with but little 
 variation. 
 
 At length the tragedy was over; Spiffard took his stand 
 again before the green-room fire, to wait for his wife. 
 
 Cooper having lost both crown and life, was sooner restored 
 to the habiliments of commoners than the lady, and joined the 
 
The beginning of a hoax. 23 
 
 comedian. Soon after Simpson and Hilson, wht> were dread 
 ed for the farce, added to the party. 
 
 " Spiffard, have you been in front? 
 
 " Yes ; and I never was more provoked in my life." 
 
 " How ? What could ruffle your equanimity ]" 
 
 " Two blackguards came into the Shakspeare box and dis 
 turbed the audience while Mrs. Spiffard was in one of her best 
 scenes ; and the scoundrels made use of insolent language 
 respecting her her person her acting and I think I can 
 appeal to any one in favour of her Lady Macbeth at all times." 
 
 44 That you may." 
 
 " She certainly never play d it or look d it better, than 
 to-night." 
 
 " More than well," said Hilson. 
 
 " That s equivocal," said Cooper. 
 
 " No, upon my honour I mean fair and honest." 
 
 " But you, Spiff, when they insulted Mrs. Spiffard ? What 
 said you ?" asked the manager. 
 
 * This maybe sport, said I, to you, but it is a serious in 
 jury, a wanton outrage upon the feelings of the audience and 
 the actor or actress. " 
 
 " Sport to you, but death to us, just what the frogs said to 
 the boys when they pelted them." 
 
 " Pooh, Tain, don t interrupt the story." 
 
 Your remarks are impertinent I don t mean yours Hi - 
 son and savour more of ignorance than wit. " 
 
 " Very well, Spiff, I ll mark you for that," said Hilsor. 
 
 l< 4 None but blackguards would insult a female or disturb 
 the representation of scenes in which the feelings of an au 
 dience are deeply interested. 
 
 " Well. What said they." 
 
 " They look d at each other, and then ut me, as much as to 
 say, who are you V I answered the look ? 
 
 " With a look? 
 
 ; I am that lady .s husband. They look d at each other 
 a-i aui appeared to icel like fool.s by quitting their places, for 
 they were standing on the scats of the box, and soon after 
 they shuffied off, as well as taov could. 
 
 " And left you cock of the walk, as Mik-toue says. 
 
 " We ought all to thank yen," said Cooper. : the} were 
 your pea-nut fellows, I suppose." 
 
 The reader will observe that this recital varied somewhat 
 from the scene as he witnessed it. These were not the very 
 words that were spoken. Yet Spiffard did not mean to mis- 
 
26 The beginning of a hoax. 
 
 represent. This was more than a thrice-told tale. Who 
 among us. lovers of truth as we all are, tells the same story in 
 the same words? 
 
 In very truth, there is something very strange in this ma 
 chinery of ours: excitement or depression ; winding up, or 
 running down ; causes those sounds which we call words, to 
 vary not only in tone but signification ; and a little variation in 
 the light, materially changes the picture. Zebediah Spiffard is 
 our hero, and an adorer of truth : yet. he was but a man. He 
 was tempted, perhaps, by the influence of his light-hearted 
 companions, to deviate from the strict letter of his story, and, 
 like many others, whose memoirs have not yet been published, 
 dearly he paid for it. 
 
 It can t be too strongly insisted upon, in defence of Spiffard, 
 that this, as has been already said, was the fourth time that he 
 told this story, perhaps it was the hundredth time that he had 
 thought it over. Now, there is a poetical spirit in mankind, or 
 at least in some men, and women, which amplifies, or magni 
 fies, or adorns, or distorts, according to circumstances, with 
 out any criminal intention of falsifying or deceiving, but merely 
 from an amiable desire to appear well in the eyes of our hear 
 ers, as we dress, decorate, and show ourselves to the world, 
 not to gratify ourselves, but to give pleasure to others. 
 
 Of all men, Zebediah Spiffard was the most conscientious in 
 his statements of i act ; the most literal in his repetition of 
 words, when cool and collected ; but now he was, and hud 
 been for some lime, in a continual state of excitement; and his 
 imagination (always active) unnaturally vivid. * Will he, nill 
 he, his imagination would colour his words, and even his 
 cheeks had a tinge of red in consequence of its activity. 
 
 " What manner of men were these 1" inquired Cooper. 
 
 " Of very bad manners, I should think," said Hilson. 
 
 " Tarn, keep your stage jokes till you meet those who relish 
 them. If you speak before you get your cue, I ll forfeit you. 
 What did the fellows look like, Spiff?" 
 
 " Rough looking fellows, wrapped up in coarse great coats." 
 
 " You behaved like a hero. 1 doubt not they were some of 
 your pea-nut-munchino- gentry. I will petition the corporation 
 for an ordinance prohibiting the sale of pea-nuts, from the hour 
 of six until ten, p. M." 
 
 Why those hours ?" asked Hilson. 
 
 " Because the intermediate hours are devoted to tragedy 
 tragedy hours. They may eat as many pea-nuts as they please 
 while you are mumming Numpo." 
 
The beginning of a hoax. 27 
 
 By this time, Cooke had doffed his harness, and, arrayed in 
 suit of sober grey, entered the green-room. He joined the 
 group of young men by the fire. Spiffard went out to inquire 
 if his wife was ready to go home. 
 
 u So," said George Frederic, " Mr. Spiffard has had an affair 
 with some persons who behaved improperly in the boxes. I 
 give him credit and thanks for putting down the illiberal imper 
 tinence of these box-lobby-loungers." 
 
 " Pooh ! they were only a brace of blackguard swaggerers," 
 was Hilson s remark. ** They didn t know the difference be 
 tween box and gallery." 
 
 " The ticket-seller might teach them that. No, no. I 
 gather from what Mr. Spiffard told me, that they were men of 
 some bearing." 
 
 " Bears, I doubt not," lisped Hilson. 
 
 " They found themselves in the wrong box, and crept out," 
 continued Cooke. 
 
 " They saw by his squaring," added Hilson, laughing and 
 lisping, that Spiff was a boxer ; and as Allen s square shoul 
 ders were ready to back him, they backed out. Don t you call 
 this 4 backing your friends? 
 
 " I ll bet a hundred," said the manager, " that Spiffard be 
 gins to think this an affair of some consequence. Hark ee, 
 Tarn, couldn t something be made of this 1" 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Spiffard entered. The gentlemen made way 
 for the towering and fine-looking dame. Cooke complimented 
 her on her great performance. She replied in an appropriate 
 manner cast one glance at the full length mirror of the green 
 room bowed her " good night" to the young gentlemen 
 shook hands with George Frederick took her husband s arm 
 and they were gone. 
 
 Spiffard walked off with his stately and over-topping dame, 
 better pleased with her and with himself, that both had acted 
 well. He had not felt so much satisfied with his lot, since the 
 scene in the park. They had no sooner disappeared, than 
 Cooke observed, 
 
 " That s a fine actress ; and a fine woman." 
 
 " A great woman," said Hilson ; " and Zeb s a great man,, 
 for a man no greater. And I think he behaved most heroically 
 to-ni^ht ; and what s more, he thinks so, too." 
 
 " He is what the old dramatists call a tall fellow, " said 
 Cooke. 
 
 " Of his inches." 
 
28 The beginning of a hoax. 
 
 " You envy him his tall wife." 
 
 tf He showed courage when he attacked that castle." 
 
 ** While this passed, sportively, between Cooke and 
 Cooper was in a revery. 
 
 44 Good night, lads, and good thoughts," said the veteran 
 for Trustworthy entered to announce a hack, ready for the 
 convalescent tragedian, who left the scene : a scene where 
 actors and actresses were reading their " parts," preparatory 
 to their "going oh;" some refreshing raemory ; some conning 
 over that which had been neglected some trying to compre 
 hend the meaning of a passage, to which their cue furnished 
 no clue. There, two might be seen rehearsing a dialogue ; 
 and near them, a third, reciting, aloud, speeches from an author : 
 the whole forming a medley of babel-like sounds, proceeding 
 from the motley-dressed company. 
 
 " Cooper," said Hilson, " though I like to quiz Spiff, I think 
 he has pluck. If these same fellows had shown fight, the af 
 fair might have ended in a box-lobby challenge." 
 
 The tragedian made no answer, but stood with his brow 
 most terrifically knit. Hilson continued, chuckling, " I wish 
 that the bullies had turned upon Zcb, only for the fun of it. I 
 suppose they were big-boned Goliahs, who might think, con 
 jointly, to make a meal of one of us middle-sized gentlemen ; 
 or, singly, to put Spiff into either of their coat-pockets ; but 
 they would have found him a hard bargain." 
 
 11 What did you say about challenge V 
 
 " I ? Nothing." 
 
 " Darkly a project peers upon my mind, like the red moon 
 when rising in the east. " 
 
 l - Numpo !" said the call-boy. 
 
 " Tarn," .<niel Cooper, very deliberately, * do you and 
 Ned " 
 
 "I m called." 
 
 " Stop. Do you and Ned Simpson meet me in my room, 
 aJ ter tie farce, 
 
 " I have been called." 
 
 " Old Kent has orders for a supper " 
 
 " Terrapins 1" 
 
 u Terrapins. It I do not mistake my talents, or Kent s, / 
 will produce a plot shall give zest to his supper. I will edify 
 you with a plan of operations, that aptly carried into execution, 
 will try little Zebediah s courage to the heart of it." 
 
 " Why, Cooper, you don t think " 
 
TJie beginning of a hoax. 29 
 
 " Stage waits !" shouted the call-boy, bouncing into the 
 room. 
 
 " Stage waits !" cried the stage-manager, running in. Off 
 scampered Hilson. 
 
 " Simpson, be sure you forfeit Tarn for that," said the 
 laughing tragedian ; <; and be sure to come to my room when 
 the curtain falls." Thus, for the present, parted those who 
 were to be the plotters, in pure sport, against the peace of Zel> 
 Spiff, the water-drinker. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
30 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Our heroine in Theatre-alley. 
 
 " Yea, the darkness is no darkness with thee, but the night is as dear as 
 the day." David, King of Israel. 
 
 " Towards his design moves like a ghost." 
 
 " These eyes, like lamps, whose wasting oil is spent, 
 Wax dim as drawing to their exigent." 
 
 " Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud." Shakspeare. 
 
 "I know not what disposition has been made of my plantation at Cay 
 enne, but I hope Madame de Lafayette will take care that the negroes who 
 cultivate it, shall preserve their liberty. 5 Lafayette. 
 
 " Mistake me not for my complexion." Shakspeare. 
 
 "There is something in ihe nature of man, by means of which, as long 
 as he is not penetrated with the sentiment of independence as long as he 
 looks up with a self-denying and a humble spirit to any other creature of 
 the same figure and dimensions as himself, he is incapable of being all that 
 man, in the abstract, is qualified to be." Godwin. 
 
 "The facility of relieving the coarser distresses, is one of those circum 
 stances which corrupt and harden the rich, and fills them with insolent 
 conceit, that all the wounds of the human heart can be cured By wealth." 
 
 Mackintosh. 
 
 WE will turn our eyes from the mimic scenes of the stage, 
 and the bustling drama of the green-room, to scenes and cha 
 racters contrasting with the first by their reality, and with the 
 second, by their sober tone of feeling ; yet agreeing with both, 
 in that they are equally belonging to our story. 
 
 Let it be remembered, that at the time of which we write, 
 plays were performed (at the only theatre in New- York) but 
 three times a week except that an occasional Saturday night 
 was pressed into the manager s service. The occurrences 
 which we are now to relate, happened on the evening after 
 those of the last chapter. 
 
 Every body conversant with New-York, its streets, and 
 alleys, knows that there is a narrow passage behind the park 
 play-house, called Theatre-alley. We have introduced the 
 
Our heroine in Theatre-alley. 31 
 
 reader to this thoroughfare, already, in an early chapter. Of 
 this place, the building from which it derives its name forms 
 nearly one side, and on the other (at this time), are towering, 
 miscalled, fire-proof store-houses, and manufactories of those 
 potent missiles, fraught, like Pandora s box, with good and 
 evil, but leading on the human race to its destiny books. At 
 the north-east corner of this alley, stands a stupendous hotel, 
 dedicated to temperance and every godly virtue. This pas 
 sage or alley existed at the time of which we treat ; but of all 
 the towering walls which now enclose it, none were in being 
 except those of the theatre. 
 
 Opposite to the back or private entrance to this building, 
 stood a lofty wooden pile, erected for, and occupied by, the 
 painters, machinists, and carpenters of the establishment ; to 
 the north of which (where now the above-mentioned tempe 
 rance hotel is planted), were several low, wooden dram-shops, 
 and other receptacles of intemperance and infamy; and to the 
 south, several taller wooden houses, occupied by the poor and 
 industrious ; one of which tenements, immediately adjoining 
 the scene-house, was the residence of John Kent, the pro 
 perty-man of the theatre, and his wife. We have seen in the 
 last chapter, that among other properties, he was to furnish a 
 tarrapin-supper for the young manager and his joyous compan 
 ions. As some of my readers may not be sufficiently initiated 
 in the mysteries of stage-management, I will tell them what a 
 property-man is. 
 
 Though, in such matters, I do consider my authority as 
 indifferent good, yet I will first give higher. Peter Quince 
 says, " I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants ;" 
 and Bottom, who appears to be the manager, gives us a list of 
 beards, as "your straw-coloured beard, your orange-tawny 
 beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French crown-co 
 loured beard, your perfect yellow." \ 
 
 That I may not mislead, let me note, that actors in the year: 
 1811 found their own wigs and beards; but then property- 
 beards and wigs were supplied to the supernumeraries, the 
 "reverend, grave and potent seignors" of Venice, the senato 
 rial fathers of Rome, or parliamentary lords of England. 
 
 Quince performed the part of the prompter, whose duty it 
 was, to give a bill of properties to the property-man ; and 
 these consisted of every imaginable thing. In the Midsum 
 mer Night s Dream, for example, one property is an ass s 
 head; which, if not belonging to the manager, or one of the 
 company, the property-man must find elsewhere. Arms and 
 
32 Our heroine in Theatre-alky. 
 
 ammunition, loaded pistols for sham mischief, and decanters of 
 liquor for real : (for though the actors could dispense with the 
 bullets, they required the alcohol,) love letters and challen 
 ges beds, bed-linen, and babies in short, the property-man 
 was bound to produce whatever was required by the incidents 
 of the play, as set down in the " bill of properties" furnished 
 by the prompter. Such was the office of John Kent, besides; 
 furnishing suppers occasionally for the manager, and doing other 
 extra services, for which he was well remunerated, and experi 
 enced the favour of his employer. He was habitually kind 
 perhaps, owing to former situations in life, he was rather sub 
 missive ; but Cooke used to say, when in his abusive half-tipsy 
 vein, that he was the only gentleman about the house. 
 
 This worthy couple, Mr. and Mrs. Kent, had no children ; 
 and the wife was at this time dying of consumption real, 
 honest, much-to-be-pitied consumption not that disease some 
 times so called, which is the effect of folly or vice. 
 
 Kent and his wife were old. In youth they had been slaves 
 to the same master, under that system established and enfor 
 ced on her colonies by that nation who at the same time boasted, 
 justly, " that the chains of the slave fell from him on his touch 
 ing her shores ;" that he became a man as soon as he breath 
 ed the air of her glorious island ; yet, with that inconsistency 
 so often seen in nations as well as individuals, sent her floating 
 dungeons with the heaviest chains, forged for the purpose, to 
 manacle the African, and convey him to a hopeless slavery 
 among her children in America ; even refusing those children 
 the privilege of rejecting the unhallowed and poisonous gift. 
 But England has washed this stain from her hands ; while the 
 blot remains where she fixed it, and has produced a cancerous 
 sore on the fairest political body that ever before existed. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Kent were not Africans by birth, but descend 
 ants from the people so long the prey of European and Ameri 
 can avarice ; and by some intermixture of the blood of their 
 ancestors with that of their masters, their colour was that which 
 is known among us as mulatto, or mulatre ; still they were 
 classed with what people of African descent (who abhor the 
 word " negro") call " people of colour." 
 
 The master of this couple had been a kind one ; and they 
 had both received the rudiments of English literature, with the 
 foundation of a good moral and religious education ; so that 
 being freed by his will at his death, they had lived reputably, 
 without the means however of accumulating property beyond 
 decent clothing and furniture. Owing to the long sickness of 
 
Our heroine in Tlieatre-alley. 33 
 
 the wife, honest John s emoluments as property-man, had not 
 proved sufficient to supply the much valued little delicacies 
 that become necessaries to the sick ; and which were the more 
 necessaries, as these people, having been house-servants in a 
 wealthy family when in a state of slavery, had been accustom 
 ed to many of the luxuries of the rich. 
 
 Emma Portland became acquainted with the situation of 
 this honest pair and the sufferings of the woman, by observing 
 in the first place the conduct of the man, who, in his capaci 
 ty of property-man, was often brought under her view while 
 she attended upon her aunt and cousin. Hearing that his wife 
 was a helpless invalid, she introduced herself to her apartment 
 and bedside ; for Emma had been taught not to shrink from 
 Ihe duties of humanity, when most wanted ; when the suffer 
 ers were surrounded by objects, or divested of proprieties, 
 rendering their situation more deplorable. The precepts of 
 her master as she read them, or heard them read, and com 
 mented upon from the pulpit, were as seed falling on good 
 ground, and springing up into fruits of well doing. 
 
 Neither the colour of the inhabitants of the house (for 
 Kent only occupied an upper apartment, and below, lived a 
 mass of deeper tint, with marks of greater poverty, and much 
 less of worth or cleanliness,) nor any objects disagreeable to 
 sight, could deter this delicate and lovely girl from frequent 
 visits to the worthy and grateful invalid. To motives of duty 
 and benevolence were added admiration of the resigned pa 
 tience of the sick woman, and the exemplary attention of her 
 husband. Emma carried fruits and conserves to the dying 
 woman ; and she read to her in such books as she wished to 
 hear, and particularly passages in the bible. 
 
 To converse with the well disposed poor to console them 
 in sickness or grief was to Emma Portland a delightful duty. 
 It sometimes happened that the conversation when she was 
 with Mr. and Mrs. Kent, turned on topics which personally 
 interested her, owing to Kent s knowledge of affairs connected 
 with the theatre. I would willingly introduce my reader to one 
 such conversation, before relating the incident which is the 
 principal subject of this chapter. 
 
 The original of the pioture I wish to paint, could only be 
 found in our northern portion of the United States, and I will not 
 believe that my readers are so fastidious as not to take pleasure 
 in the contemplation of such a painting, because it treats of the 
 familiar life of the poor ; there shall be nothing in it so low as 
 is seen in the admired paintings of many a famous master. I 
 
34 Our heroine in Theatre-alley. 
 
 would willingly execute my work in all the force of light, shade, 
 colour ..and expressionof Rembrandt, if I had the skill, but 1 . 
 feel that I can only sketch. 
 
 Three figures were sitting in a small apartment, ten feet by 
 ten, or thereabout, the furniture of which, though decent and 
 clean, showed that it not only served for " parlour, kitchen and 
 hall," but for bed-chamber. A table, small and of plain white- 
 wood, occupied the centre of the room. A tin lamp stood on 
 this table, and threw its light in just gradation, on the nearer, 
 or more distant objects of which my sketch is composed. Op 
 posite to the door and near the fire-place, where some bright 
 culinary utensils reflected the rays of the lamp, stood the bed ; 
 on which, in a reclining posture, appeared a female in the de 
 cline of life, much emaciated by the effects of a wasting chronic 
 disease. Her dark complexion rather than her features, show 
 ed that she was allied to the African race. She was what is 
 called in the West Indies a quadroon. Disease had blanched 
 her face, and the hectic red on her cheek, death s seal, marked 
 her approaching dissolution. Her black eyes shone with that 
 brightness which, to those who know its cause, is so touching, 
 or so alarming. 
 
 Having given the dimensions of the room, I need not say 
 that although the table was in the centre, it was very near the 
 bed, and not far from the fire-place. On the mantel were 
 several china cups, some glasses and phials, apples and oran 
 ges. Above these hung an india-ink drawing, a copy from a 
 print ; it was enclosed in a black frame and covered by a 
 cracked glass. Between the table and the door sat a man of 
 sturdy frame, but time-worn ; his age appeared to be si.tty. 
 He was darker than the woman, and his features more African. 
 His crisped iron-grey hair thickly covered his head and shaded 
 his temples. His forehead was prominent ; with many deep 
 wrinkles crossing it ; while furrows as deep marked his check. 
 His dress was that of a labourer. It was neat, but here and 
 there patched with cloth that denoted the colour originally be 
 longing to the whole garment. He held his spectacles in his 
 left hand and his snuff box in his right. His eyes, full of 
 respectful attention, were fixed on the figure nearest to the table 
 and lamp ; as were also, but with a more earnest gaze, those 
 of the reclining invalid. 
 
 The figure on which the light of my picture is concentrated, 
 and on whom the rays from the lamp fell, was a perfect con 
 trast in form and colour to her companions. She was seated 
 by the table, gracefully bending over, and reading in, a bible 
 
Our heroine in Theatre-alleij. 35 
 
 that occupied its centre. The light of the lamp illuminated 
 strongly the book of the reader. This made her, as she ought 
 to be^the principal figure, as well as the central one, of my 
 canvass. As she bowed her head over the pages, the reflected 
 light from the paper imparted a soft radiance to the lower part 
 of her countenance, while the direct rays illumed the alabaster- 
 forehead. She was a figure of light. The glowing beams 
 from the lamp glittered and were lost among the clustering 
 tresses that surrounded and crowned with golden tints this por 
 trait of a virgin saint. 
 
 Emma Portland ceased reading and said, " Do I fatigue you, 
 Mrs. Kent?" 
 
 * No, Miss Emma," was the reply; "but I fear you will fa 
 tigue yourself you read as if you felt every word." 
 
 " I hope I do feel what I read ; and I hope you have felt 
 every word." 
 
 " Miss Emmy," said Kent, " I hope it s no offence to say so, 
 but you read better than any body I ever heard, if I may not 
 except Mr. Cooke." 
 
 " A good reader, an excellent scholar, took great pains to 
 teach me." And Emma, as she spoke, thought of her lost 
 brother. 
 
 " When I have heard Mr. Cooke read over his part in his 
 dressing-room, it was just the same as talking," said the man*. 
 
 " So all good reading must be. It is only varied in dignity 
 or familiarity, as the subject requires. The good reader must 
 understand and feel the subject. It is this understanding and 
 feeling, added to Mr. Cooke s powers of voice, eye, and action, 
 which place him so high in his profession." 
 
 " When you make your appearance," the sick woman said, 
 " if I live I must see and hear you." 
 
 "If you are not too much frightened, Miss Emmy," said 
 Kent, " you will be you will do I will not say what. But I 
 remember Mrs. Darley, when she was Miss E. Westray, and 
 played in Lover s Yows, and False Shame, just about your 
 age ; her lovely figure and innocent face and you " 
 
 " My friend," said Emma, interrupting him, 4< you speak as 
 if you thought me devoted to the stage. Be undeceived. It is 
 the thing farthest from my thoughts." 
 
 " I am glad of it," said the invalid. 
 
 " It is the talk of the theatre," said Kent. 
 
 " I can say I certainly never will be a player. I should 
 prefer a very humble station in private life, to the most 
 splendid rewards which follow on the applauses of a theatre. 
 
36 Our heroine in Theatre-alky. 
 
 My duty has carried me to the house to serve my cousin and 
 aunt. I have been gratified to hear the applauses which my 
 cousin receives, when she gives additional force, by her genius, 
 to the lessons of the tragic muse ; but I never wished to be a 
 teacher in that school. I would rather open the way to know 
 ledge by instructing the poor little neglected ones that we find 
 in holes and corners, and bring to our Sunday-school. There I 
 feel that I am doing some good ; and I do not seek applause. 
 In a short time, I hope to be excused from entering the walls 
 of the theatre, unless to see and hear some dramatic piece of 
 my choice ; for there are many that I have seen with delight, 
 and many that I wish to see." 
 
 ** But you don t intend to go on the stage as an actress ?" 
 
 14 Certainly not." 
 
 " Thank God," said the sick woman. 
 
 " Thank God," echoed her husband. 
 
 Emma looked at them with an air of surprise. There was 
 an earnest expression in the tone of voice, and the faces of the 
 old folks, that suggested to her the idea of relief from an anti 
 cipated evil. There was a pause. At length she said, * Why 
 are you so earnest in your expression of satisfaction that I 
 have taken such a resolution?" 
 
 44 Perhaps I ought not to say so," said Kent ; " but I think 
 I think you are better as you are." 
 
 " That may be," she replied, smiling. " I might be the 
 worse if I failed in my attempt, or I might be intoxicated by 
 applause if I succeeded. But although I do not wish to tread 
 the stage, and exhibit myself before the mixed multitudes I 
 have seen in the play-house, yet, there are many who have 
 passed unhurt through the trials which must await those who 
 challenge public opinion in this manner, and, I hope, many 
 who have been of service to others." 
 
 44 After another pause, Kent said 4< Miss Emmy, I hope so 
 too." 
 
 44 Mr. Kent, you must have known many excellent per 
 sons, of both sexes, who have been, and are on the stage." 
 
 44 Certainly. But I believe they would have been full as 
 good if they had never been there. Miss Emmy, I have known 
 the play-house and the actors, ever since there was a play in 
 the country, almost and to tell the truth " 
 
 Go on, Mr. Kent." 
 
 * .! would not wish to offend. I could tell " 
 
 * 4 1 am sure you would only tell the truth." 
 
Our heroine in Theatre-alley. 37 
 
 " That you may depend upon, miss ; but the truth is not to 
 be spoken at all times." 
 
 " At all times? Perhaps not. But we should not hesitate to 
 speak the truth, and the whole truth, if, by so doing, we can 
 prevent evil, or do good." 
 
 " I should be very sorry to tell all I know, for all that." 
 
 " There may be no necessity. But if we knew that all our 
 misdeeds would be seen and reported, perhaps we should act 
 better than we do. The actions of persons who make the stage 
 their profession, are more scrutinized than those of men and 
 women in private life ; otherwise, perhaps, they would not be 
 found more obnoxious to Censure." 
 
 "John," said the sick woman ; " if the knowledge of what 
 she may be exposed to, can prevent any young person from 
 putting themselves in the way, surely the truth ought to be 
 told." 
 
 "But Miss Emmy has said that she has no such intention, 
 and that s enough, and I m glad of it." 
 
 " How came you to be brought so intimately in contact with 
 theatres, and theatrical people, Mr. Kent 1" 
 
 "I ll tell you, miss. My master wished to give me a trade, 
 and as I always had a notion of drav/ing, he put me apprentice 
 to a house and sign-painter that lived in John-street, near the 
 play-house ; and it was by waiting upon my 4 6os that I got 
 my first knowledge of actors ; for as there was no scene-paint 
 ers then in the country, and he having some little skill, (little 
 enough to be sure,) of that kind of work, he was employed for 
 want of a better ; and I ground the paints, and mixed them, as 
 he taught me. So, by and by, as I could draw rather better 
 than 60s, I became a favourite with the actors." 
 
 "That drawing over the fire-place, I understand, is one of 
 yours." 
 
 " Yes, miss ; but I can t see the end of a camels-hair pen 
 cil now." 
 
 " How long is it since you practised scene-painting 1" 
 
 " This was in the year seventeen hundred and seventy four, 
 at which time Mr. Hallam went to England. Mr. Henry was 
 the great man of the theatre then, and a fine man he was. 
 When I left New-York, to go to Canada, there were four sis 
 ters in the old American Company, the oldest was Mrs. Henry; 
 and when I came back, after the war, the youngest was Mrs. 
 Henry, and the other two had been Mrs. Henrys in the mean 
 while, and were still living. This was a long time ago. Things 
 have mended." 
 
 2* 
 
38 Our heroine in Theatre-alley. 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 Soon after Emma prepared to leave the sick woman. Kent, 
 who generally, on such occasions, attended her with a lantern, 
 had been called away, as there was a rehearsal in progress on 
 the stage. This did not prevent her going, as she had done 
 before, through the southern part of the alley, towards Mrs. 
 Epsom s. 
 
 There is a halo which surrounds the virtuous. It may be 
 seen at night or at noon-day. It must be acknowledged that 
 there are those so blind as not to see it at any time. Even 
 Emma Portland, had, on one occasion, been beset by two 
 creatures, dressed like gentlemen, who followed her until a 
 watchman placed himself between them and the object of their 
 persecution. They then slunk away like things of darkness, 
 shunning the sturdy watchman as a ghost does cock-crowing. 
 
 The conduct of the watchman attracted Emma s notice ; not 
 because of this act, evidently a part of his duty, but for the 
 respectful, and somewhat peculiar manner in which it w r as per 
 formed. The nightly guardians of our city are respectable 
 tradesmen, who add to the comfort of their families by this oc 
 cupation ; but they are not of the most polished manners. The 
 individual who thus came to the rescue of persecuted beauty, 
 had an air of, she knew not what a something that raised ima 
 ges, and caused thoughts, indefinite and evanescent, yet giving 
 her confidence while in his presence ; although, previously, 
 she had felt rather shy when she met persons of his description, 
 probably owing to impressions derived from English books. 
 On this occasion, the watchman followed at a respectful dis 
 tance, until he saw her stop at her aunt s house ; he then stood, 
 as if determined to be convinced of her safety, nor moved until 
 she had entered and closed the door. She had not seen his 
 face, or heard his voice. 
 
 From this time, she felt more than her usual security iu 
 passing from the sick woman s chamber to her home. If she 
 thought, (which she seldom did,) of danger, she thought of the 
 friendly watchman at the same time ; and once or twice she 
 almost imagined that she saw him, indistinctly, at a distance ; 
 he never appeared to see her. If it was the same person, it 
 was strange ; but she had no fear of danger from him. We 
 are great advocates of the doctrine of sympathies and antipa 
 thies ; and we think they operate full as much on individuals of 
 opposite sexes, as they do on those of the same. Philosophers 
 will hereafter settle this point. 
 
 The same evening on which the conversation occurred by 
 
Our heroine in Theatre-alley. 39 
 
 the bed-side of the invalid, as above recounted, another adven 
 ture was experienced by Miss Portland, which exposed her 
 still more to a just apprehension of violence. 
 
 It was between nine and ten o clock when Emma left the 
 abode of the honest property-man and his sick wife ; and ex 
 cept the light which issued from the back door of the theatre, 
 (open that evening for a pantomime rehearsal,) the street or 
 alley was in perfect obscurity. Knowing, as she did, how much 
 the invalid relied upon her for consolation, in the trying hour 
 which was fast approaching, Emma s visits of charity had been 
 so frequent, and she had become so familiar with the route, 
 that as she glided with rapid steps, she was almost uncon 
 scious of the presence or absence of any other living creature 
 but herself, in the lonely, narrow, and dark passage she was 
 threading. She had not proceeded far on her way, when she 
 heard the door of the theatre open, and turning her head, she 
 saw the figure of a man, by the light which momentarily issued. 
 She thought nothing of this ; it was a frequent occurrence, 
 when, (as she knew was then the case,) the stage was occupied 
 by performers. Quick steps were, however, heard approach 
 ing her. The strides were long, and notwithstanding her usual 
 light and elastic walk, were fast overtaking her. She approach 
 ed the wall of the theatre to let the person pass ; and, at the 
 same time, slackened her pace. The sound of steps approach 
 ing were very close, but much slower than before. She stopped, 
 nothing doubting but it was the man whose person she had 
 seen as he issued from the door of the theatre, and who, even 
 in that momentary glance, had impressed on her the image of 
 a tall and gentlemanly figure. When arrived opposite to her, 
 the pursuer arrested his steps, and in gentle accents, begged per 
 mission to attend her through the solitary passage. She knew the 
 voice was that of a stranger; and, at the same time, the tones 
 struck on her ear as similar to sounds she had heard, but when, or 
 from whom, she had no recollection of circumstances to guide 
 her to any conclusion ; and she could only see enough of the 
 figure to discern that it was a remarkably tall person, and enve 
 loped in a cloak. Indefinite as her impressions were respect 
 ing the voice, it excited sensations very unusual in her, and 
 nearly allied to terror. Drawing up her fine figure to its ut 
 most height, and darting a look at the person who addressed 
 her, she said, " pass on, sir!" 
 
 " This is a dangerous place for youth and beauty. Permit 
 me to accompany you until you have passed this dismal 
 street." 
 
40 Our heroine in Theatre-alley. 
 
 " Pass on, sir !" she repeated, as the stranger placed himself 
 more in her path. 
 
 " You must not be offended, lovely girl ; when out of this 
 place, you have only to command my absence " 
 
 * I command it now. I must judge for myself of the neces 
 sity of protection. None is needed, but from such importunity 
 as you now assail me with." 
 
 44 1 cannot forego this opportunity " 
 
 tk Your appearance is that of a gentleman ; and your figure 
 indicates a time of life that cannot claim excuse from inexpe 
 rience. Pass on before I call for assistance." 
 
 " I have sought this opportunity of speaking to you." 
 " You are mistaking me for some other." 
 " 0, no, there is none like you. I have watched for your 
 coming out from that house, where I have often observed you 
 to go ; and I must " 
 
 Emma was by this time convinced that she had heard the 
 same voice before, and memory recalled the occurrence on the 
 private stair-way of the theatre. This was the person who had 
 blown out the lamp, and waylaid her, when descending from 
 the dressing-room of her aunt and cousin. The conviction 
 flashed upon her, and the feelings that overcame her were gain 
 ing upon her rapidly. He attempted to take her hand. She 
 recoiled as from a serpent, and would have called for help, but 
 found that her voice did not obey her will. She looked up and 
 down the black and lonesome alley, in the hope that some one 
 would appear. 
 
 * Why this terror my object is your happiness ; I know 
 your dependant situation " 
 
 The terrified girl heard him not ; but seeing a light glim 
 mering from the door of the theatre, the thought suddenly sug 
 gested itself of seeking a place of refuge in that house which 
 this same persecutor had caused her to abjure. She suddenly 
 turned and attempted to retrace her way; but before she 
 could take a step, she found herself impeded by the arm and 
 cloak of her assailant she shrieked the clang of a watch 
 man s bludgeon was heard on the pavement beyond the asylum 
 she had in yiew, and at the northern extreme of the alley. This 
 signal, which is equivalent to the rattle used in Europe, gave 
 her courage, and she disengaged herself, as she again shrieked 
 for "help." In a moment she was alone. As she hesitated 
 whether to return or pursue her way towards her aunt s, she 
 looked to the door of the theatre, and saw several persons come 
 
Our heroine in Theatre-alley. 41 
 
 out, who were immediately lost in the darkness. She deter 
 mined to go from them, and towards her home, although she 
 heard the footsteps of the wretch who had assaulted her, pur 
 suing the same course ; but she knew that a few steps would 
 bring her to Ann-street and place her in safety. She hastened 
 on in the same direction with the person whom, the moment 
 before, she had turned back to avoid she saw him by the 
 light of the street, beyond the alley, turn towards Broadway, 
 and she, taking the opposite course, after issuing from the 
 abodes of poverty and vice, gained, without further molestation, 
 the shelter of her aunt s dwelling. 
 
 The persons who had issued from the playhouse, had been 
 met by the watchman whose signal put the aggressor to flight. 
 Uncertain from whence the voice crying for help proceeded 
 (a cry not uncommon in that neighbourhood at that time) he 
 had stopped to make inquiry of the histrions : his inquiries, and 
 their conjectures, had given Emma time to escape observa 
 tion and to reach home, as she thought, unnoticed ; but as she 
 cast a furtive glance back, before closing the door, she saw a 
 watchman returning towards the theatre. " Could it be that 
 the same individual had again watched over and protected 
 her?" 
 
 She found Mrs. SpifTard and her mother busy in preparation 
 for the next evening s performance. Mr. Spiffard was read 
 ing. The ladies made some inquiries respecting the sick per 
 son ; which, being answered, Emma retired to her chamber. 
 She was agitated by the recollection of the late occurrence : 
 not that she feared personal injury. She knew herself and 
 the country of her birth too well. But to be insulted by the 
 licentious address of a stranger who had been on the watch for 
 her. To have so narrowly escaped the mortification of being 
 seen, flurried, frightened, and crying for help seen by stran 
 gers in such a place. Then the certainty that she was syste 
 matically pursued by some one whose perseverance might ren 
 der him dangerous. That he was not one of the performers,, 
 she was convinced, from her knowledge of the members of the 
 company. Their persons and voices were too familiar to her 
 for mistake. She felt that her freedom of action was con 
 tracted, and feared that she might be circumscribed in her 
 efforts to do good. She debated with herself on the propriety 
 of speaking to Mrs. Spiffard, her cousin, on the subject. She 
 concluded not. There was one, to whom she would relate 
 the circumstance. She determined not to expose herself to 
 
42 Our heroine in Theatre-alley. 
 
 like insult unless called imperiously by duty to the pestilential 
 neighbourhood, where the poor are, from necessity, mingled 
 with the depraved, and where the licentious feel licensed to 
 prowl. She opened a book that was a gift from her brother. 
 She read she prayed ; and with a quieted mind retired to 
 the rest of the pure and virtuous. 
 
43 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The hoax progresses. 
 
 " Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth." 
 
 " All s brave that youth mounts, and folly guides." 
 
 {v Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time ; 
 Some that will ever more peep through their eyes 
 And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper. 
 
 " With mirth and laugher let old wrinkles come." 
 
 " Men may construe things, after their fashion, 
 Clean from the purpose of the things themselves." 
 
 " I combat challenge of this latten bilbo." 
 
 c: He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody and fatal opposite that you 
 could possibly have found in any part of Illyria." 
 
 WE have seen in the last chapter that Emma found SphTard 
 on her return, reading. But he read to little purpose. The 
 events of the day had troubled and perplexed him. 
 
 Before we recount them, it is necessary to mention what 
 passed at the theatre after Numpo made the stage wait. 
 
 The sportive manager having gone through the arduous part 
 of Macbeth, and received ample testimonies of the approba 
 tion of a full house ; and after having tricked Hilson into a for 
 feit for not being ready to go on at his cue ; proceeded, with 
 all the happy buoyancy of youth, health, wealth, and popu 
 larity, to take a seat in the boxes, and laugh at Numpo, while 
 Kent procured the tarrapins. His object was merely to be 
 guile the time until, the farce being ended, he might return to 
 meet Tarn, and Ned, and other worthies, at a supper-table in 
 
44 The hoax progresses. 
 
 an apartment adjoining his dressing-room. He passed to the 
 boxes by a private communication, through a door of which 
 he carried the key, and repairing to the Shakspeare, found 
 Allen still there, who, as soon as the curtain fell, accosted him 
 with, * have you seen Spiffard lately?" 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He had nearly got into a quarrel." 
 " He has been telling us. Pray who were the fellows?" 
 " Mere blackguards. Spiff showed spunk I can tell you." 
 * Allen, I hare been thinking that sport might be made out 
 of this. Could not we make up a challenge ? Conjure up 
 offended honour ? Drag wp drowned honour by the locks 
 ha?" 
 
 " No. Certainly not. The fellows sneak d off as if asham 
 ed of themselves." 
 
 " Did Spiffard use such language as would justify a gentle 
 man in calling him to an account and demanding an apology?" 
 " Gentleman? I tell you these fellows were mere ruffians." 
 " No matter. We ll make gentlemen of them. What did 
 Spiff say?" 
 
 " He told them, very plainly, that they were backguards," 
 " That s enough. Come with me to my room. Tarrapins 
 and whiskey-punch. One of these gentlemen who have lately 
 been so grossly insulted is a man of nice honour." 
 
 " They either of them looked like any thing else. It is a 
 hard matter to make a silk purse you know " 
 11 Imagination can make any thing." 
 " Two such rough fellows, in coarse furzy great coats " 
 " Disguised. Pooh ! Dress is nothing ! Leather and pru 
 nella, you know. Two gentlemen on a frolic." 
 
 " Ah, now I take. And, so, one of these gentlemen in dis 
 guise, must demand satisfaction of Spiff." 
 
 " An apology or the duello. He don t know yonr hand 
 writing, does he ?" 
 
 " No. I see it ! It will do ! I ll be Lieutenant who?" 
 
 " Let us see. A captain of a ship might suit the rough 
 furzy great-coat better, as well as better suit our purposes. 
 You shall be" 
 
 " Bravo ! I ll be Captain Tomkins or Jenkins." 
 
 * Smith. Smith is every body s name and nobody s name. 
 
 Johnson and Smith are hanged every day. You shall write 
 
 to Spiff and demand an apology. I will be his adviser. Wlio 
 
 shall be his second ? You are known to have had an affair 
 
The hoax progresses. 45 
 
 yes I will advise him to put his honour into your hands, and 
 then we have him in sate keeping." 
 
 " Capital ! That s what you call doubling. I m to be 
 second and first. Captain Brown and " 
 
 " Smith." 
 
 " Ay, Smith. I m to be the offended challenging captain, 
 and second to the adversary. Who shall be the Captain s 
 second ?" 
 
 * Some one that Spiff does not know." 
 
 " But will he bite ?" 
 
 ** Never fear. At all events we shall see how he takes th< 
 demand. He has acknowledged that he bullied the men. 
 He knows he was right in reproving their insolence. He will 
 not apologize. Then follows the rest as may be." 
 
 " But can he believe that they were gentlemen 1" 
 
 " In disguise. You saw them, and if you are convinced of 
 it, surely he may be. You were cool. He is the best fellow 
 in the world, and the least suspicious. His marriage for that. 
 I would not harm Spiff for the world, but it will do him good 
 when the joke is known it will cure him of a little of his too 
 much good faith in the men and women of this faithless world. 
 Come the tarrapins wait. After supper we will arrange it 
 all cast the parts." 
 
 The company met. Men, particularly young men, are very 
 punctual on such occasions. The tarrapins were discussed, 
 as was the hoax, which appeared more pregnant with sport as 
 more wine and whiskey-punch coloured the anticipated in 
 cidents. 
 
 The next morning, after this grave consultation in the ma- 
 manager s private room, Mr. Spiffard received the following 
 letter, which was left, by an unknown boy, with the servant 
 woman, before the intended victim was out of bed. The ser 
 vant was enjoined to give it to Mr. Spiffard as soon as he got 
 up. There is nothing, for effect, like receiving a letter with 
 some bad news, or a disagreeable call for money, or notifica 
 tion of the failure of a debtor, or, " sir, your bank account is 
 overdrawn 10,000 dollars," or such and such notes or drafts 
 are protested ; such a letter before breakfast, (or such an one 
 as we are about to transcribe) places a man in a situation si 
 milar, in some respects, to the aspiring cardinal, when his 
 master places in his hands the proofs of his guilt, with " read 
 over this ; and after, this ; and then to breakfast with what ap 
 petite you have." 
 
46 The hoax progresses. 
 
 A man seldom over-eats himself at a regular meal, after 
 swallowing a luncheon of this kind. 
 The letter was as follows : 
 
 Jllbany Coffee-house, New- York. 
 To Mr. Spiffard, of the Park theatre, 
 Sm, 
 
 The ungentlemanly epithets you thought proper to 
 use in addressing me last evening at the theatre were passed 
 over, at the time, to avoid a disturbance in a public place, but 
 they require an ample apology. I take this method of in 
 forming you who I am and where I am to be found, rather 
 than, in the first place, to trouble a friend. I shall be at, 
 home to-morrrow at eleven o clock, A. M. 
 
 Your obedient and very humble servant, 
 
 JOHN SMITH. 
 
 " Apologize ! No. Certainly not. Why, what did I do to 
 him ? Apologize ? Why, is it possible the fellow is a gentle 
 man? Apologize! Poh! I suppose I am to be challenged for 
 resenting an injury offered to my w r ife ! But I am neither fool 
 enough to apologize for doing right, or, to expose my life at the 
 call of a ruffian !" 
 
 Appetite for breakfast, however, was spoiled. He eat little. 
 He was silent. His mind was in the Shakspeare-box, and 
 imagination recalled the scene ; but he had told the story so 
 often that the images became confused. He strove to recall 
 the faces and figures of the two aggressors. He could find 
 nothing, in their recollected appearance, that indicated gentle 
 men. He remembered their sturdy figures and rough great 
 coats, much more perfectly than their faces. He remembered 
 that they looked at each other and laughed, without replying 
 to his reproof. That laugh it might imply a consciousness of 
 something that did not appear. How deceitful are all appear 
 ances ! He thought the matter over in every possible way, but 
 always came to the same conclusion, that he would neither 
 apologize nor fight. 
 
 " W T hat s the matter, Mr. SpifTard ?" 
 
 " Nothing, my dear." 
 
 Now this was unlike himself. It was false. He was at the 
 moment thinking he would consult Cooper. Besides how 
 could he tell the truth to a person so much concerned in the 
 affair ? So he excused the falsehood as a thing of necessity. 
 
The hoax progresses. 47 
 
 < I m sure something must be the matter. You dont eat or 
 speak." 
 
 " Why, my dear, don t I tell you that there is nothing the 
 matter?" 
 
 Of all things, when a man is discontented with himself, and 
 sullenly silent, the most provoking is being asked, " what s the 
 matter ?" especially by his wife ; and more especially if he 
 knows he has uttered an untruth. 
 
 " There was a very fine house last night," said Mrs. Spif- 
 fard, and her eyes sparkled at the recollection of her triumph. 
 Her head was erect, and, as she adjusted a lock of her glossy 
 raven hair, she repeated, " a very fine house." 
 
 " Yes," said her husband, his head supported by his right 
 hand ; his elbow on the table ; his figure sunken, and his eye 
 lack-lustre " very fine." 
 
 " A truly genteel audience !" 
 
 " Genteel!" He threw himself back in his chair. " What 
 did you say of genteel?" 
 
 " A fine show of gentlemen and ladies. I never saw a better 
 display of dress in the boxes." 
 
 " Very genteel." And the two fellows with rough great 
 coats were full in the eye of his imagination. And the look 
 and laugh. He thought he recollected that one looked down 
 upon him, before that sly glance at his companion and the 
 suppressed laugh. The men began to appear less like black 
 guards. One of them even began to assume something of the 
 gentleman, notwithstanding the great-coat and pea-nuts. 
 
 " I think," said Mrs. Spiffard, " I never played better." 
 
 " I never saw you play so well," and he thought of Mr. 
 Smith s remark ; and its injustice, as well as insolence. 
 ** Your deportment was lofty and dignified. You looked taller 
 in person, as well as more towering in ambition, than Macbeth. 
 Your majestic stature seemed increased by the spirit of the 
 lofty-minded leader of the thane. The characteristic dress 
 gave force to the majesty of your deportment. Is it possible 
 that any one could object " By this time Spiffard had affixed 
 the name of John Smith to the man who had returned a smile 
 in answer to his reproof; and in imagination he saw a person 
 very different from that who in reality had received the rebuke. 
 Little of the original remained but the rough great-coat. " To 
 be sure you are remarkably tall." 
 
 " You did not use to think me too tall." 
 
 "Too tall? What did I say?" 
 
 " You said, to be sure you are remarkably tall, as if an 
 objection might be made to my height," and she elevated her 
 
48 Tfie hoax progresses. 
 
 majestic neck and head, and shook the curls of jet that might 
 have adorned the brow of Juno, while her eyes shot rays from 
 a towering height on the low-comedian. 
 
 ** Remarkable that which is remarkable is frequently ad 
 mirable I certainly meant nothing disparaging by the word 
 but" and he looked at his watch, " I beg pardon I mast see 
 Cooper." 
 
 And he left the table abruptly, and the house. Mrs. Ep 
 som, her daughter, and her lovely protegee, thought he had an 
 appointment with the manager, and, though he did not say so, 
 his words and action conveyed the meaning. 
 
 " Mr. Spiffard behaves very odd this morning," said the 
 mother, with somewhat of an offended air, at the same time ad 
 ministering a pinch of snuff. 
 
 " Somewhat absent, I must confess, both in words and 
 looks," said the wife. 
 
 " But cousin," said Emma Portland, " Mr. Spiffard seemed 
 fully alive to your fine appearance and performance of last 
 evening." 
 
 There was harmony in the look, the voice, the words, of the 
 beautiful speaker. There was harmony within, and its influ 
 ence was felt by all who heard or saw her. Are there not 
 beings whose presence acts upon the turbulent spirits of the 
 world as oil upon the troubled waters ? 
 
 Spiffard had made up his mind (while sitting at the break 
 fast-table) to see the young manager, and consult him in regard 
 to the conduct he ought to pursue in this unexpected affair of 
 the letter received from John Smith. He knew that the young 
 tragedian was well versed in the etiquette as well as the re 
 ality of honour s laws. He wished to have the approbation 
 of those he associated with, though he felt no inclination to 
 yield either to John Smith or to the customs established by 
 duellists. Our associates should, in their habits, be such as 
 will confirm our own better resolutions. 
 
 The effect of Allen s letter had been anticipated by the con 
 trivers of it ; and, with the view to sport, (of which they did 
 not foresee the consequences) it was contrived that Cooper 
 should not be seen by Spiffard until after dinner ; when, as 
 usual, his board would be crowned by the sport-encouraging 
 bottle, and surrounded by such a knot as would seize every 
 occasion that might offer to carry on the joke of the quarrel ? 
 between substance and shadow. 
 
 Spiffard passed the morning in suspense. At length he 
 found the manager at table over his wine, and attended by 
 
The hoax progresses. 49 
 
 his well prepared friends, all looking for Spiffard s arrival. 
 He was welcomed, as he always had been ; for though he 
 partook not of the wine, he did of the wit, and always brought 
 his share. As had been agreed, the conversation was turned 
 upon duelling. 
 
 We have said the company were prepared, but there was 
 one exception. Cooke had unexpectedly dropt in to dinner, 
 and was ignorant of the plot. 
 
 Spiffard found the good fellows in full convivial gaiety; 
 each with his glass, and each with his cigar Cooke being in 
 the last also an exception. 
 
 " Spiffard, what do you drink ?" 
 
 " Water." 
 
 "Why ask him?" 
 
 " I did not know but he might have wished small beer." 
 
 " Or switchel," said Cooke, " as my man Davenport calls 
 his molasses and water. Mr. Spiffard is the only wise man 
 among us, however. He will not put his enemy in his 
 mouth to steal away his brains. " 
 
 " You, sir," said Hilson, bowing gravely, and looking very 
 seriously respectful, " fear no enemy." 
 
 " And you, sir," said the veteran, laughing, " know "you 
 have no brains." 
 
 " I hold," said Cooper, " that the man who rejects such 
 madeira as this, has no brains worth stealing. Fill ! and pass 
 the decanter, Allen !" 
 
 " The man who rejects every liquid, save water, will be 
 found the wise man," persisted Cooke, as he deliberately filled 
 a bumper of wine. 
 
 " Is wisdom to be found at the bottom of the well, in com 
 pany with truth ?" demanded Allen. 
 
 " Wisdom and truth are the same," said SpifTard. 
 
 " Truth is found at the bottom of the bottle," said a little 
 hard favoured man about forty, dressed in a kind of half mili 
 tary blue coat, the button-holes of which were trimmed with 
 tarnished gold lace. 
 
 This gentleman was an old bachelor and an oddity. He 
 had, when a boy, served during the war of the revolution, 
 whenever he could escape from his guardians ; and, towards 
 the close of the war, being his own master, with some pro 
 perty, he obtained a commission, and, as he said, would 
 * never sully the honour of a soldier" by stooping to any use 
 ful occupation. He therefore lived to old age upon the credit 
 of what he had done in youth, merely to gratify boyish curio- 
 
50 The hoax progresses. 
 
 sity, and in obedience to over-boiling spirits. This bank of 
 credit, upon which he drew most liberally, was a store unknown 
 to all but himself; for the name of Phillpot neither appeared 
 in the dispatches of the commanding generals or in the pages 
 of the historians of the revolution. He was remarkable in the 
 streets for military carriage, and the old fashioned half-regi 
 mental coat above mentioned, (which, whenever renewed, was 
 of the same cut), but his old cocked hat, with a black and 
 white cockade, and his long Frederick-the-Great queue, was 
 even more conspicuous than his diminutive martial person and 
 coat. He was no less remarkable in the chamber than the 
 field, and with a dry quaintness told stones of his campaigns, 
 that were ever new, though the recital of the same events, for 
 the incidents were such as the imagination of the moment pre 
 sented. " Truth is found at the bottom of the bottle ! When 
 the army lay at Valley-Forge " 
 
 " Right, Colonel !" cried the master of the revel, " wine 
 brightens the wit ; and wit is your true terrier for unborrowing 
 truth ! You are a Diogenes seeking truth by the light of the 
 bottle." 
 
 " Not altogether by that light," said the Colonel ; " I have 
 sought troth by the light of history." 
 
 " History is a tissue of falsehood," was the manager s ex 
 clamation. 
 
 Spiffard added, "historians have propagated immorality,, 
 with few exceptions, from the earliest to the latest." 
 
 " They are great liars," said the Colonel, " of that I have 
 no doubt ; but they have fostered the noblest qualities of our 
 nature. Homer (for I rank him with the historians) made an. 
 Alexander; and the history of the conquering Macedonian has 
 formed all the great men that have since lived." 
 
 " Great men ! According to you, Colonel," said Spiffard, 
 " none are great but the butchers of mankind ! The preachers 
 of peace, and teachers of divine love, the explorer of science 
 and martyrs to truth, are of no account ; they are not great 
 men ! Till such opinions are corrected in the mass of mankind^ 
 the reign of peace and benevolence cannot come." 
 
 "It is the sword that prepares the path for the savans. 
 "What had we known of Egypt if the 4 fire king had not pre 
 ceded the scientific explorer ? So Alexander opened the path 
 to the Grecian philosophy. Alexander is my hero !" 
 
 " He was a jolly toper," said Allen. 
 
 " That he was !" And the Colonel, in most discordant notes, 
 sung, 
 
The hoax progresses. 51 
 
 " Alexander hated thinking, 
 Drank about the council-board, 
 
 He subdued the world by drinking, 
 More than by his conquering sword." 
 
 " Subdued the world ! but not himself! Had he been tem 
 perate he had not mourned over a slaughtered friend, and might 
 have been a friend to the human race." 
 
 " He was a conqueror ! Show me his equal !" 
 
 " I can name, even a military man, much his superior, (if 
 you must have a soldier). One who preserved a nation, and 
 established an empire, composed of freemen ! Washington ! 
 The conqueror of himself!" 
 
 " I suppose I must succumb ! But he would have done 
 more if he had drank more ! Cooper is right ! I seek truth by 
 the light of the bottle and peace by the force of the sword." 
 
 " Say discord, instead of truth," said George Frederick. 
 u We drink away our senses and then talk politics, dispute 
 about words, say harsh and rude things, and finally abuse one 
 another. I believe nine quarrels out of ten originate over the 
 bottle." 
 
 " It s only your quarrelsome fellows by nature that quarrel ire 
 their cups. You never quarrel, Mr. Cooke, or say an uncivil 
 thing not you neither do I. If the disposition to quarrel, or 
 any ill-will towards a companion is in the bosom, wine brings* 
 it out. Allen, continued the speaker, (who was Hilson,) 
 " Allen, you know all these matters and things. Allen is a 
 philosopher, Mr. Cooke, and his opinion is oracular. Allen y 
 what has caused the greatest number of quarrels and duels 
 within your experience ]" 
 
 " Politics," was the reply, " party politics." 
 
 " So I thought. Your politician is a fellow with the heart 
 burn. Your water-drinking politician. Your lily-livered, 
 cold-blooded, office-seeking, place-hunting, mischief-making,, 
 tale-bearing, under-mining, politician. Colonel ! did you 
 ever know a man with a ruby-coloured-nose and a carmine 
 cheek that ever fought a duel?" 
 
 It will be readily imagined that this question was intended by 
 the way to bring on the reply and discussion that followed. 
 
 " Yes, many a one, as scarlet and purple as yourself. Lin 
 stock and Alcort were neither of them chalk-faced. There 
 was Johnson too, who was shot by Brown, had a face as full of 
 claret as your own, though it showed through a browner cover 
 ing of skin." 
 
 ** Colonel, you know the particulars of that affair," said 
 
52 The hoax progresses. 
 
 Allen inquiringly, as he puffed a volume of smoke towards the 
 man-of-war. 
 
 " Yes. But they are not to be told. It was a bloody busi 
 ness." 
 
 Our hero inquired if either fell, and looks of intelligence 
 passed from one to the other among the young men, who were 
 in the plot. Spiffard s eyes were fixed on the Colonel, who 
 answered with a tremendous oath, " Both ought to have been 
 killed ten times over, if either could have hit the broad side of 
 a church at ten paces. To be sure, it was rather late in the 
 evening ; but there was snow on the ground, and that gave 
 light and made a mark surer. I remember in the year seven 
 ty-nine ." 
 
 " Where was this ?" 
 
 " It was when we were hutted near Momstown " 
 
 " No, Colonel, not that story ; but the duel of Brown and 
 Johnson." 
 
 " That was just over the fence to the north of Love-lane. * 
 
 " Love-lane I" 
 
 " Called so," said Cooke, " because no love is ever lost 
 there. Does Hoboken mean love, in Dutch 1" 
 
 " I suppose," said Allen, " that Brown never fired a pistol 
 before in his life, and let me tell you it is no easy matter to keep 
 a muzzle in line." 
 
 " No, nor would he then," said the gruff man of war, " if he 
 had not been told that his standing with the party and in socie 
 ty depended upon his fighting." 
 
 " So the yankees commit murder, for fear of losing their 
 reputation as good members of society." 
 
 " Yes," said Spiffard, " it is fear, that makes men brave 
 death in many eases. The fear of losing the good opinion of 
 those with whom one associates, makes many a man expose 
 himself to his adversary s ball, or risk the shedding his brother s 
 blood." 
 
 " No man," said Allen, taking the cigar from bis mouth and 
 breaking off the ashes which had accumulated on the end like 
 the snuff of a burning candle, " No man," and he deliberately 
 placed the brightened cigar on the table, the fire end a little 
 over the edge, " No man," and he spoke with emphasis, assu 
 ming a most oracular air, " can refuse to fight when challenged, 
 if he has provoked the challenge." 
 
 Spiffard looked at the oracle with lack-lustre eye, the upper 
 lid hanging remarkably low his chin elongated and his mouth 
 a little opened. He was taken in the snare. He had no 
 
TJie hoax progresses. 53 
 
 greater dread of death than is common to humanity, and he 
 thought himself principled against duelling ; yet he began to 
 have a glimpse in imagination of a duel impending, and him 
 self one of the parties. John Smith s letter the great-coat 
 the sarcastic smile were dancing in mournful measure, in 
 his mind, when the speaker continued : " If a gentleman 
 makes use of offensive language to another gentleman, and is 
 called upon for an apology, he must make it, or accept the 
 offended party s K4 challenge if he thinks fit to call him out/ 
 Allen resumed his cigar. 
 
 Spiffard look d ruminating. He was chewing the cud, with 
 out that satisfaction which attends it in some of his fellow- 
 water-drinkers. 
 
 The Colonel responded to the oracle s exposition of the 
 law of the duello with " certainly," and an immense volume of 
 tobacco smoke. 
 
 " No doubt," said another. 
 
 The conspirators watched the countenance of Spiffard, and 
 saw the success of their hoax. 
 
 " Johnson," said Allen, " insulted Brown brutally, and de 
 served to be shot." 
 
 The Colonel, with his cigar in his mouth, and speaking after 
 puffing off a cloud of smoke, observed, " I believe it is always 
 the case that the offending party is shot." 
 
 " The offending party, " repeated Spiffard, " but, Colonel, 
 do you mean the offence that called forth the demand for an 
 apology, or the offence first given ?" 
 
 " Let me understand your question. State a case." 
 
 " Why, as thus. If a man reproves another for improper 
 behaviour to a female, for example, and the person reproved 
 <Iemands an apology?" 
 
 " It cannot be given," said the Colonel. 
 
 " It cannot be given," said Allen. 
 
 " Certainly not," said Hilson. 
 
 " If," continued our hero, " on refusal of apology a chal 
 lenge ensues ?" 
 
 il He must fight," said the Colonel. 
 
 " Yes," said Hilson, " he must fight." 
 
 " Certainly he must fight," said Allen. 
 
 " As long as the challenger chooses to shoot at him," said 
 Hilson. 
 
 "I knew a case in point," said the Colonel, "but the parties 
 fought with swords. Two of the French officers who were 
 with us at Yorktown " 
 
 VOL. n. 3 
 
54 The hoax progresses. 
 
 " But, Colonel," queried the Vermonter, " according to 
 your theory I should suppose that the person giving the offence, 
 would in this case, be the man whose behaviour had been im 
 proper towards the female. He would be the offender, and not 
 the person who reproved him." 
 
 " The reprover being right, cannot possibly apologize,* said 
 Allen. " It is a pity that one cannot be sure where the ball 
 would strike ; for notwithstanding the Colonel s theory, who 
 knows which may fall 1" 
 
 " It s a difficult question for powder and lead to decide upon, 7 
 said Hilson. " I think it likely both might fall." 
 
 " Both might miss," said Spiffard. 
 
 " Not likely," said Hilson, [looking seriously at Cooper. 
 " The science is brought to great perfection. The hair-trigger 
 was a great invention. Steam engines and spinning-jennies- 
 are nothing to it. Formerly if a man s nerves happened to be 
 a little the worse for wear and tear, or constitutionally trepida- 
 tionally inclined, he was sure to turn the muzzle of his pistol out 
 of line by the exertion of the pulling trigger ; but now, though 
 he shakes like an aspen leaf, or the hand of an old tippler when 
 lifting the first glass, if he is only quick upon the word, and 
 brings his muzzle within a foot of the horizontal touch I 
 whiz ! the lead must tell if both parties fire both may fall." 
 
 " Spiffard! give us a song," said Cooper. 
 
 " Yes. But Colonel, you said that the two gentlemen you 
 mentioned, fired repeatedly." 
 
 " They did. But the seconds were determined to bring the 
 affair to a happy conclusion, and finding that the light failed 
 fast, they brought their principals up to three paces." 
 
 Spiffard looked upon the carpet, and seemed to measure the 
 distance, as he said, " Three paces !" 
 
 The Colonel proceeded, " It is all nonsense and stuff not to 
 settle these things when you have begun, you know ; so at the 
 three paces, the word was given to fire." 
 
 " Well]" 
 
 "Johnson missed his antagonist, and Brown s fire was re- 
 served by the circumstance of his second having neglected to 
 cock his pistol," 
 
 " Well 1 
 
 " So, the second did his duty by cocking the pistol, and all 
 Brown had to do was coolly to put the ball through Johnson s 
 body." 
 
 " Horrible!" ejaculated Spiffard, and the seconds stood by 
 and " 
 
The hoax progresses. 55 
 
 " My good fellow what could they do ? Johnson was ask 
 ed to apologize." 
 
 <* Well, and he,]" 
 
 " Said, fire away ; and there was an end of it. Mr. Cooke, 
 pass that bottle." 
 
 il What ! pass it without filling !" demanded the host. 
 
 44 1 drink no more wine to-day," and the veteran emphatical 
 ly turned his glass bottom upwards. 
 
 " Mr. Cooke, here is brandy," said Hilson, very gravely 
 offering it. Cooke looked up from under the heavy folds of 
 his eye lids, and then laughing good naturedly said, " Tom, 
 you are a big blackguard." 
 
 " Whatl" said Cooper, "has Hilson offered you the empty 
 brandy bottle ! George, more brandy !" 
 
 " Ah, you was a pretty set of fellows !" 
 
 " But Linstock and Alcort the duellists you first mentioned 
 are both alive, I know," remarked SpirTard. 
 
 * 4 Linstock hit general Alcort three times without bringing 
 him down, and these rude thumps, (although the general did 
 not mind a pistol ball more than the proboscis of a musquito,) 
 prevented his steady aim he couldn t touch his mark. A man 
 must be iron, you know, to be perfectly unmoved when anoth 
 er is breaking his shins with leaden bullets." 
 
 SpifFard told Cooper that he wanted to speak with him in 
 private. They accordingly withdrew. 
 
 " There he goes now to show Cooper Captain Smith s letter 
 I think it is Captain Smith, is it not Allen ?" 
 
 " Yes, captain of a merchantman, sailing out of Philadel 
 phia." 
 
 " Did you mark how miserable SpifT looked while the Colo 
 nel kindly described, and mercifully dwelt upon the particulars 
 of the bloody encounter in Love-lane ? Colonel, did you 
 note how his jaw fell when you shot Johnson 1" 
 
 " I hope," said Simpson, who had taken little part in the 
 plot, and had been a silent observer, " You will not carry the 
 joke too far." 
 
 " What 1 Are you afraid that Captain Smith will shoot Spiff!" 
 
 " He has more to fear from his good natured friends than 
 from Captain Smith. Torture is worse than death." 
 
 " Torture and death ! What say you, Allen ? As you made 
 John Smith, I suppose you can prevent his committing murder 
 or inflicting torture 1" 
 
 " He will obey his maker doubtless," said Allen, *< as ail 
 men should." 
 
 " Not if he is like most men," said Cooke. " But what is all 
 
56 The hoax progresses. 
 
 this ? "What does it all mean ? Who is captain John Smith ? 
 Tom, who is he?" 
 
 " He is a man of straw, or buckram. A buckram-man, 
 sir John ; don t you remember little Spiff bullying two men in 
 the boxes ?" said Hilson. 
 
 " Yes. Two blackguards." 
 
 " One of them proves to be captain John Smith, master of 
 the good ship what s her name, Allen?" 
 
 " Anna Matilda, trading between Philadelphia and Liver 
 pool ; but the captain is a man of spirit and honour. Is nt he, 
 Moses V " 
 
 " I ll shwear to it, " responded Hilson. 
 
 " And he requires our friend to make an apology. Does nt 
 he, Moses! " 
 
 " No doubt of it." 
 
 " He has written to Spiff, who is now consulting Cooper on 
 the subject." 
 
 " You seem to know all this by intuition. I am sure Mr. 
 Spiffard said nothing on the subject," remarked Cooke. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Cooke," said Hilson, " don t you peach. Al 
 len wrote the letter he is to conduct the business. And if it 
 should come to a duel, he will be Spiff s second." 
 
 " Ah, you are a precious set of boys !" 
 
 Just then Cooper returned, took his seat, and all were atten 
 tion. He said, " I have advised him to let Allen manage the 
 business ; but I consented to accompany him to the Albany 
 Coffee-house, and witness his interview with John Smith. 
 After what has passed, I told him, and he thinks, he ought 
 rather to receive than make apology. So we are to go to-mor 
 row at eleven o clock, to meet captain John Smith. He ask 
 ed me if I knew any one of that name 1 I told him I remem 
 bered a dashing fellow in Philadelphia of the name of Smith, 
 a notorious duellist, and little Spiff has gone home pretty con 
 siderably cogitative." 
 
 " You did not hesitate telling him you knew such a man ?" 
 said Cooke. 
 
 " Smith ? I do know such a fellow. John Smith or Tom 
 Smith. Why I have known a hundred of them. I ll bet a 
 hundred I find a John Smith in every street in town that has a 
 hundred houses." 
 
 " So," said Cooke, " This is the way you treat your friends ? 
 Deliver me from such friendship." 
 
 " What ! you are not going ?" 
 
 " Home, to read." 
 
The hoax progresses. 57 
 
 " Say nothing to Spiff." 
 
 " I shall not see him until your hoax is over. You will go 
 to the Albany Coffee-house, and as you will find no John 
 Smith, there is an end." 
 
 " I suppose so. JYbtw verrons." 
 
 " I shall have an eye upon ye, boys," said the veteran as he 
 left them. 
 
 The young men lost sight of the duel for the present, and in 
 deed only looked forward to carrying^Spiffard on a fool s errand 
 to the Albany Coffee-bouse, and perhaps having a laugh at his 
 credulity and serious deportment. He went home, musing, 
 and was very bad company the remainder of the evening. 
 
58 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 JWore hoaxing. JWr. Smith and Captain Smith. 
 
 " It is almost incredible how opinions change by the decline or decay of 
 spirits. Swift. 
 
 " Win me and wear me let him answer me." 
 
 " Give-a-dis letter to Sir Hugh : by gar it is a 
 Shalienge. I will cut his troat in de Park." 
 
 " I had as lief not be, as live to be, 
 
 In awe of such a thing as I myself. Shakspeare 
 
 Spiffard had determined to make his adversary hear reason ; 
 and doubted not the power of reason if enforced with due elo 
 quence and a spirit of benevolence. He was not a man to 
 shed the blood of his fellow creature; neither would he consent 
 that another should shed his blood. He felt no enmity to the 
 person he expected to meet ; and did not doubt, upon a mild 
 statement of the circumstances attending the offence, they 
 should part friends, if he was a reasonable creature ; if not 
 he saw no necessity for further proceedings. He had often 
 deliberated on and examined all the arguments for and against 
 duelling he had made up his mind that not the most extreme 
 case, which the casuist can conceive, would justify the prac 
 tice. In short, he detested duelling ; but he would not sub 
 mit to insult. He would repel aggression by force even to the 
 death, in the last resort, but thought that with a reasonable 
 creature, reason must triumph. In this case it had not esca 
 ped him, that his antagonist, if disguised, must attribute the 
 offensive words to that disguise ; as the expressions which 
 offended Spiffard, might be supposed likewise, to have been an 
 assumed language suited to the disguise. 
 
 These reasonings were communicated by Spiffard to his 
 friend, who was of course to use them in his behalf, and who 
 received them with great apparent gravity. 
 
 Cooperand Spiffard met at the hour appointed, giving sufficient 
 time to walk to the Albany Coffee-house, by eleven of the clock. 
 The tragedian did not fail to enjoy the serious and determined 
 countenance of his pale-faced companion ; who was thinking 
 
More hoaxing. 59 
 
 tiow he might avoid the hateful consequences which might 
 spring from a meeting with the letter writer, and preserve the 
 good opinion of his associates and himself. 
 
 " Cooper, if the fellow should say that he is sorry he made 
 use of improper language in respect to Mrs. Spiffard, I may 
 say that I am sorry thatl was called upon to speak harshly to 
 him?" 
 
 This was said by way of query, as they passed toward 
 G reenwich-street. 
 
 "Your if, is a notable peace-maker, you know Spiff; but I 
 do not see how you can be sorry for doing right, because Mr. 
 John Smith is sorry for having done wrong. Besides, he has 
 not invited you to the Albany Coffee-house to receive, but to 
 make an apology. Would you know the fellow again?" 
 Spiffard hesitated. The manager asked, " If you were to see 
 him, he not speaking to you, or noticing you, would you know 
 him?" 
 
 " I think I should know one of them there were two, you 
 4inow both in rough great-coats. I think I might know the 
 one I spoke to." 
 
 " If they were disguised for a frolic, they probably wore 
 wigs." 
 
 " My man had a shaggy bush of shock hair, as far as I could 
 see below his hat." 
 
 " A wig no doubt. You would not know him again, I see." 
 The manager was determined that it should be so. 
 
 The Albany Coffee-house. This is our place," said 
 Cooper, as he read the sign. Zeb stretched himself to the 
 height of full five feet five, and took a desperate stride towards 
 the door. 
 
 " Stop," said his patron, and he took his arm. " Don t 
 look as if you would eat the man. An easy, careless air. Take 
 my arm. Let me be spokesman." 
 
 " Zeb obeyed. They entered with an air of nonchalance ; 
 but careless as our hero might be, he rolled his lobster eyes 
 around the public room, in search of the redoubted John Smith. 
 The bar-keeper was at his post, and but one other human 
 being was to be seen. A little consumptive-looking, elderly 
 man, was reading the news at a table, and did not notice their 
 entrance, or lift his eyes from the paper. 
 
 "Is that the man ?" whispered the waggish manager. 
 "I I think not. He was much stouter and younger, and his 
 face full of colour." 
 
 "There is no knowing. A large overcoat, and a bushy 
 
60 J\lore hoaxing. 
 
 
 wig of shock hair; and then, probably, his face flushed with 
 exercise and liquor." 
 
 " It may be it is possible and yet " 
 
 " I ll soon know ;" and stepping up to the little old gentleman, 
 he said, " Pray, sir, is your name Smith ?" Here the wag 
 thought that a simple negative would have settled the point ; 
 but to his great gratification, the little old gentleman, squeaked 
 out, " Yes, sir, my name is Smith." 
 
 The manager turned round to watch the emotion depicted 
 on his protegee s face, and could scarce refrain from laughter, 
 as he saw the eager look Spiffard fixed on Mr. Smith ; who, 
 seeing this unaccountable " bye play," exclaimed in a sharper 
 tone, " And pray, sir, what have you to do with my name?" 
 
 " That we shall see, sir, in due time." He took off his haf, 
 and bowed to Mr. Smith ; then turning again to his companion, 
 who was gazing with earnestness, at the little old gentlenman, 
 (whose exertion had produced a fit of coughing, that brought 
 the tears in his eyes, and a flush of red over his face,) Cooper 
 said, " Here he is. See how red he looks. Would you have 
 recognized him?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 * Nor his voice ?" 
 
 " His voice was as gruff as the low notes of a bassoon." 
 
 " He was hoarse ; you see he has a cold. See what a colour 
 he has now." 
 
 The little man having, in some measure, subdued his cough, 
 was wiping the tears from his face, when he again squeaked 
 out angrily, " What do you mean by asking me my name 1" 
 
 " No offence, sir. You are not ashamed of your name. You 
 are a man of honour, sir ; and we have come to meet you, and 
 give assurance that you shall have any satisfaction a man of 
 honour may, by the laws of honour, justly demand." 
 
 " Tom, don t be so precipitate." 
 
 " If you think you can manage the affair better 1" 
 
 " No, no, no but " 
 
 " Meet me! Satisfaction ! Waiter ! Bar-keeper !" 
 
 " Coming, sir," and the bar-keeper went out of sight, and 
 listened. 
 
 " Do you mean to insult me ?" 
 
 " Far from it, sir." While the little man underwent another 
 fit of coughing, the tragedian took out the letter of " John 
 Smith," and with great gravity demanded, as he displayed the 
 epistle, "Is that your signature, sir?" The astonished old 
 
Mr. Smith, and Captain Smith. 61 
 
 gentleman sought for his spectacles, and the wag proceeded, 
 * Is your name John Smith ?" 
 
 " No ! Robert ! My name is Robert Cunningham Smith ! 
 Robert!" 
 
 "Then we have nothing further to say, Mr. Cunningham, 
 but that an appointment made by a Mr. Smith, brought us here ; 
 and your name being Smith, has led to this intrusion. We beg 
 your pardon, sir. Bar-keeper ! Captain Smith is waiting for 
 us in a private room." He whispered to Spiffard. 
 
 " Never was so treated in my life !" And Mr. Smith took 
 the newspaper again. 
 
 "Waiter! bar-keeper!" shouted the tragedian. 
 " Coming, sir." and he came forward from his hiding-place. 
 " Is there any gentleman in the house who has engaged a pri 
 vate apartment ?" 
 
 44 The boarders are all gone out, sir." 
 " Is there any one of the name of Smith?" 
 " John Smith V said Spiffard, by way of making the matter 
 sure this time. 
 
 " No, sir ; there is no Mr. Smith boards here." 
 " Is there no stranger in the house ?" 
 " No, sir; only that old gentleman." 
 " Do you know any one of the name of Smith " 
 "John Smith]" added the principal. 
 
 " No, sir yes there is a Captain Smith who sometimes 
 comes here." 
 
 "Is his name John]" said Zeb. 
 " I really I don t I believe so." 
 
 * That s the man, depend upon it," said Cooper. "Captain 
 John Smith !" 
 
 " But, Tom, he is not here." 
 
 " Something has prevented. We shall see. If he does not 
 apologize, you must post. Have you any mint-julep, waiter? 
 You must post." 
 
 " I will post home. I will have nothing more to do with 
 Captain Smith." 
 
 The friends departed, and Mr. Robert Smith took off his 
 spectacles to inquire who they were. " I believe, sir, they are 
 play-actors." 
 
 " The scoundrels ! Ask me my name ! The strolling va 
 gabonds !" 
 
 The remainder of this day passed without interruption to the 
 peace of our hero. He returned home light of heart. A weight 
 
 3* 
 
62 More hoaxing. 
 
 had been removed, and he was pleased with every body and 
 every thing. 
 
 The manager, satisfied with the success of the joke, looked 
 no further than to tell the story at the next meeting of his merry 
 comrades, and then to let all be explained to SpifTard, and have 
 a hearty and friendly laugh. But fate was adverse, and fate 
 will have her way, let us say what we will to the contrary. The 
 playful, and not unfriendly intentions of the young manager, 
 
 were ; but we will not anticipate. It was the ebb tide 
 
 with our hero s affairs, and he had to flounder among sands 
 and shallows, and thump upon banks and rocks, as the great 
 moralist says all men must who miss the flood. Fortunately, 
 the tide of flood was making for some of our friends, and the 
 gales of heaven were in readiness to swell their sails, and bear 
 them quietly over a sea of happiness, 
 
 So it is. What moment is there that is not marked by joy 
 and sorrow, hope and despair, life and death ? But life is tri 
 umphant, and will be triumphant. The light will grow more 
 and more unto the perfect day. The will of the Author of all 
 good must prevail. 
 
63 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Winter. Jin English heroine. 
 
 " Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, 
 When death s approach is seen so terrible." 
 
 Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all." Shakspnare. 
 
 "Irrthum, lass loa der Augen Band! 
 Und merkt euch, wie der Teufel spasse." Goethe. 
 
 "Nature, with a beauteous wall, doth oft enclose pollution." 
 
 thou hast a mind 
 
 That suits with this thy fair and outward character." 
 " For tis the mind that makes the body rich." 
 " Good alone, is good, without a name." 
 " Too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient." 
 
 "For since dishonour traffics with man s nature, 
 He is but outside." 
 
 " He that loves to be flattered, is worthy of the flatterer." 
 
 "That there should be small love mongst these sweet knaves, 
 And all this courtesy." 
 
 IT is a saying as true as homely, that " time and tide wait 
 for no man." 
 
 The first month of the year 1812 had commenced, and the 
 tide of events connected with our hero, Zebediah Spiffarc, 
 swept on, ebbing to the ocean of eternity. 
 
 The season of merry Christmas had arrived and was gone. 
 It hid passed as usual. Some of the decendants of English 
 men, feasted on roast beef and plumb-pudding, on the day ; but 
 most substituted roast turkeys and mince-pies. Others, again, 
 frowned on the remains of popery, abhorred the word " mass," 
 and strictly prohibited the festival. But the seventh day after, 
 festivity more unanimously prevailed. On the first day of the 
 
64 Winter. Jin English heroine. 
 
 new-year, all who could, joined in jollity. It was then, as now? 
 the universal holiday, the day for making visits and presents. 
 " Santiclaus" bestowed his favours on good children, and 
 ladies their smiles on favoured admirers. The new-year s 
 cookey, and the cherry-brandy, (especially the latter,) were 
 more in demand than now. It was the time for visiting, shak 
 ing hands, renewing old acquaintances, strengthening friend 
 ships, and, in many instances, it was the day of cordial forgive 
 ness, for real or supposed slights and injuries. This was, 
 indeed, making it a holiday. Public functionaries and clergy 
 men, then, as now, were the only males who remained at home : 
 all the rest, old and young, hurried from house to house, to pay 
 their respects to the females of every family, connected by ties 
 of any kind, and to such office-holders, civil and ecclesiastical, 
 as political or religious opinion united with them. The whole 
 population appeared to be in their gala suits, and every face 
 dressed in smiles. Every matron was prepared to sit from 
 twelve to three o clock, surrounded by her daughters, to receive 
 and return joyous greetings. The genial warmth produced by 
 exercise by pleasure received from the succession of happy 
 domestic circles visited by alternate exposure to the cold 
 without, and the blazing, or furnace-like fires within by the 
 wines, cordials, and whiskey-punch, although only touched to 
 the lips at each visit not to mention the influence of sunny 
 smiles and sparkling eyes all these combined, produced an 
 effect on this day, which makes it to many to very many the 
 happiest day of the year. 
 
 But all this hilarity is only known to those who are pros 
 perous : to the rich or at least to the holders of property who 
 are rich in anticipation. 
 
 There are many, however, even although in comfortable cir 
 cumstances, who appear to be excluded from participation in 
 this yearlyjoyous carnival. No visiters crossed the threshold 
 of Mrs. Epsom. Spiffard felt little disposed to visit those from 
 whose society his wife appeared shut out by an impassable 
 bar. Emma Portland went to church, and returned happy to 
 her household employments, anticipating a visit to the sick or 
 the poor, who looked as anxiously for her arrival, as any of 
 those we have described, for the appearance of relative or 
 admirer. The other ladies of the family were engaged in the 
 usual occupations of the theatre ; for the first of January is a 
 day of harvest to managers, and of labour to actors. 
 
 The crowded streets, the hospitable hearths, the smoking 
 boards, the joyous gratulations, the overflowing theatres, the 
 
Winter. Jin English heroine. 65 
 
 shouts of applause at the holiday play and pantomime, are all 
 apparent on the first of January. They are the outward and 
 visible signs of a great, populous, and prosperous city ; but 
 who can tell the wretchedness that dwells within ? even in the 
 mansions of the rich, who can tell ? But in the abodes of po 
 verty, at this season of chill and freezing, who can tell ? When 
 the ice and snow cuts off the improvident labourer s resources, 
 and he f\ies to intemperance, as a refuge from cold. When the 
 inmates of crowded garrets and cellers, unfurnished, filthy, com 
 fortless, hear the senseless laugh of intoxication, echoed by the 
 groans of suffering sickness. In those abodes where the noise 
 of strife and blasphemy is contrasted with the silence of des 
 pair ; where those distinctions which exist in the light of the 
 sun, and under the influence of society, are lost, and the black 
 
 thief is one with the white prostitute ; where but enough ! 
 
 enough ! All this exists at one and the same time and all 
 belongs to the first of January. 
 
 But let us look on scenes, if not of happiness, at least not 
 presenting the dark shades of unmingled wretchedness. Let 
 us pray that the poor may be taught, that, if temperate and pro 
 vident, they cannot remain poor in America. 
 
 We will turn our attention to those connected with our story r 
 who, though not all basking in the sun-shine which gilds a 
 happy-new-year, were not yet plunged in hopeless darkness ; 
 and first to the domestic affairs of General Williams. 
 
 This man of courtesy, though all smiles when addressing his 
 faulty and unfortunate wife before company, was, in private, 
 very generally as morose as the intelligent reader may suppose ; 
 and only controlled by the fear of provoking an exposition 
 which occasionally appeared inevitable, as on the occurrence 
 of the display at Doctor Cadwallader s. There were few smiles 
 in the private recesses of the general s establishment. The 
 home the domestic fire-side there, where the good are most 
 happy, there dwelled discontent, regret, and fear of exposure. 
 " Poor and content is rich ;" but sordid riches, though they 
 give power, cannot purchase content. " There is more gold 
 for you ; do you damn others, and let this damn you," says the 
 misanthrope ; but it is only power misused that brings condem 
 nation. The gold Williams had purchased by an act of dupli 
 city and meanness, could not even buy the respect of the 
 world, though backed by ostentatious display, and never-tiring 
 obsequiousness. There are a skin and surface which belong 
 to moral as well as physical health, that cannot be counter 
 feited. 
 
6 Winter. Jin English heroins. 
 
 The unhappy Mrs. Williams, on the partial recovery of rea 
 son, had a contused recollection of the occurrences of the pre 
 ceding evening. The images of her father, mother, and sisters, 
 were ever present to her imagination. She thought she hod 
 seen Spiffard, the husband of her sister. She questioned her 
 husband wildly. He evaded and denied the knowledge he had 
 obtained. What is called a brain fever, seized on the con 
 science-struck victim of seduction and duplicity. In her ravings, 
 she called upon her parents for forgiveness ; the name of Spif 
 fard was uttered, and touching appeals were made to her sis 
 ter, conjuring her, by former love, to come to her ! to save her ! 
 
 Doctor Cadwallader obeyed the call for his professional at 
 tendance, and his skill produced a temporary suspension of the 
 disease, accompanied by extreme exhaustion. In a lucid inter 
 val, she questioned him respecting the vision, for such it 
 seemed to her, in which she had seen Spiffard. The doctor 
 told her the truth, and Williams was obliged to confess that 
 he had seen, and been repulsed, by the son of her sister ; 
 that hehadsubsequently heard ofher death, and that of the elder 
 Spiffard ; but tenderness to her had caused his concealment of 
 these circumstances. The poor, deceived woman, felt herself 
 an outcast, She sunk into a state of hopelessness, and the 
 general was informed by the physician, that, in a few weeks, 
 perhaps days, her miseries would cease in death, unless some 
 change took place, of which he saw no prospect. 
 
 It was not long before certain occurrences, nearly affecting 
 the unhappy lady, and very unexpected, alleviated her suffer 
 ings, and suspended her dissolution, although the excitement 
 they produced, seemed to threaten its acceleration. 
 
 Spiffard received a letter from Eliza Atherton, the youngest 
 sister of his unfortunate mother. It had the evil-foreboding- 
 black seal, and announced the death of his grandfather. The 
 amiable and high-minded writer, communicated this intelli 
 gence with that dignified simplicity which accompanied all her 
 words and actions, and then proceeded to inform her nephew 
 that owing to her father s retired and economical mode of living, 
 a large portion of the annuity which her generous young rela 
 tive had bestowed upon them, had been saved, and constantly 
 accumulating. That the annuity itself, now that she was 
 alone, would much more than supply her wants. That she 
 had seen his name, as an actor, in those newspapers from 
 America, which, from many circumstances, were so interesting 
 to her : and that she could not but feel that she might be en 
 joying superfluous luxuries from his bounty, while he, perhaps, 
 
Winter. Jin English heroine. 67 
 
 was labouring from necessity, in a vocation, unsuited, or disa 
 greeable to him ; perhaps bearing up against a torrent of mis 
 fortunes ; perhaps suffering from privations that would be 
 prevented by the possession of a part of that abundance, as it 
 now proved, which he had lavished on her. That she had 
 formed the resolution to visit America, for two reasons. One 
 was the determination to restore to him such part of his gift as 
 justice required, and she could prevail upon him to accept. 
 That she would not make this offer by letter, fearing that deli 
 cacy, (perhaps false delicacy,) might cause a refusal. That 
 her second motive for crossing the sea, was to be near her 
 sister, now, her only sister. She knew her sister Sophia to be 
 in New-York, and had reason to believe that her husband was 
 not a fit guardian for one who had been so unfortunate in her 
 first entering upon the stage of life ; and, now that she was her 
 own mistress, and without near relations in England, she 
 thought it her duty to seek the sufferer, for such she believed 
 her to be (once the dear companion of childhood) and by 
 every means in her power, guard her from the dangers 
 which beset the disappointed and unhappy. With these views, 
 she had converted all the property left at her disposal, into 
 money, and should embark in the Sally, Captain Appleton, 
 hoping to reach New- York nearly as soon as her letter, which 
 was dated from Liverpool. 
 
 This hope was fully realized. A very few days after the 
 arrival of this precursor, our hero received a note, (brought from 
 the outer harbour by the pilot who had boarded the good ship 
 Sally,) and written by his aunt. The necessary arrangements 
 were made for accommodating the stranger in the family of 
 which Spiffard was the head, although Mrs. Epsom still called 
 the house hers. He did not choose that Miss Atherton should 
 go immediately to Williams s. This done, he hastened to the 
 bay, and embarked in one of the many boats of all descriptions, 
 that eliven the beautiful harbour of New-York, and was soon 
 standing on the deck of the ship. 
 
 As Eliza Atherton is to appear on the stage where all the 
 persons of our drama are moving, we think that our readers 
 should have a more distinct idea of her person, than may have 
 been conveyed by the preceding pages. Her character, (the 
 form and features of her mind,) has been made apparent already. 
 The three daughters of Mr. Atherton, Louisa, the mother of 
 Zebediah Spiffard; Sophia, the victim of aristocratic seduction ; 
 and Eliza, the pure, pious, undeviating supporter of her parents 
 in every trial to the hour of death, were all, from the hand of 
 
68 Winter. An English heroine. 
 
 nature, models of beauty. Fortunately for Eliza, at the period 
 of her infancy, the progress of improvement had not driven afar 
 that scourge of the human race, which, for centuries, swept 
 thousands to the grave, and ploughed the faces who escaped, with 
 furrows that obliterated the tint, and almost the form bestowed 
 at their birth. The two elder sisters passed through the dis 
 ease unscathed ; but the younger underwent all its virulence. 
 
 When health was restored, that beauty which gave to her 
 countenance a seraphic character, was gone. The discolora 
 tion, by degrees, vanished, but the scars and seams remained 
 indelible. The same flowing silken tresses which adorned the 
 brilliant beauty of her sisters, remained to remind her friends 
 of the charms which were forever departed ; and the same per 
 fection of form was hers : but the face was disfigured robbed 
 of the beauty bestowed by nature left destitute of charms 
 until years developed character ; and beauty, unassailable by 
 disease, replaced the fleeting attractions of surface. 
 
 The preference her sisters demanded, and obtained in early 
 life, from all persons ; the neglect and slight Eliza endured 
 from her parents as well as strangers, gave a direction to her 
 mind which strengthened her intellect ; and instead of souring 
 her temper, as might happen with the weak, placed her above 
 the desire of admiration ; which, as she did not consider her 
 due, she was pleased to see bestowed upon her sisters. Her 
 thoughts were occupied by the acquisition of knowledge. She 
 sought, by every means that accorded with her devotion to her 
 relatives, for every intellectual improvement ; and as her 
 thoughts were turned from vanity, they were fixed on duty and 
 love to her earthly and heavenly parents. 
 
 Still, at the time of her arrival in America for the second 
 time, the countenance of Eliza Atherton, at the first view, had 
 nothing attractive nay, was almost repulsive. But when the 
 varied expression of her mild blue eyes were recognised, and 
 the fiank smile of benevolence which played about her pale lips r 
 had found its way to the understanding or the heart of the spec 
 tator when the unaffected dignity of her lady-like manners and 
 person, made itself known and felt when the graces of her 
 conversation, (rich in all the lore which may best become a 
 female,) were heard by one who could appreciate them, Eliza 
 Atherton might be called a charming, although not a beautiful 
 Avoman ; and her charms were enduring as life. 
 
 Spiffard remained with his interesting aunt until she was 
 safely and commodiously established at the City Hotel, with 
 such part of her travelling equipage as could be immediately 
 
Winter. An English heroine. 69 
 
 landed and removed by the aid of a hack coachman, and a sturdy 
 English lass, who, from attachment to the person she did not 
 hesitate to call mistress, had crossed^the Atlantic contrary to the 
 advise of friends, who, though obliged to accept of parochial 
 relief, and submit to the degradation of pauperism, clung to the 
 soil of old England, and doubted the tales of independent 
 abundance, which were told of a land beyond sea. 
 
 It had been Spiffard s wish that his aunt should take up her 
 abode at his house until she had a proper introduction to that 
 of Williams ; but objections urged with perfect delicacy over 
 ruled his intention. Miss Atherton did not know of his mar 
 riage until told by himself. The name of Mrs. SpifFard had 
 not appeared in any American papers that she had seen. It 
 had only been announced in the play-bills some weeks before 
 her arrival. She was too well instructed not to know the 
 worth of many female professors of the histrionic art, yet she 
 felt no desire to associate with them ; there was an undefined 
 feeling an impression almost a conviction that her habits, 
 manners and conversation would not agree with, or be agree 
 able to those who made the stage a profession. This might 
 be mere prejudice : I only state the fact. She did not decide 
 whether they were above or below her in the scale of society. 
 She felt, that with the Bruntons, the Farrens, the Kemble?, 
 and the Siddonses, she would be out of her place. 
 
 In arranging- the location of her temporary residence, these 
 feelings had not been brought in view. Miss Atherton told 
 her nephew truly, she had made up her mind before embark 
 ing on her voyage, that she would go to some hotel on landing, 
 and ascertain the situation of her friends before determining 
 further on her course that, as she found her sister was ill, and 
 might be injured by any sudden shock, she thought it best to 
 adhere to her first arrangement until she had seen the physician 
 who attended her. Besides, it might give offence if she went 
 to any other private house than that of General Williams. A 
 hotel she still thought was the best place to receive her, and 
 after, she should be guided by circumstances and her nephew s 
 counsel. 
 
 Williams was not a little surprised at receiving a note from 
 Spiffard the day after Miss Atherton s arrival, informing him 
 of that circumstance ; of her father s death; and the intent of the 
 voyage. He added, that she wished to see her sister imme 
 diately ; and gave him notice where Eliza was to be found. 
 
 The subtle speculator had at that moment been employed in 
 balancing the advantages against the disadvantages of losing 
 
70 Winter. Jin English heroine. 
 
 his wife. Great changes in his situation must result from her 
 death. He would lose five hundred pounds sterling a year ; 
 but a burthen and a chain would be removed. He could start 
 anew, free to pursue his crooked ways, and endowed with 
 sufficient wealth to meet the world s gaze broadly. He con 
 gratulated himself upon his foresight ; the cunning that had 
 provided for his worldly well-being by the stipulation which 
 secured him an annuity, in case of her decease before him ; 
 that ensured him competence for life. He was, (to use a com 
 mon expression) " hugging himself" in the prospect of future 
 ease obtained by his own management. " She will be for 
 gotten, and all suspicion lulled to sleep of my " He did 
 
 not, even in thought, use the word that would have finished the 
 sentence with truth. 
 
 Spiffard s note alarmed him. He could not prevent the 
 meeting of the sisters. He feared that the dishonourable con 
 tract might be disclosed by which he had relieved his wife 
 from her disgraceful situation. To avoid this exposure was 
 iiis first consideration. He must gain the good will of her 
 sister, and, if possible, of the ugly little repulsive actor, her 
 nephew. The first, he thought, his person and manners could 
 accomplish: the second appeared almost a forlorn-hope ; but, 
 in his opinion, flattery would remove mountains. In the mean 
 time his wife must be informed of her sisters arrival, and be 
 prepared for an interview with her. 
 
 Mrs. Williams was in a state of exhaustion ; nature seem 
 ing to bo supported merely by the skill of her medical attend 
 ant. She had occasional returns of brain-fever, violent pa 
 roxysms of insanity, in which her ravings appeared to be partly 
 -occasioned by physical sufferings, but more from recollec tions 
 of the past, and fears of the future the last were at times 
 frightful at times touchingly distressing. She received the 
 tidings of her sister s arrival, at first, with calmness approaching 
 to joy. It was necessary to inform her of the death o f her 
 father. This caused a relapse into madness. On recove ring, 
 the sister s image was present to her mind, and she be came 
 impatient to see her this was succeeded by a dread of meet- 
 4n^ alleviated by the recollection of her uniform kindne ss of 
 deportment. " She was always good ! She was al ways- 
 good ! ! ! But my father! my mother t" and again a frig htful 
 paroxysm could only be relieved by insensibility. 
 
 In the mean time Mr. and Mrs. Spiffard waited upon Miss 
 Atherton at the hotel. The ladies did not feel that cord iality 
 which sometimes springs forth at first sight. All, how ever, 
 
Winter. Jin English heroine. 71 
 
 was conducted in good taste on one part, and good tact on the 
 other. The visit was interrupted by the arrival of Williams, 
 who came to conduct Eliza Atherton to her sister. 
 
 Miss Atherton had much the same feelings on the approach 
 and in the presence of Williams as those I have endeavoured 
 to describe in the case of our hero Zebediah Spiffard, when he 
 by accident first encountered him. But the lady s sensa 
 tions were much more under command, and partook of the 
 character of the sex, and of the individual. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Spiffard departed ; and the General having 
 communicated the message from his wife, and expressed, in 
 right courtly phrase, his own vehement desire that Miss Ather 
 ton would, without delay, see and soothe the agitated feelings 
 of her suffering sister, Eliza placed herself, on the instant, 
 under his guidance ; every thought and feeling of self merged 
 in the desire to convey consolation to the lost Sophia. 
 
 What a change was presented to the eyes of the affectionate 
 Eliza ! We will not dwell on the contrast these two sisters 
 formed. In one was seen the results of vanity and passion, 
 unrestrained by parental admonition, leading to degradation of 
 the lowest kind, and to disease and untimely death ; in the 
 other, the effects of patient suffering under wrongs, self-go 
 vernment, and self- education ; conducting to strength of mind, 
 and the practise of every virtue ; rewarded by health and the 
 consciousness of rectitude. 
 
 Miss Atherton resolved to take up her abode under the roof 
 that sheltered her dying sister, even before she heard the earnest 
 entreaties with which such an arrangement was urged. Mrs. 
 Williams seemed, after an hour passed with the once neglected 
 Eliza, to feel that in her presence alone she had any stay 
 any support any hope in this world or the next. Even her 
 exhausted frame recovered some force in consequence of that 
 medicine, so soothing to the wounded mind, which was ad 
 ministered by such a physician : her sister s arrival seemed at 
 first to threaten an acceleration of the expected catastrophe ; 
 but in reality was found to remove it to a period somewhat 
 more distant. 
 
 To the relief which the union with such a sister afforded 
 to the sinking penitent was added the consolation, that in his 
 dying moments her father had forgiven her, and desired that 
 his blessing might ameliorate her sufferings, whenever she 
 should feel the stings of conscience. This forgiveness and 
 blessing were borne to the sufferer by one who, in every res 
 pect, was to her an angel bringing the tidings of peace. 
 
72 Winter. Jin English heroine. 
 
 The extreme illness of Mrs. Williams was a sufficient rea 
 son for Miss Atherton not visiting the family of their nephew. 
 He had been, by the desire of the dying woman, introduced 
 to her ; and, now that Eliza was an inmate, felt no reluctance 
 to enter the house of the detested Williams, with whom, how 
 ever, he had no intercourse further than cold civility required. 
 In his dying aunt he saw much to remind him of those scenes 
 he had witnessed in his father s house, and of that evil he most 
 dreaded strengthening those feelings, and rendering more 
 vivid those imaginings, which drove him to the brink of 
 madness, at such" times as he brooded over his fears. 
 
 One day, when Mrs. Williams was in the enjoyment of 
 comparative tranquillity, Miss Atherton proposed to accompany 
 Spiffard to his home : with the frankness appertaining to her 
 independent character, she made the proposal on the first 
 opportunity that had offered ; Spiffard willingly agreed : and 
 the proposed visit was immediately carried into effect. When 
 they arrived, Mrs. Epsom and her daughter had not yet re 
 turned from rehearsal. No one was at home but Emma 
 Portland. 
 
 We have spoken of antipathies and sympathies ; and shown 
 the force of the first in two instances. We have now to illus 
 trate the second by example. 
 
 Spiffard was disappointed in not finding his wife at home. 
 He briefly introduced his aunt to Enama. 
 
 " Miss Emma Portland. Miss Atherton." 
 
 Emma was found evidently (dressed and employed) as one 
 who was at home. She was sitting at her usual morning 
 needle-work, in all the elegance of simple habiliment : her 
 sunny locks, shading her soft but radiant eyes, in a disorder, 
 not the result of slovenly carelessness, but of exuberance, and 
 the absence of that attention to adjustment, which the expecta 
 tion of a visiter would demand. The muslin and the work- 
 basket the needle and the thimble, all denoted one of the 
 family. 
 
 " And who is Miss Emma Portland ?" said Miss Atherton : 
 her face strongly expressing surprise and delight. " Why 
 should I find her here, and apparently one of your family, and 
 not have been prepared for such a meeting 1 Why have I 
 never heard of this lovely young lady]" 
 
 Before Emma could recover from her surprise a surprise 
 mingled with pleasure, as she gazed upon a woman she had 
 heard described as repulsive in appearance, but who appeared 
 to her all-attractive, from the frankness of her manner and 
 
Winter. <An English heroine. 73 
 
 o 
 
 the charming expression of a benevolenj countenance before 
 she knew her own thoughts at this smiling apparition and un 
 expected exclamation, she felt the warm embrace and mater 
 nal kiss of this frank-hearted Englishwoman. 
 
 The sympathy which unites two such beings is of no clime 
 or country. There was an absence of reserve which might 
 have startled some ; but there was nothing in the manner of 
 the foreigner that was uncongenial to Emma Portland, be 
 cause there was nothing artificial. There was no assumed 
 superiority ; and the real superiority, which more years and 
 more knowledge conferred, w T ere not thought of by the one, 
 and were felt as an offered protection a gift and ji blessing 
 by the other. 
 
 Miss Atherton s quick glance perceived in Emma Portland 
 the ingenuous innocence of youth, united to beauty of body 
 and mind. It was the glance of intelligence exchanged with 
 intelligence. The sympathy of the good attracting to the 
 good. From this time Emma had a friend of her own sex. 
 One to whom, if needed, she could look for protection or 
 advice. In her highly gifted cousin, Mrs. Spitfard, though 
 confident of her good will, and admiring her talents, she had 
 never felt that union of soul which is necessary to communion 
 of thought. 
 
 The advantage which she might have derived from Miss 
 Atherton s society, was, for the present, denied by the neces 
 sary attendance of that lady on Mrs. Williams. Otherwise, 
 in Emma s visits to the sick and poor, or her endeavours to 
 impart knowledge to the neglected, Eliza Atherton would have 
 been willingly a partner, a companidii, and at times a pro 
 tector. 
 
74 
 
 CHAPTER Till. 
 
 The hoax renewed, and a mystenj in 
 
 " I will unfold some causes." Shalispeare. 
 
 " The deadly arrow still clings to his side. Virgil. 
 
 " What grief hath set the jaundice on your cheeks T 
 
 e< A noble gentleman tis, if he would not keep so good a house. Many a 
 time and often I have dined with him and told him on t : and come again to 
 supper to him, of purpose to have him spend less. * * * This is no time 
 to lend money." 
 
 " it doth confirm 
 
 Another stain" * * * "as big as hell can hold." Shakspeare. 
 
 WE must return to the frolicsome youths, who, with perfect 
 good will to our hero, had begun to execute a plot with success, 
 in which they saw nothing but sport, and whose termination., 
 in any serious mischief, was farthest from their thoughts. 
 
 On the evening of the clay that the meeting with Mr. Smith 
 (though not Captain Smith) took place at the Albany coffee 
 house, SpirTard, as was his wont, when he only played in the 
 farce, and when the old tragedian was the attraction of the 
 night, walked into Cooke s dressing-room, knowing that the 
 veteran was not required on the stage until the second act 
 of the play, and wishing to have a little friendly chat with one 
 to whom he felt an attachment, the cause of which was, per 
 haps, unknown to himself. An attachment which was one 
 great inducement for his frequenting the tables where wine was 
 abused by the so called use of it. If it was a fault, grievously 
 he suffered for it. 
 
 The disappointment of the morning had relieved SpirTard 
 from a load, and lie felt not a little the better for the relief. 
 Cooke was still in good condition, and had, since his last ill- 
 
The hoax renewed, and a mystery in Albany. 75 
 
 ness, preserved his faculties of body and mind in as perfect 
 a state asmight be with a man whose habits had been for years 
 at enmity with health and reason. 
 
 On Spiffard s entrance, the old man accosted him cheerfully* 
 with, " Well, my young friend ! Where have you been 1 I have 
 not seen you to-day." 
 
 44 The morning was occupied in attempting to meet Captain 
 Smith." 
 
 Cooke s face assumed that peculiar expression of archness, 
 which none can realize who have not seen him on or off the 
 stage, and holding his head somewhat down, he turned up his 
 eyes, somewhat as he used when he repeated, 4 do you think 
 I didn t know you 1" A look which none who saw it can for 
 get. " So so you did not meet him." 
 
 The veteran felt himself bound not to " peach." as Hilson 
 had termed it. This look might have excited suspicion in 
 any but the straight-forward Vermont er. 
 
 " Captain Smith dissapointed you." 
 
 " Yes. After all the parade of demanding an apology, 
 and pretension to honour, he did not keep his appointment." 
 
 44 Then you you know nothing of Captain Smith V 
 
 " Only as the fellow who abused Mrs. Spiffard when she 
 was playing Lady Macbeth." 
 
 " I remember you mean the blackguard you were obliged 
 to reprimand for disturbing the audience by his impertinence. " 
 
 " He turns out to be a gentleman or at least pretends to 
 demand an apology from me." 
 
 " But you told me," said Cooke, wishing to give a hint, 
 " you told me that both the fellows were in pea-jackets or 
 dread-naughts or some such apparel and were as rough in 
 appearance as in manners." 
 
 * So they were. But Cooper says that might be disguise : 
 an appearance and manner assumed in sport. And Allen says 
 that Captain Smith is a gentleman commanding a fine ship,, 
 and a man of honour. And Cooper, you know " 
 
 " 0, yes, Tom is up to all that. But it s all over now* 
 You got rid of the affair !" 
 
 44 He did not make his appearance." 
 
 44 So. I supposed as much." 
 
 44 Why? You do not know him ?" 
 
 " ]VJo. Upon my word I do not. No more than if he never 
 had existence. And you found no traces of him at the place- 
 he appointed ? No Captain Smith was to be heard of." 
 
76 TJie hoax renewed, and a mystery in- Albany. 
 
 " 0, yes. The bar-keeper said that he frequented the 
 house." 
 
 " 0, then it is not over yet. You will see or hear from him 
 again by and by." 
 
 * I rather think that he has thought best to drop the unprofit 
 able affair." 
 
 "Unprofitable. Yes, yes, it had best be dropt I advise " 
 
 What further light the old gentleman was going to let in 
 upon his friend s unsuspicious mind, cannot be known, for the 
 eternal call-boy, whose mandate is as peremptory as that of 
 fate, appeared with his list of summonses in his hand. 
 
 "Mr. Cooke! to begin the second act!" 
 
 " I m ready. Send Kent to me, my good boy." 
 
 " And I ll go and prepare for Caleb Quotem." 
 
 So ended a colloquy, which, continued a minute or two lon 
 ger, might have spared years of bitter reflection. So are we 
 governed by apparent, or real, trifles ! 
 
 The gay and frolic-loving Allen, the equally sport-loving 
 Hilson, and many other of the young manager s friends, (Cooke 
 and Spiffard both having engagements, were not of the party,) 
 dined with him. His ever open hand and house were like that 
 of Lord Timon s some of his friends were Athenians too it 
 will be so. 
 
 Over the after-dinner s accompaniments, the wines of 
 France, the fruits of Italy, and the cigars of Spain, with Iri^h 
 whiskey, cogniac brandy and West India rum so tables were 
 covered thirty years ago over such stimulants, in the inter 
 val between the song, the glee and the glass, the manager re 
 lated with much humour the adventure at the Albany Coffee- 
 House, concluding with " I wish Spiff would come. I want 
 to see how he would take the disclosure of the plot. He s a 
 good fellow ! I believe I might have passed the little old gen 
 tleman with the cane-coloured wig upon him for the redoubted 
 Captain John Smith. Do you think he will believe it was all 
 a trick, when we tell him that no captain Smith at least for 
 him is in existence ?" 
 
 " Why truly, a man s word may be doubted when he acknow 
 ledges a deceit. Truth has but one face," remarked one of 
 the guests. 
 
 " Suppose," said Hilson, " that Spiff should turn the tables 
 on us, as Cooke did after the Cato duel, and say he knew from 
 the beginning what we meant, and only shammed innocence to 
 let us hoax ourselves. Suppose he comes off with, I knew ye 
 all, like FalstafH" 
 
The hoax renewed, and a mystery in Albany. 77 
 
 " He can t ! He can t ! He s as easily seen through as his 
 O .vn beverage. I long to explain and have the laugh upon 
 him ! 
 
 " Why you don t mean to give up the joke now that you 
 have a real Captain Smith to carry it on with?" 
 
 " We ve gone far enough. Let us have our laugh and have 
 done with it." 
 
 " Why give up the game ? said Allen, " when we have it 
 all in our own hands. Spiff knows, from the waiter s cr the 
 bar-keeper s testimony that there is a Captain Smith who fre 
 quents the Albany Coffee-House. All we have to do is to 
 make appointments and keep them from meeting. Chance 
 has made a man for us, all we have to do is to play him." 
 
 The manager still protested against carrying on the hoax 
 any further ; and if Spiffard had fortunately dropped in, there 
 would have been an end of it, in a laugh. But as the wine 
 declined in the bottles and mounted elsewhere ; as noise in 
 creased and the tobacco smoke thickened, Allen and the Col 
 onel persuaded the company that the opportunity must not be 
 lost of trying how far the credulity of a man of good sense 
 might be imposed upon. They forgot the remark of one of 
 Hie company, " that truth has but one face." They did not see 
 (through the mists about them) some other truisms, that might 
 have stood in their way : the second act of the drama was ma 
 tured, the plot founded on the " lucky circumstance," as Allen 
 called it, " that a Captain Smith occasionally frequented the 
 Albany Coffee House ; that they bad a man ready made to 
 their hands, and had only to move him as the game required." 
 
 Allen was himself to make the first move. Cooper declared 
 off: Allen was to act as friend and counseller. The manager 
 promised not to inform. But it was agreed to let the matter 
 rest a few days, and a journey which Spiffard made a short time 
 after, deferred their sport yet longer. 
 
 There was at this time a company of actors performing at 
 Albany, and offers for a few nights exertion of his talents had 
 l>een made to Mr. Spiffard, which by a friendly arrangement 
 with the New-York manager, he was enabled to accept. 
 
 Although January had commenced, the great river was still 
 open, the severity of winter had not yet been experienced ; and 
 my readers know that the clear, frosty, but moderate weather 
 of our early winter is health-and-joy-inspiring. Spiffard looked 
 forward to the excursion with pleasure. He had been in Al 
 bany but once, and then merely to pass through it from Can- 
 
 VOL. n. 4 
 
78 The hoax renewed, and a mystery in Albany. 
 
 ada. He did not feel the worse that Captain Smith had ab 
 sconded. 
 
 Mrs. Spiffard did not seem at ease when the project of these 
 few days residence in Albany was communicated to her by 
 her husband. She even changed colour. 
 
 " You have told me that you were some time there how 
 did you like the place ?" 
 
 " Not at all." 
 
 " Have you any friends there any acquaintance ? 
 
 " No/ 
 
 " Where is the best boarding-house ?" 
 
 " By all means go to Cruttenden s. It is on the hill and near 
 the State-house. By all means go there, Mr. Spiffard ; he is 
 a friend to the drama you will like him and his house." 
 
 " I should wish to be near the theatre." 
 
 44 There is a place nearer but it is a vile house and very 
 disagreeable people. Do not go there." 
 
 Now it so happened that Cruttenden s hotel was full. Throng 
 ed with members of the Legislature ; and chance, as it is 
 called, led Spiffard, to a public house, half tavern, half boarding 
 house, kept by an Englishman of the name of Thompson. 
 There he was received ; and found that it had been the usual 
 resort of the Thespians who visited the seat of government ;. 
 but, for some cause not within his or my knowledge, was ra 
 ther shunned at this time. 
 
 The landlord was a garrulous beer-drinker, and not unlike 
 Farquhar s Boniface in person, manner or reverence for the 
 strength of his potations. He was a short, fat man; not r;tout 
 and portly ; but heavy and burly. His wife looked like his 
 twin sister. 
 
 After the fatigues, the pleasure, and the exertion of an eve 
 ning s performance, Spifiard entered and found his landlord 
 sitting with his hand on the handle of a tankard ; and his coun 
 terpart, in petticoats, employed within the railing which separ 
 ated the bar from the space occupied by newspapers, and, at 
 this time, by Boniface. 
 
 " Great house, I understand, to-night, sir." 
 
 " The house appeared full." 
 
 " Not so, before you came, sir. What will you drink, sir ?" 
 
 ** A tumbler of water." 
 
 Thompson recommended his beer and his brandy, his rum 
 and his gin, his whiskey, but above all his ale then frothing, 
 in the tankard. To his surprise all was without effect. 
 
 " What do you drink, sir ?" 
 
The hoax renewed, and a mystery in Albany. 79 
 
 " Water." 
 
 14 Bless me. That makes you so thin." 
 
 44 1 am well, and strong. 1 doubt not, landlord, that I could 
 carry you up the hill to the capitol much easier than you could 
 carry me." 
 
 " That would be a funny sight sure enough. John finds it 
 hard work to carry himself." said Mrs. Thompson. 
 
 44 Well, sir, that may be, but I shouldn t be more surprised 
 to find myself riding up the hill on your shoulders, than I am 
 to find a hactor refusing good liquor. Why I ve ad ladies in 
 my ouse who would toss off a pint of brown-stout after hacting, 
 or a glass of brandy and water before going to the theatre, and 
 another before going to bed haye, by George ! and some 
 times two or three of them. There was Mrs. Hepsom and er 
 daughter fine women, both I ear she as changed er name 
 lately I mean the daughter as to the mother " 
 
 " With your leave, Mr. Thompson, I will take this candle 
 and retire." 
 
 44 The servant has been late in lighting your fire and has not 
 come down yet. Take a little summut, sir." 
 
 44 Nothing." 
 
 The landlady went up stairs shouting for the servant to 
 come down. Thompson finished his tankard of ale and pro 
 ceeded to finish his beer-imbued speech " A fine looking 
 stately dame that Mrs. Trowbridge or Miss Hepsom for I 
 don t believe yet if that Trowbridge adn t broke his neck 
 hout of the gig " 
 
 44 Room s ready now, sir," said the puffing dame, " but do 
 take a little summut " 
 
 44 Goodnight, Mr. Thompson!" said Spiffard, with any thing 
 but a somfortable addition of ideas for chamber companions, 
 hurried up stairs. 
 
 44 Good night, Muster Spiffard, and good rest to your honour! 
 said the burly landlady. 
 
 44 Spiffard ! Spiffard !" echoed Boniface, with mouth and 
 eyes wide stretched ; looking like one who tried to think but 
 was unused to the occupation. 4 Spiffard ! Odsbodikins, dame 
 Thompson, by George, 1 do believe that s the name of that 
 hactor that married hand it never struck me before. I am a 
 little frightful that I might a said a summut that ee would nt 
 hover-like to ear. Fore George I m glad I didn t tell im what 
 I might a ve what did I say? Do you remember? The 
 thought never struck me till you called is name." 
 
 44 Thoughts don t often strike you John. If you d drink less 
 and think more, the ouse might do better." 
 
80 The hoax renew cd^ and a mystery in Albany. 
 
 " Don Ualk to me woman ! but I didn t tell him of that " 
 
 " Hush!i John ! Walls ave hears. Least said is soonest 
 mended. That was a terrible night it s well it s only known 
 to ourselves." 
 
 " When I mentioned er name ee was off like a stage 
 coach." 
 
 Every hint, that had, since SpifFard s marriage, reached his ears 
 and caused him pain in respect to his wife s former history 
 every suspicion that had been forced upon his unsuspecting 
 nature now was recalled to mind. Every light word, spoken 
 by his light companions, was, against his will, remembered. 
 He could not sleep during a long winter s night. The mind 
 must be sorely distressed when youth, health and temperance, 
 cannot find rest after fatigue of body. He could almost envy 
 the snoring of his beer-bloated landlord, whose sonorous breath 
 ings were plainly heard through two partitions, " making 
 night hideous." 
 
 " 0, why did I marry so hastily ?" 
 
 His short engagement finished, SpifTard took the stage for 
 New- York, the winter had set in hard not harder than "the 
 winter of his discontent." He returned richer in purse poor 
 er in spirit. He was almost as miserable as a good man could 
 be made yet more suffering awaited him and more cause to 
 cry, " 0, why did I marry so hastily?" 
 
 He had reason to lament that he had married a woman bom 
 and educated in another land, without knowing her domestic- 
 habits or her previous story. Our hero was the most honest, 
 the most frank, most trusting, most credulous of any creature 
 that had ever been thrown among civilized men, yet he was an 
 actor by profession. 
 
 Spiffard felt that he had been deceived ; and knew that he 
 had deceived himself. He felt that the dearest lies of life 
 were not for him. He still admired the talents of his wife, and 
 would willingly have loved her : but love cannot exist where 
 confidence is wanting. It is the seal to the bond of matrimo 
 ny : the bond is worse than worthless without it. 
 
 Mrs. Spiffard, on her husband s return from Albany, per 
 ceived a change in his looks and behaviour. She soon under 
 stood from him that he had boarded at Thompson s. " The 
 thief does fear each bush an officer." She thought of an 
 avowal. She had been misled by her own passions and the 
 arts of a scoundrel. The tale is too common to be told. This 
 might be forgiven by one who looked for forgiveness. But 
 the habit induced by previous misery, (with encouragement 
 
The hoax renewed, and a mystery in dlbamj. 81 
 
 from a weak parent and temptation from professional fatigue,) 
 could not be tolerated. Notwithstanding remonstrances, en 
 treaties and arguments, on one side, and tears and repentance 
 and promises on the other, he saw that which he most abhorred, 
 most dreaded. He felt that he was miserable in the time pre 
 sent, and anticipated greater misery in the future. 
 
 The situation of Mrs. Williams was a sufficient excuse for 
 Eliza Atherton s not associating with Mrs. Spiffard ; but the 
 unhappy husband saw the difference in his aunt s behaviour 
 when she conversed with his wife, and when she opened her 
 heart to Emma Portland. Sometimes he thought of pouring 
 out his griefs and asking Miss Atherton s counsel. But the 
 subject was too sacred, and his delicacy too great. The at 
 tention of that lady to her suffering sister made their meetings 
 nnfrequent. 
 
 He was the favourite comedian of the public. Even Twaits 
 and Hilson were forgotten when Spiffard appeared. He was 
 received with plaudits, for which the sound of his voice before 
 he entered was the signal. Merriment was induced by the 
 sight of his face, and laughter burst forth in anticipation. His 
 musical talents always produced admiration and delight: but 
 he knew not pleasure nor peace. Applause had staled on 
 his ear. He only laughed as a duty. He was merry by sad 
 necessity. 
 
 Happily for man, he cannot uniformly be miserable. Nature 
 has her moments when sorrow is forgotten. One continued 
 torturing train of ideas can only be known in madness. It is 
 madness. But Spiffard became irritable. His health and 
 elastic strength declined. He refused the invitations of men 
 to whom his talents recommended and would have endeared 
 him. Even Mr. Littlejohn was neglected. He continued 
 his attachment to the erring George Frederick Cooke ; and 
 still sought the company of the gay young men who associated 
 with the favourites of the theatre, and enjoyed the hospitality 
 of the manager, whose flood of prosperity flowed full and strong, 
 and whose liberality let it pass as freely. Sometimes Spiffard 
 was urged into this joyous circle by his wishes to save Cooke: 
 sometimes merely to avoid his own domestic hearth. That 
 which alone can make the fireside blessed, was not there. 
 
82 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Mystery in JVew-Forfc, and another hero. 
 
 "Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful." 
 
 "The hand that hath made you fair, hath made you good. ; 
 
 " Dost thou desire her foully for those things 
 That make her good ?" 
 
 " Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch !" 
 
 "I hold him but a fool that will endanger 
 His body for a girl who loves him not." 
 
 "In these cases we still have judgment here. Shakspsare. 
 " Auf ! oder ihr seyd verloren." 
 
 " Es steht ihm an der stirn geschrieben, 
 Dass er nicht mag eine Seele lieben. Goethe. 
 
 " Away ! I do condemn my ears, that have 
 So long attended thee." Shakspsare. 
 
 THE reader already knows, that although Zebediah Spiffard 
 is the hero of this story, the heroine of it, Emma Portland, is 
 not destined to be his bride ; and that there is another hero ni 
 reserve who has superior claims. It is time that he came a 
 little more forward on our stage ; but first we must follow the 
 steps of Emma through some scenes which tend to bring on 
 the denouement of the drama, and bring together persons 
 heretofore estranged from, or unknown to, each other. 
 
 It was during SpifFard s short sojourn at Albany that Emma, 
 was subject to a more severe trial, by the arts and perseverance 
 of the unknown, and hitherto unseen persecutor, who had twice 
 before insulted her while in the quiet path of her duty. The 
 last attack made by this mysterious personage, who conducted 
 his approach muffled in cloaks and shrouded in darkness, had 
 
Mystery in Ncio-York, and another hero. 83 
 
 made her resolve not to expose herself unacompanied, in the 
 evening, to the possibility of insult in the once safe and peace 
 ful streets of New- York. She had related to Henry Johnson 
 all the circumstances attending upon the former attempts, and 
 had expressed the certainty she felt, that the person, though 
 unseen, was, in both instances, the same ; and not one con 
 nected with the theatre. It was in vain to conjecture who the 
 wretch was ; but Henry asked, and obtained the promise, that 
 her walks of charity should not be walks of darkness. 
 
 She mentioned to him likewise the friendly behaviour of the 
 watchman, and the confidence it had inspired. But he ob 
 served, that it might so happen that none of the watch would 
 be near at the moment she most required assistance ; and ex 
 plained the nature of their duty, by a detail which, to one of 
 her sex, was new. 
 
 But the enemy was on the alert ; and one morning, when 
 Emma was alone, the black girl brought to her a letter which 
 had been left by a boy. It was as follows : 
 
 Dear young lady, 
 
 My late husband, after being sick ever since last Au 
 gust, during which time I had to support him and my poor 
 little ones, was taken from me by death, leaving me with 
 out any fuel for this cold winter weather, and my clothes sold 
 and pawned to give him necessaries and bury him. I and my 
 poor children are in a state of starvation. I can t work, for 
 the rheumatism has taken away the use of my limbs : and for 
 the same reason I can t go to the Alderman for help. I send 
 this by a neighbour s child, humbly begging your advice and 
 assistance, as I know, from an acquaintance of an acquaint 
 ance of poor sick Mrs. Kent, that you are always ready to 
 help the unfortunate. I hope to see you, dear Miss, as soon 
 as possible, at No. 356 Mott-street. 
 
 Your most obedient servant, 
 
 MARTHA JENKINS. 
 
 It was not an extraordinary circumstance for Emma to receive 
 such applications : yet the late events made her cautious. It 
 had no date but it was written by a woman. The first im 
 pulse was to question the person who brought it but he was 
 gone. Should she go? Formerly she had never asked herself 
 the question when called upon by misery. She had gone in 
 search of the children of the poor for the Sunday-schools, 
 sometimes in company, but if a companion did not offer, she 
 
84 JWystery in Jfew-York, and another hero. 
 
 had sought the abode of poverty, too often associated with vice, 
 fearlessly to rescue infancy from ignorance. She knew the 
 intimate connection between ignorance and guilt ; and the ne 
 cessity which exists in society for strenuous exertions to make 
 the poor see, that intemperance and improvidence are the 
 causes of their sufferings. But now she hesitated. "Should 
 she consult Henry? But the family are starving. There can 
 be no danger in making such a visit by day-light." She de 
 termined, that, immediately after dinner, it being a very fine, 
 though cold day, she would walk to Mott-street. 
 
 Mr. Spiffard was at Albany. Emma told her cousin 
 where she was going, and took the further precaution of leaving 
 a written direction to the place, to be given to Henry Johnson 
 in case he called before she returned. Thus prepared, and 
 properly equipped for a walk, she proceeded through Chatham- 
 street, and up Mott-street, passing, on level ground, over the 
 spot where Bunker-hill (a conical eminence which once over 
 looked the city and bay, so called after the 17th June, 1775), 
 formerly reared its head ; and at length she saw No. 556, 
 marked upon the door of an isolated building, in figures of 
 chalk. The house was of wood, and small ; such as of late 
 have disappeared from even the extremities of the city. No 
 thing indicated the crowded dwelling of squalid misery that 
 she had anticipated. On knocking at the door a female voice 
 desired her to come in. Entering, she found herself in a bed 
 chamber, into which the street-door immediately opened. A 
 woman was seated on the bed. She did not rise. The room 
 was] imperfectly lighted by a window, looking toward the 
 street, but partly closed ; and from a feAV chips blazing on 
 the hearth, which was otherwise devoid of the means of 
 comfort. A chair, a three-legged stool, and an empty 
 cradle, constituted, with the bed, the visible furniture of the 
 apartment. 
 
 " Bless ye, my dear young lady, for your condesinshin to a 
 poor body like me ! but it s yourself that s always doing the 
 kind act. Would ye be plased to take a sate by the fire, for 
 sure it s cold to day, it is." 
 
 As she said this the woman arose with apparent difficulty,, 
 curtsied, and then sank again on the edge of the bed. Emma 
 took a seat and listened to a detail of misfortunes, mingled 
 \vith apologies, and what was meant as flattery, in the style of 
 the above sample. She felt no sympathy with the speaker. 
 Her features were coarse, her face bloated, the expression of 
 her little white eyes sinister, and the tone of her whining voice 
 disgusting. 
 
Mystery in JVeiu- York, and another hero. 85 
 
 " But where are your children?" 
 
 " Sure I wouldn t have them here when you came, so I axt 
 a neighbour of my own to kape them quiet up stairs for the 
 time." 
 
 Emma had come to this place with a reluctance not usual 
 with her when a deed of charity invited. She wished to shorten 
 her visit, and asked such questions, rapidly, as Why one of 
 the children could not have carried a written application to the 
 alderman of the ward 1 If she had no friends or acquaintance 
 who would make the application for her ? All her answers were 
 evasive, mingled with winnings and tears, except that she said 
 she had sent that day to the alderman. 
 
 Emma told her, that if she would give her ink and paper she 
 would write down the name of the alderman, with a state of 
 her case, which should be conveyed to him. 
 4< Where are your materials for writing 1" 
 44 Sure, I have none in- " 
 
 She hesitated, looked at the street door anxiously, and 
 added, 
 
 44 None below stairs and my lameness " 
 The thought that she had been decoyed hither, and that the 
 woman had been an instrument in the hands of the person 
 who had already evinced a daring pertinacity in his pursuit, 
 struck her so forcibly, that she started from her seat, saying, 
 44 Tell me where to apply in your behalf: give me the name 
 of the alderman " 
 
 At this moment a tap was heard at the door. 
 44 Come in." 
 
 A gentleman entered, who immediately saluted Mrs. Jenkins 
 by name, telling her, that one of her neighbours had signified 
 her suspicions that illness had prevented her from attending at 
 his office for customary relief." 
 
 He bowed to Emma, whose quick apprehension discerned 
 the discrepancy existing between these words and the tale of 
 Mrs. Jenkins. With many professions of thankfulness, that 
 his honour should trouble himself to come to her, she said that 
 she was " jist then spaking of his honour to the dear young 
 lady whose character for charity had made her bold enough to 
 write to her, begging her assistance and sure its a providince 
 that your honour s come, for she was jist saying she would 
 apply to your honour in my behalf." 
 
 The gentleman bowed again to Emma, and begged her to 
 be seated. The light of the fire, now the strongest light in the 
 room, flashed on his handsome face, as he courteously turned to 
 
 4* 
 
86 Mystery in New-York, and another hero. 
 
 her ; and the voice, commanding stature, insinuating demea 
 nour, and an indistinct recognition of the countenance, all con 
 firmed her previous suspicion. She was strong and bold in 
 innocence ; but previous circumstances caused alarm. 
 
 " You are the alderman of the ward, as I understand, and as 
 you now know how much this person wants assistance, I have 
 no further business here." 
 
 As she spoke of the woman she looked for her ; but in vain. 
 Her lameness had not prevented her exodus, and that so adroit 
 ly, that the quick eye of Emma had not observed it. She had 
 passed through a back door ; but whether she had gone up 
 stairs or out of the house could only be conjectured. Emma 
 was alone with one she feared. 
 
 The stranger, with some degree of trepidation, said, " pray 
 madam, be seated, Mrs. Jenkins has gone up stairs." The 
 voice was now more decidedly the same that she had twice 
 before heard. As the voice was identified, the figure was 
 fully recognised. For though, even at their last meeting, he 
 was cloaked, and concealed by the darkness of Theatre-alley, 
 there was an impression made that fully corresponded with the 
 person now before her, who stood without the incumbrance or 
 disguise of a wrapper, and rather ostentatiously displaying a 
 fine and commanding form. 
 
 For a moment she trembled. She looked around her for 
 the means of escape. She was convinced that she had been 
 betrayed by the vile woman, and of course could expect no 
 succour from any one within the walls. He spoke again, and 
 the sound of his voice recalled her courage, for it inspired in 
 dignation. 
 
 Indignant at the persevering persecution of this unprincipled 
 wretch, (who evidently could not plead the mutiny of" flaming 
 youth" in his excuse,) her firmness returned. The courage 
 which nature had given her, which education had confirmed, 
 and conscious rectitude maintained, now supported her. She 
 neither heard nor replied to his words, but addressed herself 
 {o depart. He, bowing, placed himself between her and the 
 door. With a lofty step, and energetic motion of the hand, she 
 put him aside and passed on. The door was locked 
 and the key removed. She afterwards recollected, that 
 when she came to the house the key was on the outside of tho 
 door. 
 
 " I now see," she said, firmly, and looking proudly in the 
 face of her persecutor, " I see the whole of this vile plot, and 
 know you, for the person who twice before has insulted me. 
 
Mystery in New-York, and another hero. 87 
 
 If I could suppose that r.ny conduct of mine had encouraged 
 you, it would be the most humiliating thought of my life. I 
 am not intimidated by the success of your plan in bringing me 
 hither, or by my apparently defenceless situation. I have too 
 just a sense of my own powers, and of the protection my coun 
 try affords me, to fear any violence from you or your vile 
 agent." 
 
 " Violence ! Who could think of offering violence to such 
 beauty? To such angelic loveliness? I have offers to make 
 that you must listen to. Let my love plead " 
 
 " You mistake the person you address. Such language 
 only adds to the contempt your actions have inspired. Order 
 your agent to open the door before I alarm the neighbourhood 
 and expose you to shame and punishment. 
 
 " First hear me. I offer you " 
 
 " I will not be insulted by any offers from one so des 
 picable as your conduct has proved you." 
 
 " Hear me, lovely girl ! I have seen I have followed " 
 
 " Hear me, sir ! Your clandestine followings mark your 
 own consciousness of base intentions. What have you seen 
 in me that could induce you to persecute me with your detest 
 able doggings and followings ?" 
 
 " Nothing could encourage me to hope that I might devote 
 my life and fortune to your happiness nothing certainly ia 
 your appearance or conduct but " 
 
 " Speak on, sir." 
 
 " Your visits to the private door of the theatre your situa 
 tion " He hesitated. 
 
 " You inquired and heard that I was an orphan and poor!" 
 
 " I saw you with and apparently dependent upon people 
 whose profession and as the world says but I will not of 
 fend come come ! lovely creature ! this is all prudery. I 
 can and will place you above dependence even upon my 
 passion." 
 
 " You are probably a traveller, and forget that you are not 
 in Paris. You have heard and known that some opera- 
 dancers, and even others connected with the stage, have fallen 
 from virtue; and therefore think all base. You forget the 
 many that never entered a theatre, or only as auditors, who 
 sink to the level of the most criminal : and you forget the many 
 models of private worth who have ministered to public taste 
 and instruction from the stage. Order the door to be opened, 
 sir, or produce the key." 
 
 " Hear me you mistake me I am above the prejudices 
 
88 Mystery in JVe- For, and another hero. 
 
 which would censure that independence of conduct in a lady 
 that high-mindedness which throws off the fetters hypocrisy 
 would place upon your sex. I am a man of the world ; and 
 we all know that those who break through a certain line of 
 distinction, which public opinion has placed between those 
 who expose their persons on the stage and bow their thanks 
 for vulgar plaudits, and the more reserved portion of society, 
 are above that false delicacy " 
 
 " Wretched man ! But I am wrong to waste words with 
 one to whom years have not brought wisdom. Open the door !" 
 
 " Not until you have listened to my love." 
 
 This interchange of words had lasted so long, that, by de 
 grees, Emma was convinced that she had seen this man under 
 other circumstances than those I have witnessed. The imper 
 fect recognition shocked her, but it added to the indignation 
 she felt, a sensation approaching to horror. She interrupted 
 him in a tone he little expected from one so young and 
 delicate. 
 
 " Despicable man ! You saw me the companion of my na 
 tural guardians, the only relations providence has left me; but 
 I now feel assured that you saw me elsewhere. I now recog 
 nise you." 
 
 " I never was in your company." 
 
 " Yes I fully recognise you, though your name and situa 
 tion in life are unknown to me and may remain so. You 
 saw me, a servant in the temple of the most high God a 
 leacher of the poor and ignorant a worshipper at that altar, 
 where I must now conclude that you bowed in mockery, or as 
 the agent of that power in whose service you would enlist me. 
 I have heard and read of such base depravity, but you have, 
 for the first time, presented to me the perfect image of the 
 most loathsome profligacy covered by the mask of hypocrisy! 
 
 " You have mistaken me for another." 
 
 " No. I am certain : but I have no wish to expose you. 
 Let me go and when you can repent." 
 
 ** You must at least promise " 
 
 " I hear no more, sir!" 
 
 She sprung towards the ^window, which she had observed, 
 on entering the house, to be near the unpaved street. He 
 threw his arms around her and prevented her seizing the win 
 dow-sash : at the same time he drew her from the place she 
 had hoped to escape from, and placed himself next the street. 
 He encircled her for a moment in his arms ; but, with a force 
 which youth and exercise had given, and with an effort which 
 
Mystery in JYew- ForAr, and another hero. 89 
 
 indignation made irresistible, she burst from him, leaving her 
 cloak, which she had not taken off since entering, in his hands. 
 In the struggle her bonnet fell off, and with it the comb which 
 confined her mass of tresses, fell on the floor. The same ef 
 fort which released her, east him towards the door, and she 
 gained the window, threw up the sash, and cried for help. As 
 she cast a look out, the most welcome form presented itself 
 that could have prevented her leap from the window ; and, 
 clasping her hands, she exclaimed, " Henry !" 
 
 To force the door was not a business requiring much time 
 with the athletic and excited youth, who heard the cry of dis 
 tress from one whose voice at all times reached his heart with 
 the lightning s rapidity, who saw that her face, pale with terror, 
 after losing the flush which indignation and exercise had 
 caused that countenance, wild and surrounded by disheveled 
 locks, on which he delighted to trace the mild emotions of be 
 nevolence and love. The lock gave way before him he 
 rushed in Emma was in his arms. The wretch, who had 
 caused this alarm, finding himself baffled and exposed to de 
 tection, retreated by the open window, and was not even seen 
 by young Johnson. 
 
 Henry had called, as usual, to visit his betrothed, after 
 leaving the counting-house in which his days were passed : 
 he received the paper left by Emma, and, although not 
 alarmed, as evening approached, he determined to follow the 
 direction, expecting to meet her. Having passed the populous 
 and well-built part of the street, he began to fear that some 
 thing was wrong, and hastened forward, anxiously looking for 
 No. 356. He came as opportunely as hero of romance, or 
 protecting deity in an epic, could possibly have done, and re 
 ceived explanations as extraordinary as the appearance of 
 Emma was alarming. 
 
 Her cloak, bonnet, and comb, strewed the floor ; and near 
 them lay a man s hat. 
 
 Her hair covering her neck, shoulders, and almost hiding 
 her face, streamed in wild disorder over her deliverer s arms as 
 he pressed her to his bosom. It was not until he had placed 
 her on the only chair in the room, that he saw the man s hat, 
 and gained, by a hurried statement, some confused knowledge 
 of the insult that had been offered. 
 
 " His name may be written in his hat," he exclaimed ; but, 
 on examining it by the faint fire-light, only the letter W. was 
 found. 
 
 " I am glad of it, Henry! Tis better we should not know." 
 
90 Mystery in Neiv-York, and another hero. 
 
 But I will know! Where is the woman? I will discover 
 the scoundrel by means of his vile agent." 
 
 Emma would have persuaded Henry to depart instantly, 
 but he was irritated, and insisted on seeing the woman who 
 had decoyed her to the place. She came down stairs reluct 
 antly at his call ; but nothing could be elicited from her. 
 She confessed her participation in the plot, having been per 
 suaded by the gentleman that he meant no harm. She de 
 clared, and probably with great truth, that she did not know 
 his name. She could not read, and did not know the contents 
 of the letter, only as her employer had informed her. When 
 questioned respecting her children, she said she had but one ; 
 an infant ; and she had been directed to leave that with a 
 neighbour. Her husband, Patrick Murphy, had left her and 
 gone to Boston. 
 
 " Then Jenkins is not your name ?" 
 
 " No, sure, the truth is, my name s Molly Murphy ever 
 since I was married. The gentleman called me Jenkins only 
 for a joke, sure." 
 
 As no trace of this mysterious persecutor was discovered, 
 Henry yielded to Emma s entreaties ; who, having reduced 
 her disordered dress to its usual neat and simple r^pearance, 
 departed in safety with her protector. On the way home she 
 promised him never to go on an errand of charity among stran 
 gers without a companion. 
 
 She promised to be guided by him. She knew that he was 
 entitled to her confidence, and looked upon herself as his bride 
 elect. In her communion with this, the chosen of her affec 
 tions, she might have said with the poet 
 
 Hence, bashful cunning! 
 
 And prompt me, plain and holy innocence.", 
 
 She henceforward looked upon Henry Johnson as the part 
 ner who should add his strength to the suppoit which her own 
 intelligence, virtues, and purity impaited. 
 
91 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Jl death, and a snow storm. 
 
 c: If men were to act and think just as their ancestors have acted and 
 thought before them, human nature would be merely idolatry and slavery." 
 
 English translation of De Lamartine. 
 
 "I hope it will not be conceived, that it is my wish to hold the unhappy 
 people, who are the subject of this letter, in slavery. I can only say, tha t 
 there is not a man living, who wishes more sincerely than I do, to see a 
 plan adopted for the abolition of it; but there is only one proper and effec 
 tual mode by which it can be accomplished ; and that is, by legislative au 
 thority ; and this, as far as my suffrage will go, shall never be wanting." 
 
 jTT (ishingto)i . 
 
 " You have among you many a purchased slave, 
 Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules, 
 You use in abject and in slavish parts, 
 Because you bought them." Shakspeare. 
 
 "I cannot see how Venetians or Englishmen, while they practise the 
 purchase and sale of slaves, can much enforce or demand the law of Do 
 ing to others as we would have that they should do to s. " Johnson.. 
 
 "To set the slaves afloat at once, would, I really believe, be productive 
 of much inconvenience and mischief; but by degrees it certainly might, 
 and assuredly ought to be affected; and that, too, by legislative autho 
 rity." Washington. 
 
 "I was born as free as they, 
 And what I think, that will I say." Souther. 
 
 "After life s fitful fever they sleep well. 
 Nor steel, nor poison, 
 Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing 
 Can touch them further." Shaksi.eare. 
 
 "I never mean, unless some particular circumstances should compel mo 
 to it, to possess another slave by purchase, it being among my first wishes 
 to see some plan adopted, by which slavery in this country may be abo 
 lished by law."- Washington. 
 
 " JusL Death ! kind umpire of man s miseries." 
 " Our little life is rounded with a sleep." 
 
 " But in that sleep of death what droanis may chance 
 To come, must give us pause." Shukxpeare. 
 
 SOME weeks had flown on time s wings, when another inci 
 dent occurred, even more nearly affecting the fortunes of 
 Emma Portland than that last recorded. 
 
92 A death, and a snow storm. 
 
 My readers must excuse me if I again introduce them to the 
 dingy company of John Kent and his wife : it is necessary 
 that we follow our heroine, even though our motives for so do 
 ing should not be as pure as hers were. 
 
 The snows of winter had for some time covered the wide 
 fields of the agriculturist, cherishing the root and the seed of 
 succeeding harvests. The streets of our city were ringing 
 with bells, as the gay and the beautiful enjoyed the rapid mo 
 tion of the sleigh, while silks, velvets, and feathers, of every co 
 lour, glittered and danced in the sunbeams; or, as the thoughtless 
 and dissipated flew shouting to the nightly rendezvous of in 
 temperance. 
 
 Again the north-east wind whirled the dark clouds over us, 
 and the snow had fallen all day without intermission, when 
 honest old Kent appeared at Mrs. Epsom s, soliciting Emma 
 Portland to give the consolation of her beloved presence (ohis 
 wife, whose sufferings appeared to be drawing to a close. He 
 proposed sending a hackney-coach for her, in the evening ; but 
 this she positively refused. She knew that his circumstances 
 did not warrant the expense. She promised to come as soon 
 as her duties at home permitted. 
 
 When the evening arrived, she was longer detained by offices 
 of kindness and assistance, performed for her aunt and cousin, 
 than she had anticipated ; but after they had gone, with Mr. 
 Spiffard, to their duties at the theatre, she prepared to encoun 
 ter the storm. Taking Rachel, the black servant, with her to- 
 Kent s door, she again entered the abode of sickness, after 
 charging the faithful girl to return quickly homej and be vigi 
 lant in her sphere of usefulness. 
 
 Kent having been excused from his duties at the theatre, in 
 consequence of his wife s extreme illness, was at home; ; and 
 the reader may imagine the same picture, once before present 
 ed to him ; the same room, the same table, lamp, book, and 
 figures ; but, at tfne time we draw the curtain, the book was 
 closed ; the invalid had recovered temporary strength, appear 
 ing unusually animated, and the parties were engaged ear 
 nestly in conversation. It was that strength and animation 
 which not unfrequently precedes death. 
 
 The aged man and dying woman are the same we have al 
 ready introduced to the reader. The same honest old Kent, 
 as faithful a servant to his employers, as his namesake was to 
 the improvident and misjudging Lear. 
 
 His wife, though not a white, was an interesting figure, 
 even in the eyes of the most fastidious. Pale and emaciated. 
 
A death, and a snow storm. 93 
 
 but with an expression of resignation. Always neat in her per 
 sonal appearance, beyond that cleanliness which might have 
 been expected from her condition, there was in everything 
 about her arid her humble dwelling, the evidences of economy 
 and propriety. 
 
 The old property-man was occupied, in compliance with 
 Emma s request, with that, which is always pleasant to age, 
 recounting the eventful circumstances of his early life. 
 
 44 I was born, as I have told you, Miss Emmy, in this city, 
 when it was a poor little place compared to what it is now ; 
 when the park, now level as a floor, and rilled with trees, was 
 called the fields ; no houses, but some mean wooden ones, 
 around it ; and neither tree nor green thing to be seen. The 
 people were almost as much Dutch as English. My master 
 took me with him to Canada, when the rebels, as they called 
 them then, were mobbing the torics for he was an English 
 man and a loyalist." 
 
 u He was a good master to you was he not?" 
 
 " Why do you think so, Miss T 
 
 " Because you had a good education for for " 
 
 4< A slave, Miss. You did not like to speak the word. Yes, 
 I was a slave. Yes, Miss* he was a good master ; but he was 
 a master." 
 
 4< He had you taught a trade, too." 
 
 " That makes the slave a more valuable property. He can 
 ram more wages for his master. Having a trade, he will 
 bring a higher price if set up at auction, to be knocked down 
 to the highest bidder, like a horse or a dog." 
 
 " But you were not so sold?" 
 
 44 No, Miss ; but I saw others so bought and sold ; and I 
 knew that it might be my case. I knew that I was a some 
 thing that must go one way when I wished to go another. No 
 matter ! It s past ! No matter !" 
 
 He paused, as if looking back to long gone days. Emma 
 said soothingly, 4 Such is the fate of all ; and probably it is 
 best for us that it is so. My dear mother taught me, very 
 early in life, that it was better her will should govern me than 
 my own. I was taught this so very early in my infancy, that 
 I cannot remember the arguments she used ; but I was con 
 vinced. Probably my conviction was the result of her univer 
 sally tender behaviour her protecting care and love her 
 strict adherence to truth. She told me that her commands 
 were for my good ; and I believed her." 
 
 44 Ah, there it is, Miss. There s the difference. The slave 
 
94 Jl death, and a snow stow. 
 
 sees that the commands of the master are not even pretended 
 to be for any other than the masters pleasure. The slave, 
 even if he feels that he has more strength and more disposition 
 to do good than his master, sees that he is treated as an infe 
 rior being. He labours, at the will of another, knowing that 
 his own good is not intended ; and that he must not seek his 
 own good, if, by so doing, he interferes with his master s plea 
 sures. He receives food as it is given to the horse, the ox, 
 and the ass, to repair the strength that labour for his master 
 has exhausted. Like the horse and the ass he is subjected to 
 blows ; and like them he is transferred to another master and 
 another country, when his master wants money to supply his 
 wine-cellar, or to pay his losses at the gaming-table. The 
 slave cannot think that to be forced from his wife and children 
 is for his good. The child of a good parent may think and 
 feel that all is intended for his good ; but not the man of ma 
 ture age, controlled by the will of one, perhaps neither wiser 
 nor better than himself." 
 
 " You state an extreme case. Few masters would separate 
 husband from wife." 
 
 " I am sorry, Miss, that we happened to talk on this sub 
 ject. I have known masters who inherited slaves, and who 
 acted conscientiously for their good. My master was one. 
 He did better for me, than I probably could have done for 
 myself." 
 
 " His superior knowledge enabled him t do so." 
 
 "True. Miss. I had no right to expect more from him than 
 he did. He had me taught reading, writing, and arithmetic 
 gave me a trade and though that is often done by slave-hold 
 ers for their own interest, I did not mean to say that my mas 
 ter acted from that motive. That he had me taught to rea-i 
 was my greatest blessing ! You know, Miss Emmy, that many 
 slave-holders are afraid to let their slaves read, even the word 
 of God." 
 
 " It is the comment of the slave-holder upon his own prac 
 tice, and proves more than all Clarkson or Wilberforce has 
 said. I am glad to leave Mrs. Kent so much better ; and 
 now, Mr. Kent, if you will prepare the lantern you shall ac 
 company me home whether you will or no," she said 
 smiling. 
 
 " God bless you, Miss ! I wish all the world was as will 
 ing to serve you as I am." 
 
 " Before you go, Miss Emma," said the sick woman, u if 
 it is not too late, please to read one chapter in the New Tes 
 tament." 
 
Jl death, and a snow storm. 95 
 
 " I will. What chapter shall it be ?" 
 
 " You know best what will suit." 
 
 Emma opened the book. She read feelingly. Kent sat 
 with his eyes fixed on the floor, and his hands clasped, and 
 resting on his knees, 
 
 As the reading progressed, the sick woman sighed, and oc 
 casionally sobbed ; but not so as to occasion interruption. 
 After a time, Emma heard a groan ; but considering it onlv 
 as the effect of the passage she was reading, from the book of 
 wisdom, on the feelings of the patient, prepared by long suffer 
 ing to experience a more powerful effect than the same words 
 would produce on the strong and happy, she continued her 
 reading until she had finished the chapter. She then shut the 
 book, and turned her eyes to the bed, preparatory to taking 
 leave. What was her surprise on perceiving that she had been 
 reading to the dead ! The woman was a corpse. 
 
 Accustomed as she was to self-command, she could not re 
 press a cry ; and not until then did the old man see that the 
 companion of years passed in slavery and in freedom, had left 
 him childless and alone, for the remaining portion of his life. 
 
 Emma recovered her self-possession before the man ; who 
 was so utterly bewildered, at an event as unexpected at the 
 moment as if the woman had been in health, that he could do 
 nought but utter broken and unintelligible exclamations. 
 Emma directed him to run for the nearest physician. 
 
 " Yes ! yes !" he exclaimed. " Is there any hope ?" 
 
 " Run quickly! It may be. But all will depend upon your 
 speed." 
 
 The old man hastened for aid. Emma raised the head of 
 the corpse, after feeling in vain for pulsation. She was soon 
 convinced that life had fled. The interval had been so long 
 between the groan, which had passed almost unheeded, and 
 the conclusion of the lecture, that the body which then part 
 ed with its last breath, had become nearly stark and cold. 
 
 Long appeared the time before the bereaved old man re 
 turned. Emma had no fears for herself, but thought that her 
 aunt and cousin would be made uneasy by her long protracted 
 visit. The wind howled without, and the snow, mingled with 
 hail, beat upon the windows and the roof. 
 
 Emma Portland prayed. 
 
 At length Kent returned, and brought with him Doctor Mc 
 Lean, the kind physician who had long administered to the 
 comfort of the patient ; but who immediately ascertained that 
 his skill was of no avail. 
 
96 A death, and a snow sfortw. 
 
 Some females living in the house were brought to the apart 
 ment by the unusual stir this catastrophe had occasioned ; and, 
 leaving the corpse to their care, Emma, (unnoticed by Kent 
 or the doctor), stole out of the room, taking with her the man 
 tle and hood which sheltered her from the storm when she 
 came. As she descended the stairs, she wrapped herself in 
 these convenient garments, and trusted herself again to the 
 well-known pavement, which she had thought not again to ven 
 ture on, unaccompanied. 
 
 The night was cold, and the snow fell thick. She hastened 
 on, anxious to reach home and quiet the fears of her expecting 
 relatives. It was so late, and so inclement, that the streets 
 were abandoned. This circumstance rather assured than dis 
 couraged the courageous girl ; and well protected by her long 
 and warm mantle, and close well-padded hood, drawn over 
 head and face, she speeded on, congratulating herself that none 
 of the usual frequenters of Theatre-alley were seen or heard. 
 The entertainments of the play-house were over, and the 
 crowds who attended them, or assisted in them, were dis 
 persed. 
 
 She had left the theatre and its alley behind, and met, on 
 turning the first corner, the full force of the piercing blast, 
 drifting the snow before it, and threatening to overwhelm her ; 
 but, shrinking from the gale for a moment, she recovered her 
 strength, and encouraged by the knowledge, that on her way 
 home she should pass the door of one to whom she had made 
 frequent visits of charity (in its highest sense) and love, she 
 pressed on. Arrived opposite to the door of Mrs. Johnson, 
 she hesitated whether she should not stop, and ask a compan 
 ion for the remainder of the way. But the very lateness of the 
 hour determined her not to disturb the repose of one whom 
 she knew to be in a state little fitted to bear a night alarm. 
 " I shall only be later in getting home ; and I may injure 
 her. So she thought, and on she passed, opposing her deli 
 cate form to the furious blast, but speeding with the untiring 
 elasticity of youth. On! on! 
 
97 
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 Effects of intemperance. Jl scene from real life. 
 
 r; Vou shall make no noise in the streets ; for, for the watch to babbU 
 and talk, is most tolerable, and not to be endured." 
 
 We will rather sleep than talk ; we know what belongs to a watch." 
 {: Why you speak like an ancient and mosi quiet watchman." 
 
 perseverance, my lord, 
 
 Keeps honour bright. * * Keep then the path : 
 
 * * * If you give way, 
 
 Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, 
 
 Like to an enter d tide, they all rush "by, 
 
 And leave you hindermost ; 
 
 Or like a gallant horse, fallen in first rank, 
 
 Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, 
 
 O er-run and trampled on." 
 
 Then was I as a tree, 
 
 Whose boughs did bend with fruit : but in one night, 
 A storm * * 
 
 Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, 
 And left me bare to weather." 
 
 -how like a swine he lies ! 
 
 Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!" 
 
 Shckspeare. 
 
 (; She as a veil, down to her slender waist 
 Her unadorned golden tresses wore, 
 Dishevel d, but in wanton ringlets wav d, 
 As the vine curls her tendrils " Milton. 
 
 " Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night, 
 Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop s ear." Shakspeart. 
 
 EMMA PORTLAND passed the house of her beloved sick 
 friend, Mrs. Johnson ; but had not gone more than half a 
 square in the direction of Broadway, which she had to cross, 
 when she saw the figure of a man prostrate, and white with the 
 falling snow, directly in her pathway. This object, owing to 
 the night and the blinding effect of the snow, was not seen 
 until she was within a few steps of him. 
 
98 Effects of intemperance. 
 
 The consciousness of her unprotected situation now flashed 
 upon her ; she feared that she had rashly exposed herself to 
 insult or danger ; for the thought of the person being dead, or 
 one perishing in the streets of a populous and well-guarded 
 city, did not, at first, occur to her as a possibility. She started 
 back ; and the first impulse was to cross the narrow street, 
 and thus avoid notice or danger. She however observed that 
 the figure was motionless. The thought of a person having 
 fallen in a fit, and left to perish by cold, occurred. She had 
 been reading but a few hours before, among other lessons of 
 humanity and love, the parable of the good Samaritan. That 
 beautiful fiction by which its great author inculcated truth the 
 love and duty due to a neighbour and that the word neigh 
 bour meant, one of the human race, though of an adverse na 
 tion and religion. 
 
 Such lessons were not lost on Emma Portland. As she 
 turned to cross to the other side of the street, the Levite who 
 passed by and avoided the abused and wounded traveller, 1 ar 
 rested her steps. She advanced towards the object which had 
 alarmed her, and with feelings of mingled terror and compas 
 sion gazed on a being so pitiably exposed to suffering and 
 death. 
 
 A lamp-post stood near ; but the chilled oil scarcely served 
 the purpose of feeding the wick of the lamp ; and it was only 
 a fitful and glimmering light which was shed through the flakes 
 of falling snow on the surrounding objects. She advanced 
 nearer, and the light flickered and expired. She had stooped 
 over the object, that now interested her, at the moment the ex 
 hausted lamp shot forth a feeble and a last ray. She saw that 
 the thin, dishevelled grey hair of an aged man, was the only 
 covering of the head, which lay pillowed on a pile of snow that 
 had been shoveled from the side-walk. The light of the lamp 
 was now extinguished ; but amid snow there is no perfect 
 darkness. 
 
 Emma had too much of the good Samaritan in her compo 
 sition to think a second time of passing on the other side of the 
 way. She saw, that this poor creature, instead of being an 
 object to create alarm, was a subject for compassion and ac 
 tive assistance. Her own lonely and unprotected situation 
 was forgotten. She again stooped over the prostrate and fallen. 
 man fallen indeed ! to ascertain whether he was living or 
 dead. She saw by his colour and breathing that life was not 
 extinct that it was a "foul and loathsome" image of death 
 
Jl scene from real life. 99 
 
 which she beheld and she recognised the features of George 
 Frederick Cooke ! 
 
 Involuntarily she uttered a faint shriek rather of surprise 
 and horror than terror ; but, with characteristic self-possession,, 
 she the next instant bent the powers of her well-regulated 
 mind in search of the readiest mode by which to overcome 
 difficulties and procure relief to the sufferer, apparently uncon 
 scious, though so eminently in peril of immediate death. 
 
 The question for her to determine was, where could assis 
 tance for the unhappy man be obtained most promptly 1 She 
 thought of Kent s ; but it \vas distant, and he was not in a 
 state of mind or body old, worn down, and afflicted to bear 
 the helpless man so far. Mrs. Johnson and Henry occurred 
 to her but she shrunk from alarming her, and thought more 
 than one man necessary to carry the inert perhaps dying 
 body. She recollected the City-Hall, and knew that it was not 
 far off, and afforded ample aid. She had heard that the central 
 city- watch-house was there, and of course men ready, without 
 loss of time, to fly to the aid of the distressed. She had often 
 heard the sonorous notes of " All s well" wafted through the 
 trees of the park, and echoed by the surrounding buildings. 
 Thought is more rapid than the pen or even the eye : these 
 thoughts occupied but a moment, and the course to be pursued 
 was resolved upon. 
 
 " I will there seek assistance there I am sure to find and 
 obtain it without delay." She was unconscious of wind or 
 snow, and exercise supplied heat to counteract the chilling- 
 blasts. " I am rushing among strange and coarse men ; but 
 my sex must be respected. I am doing my duty ; I shall soon 
 be there ; I may save this unfortunate gentleman !" Such were 
 the replies that quieted her fears. 
 
 At first she almost ran, in her impatience to procure suc 
 cour ; but the snow impeded her feet, and she found her breath 
 failing. She stopped. The picture of a watch-house such as 
 she had seen described in books, occurred to her, and appear 
 ed appalling. She remembered the figures she had sometimes 
 passed at night in the streets, covered with rough garments, arm 
 ed with bludgeons, and made conspicuous by helmet-like hats. 
 She had seen them gliding silently along like beings of another 
 world, or those startling things, creatures of darkness, who never 
 appear by day. Her heart beat quick, and her courage began to 
 fail. " Heavenly father !" she ejaculated, "strengthen my pur 
 pose if it is right!" Shefeltthat it wasright, and she was strength 
 ened. The image of the old man whom she had known so 
 
100 Effects of intemperance. 
 
 kind and gentle in private life, was present to her mind ; his 
 life depended upon her exertion. She quickened her pace. 
 Her impatience increased when she reached the park and saw 
 the building before her which promised relief ; she almost ran, in 
 despite of impediment, as she passed along by the palings on 
 the west side of the enclosure ; she opened the gate nearest the 
 hall, and glided along in front of the bridewell. She saw a light 
 glimmering from a cellar-like passage ; the entrance was by a 
 few steps, and it appeared to lead, like a long arch-way, under 
 the massive edifice. She approached, and saw that the vault- 
 like place was lighted by a solitary lamp, suspended from (he 
 low-arched roof. Before she could descend the steps to this 
 subterraneous abode she had another struggle with her fears. 
 She stopped to listen, as her foot touched the second step. 
 She heard a confused murmuring sound, and occasionally a 
 hoarse, loud voice, grating and discordant. All was new all 
 was terrific to the affrighted maiden. The light from the lamp 
 showed her what at first was an apparently interminable gloomy 
 passage of dark massive stone-work, crossed by gates of iron 
 gratings. She again heard a noise of human voices, which 
 she perceived came from a lateral passage, leading to the left. 
 That way she must seek for aid. She descended the stone 
 stairs, and stood (again hesitating) on the broad flagging of the 
 floor ; from whence, looking forward, she saw, through the 
 iron bars, a distant pale light, which she knew, after a mo 
 ment s reflection, must proceed from an opening at the other 
 end of the building, similar to that she had entered, made visi 
 ble by the snow beyond. 
 
 She heard a step behind her, and had scarcely turned her 
 head, when a rude hand grasped her shoulder, and as rude a 
 voice assailed her ear, with, " What are you doing here, 
 girl ? 
 
 She, trembling, looked up and saw the gigantic figure of a 
 man towering over her, and appearing more colossal from 
 standing on the step from which she had just descended. 
 This was one of the guardians of the night who had returned 
 from his rounds, and seeing, as he approached, that some one 
 was in the passage, had descended the steps cautiously, to take 
 the supposed eave-dropper or outcast by surprise. 
 
 " Your business here ?" 
 
 " I have come here for help, sir," was the answer of the 
 trembling maid. 
 
 " Why did you stand here ?" 
 
 " I did not know which way to go." 
 
Jl scene from real life, 101 
 
 " So this is your first visit to the watch-house? Come 
 then ! I ll introduce you to a plenty of good company." 
 
 Saying this he took her by the arm and led her forward to the 
 passage from which she had heard the sound of voices. Into 
 this, still dar, er than the place from which they came, he turn 
 ed and pressed forward. 
 
 Emma involuntarily shrunk, and held back, exclaiming, 
 " Heaven protect me! What a place is this!" 
 
 " Don t be alarmed, miss," said her conductor, seemingly 
 impressed favourably by her words and voice, " don t be 
 alarmed if you want help, this is the place I ll speak to the 
 captain." 
 
 They reached a door, which he opened, and Emma found 
 herself in an apartment lighted, by what appeared from the 
 contrast, a noon-day blaze. Her conductor led her in, 
 and leaving her to herself while he spoke to the captain, she 
 gazed in amazement at a scene so utterly strange as that 
 which surrounded her. 
 
 The place in which she stood, (environed by figures, some 
 sitting, but most stretched upon benches ; some talking, others 
 sleeping) was separated by gratings from an inner apartment, 
 and, as her quick eye fell upon the prison-like bars, she saw 
 within a motley crowd of every colour rags and filth were 
 commingled with dresses of pretension, and here and there 
 flaring female ornaments, with feathers and silks, caught her 
 bewildered sight. Curiosity, to see what new figure, what 
 additional wretch, had been ushered in by the watchman, to be 
 thrust into the den of misery as a companion to themselves, 
 brought many to the bars of their cage ; and male and female, 
 black and white visages, appeared, with eyes staring at the in 
 nocent and almost bewildered girl, like hideous phantasms in 
 a feverish dream. The contrast formed by the flaunting finery 
 of some females who had been hurried hither from a fancy-ball, 
 with the forlorn expression of their faces, the degraded situa 
 tion, and the squalid appearance of their companions, seemed 
 to realize the fantastic incongruities of a vision in disturbed 
 sleep. Close to the distorted and bloated countenance of an 
 enraged drunkard might be seen the pale face of a wretched 
 woman, whose tears had washed away the artificial colouring 
 meant to represent health, and exhibited the wreck of beauty, a 
 prey to disease. 
 
 Emma turned away her eyes in disgust from the spectre- 
 like scene, which, at first, attracted them by the fascination of 
 strangeness a novelty beyond imagining. After the first 
 
 VOL. H. 5 
 
102 A scene from real life. 
 
 glare of the room on entering, the light became dim, the air 
 thick and offensive to the senses. The objects were becoming 
 indistinct a sickening oppression was stealing over the aston 
 ished maiden, when she was aroused by a voice demanding 
 from her conductor, who she was 1 and for what offence she 
 was brought there ? 
 
 She lifted her eyes and turning her head saw the captain of 
 the watch, whose slumbers had been broken by the person who 
 introduced her. The captain was at this moment sitting by 
 the fire on the bench which had been his bed : his head was 
 bound with a bandana handkerchief, and a blanket was partly 
 wrapt around him. Emma s conductor was still explaining 
 that she was not constrained to visit their place of guard, and 
 came for assistance ; but as the captain s words seemed to 
 confound her with the criminals or rioters of the night, they 
 awakened her energies. She advanced towards him. 
 
 " I am not brought here against my will. I come to demand 
 assistance." The beautiful girl seemed at once restored to 
 the possession of her courage and the exercise of her clear 
 intellect. " I come for help to save a gentleman from death. 
 There is not a moment to be lost let me conduct some of the 
 watch to his assistance. In a few moments he may be a 
 frozen corpse he is perishing in the street helpless in this 
 killing this dreadful night !" 
 
 As she spoke her mantle fell back from her head, for she 
 had thrown it over her quilted hood as a further protection 
 from the storm. The hood slipt off with it, and her face, 
 beaming beauty, benevolence, and intelligence, appeared glow 
 ing in the full light of the fire : the comb, which alone sustained 
 the profusion of silken locks, lost its hold as the covering of 
 her head was thrown off, and her long clustering tresses rolled 
 over her slender form in luxuriant confusion. 
 
 The captain sprung upon his feet with intent to apologise 
 for the rough reception she had met : he was prevented by one 
 of his subordinates, who had, like himself, been slumbering at 
 the fire ; but, as if roused by the last words of Emma, started 
 up gazed at the unusual apparition, and cried out, as he ad 
 vanced towards her, " good heavens, Emma Portland! what? 
 what brings you here? She was employed in adjusting her 
 dress when she heard this well known voice, and looking up 
 beheld Henry Johnson! 
 
103 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 A water-drinker and a wine-bibber in a snow-storm. 
 
 " Here is every thing advantageous to life." 
 True : save means to live." 
 
 " So cares and joys abound, as seasons fbet/ Shakspcare. 
 
 When coid winter splits the rocks in twain, 
 And ice the running rivers did restrain." Cowley. 
 
 " But here on earth the guilty have in view 
 The mighty pains to mighty mischiefs due. Dryden. 
 
 " In whatsoever character 
 The book of fate is writ, 
 Tis well we understand not it." Cowley. 
 
 " In struggling with misfortunes 
 Lies the true proof of virtue." Skakspeare. 
 
 " Good fortune that comes seldom, 
 Comes most welcome." Dryden. 
 
 " Novy some men creep in skittish fortune s hall, 
 While others play the idiot in her eyes/ 
 
 " Sometimes we are devils to ourselves, 
 
 When we will tempt the frailty of our powers." 
 
 " He that wants money, means, and content, wants three good 
 friends." Shakspeare. 
 
 " Credit it me, friend, it hath been ever thus, 
 Since the ark rested on Mount Ararat, 
 False man hath sworn, and woman hath believed 
 Repented and reproach d, and then believed once more. rr 
 
 Walter Scott. 
 
 WE have seen that Spiffard, his wife, and her mother, had 
 gone to their several duties at the theatre before Emrna Port 
 land, accompanied by black Rachel, braved the " peltings of 
 the pitiless storm" on her errand of charity : it was later 
 than usual before they returned home, and found that the ad 
 venturous girl, beloved most sincerely by at least two of the 
 
104 Jl water-drinker and a wine-bibber in a snow-storm* 
 
 three, was absent. Although the circumstance occasioned 
 surprise, RachaeFs testimony in some measure quieted any ap 
 prehensions for her safety, as Kent was expected to be her 
 safeguard in returning. 
 
 The ladies took supper and retired. Spiffard did neither. 
 To wait the return of Emma, or, if necessary, go in search of 
 her, was the ostensible reason. He had another. 
 
 The great exertion of body and mind necessary to the due 
 performance of a long and arduous character, a labour fre 
 quently continued for many successive hours, and that, after 
 the usual business of the day, and the toil of preparation, is the 
 excuse given for what is called taking refreshment during the 
 time of performance, and supper, with its concomitants, after. 
 Both the one and the other too frequently lead to undue ex 
 citement ; and, by degrees, aided by (those tempters to wrong) 
 our vitiated appetites, to destruction. Spifiard s exertion in 
 his profession, where singing and acting were united, never 
 induced him to swerve from his habit : and the tumbler of 
 water during labour, and sleep after it, were the only refresh 
 ments he required. 
 
 He had found that the habits of his wife, fostered by her 
 mother, had long been different ; but he had hoped that, by de 
 grees, when convinced that no necessity for stimulants existed, 
 and that they were pernicious, she would accommodate herself 
 to his views and wishes. But it was in vain that he had de 
 monstrated the utility of his practice. When disappointed, he 
 had remonstrated in vain. He found that attempts at de 
 ception were made, to blind him promises, made with ap 
 parent (and at times perhaps real) good faith, were broken. 
 He saw no hope of relief but by abandoning the life of an 
 actor. 
 
 He was unhappy. He loved the great tragic actress and his 
 love had been founded on admiration of her talents in the pro 
 fession. Until he saw her, Spiffard had despised the shafts of 
 the " weak wanton cupid," or if he had felt them, he had roused 
 his strength and made the boy 
 
 "Unloose his ani rous fold," 
 "And like a dew drop from a lion s inane, 
 Shook" him "to air;" 
 
 but the malicious urchin had his revenge. The attributes of 
 this towering beauty, so distinctive from his own form and char 
 acter, seemed the more in that respect to have fascinated him. 
 Her skill and powers in an art he loved;her bold demeanor which 
 
A water-drinker and a wine-bibber in a snow-storm. 105 
 
 appeared like frankness, and often was so ; her prompt and 
 pointed speech ; her attentions to him in preference to others 
 more favoured in external beauty and lofty stature : all, all, 
 tended to drive the nail which Hymen clinched. He had been 
 subdued without struggle, and had yielded without capitulation 
 or caution. 
 
 To ruminate on the past and the present; to form schemes for 
 the future ; employed his thoughts as he sat by the fire until a 
 very late hour. A sudden gust of wind howling at the windows 
 and down the chimney, brought to his mind the absence of Em 
 ma, for whom he felt a brother s love ; and he started from his 
 reverie. 
 
 Mrs. SpifFard on awaking from her first sleep, was alarmed, 
 for her husband s absence betokened that of Emrna. She open 
 ed her chamber door and called to him. He was preparing 
 himself to sally forth ; and begging his wife not to be alarmed, 
 he, well prepared to meet the inclemency of the night, proceed 
 ed towards the humble abode of the property-man. 
 
 His route was the same which led to the pitiable spectacle of 
 the man, admired by thousands, prostrate, " like a dead dog 
 despised," and thrown, as if unworthy burial, to the streets. 
 Fortunately SpifFard took the same side of the pavement which 
 Emma had trodden, otherwise he might have passed, unnoticed, 
 an object that was whitened by the falling snow, and which ap 
 peared in the obscurity of the storm more like a mass of accu 
 mulated filth and ice than a man. On recognising in this for 
 lorn outcast the person in whom he took so deep an interest, 
 his astonishment was only equalled by his fears for his life. 
 
 ** This ! this is one fruit of intemperance !" darted through his 
 mind, accompanied by a thousand images flashing with the ra 
 pidity of lightning, all connected with the brutalizing vice which 
 could alone bring a man in the height of popularity, flushed 
 with success and possessing all that wealth or admirers could 
 bestow, to this pitiable perishing condition a houseless wretch 
 thrust to the winter s blast, to die abandoned by humanity. 
 Thought and action were coexistent. The shock experienced 
 and the train of ideas excited by this humiliating spectacle, did 
 not render SpifFard less prompt in his endeavours to ascertain 
 the extent of the evil, and to apply all possible remedy. His 
 friend was alive, but helpless as a corpse. SpiiTard, though ac 
 tive and strong, could not lift him, or he would have borne him 
 to the fire he had just left. He next thought of alarming the 
 neighbours and gaining a shelter for the almost inanimate body. 
 
106 A water-drinker and a wine-bibber in a snow-storm. 
 
 He had strength enough to place the unhappy man, leaning 
 and in a sitting position, against the lamp-post, with his face 
 turned from the cutting wind and driving snow. His head sunk 
 upon his chest, in deathlike sleep. 
 
 As he prepared to execute his purpose of knocking at a neigh 
 bouring door and calling for assistance, he perceived that an ef 
 fort was making by the old man to speak, and with great diffi 
 culty the paralyzed organs indistinctly uttered, il let me alone 
 let me sleep don t don t." 
 
 At the same moment he saw some persons approaching from 
 Broadway with a light; and to his astonishment he soon per 
 ceived that one of them \vas a female. The image of Emma 
 had been driven from his -mind by the surprise of finding Cooke 
 in such a place at such a time and in such a condition. His 
 surprise was as great when he saw the lovely girl advancing in 
 a direction opposite to that in which he would have sought her, 
 and accompanied by two watchmen. It is unnecessary to say 
 that Henry Johnson was one of them. 
 
 The explanations that took place were made briefly and ra 
 pidly. Henry determined to convey the helpless man to the 
 house of his mother for present shelter. The three men raised 
 him he protesting against being disturbed. They bore him 
 towards Mrs. Johnson s : Emma leading the way and carrying 
 the light. 
 
 Here were three votaries of temperance, saving from death 
 and conducting to the house of the sick and poor, the wealthy 
 and admired victim of a vice they abhorred. 
 
 On, Emma Portland made her way, against wind and snow; 
 a guide to the encumbered and labouring group. She might be 
 likened to the "bright particular star," the mariner s safety in 
 trouble. 
 
 SpifTard s ever active mind, notwithstanding his bodily exer 
 tions, was comparing the light and fragile tigure braving the 
 blast and the snow-wreath to save a fellows-creature, with those 
 whose charity is bounded by the gift of alms. The chanty of 
 action, was like an angel moving before him. When they ar 
 rived at Mrs. Johnson s dwelling, Emma had already knocked 
 and was waiting for admission. 
 
 In the meantime her followers had many surmises and some 
 words. We will not endeavour to penetrate the thoughts of 
 Henry Johnson during this laborious w r alk : it is not too much 
 to suppose that admiration of the conducting messenger had an 
 ample share in them. But his brother watchman the altogether 
 
*fl water-drinker and a wine-bibber in a snoiv-storm. 107 
 
 watchman, who was not of that feeble or lame decrepid fa 
 mily which dramatists ad novelists have delighted to describe, 
 but a sturdy American mechanic, who added the wages of the 
 night to those of the day to procure present comfort, and future 
 increase of it, for a wife and children, and whose strength was 
 adequate to his share of the inert burthen he helped to bear 
 what were his thoughts as he laboured with his companions to 
 support the heavy frame of the half dead tragedian 1 " Poor 
 wretch ! " said Henry " but we shall scon get a comfortable 
 place for his shelter. My mother s doors will not be closed 
 against the sufferer." 
 
 " The devil s doors," said the watchman, " would open to re 
 ceive a fellow creature in such a night as this. The young 
 lady said he was a gentleman. The devil s a gentleman too, 
 they say. She called him Cooke. The cook has made a pret 
 ty kettle of fish of it to-night. Johnson, do you know who he is ? 
 She called him the great something by George Washington! 
 he would soon have made something less than nothing if that 
 pretty little girl hadn t brought some of us little folks to help 
 his greatness." 
 
 The motion had so far roused Cooke that the word George 
 caught his attention and he muttered heavily, "George George 
 Frederick let me alone^ you black I ll never go to his house 
 again a blow ! George Fred a blow " and he sunk again 
 into lethargic slumber. 
 
 What is he V asked the watchman. 
 A great player," answered Spiffard. 
 Player? at what?" 
 He is a great actor," said Henry. 
 
 0, he makes believe great and good on the stage, and 
 plays the devil every where else and see what it comes to. ;> 
 
 " He is not always wise," said Spiffard. " Who is?" 
 
 " That s true," said the watchman. " I have heard of lawyer s 
 breaking the law, and preachers forgetting the gospel, but some 
 how or another I am apt to put great and good together, like 
 Franklin or Washington: but it s hard to couple great with such 
 a thing as this." 
 
 Each step the bearers took, their burthen became heavier. 
 They were silent for want of breath, for every foot was encum 
 bered with snow, and the furious blasts resisted their efforts to 
 proceed. The watchman shifted his part of the burthen from 
 one hand to the other. Spiffard stumbled, and to save himself 
 relinquished his grasp. Henry saw that Emma had reached the 
 door, and stood knocking without admittance. 
 
108 Jl water-drinker and a wine-bibber in a snow-storm. 
 
 ** Stop !" said the watchman, " let us try " 
 
 "Let go!" said Henry. With the strength of athletic youth 
 he snatched the old man from his companions, and treading in 
 Emma s steps he reached his mother s door, where the almost 
 exhausted girl was striving to make herself heard. 
 
 Again the watchman and Spiffard assisted the youth to sup 
 port the ponderous load, while all impatiently awaited the mo 
 ment that should give them shelter, but none so intensely felt 
 the delay as he who saw the guiding minister of mercy before 
 him, shivering, almost sinking and saw in her a creature he 
 loved more than life. 
 
 * Don t alarm your mother, they hear me, let me go in first." 
 
 The sick woman did not sleep ; but the little black Hannah 
 \vas so thickly encompassed by the blankets of forgetfulness 
 that although in the same room with her mistress, it was with 
 difficulty she was awakened, and even then, could not compre 
 hend for some time the direction to " see who knocked at the 
 door." Emma, to prepare Mrs. Johnson, whose voice she heard 
 through the thin tenement, said, " open the door ! it is me, Han 
 nah." And with an exclamation of " O, it s Miss Ernmy!" the 
 girl did not wait for further orders, but unlocked and opened. 
 Mrs. Johnson s alarm was for her young friend, whose voice 
 at such a season, and heard amid the bowlings of a storm, filled 
 her with bewildering apprehensions. 
 
 The street-door of the uncomfortable dwelling-place opened 
 upon the only apartment below, which was the bed-chamber 
 of Mrs. Johnson and Hannah, as well as the receptacle of 
 kitchen utensils, and all the furniture poverty had left to the 
 poor. The garret-room served her son as a resting-place. 
 
 Emma, entered and begging Mrs. Johnson not to be alarm 
 ed, took her hand and said in a low tone, " It is Henry, humane 
 ly assisting a man in distress," and then returned to the door 
 (which the bearers of Cooke had left open) and closed it. 
 
 A lamp on the hearth threw a faint light over the chamber. 
 The lanthorn which Emma had borne was deposited on a table 
 near the door immediately on her entering. The sick woman 
 had started up in bed and thrown aside the curtain between her 
 and the door on the first alarm ; she gazed wildly on the three 
 figures as they came in supporting their senseless burthen. 
 
 The bearers of Cooke entered the room in such wise as to 
 present his feet to the hearth, from whence the strongest light 
 in the place proceeded. Henry Johnson, (who supported the 
 head and upper portion of the old man s person), at this mo- 
 
A water-drinker and a wine-bibber in a snmv-storm. 1C9 
 
 rnent so lifted his head that the rays fell full on the face, and 
 the eyes were convulsively opened, as if to catch them. 
 Shaded by her situation from the light, the sick lady had for a 
 moment a full view of the face of the unfortunate creature, thus 
 borne into her hovel by her son. It was but momentary ; for 
 the bodies of Spiffard and the watchman, who bore the inferior 
 extremities of the corpse-like object, intervened, and cast a 
 shadow over the features. 
 
 Emma was advancing towards her sick friend, after closing 
 the door against the storm, and was hastening to explain ap 
 pearances so extraordinary ; but was shocked to see the ex 
 pression of her countenance. Her eyes, following in wild 
 gaze the group, (as they approached the fire-place, and put 
 their burthen down), seemed almost starting from their sock 
 ets. A flash of light again fell on the old man s head ; and be 
 fore Emma could speak, the sick woman exclaimed, " My 
 God ! my God !" and fell back, covering her face with the bed 
 clothes. She had fainted. 
 
 This might have been occasioned, in her weak state, by the 
 agitation which the incident produced ; for to see a man borne 
 into her chamber after midnight, in a state of insensibility, 
 from whatever cause, was sufficient to overpower a stronger 
 frame than Mrs. Johnson s. But Emma s quick eye saw or 
 her quick imagination suggested something more ; she knew 
 not what. She flew to her assistance. The men, occupied 
 with Cooke, did not notice either the looks or exclamations of 
 the invalid. They proceeded to rekindle the expiring fire ; and 
 after placing the wretched man in a chair, they by degrees re 
 stored him to a consciousness of existence, although still under 
 the influence of the fatal cause of his degradation. 
 
 The efforts of Emma Portland were successful. Mrs. 
 Johnson revived ; and seeing herself in he arms of her young 
 friend, her first exclamation was, as she gazed in her beautiful 
 face, exposed fully to view by throwing off the drenched snow- 
 covered hood " Thank God ! it was but a dream. I did not 
 
 7* Q Q - ^ 
 
 Before she had finished the sentence, the hoarse discordant 
 voice of the object of her terror gave assurance that he was 
 still in her presence. She heard him calling for brandy ; and 
 uttering curses and imprecations on those who were endea 
 vouring to save him. 
 
 The sick lady hastily drew the curtains of her bed between 
 her and the group at the fire, and then throwing herself with 
 
 5* 
 
110 A water-drinker and a wine-bibber in a snow-storm. 
 
 her face on the pillow, murmured wildly, " Save me ! save 
 me !" For a moment Emma s astonishment rendered her im 
 movable. She then heard the sobs of her friend ; and hoping 
 tears would relieve what she supposed was an hysterical affec 
 tion, produced by fright, endeavoured to quiet her agitation ; 
 but for some minutes no attention was paid to her soothing and 
 encouraging words. Such conduct in one usually calm and 
 resigned under every suffering, created a confusion of ideas, 
 and a tumultuous thronging of^ half-formed conjectures, in the 
 mind of Miss Portland, that bade defiance to every effort she 
 could make, for the recovery of her self-command. 
 
 At length Mrs. Johnson, becoming more calm, inquired in 
 whispers the meaning of Emma s appearance, under such cir 
 cumstances, and at such a time. She was briefly told, that de 
 tained late by her attendance on the sick, she had, in going 
 home, found Mr. Cooke in a state of insensibility, and, as she 
 thought, perishing ; that Henry had saved him and brought him 
 to her hearth. But, again, to Emma s astonishment, the agi 
 tation of her aged friend increased, and she murmured 
 
 " You brought Henry to rescue him ! He saved him 
 from death ! Henry bore him in his arms to my fireside 
 O, heavenly Father !" 
 
 And again she hid her face, and sobbed aloud. Emma 
 looked with bewildered feelings at emotion so strong as to be 
 unaccountable ; for although the incidents were strange, they 
 were apparently inadequate to produce such effects upon such 
 a person, so mild, and piously resigned. 
 
 The scene became more calm. Mrs. Johnson appeared 
 quiet. Emma sat by her in silence. The voice of the turbu 
 lent George Frederick sunk to mutterings ; and finally, as the 
 warmth of the room and fire produced their effect, was lost in 
 a lethargic sleep. The watchman declared that he must re 
 turn to the hall and watch-house ; undertaking, at Henry s sug 
 gestion, to represent to the Captain the necessity for his re 
 maining with Cooke. Spiffard, assuring Mrs. Johnson that 
 at an early hour he would come with a sleigh and remove his 
 friend, obtained permission of Henry, that he might remain 
 under his protection until morning ; and then representing to 
 Emma the propriety of their hastening home, where her long- 
 absence must occasion great alarm, she prepared again, with 
 Henry s assistance and Spiffard s protection, to encounter the 
 storm- Henry lamenting the necessity for his remaining with 
 his mother and her unexpected inmate. 
 
Ill 
 
 CHAPTER XIIT. 
 
 Jin unexp ected family -m s ting. 
 
 Tis our own wisdom moulds our state : 
 
 Our faults and virtues make our fate." Cowley. 
 
 " The power that ministers to God s decrees, 
 And executes on earth what he foresees : 
 Called providence, or chance, or fatal sway Dryden. 
 
 " The heavens have bless d you with a goodly son, 
 To be your comforter." Skakspeare. 
 
 " For what we learn in youth, to that alone, 
 In age we are, by second nature prone." Dryden. 
 
 <c I look as if all hell were in my heart ! 
 
 And I in hell! nay surely tis so with me." Otway. 
 
 " Are these things then necessities 1 
 Then Jet us meet them with necessities." 
 
 " Pay her the debt you owe her, and unpay the villany you have done 
 with her; the one you may do with sterling money, and the other with 
 current resistance." Skakspeare. 
 
 THE progress of our story brings us to the description of a 
 scene, such as I believe is new to the readers of romance, and 
 could only have been produced by the fatal effects of that vice 
 which it is my object faithfully to portray. 
 
 As the little black Hannah had long retired to renewed sleep, 
 by taking refuge up-stairs, the apartment was left to the sole 
 occupancy of Cooke, Mrs. Johnson, and her son. 
 
 The object of his late solicitude being now safe from imme 
 diate peril, and asleep by the fire, Henry approached the bed 
 and drew aside the curtains to inquire how far this intrusion 
 had disturbed his mother. Having been assured by her, that 
 although she had been frightened and agitated, still she was 
 glad that he had brought the unhappy man to her house, he 
 said, " I presume, mother, that Emma has told you who it is 
 
112 Jin unexpected family-meeting. 
 
 that we have prevented from freezing to death, like an outcast 
 from the human race, in the streets of this populous city. Is 
 it not strange, that the celebrated Mr. Cooke, after whom 
 thousands run to enjoy the effects of his skill, and night after 
 night hail him with delight, and crown him with applause, 
 should be abandoned to perish like a dog, unsheltered from 
 such a storm of wind and snow as now howls around us ? Is 
 it not strange ?" 
 
 " Strange ! It is all strange." 
 
 " That we should succour him?" 
 
 " Yes, Henry, that we should succour him." 
 
 " We, who however much we might wish to share in the 
 pleasure his talents afford and all say he is unrivalled that 
 we, who are by poverty prevented the gratification thousands 
 enjoy, in seeing and hearing him during the proud exhibitions 
 of genius that we should see him thus, and be instruments 
 in saving him from destruction. That while his admirers and 
 his intimates should be unconscious of his peril that he should 
 owe his safety to us, who have never even seen him !" 
 
 " To us ! To us, who to one Henry, my son, did you 
 
 did you bear him in your arms to your mother s roof for 
 shelter 1" 
 
 " Yes. After, by the assistance of Mr. Spiffard and George 
 Crosby, he had been raised from the pavement, and brought 
 near the house, I, alone, took him in my arms until we reached 
 the door; and then they assisted in bringing him in." 
 
 " O, merciful father ! what a picture is this !" 
 
 " Mother!" 
 
 " The son Henry, the time has come you must know " 
 
 " Mother !" 
 
 " The son, bearing his degraded and almost lifeless father 
 in his arms to the hearth of the deserted wife the cherished 
 mother !" 
 
 "For heaven s sake, mother !" And he turned his eyes to 
 the man of whom they spoke, with emotions so conflicting, that 
 his countenance assumed the appearance of one without 
 thought. But when his sight was fixed on the disgusting ob 
 ject occupying the chair which he had prepared for his feeble 
 mother, and muttering incoherent sentences in his troubled 
 sleep, he could not withdraw it, but gazed as if fascinated by 
 an obscene spectre. At length he exclaimed, " This ! this ! 
 My father /" 
 
 "Yes, Henry. That man, on whom your straining 
 eyes are fixed as though they would start from their sockets 
 
An unexpected family-meeting. 
 
 that man, from whom, for your sake, I would willingly 
 withdraw my eyes forever that man is my husband, and your 
 father." 
 
 Thus were three beings brought together in one small apart 
 ment drawn, as into an enchanter s circle, by a power beyond 
 all sorcery forced against will to approach each other by a 
 chain of causation forged from all eternity. Ordained to meet 
 for good purposes, and the exercise of charity, by the great 
 and all-beneficent Artificer of that great universe, whose re 
 volving worlds and central suns cherish life and motion, be 
 yond our faculties to comprehend of that great system in 
 which the man, and the worm, and the mite are parts : all pro 
 vided for by that infinite wisdom, against whose will they seem 
 to struggle, but struggle in vain. 
 
 In this, as in all things, his will shall ultimately prevail. 
 Three of the human family so connected so dissevered 
 so dissimilar are here brought together by means unsought 
 and unknown. There stood the son, between the sick and 
 long-suffering mother, and a father whose faults and cherished 
 habits had caused that wife and mother to fly for shelter to a 
 foreign land, that her child might not be sullied by his father s 
 vices. A mother who had withheld all knowledge of his father 
 from her son, until she saw him the pure and high-souled being 
 who would only be more firmly fixed in worth by the know 
 ledge of a father s weakness. 
 
 Such were the beings brought thus strangely together. Such 
 is the picture I would place before my reader. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson, now in the decline of life, who had by twenty 
 years of penitence, united with well-doing", expiated the follies 
 of youth, and suffered with humility and resignation the inevi 
 table consequences of self-willed rashness. Mr. Cooke, still 
 further declined " into the vale of years," conscious, when ca- 
 pableof thought, that by the gratification of selfishness and sen 
 sual propensities, nourished into habits, he had brought disease 
 and premature decay on himself, and blighted all the good 
 gifts of nature. But the third figure in this incongruous family 
 picture, stood between them, in health, strength, bright intel 
 lectual faculties, perfected by ardent study, and crowned by 
 moral and religious habits. 
 
 " No, mother, no ! A father is one who protects, instructs, 
 blesses. This man did neither for me. My father must have 
 loved and cherished my mother. This man did neither. I 
 have but one father ! He did all this for you and for me ! To 
 this man I owe nothing, for he has done nothing for me ; and 
 
114 Jin unexpected family-meeting. 
 
 the blessings I enjoy for which I owe you my gratitude are 
 owing to my never having known that man : being separated 
 from him I have escaped pollution !" 
 
 " Do not speak so, my son ! He is your father ! Sit down 
 by me, Henry. You are agitated by the thoughts that this dis 
 covery suggests." 
 
 He sunk down on the bed and embraced his mother. 
 
 " That you, a being so pure, should have been united to 
 such " 
 
 4< Hush ! He is your father !" 
 
 " That you, mother, whose soul is truth, should, for a long 
 series of years, have lived in a foreign country, and sheltered 
 by a false character ! You, who have taught me to shun all 
 mystery, and have even disapproved of this pious disguise 
 which I now wear ; though I have never denied what I thought 
 my name, but am enrolled in the city watch as Henry John 
 son a name I will always retain ! Even this dress, put on 
 when my duty as a clerk is over, to gain a pittance for your 
 comfort in sickness, appeared to your mind too much like de 
 ception ; and yet that man s baseness has forced you to assume 
 a false name, and hide from me, your son, the knowledge of 
 your marriage with one, whose name has been bruited in our 
 ears, year after year, and who has for months occupied the 
 public attention in the land to which he had driven }OU for 
 refuge !" 
 
 " I have never said that he drove me from England." 
 
 " Circumstances speak louder than words. But now there 
 can be no objections to my knowing all ; and while he sleeps 
 under the influence of the poison which has caused his ruin, 
 and so much sorrow to you, tell me the leading facts of your 
 story ; let me know Mister Cooke /" 
 
 Mrs. Johnson, at the earnest solicitations of her son, 
 briefly related the facts connected with her marriage ; which 
 I will give, as briefly, in my own words, in the next chapter. 
 
115 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Domestic life of the intemperate. 
 
 "Mens vows are woraens traitors." 
 
 t: False as the wind, the water, or the weather ; 
 Cruel as tigers o er their trembling prey." 
 
 Though those that are betray d, 
 
 Do feel the treason sharply ; yet the traitor 
 Stands in worse case of woe. 
 
 " Make me acquainted with your cause of grief." 
 
 "To be entangled with those mouth-made vows, 
 That break themselves in swearing." 
 
 " By all the vows that ever men have broke. 
 In number more than ever women spoke." 
 
 c< The purest treasure mortal times afford, 
 Is spotless reputation. Mine honour 
 Is my life." Shakspeare. 
 
 ALL we have to do with the story of George Frederick 
 Cooke, is to account for his connection with the fate of Mrs. 
 Johnson. 
 
 Cooke was the son of an Irish serjeant of dragoons, and of 
 a Scotch lady. He was born on the 17th of April, 1756. 
 
 The serjeant died soon, and the lady was received again by 
 the friends she had abandoned, (for the drum or the bugle ;) at 
 least, so far as to be enabled to live above want, and give her 
 only child, George Frederick, a good English education, in the 
 town of Berwick upon Tweed. 
 
 He had been married to a Miss Daniels, and divorced from 
 her legally, and was at the height of his celebrity, when it was 
 the ill fate of a Miss Lamb to be thrown into his society. He, 
 in common with General Williams, and Richard the Third, had 
 
116 Domestic life of the intemperate. 
 
 a wheedling tongue : and the young lady was flattered by the 
 attentions of the man whom the people " delighted to honour." 
 She was told that his habits had long been of the worst kind, 
 * but, " as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature, in love, mor 
 tal in folly." She considered all these tales as " weak inven 
 tions of the enemy ;" and, like many other young ladies, pre 
 ferred her own inclinations to the advice of her friends. 
 
 Miss Lamb, as the London Witlings of!808,said, "was basted 
 by the Cooke," she, like many young people of both sexes, for 
 med erroneous ideas of the stage, and those who tread it. She 
 had seen and admired Cooke at Covent Garden, before she met 
 him in private company. She had witnessed the enthusiastic 
 admiration of others. To be the admired of the admired, turned 
 the head of the young and artless girl. In vain she was fore 
 warned : his fame, and his bewitching manners, when sober ; 
 (as he could continue long to be, for any subordinate purpose, 
 though not to preserve health, reputation, and well-being,) sur 
 mounted all opposition : the lady became Mrs. Cooke. 
 
 But long before this sacrifice of the Lamb, say in the year 
 1790 or 91, for nobody ever knew the exact date, a similar 
 sacrifice had been made at the same altar. Indeed, we have 
 reason to believe that George Frederick was as little scrupu 
 lous in forming matrimonial engagements, as he was in enter 
 ing into theatrical ones, and broke them as easily. This early 
 engagement was with the lady who we know as Mrs. Johnson. 
 Cooke was then the hero of Manchester, Liverpool, Bath, and 
 Bristol ; and even then was noted for long continued, and oft 
 repeated seasons of intemperance. However, the lady thought 
 love would cure all faults, and she married him. Of this mar 
 riage I can find no record ; certain it is, he married twice in 
 England, and once in America afterward. 
 
 With some little outbreakings, now and then, we may sup 
 pose that months passed almost happily. George was fond of 
 reading, and really loved his wife for a time. It was impossi 
 ble that any creature, possessing human feelings, could do 
 otherwise. Attractive in personal appearance, though no 
 beauty with all the good habits rendered permanent by a ten 
 der domestic education with love and admiration of her hus 
 band, approaching to idolatry in short, with every qualifica 
 tion to render a retired matrimonial life happy how could a 
 man, endowed, by nature, with good sense and good feeling, fail 
 to love such a being ? 
 
 But habit that devil, or that angel, as it is good or evil 
 the habit, which, in this unhappy man, had weakened the best 
 
Domestic life of the intemperate. 117 
 
 feelings of our nature, and proved the worst of devils, resumed 
 that sway, which, the desire to gain a fine young girl, and the 
 novelty of a happy marriage, had interrupted. The bottle, and 
 the riot, and the madness of intoxication, increased by the 
 waning of love, and perfected by former associations, prevailed 
 over every consideration which ought to guide a rational 
 creature. 
 
 The sufferings of the wife were beyond the power of pen to 
 portray. Long she pined in solitude, for she only saw her 
 husband when he required a nurse or a servant. No reproach, 
 by word or look, escaped her. Her tears were unseen ; her 
 smiles and tenderness unappreciated. She became a mother, 
 and saw that her child had no father. From bad to worse 
 from insensibility to brutality down down, sunk the victim 
 of vice ; and lower and lower in misery, the victim s victim. 
 
 The friends of the lady interfered ; but the pride of the con 
 scious criminal was roused, and defiance to them, and reproach 
 to his wife, was the consequence. 
 
 Let us draw a veil over the scenes which could induce such 
 a woman as Mrs. Johnson to adopt the resolution of flying, 
 with her child, from their native country, to seek a refuge from 
 the husband and the father. To mitigate her own sufferings, 
 might have proved a sufficient motive for assuming another 
 name, and crossing the seas ; but she had another : to remove 
 her boy from such a parent, and hide from him the knowledge 
 of a being, whose example might cause ruin, and whose con 
 duct must cause shame. 
 
 She was assisted by sympathising friends ; and the measures 
 taken for her flight were so judiciously planned, and carefully 
 executed, that she was placed in safety, with the means of pre 
 sent support, on the shores of the new world. 
 
 Cooke never knew where she had gone, or how she had 
 been enabled to accomplish a reireat which left no traces be 
 hind. The event awakened him to remorse. His pride, too r 
 was hurt. But every voice that cried shame ! was drowned by 
 the voice of intemperance. In time, the wife and child appeared 
 to be forgotten, as though they had never been. But although 
 he married again and* again, they visited his dreams ; and in 
 those moments when images of the past come unbidden ; the 
 moments of feverish and unquiet sleep ; moments appropriated 
 to themselves by the intemperate ; in those moments when the 
 present is shrouded in clouds and darkness, then would a flash 
 from awakening conscience illumine the figures of his wife and 
 child. She, holding the boy up, as if to invite the father s hand* 
 
118 Domestic life of the intemperate. 
 
 and suddenly snatchiag the infant away when within his grasp. 
 Sometimes in bodily torture, his own groans would sound as 
 those of his dying wife ; and he would see her and her boy 
 sinking amidst waves. But to the world he appeared as if 
 he had never had wife or child ; and of his early marriage the 
 world never knew. Much-dreaded solitude could not be 
 avoided. Then came the pangs of wakeful conscience, or the 
 visions of troubled sleep, with physical suffering and mental 
 anguish, intolerable. 
 
 Such was George Frederick Cooke in England, and in tho 
 sick chamber of his long-lost wife in New- York. 
 
 The romances with which he amused himself and his hearers, 
 in hours of incipient ebriation, always turned upon adventures 
 occurring to himself in America. This makes it probable, that 
 in the musings upon his wife s flight, he suspected that the 
 United States was the place of her concealment. American 
 history was the subject of his reading. He was intimately 
 acquainted with all the scenes of the American revolutionary 
 war. He delighted in imagining himself to have been an actor 
 in them, and so to represent himself to his companions. His 
 memory and imagination were sufficiently strong to produce 
 descriptions and narrations that puzzled his hearers, and pro 
 duced effects upon them, that flattered the narrator in 
 those moments when reason and conscience were drugged by 
 the undermining opiates applied to the senses. It is even pos 
 sible that this suspicion, (relative to his wife s place of refuge,) 
 influenced him, when, in one of his many moments of madness, 
 he inlisted in a marching regiment, as a common soldier, and 
 was only prevented being transported to America, by the acci 
 dental discovery of his purpose, at the time, and in the act 
 of embarkation. 
 
119 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Jl morning after a snow-storm. 
 
 "Blow, blow, them winter s wind, 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 As man s ingratitude." Shakspeare. 
 
 "For lordly want is such a tyrant fell, 
 That where he rules, ail power he doth expel." Spenser. 
 
 O, that men s ears should be 
 
 To counsel deaf, and not to flattery." 
 
 " Swift as a shadow, short as a dream ; 
 Brief as the lightning in the collied night, 
 That in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth ; 
 And ere a man hath power to say, behold! 
 Thejaws of darkness doth devour it up : 
 So quick-bright things come to confusion." 
 
 Whereto serves merci 
 
 But to confront the visage of oflence." 
 
 "In the corrupted currents of this world, 
 Offence s gilded hand may shove by justice ; 
 
 but tis not so above : 
 
 There is no shuffling, there the action lies 
 In his true nature." 
 
 " Master Fang, have you entered the action?" Shakspeare. 
 
 A WINTER S night is long, even to the happy healthful 
 sleeper ; but to the sick, the afflicted, or the faithful watcher, 
 it is doubly long. The agitated, suffering mother, knew no 
 rest. The son, tormented by conflicting thoughts and images, 
 knew not the balm of sleep. 
 
 The pious matron poured her soul in prayer. If, for a mo 
 ment, her sighs and sobs were not heard, and her tears ceased 
 to flow if slumbers fell upon her exhausted senses, visions ot 
 years long past, made the reality of the present more bitter 
 after the momentary cessation of pain. 
 
120 A morning after a snow-storm. 
 
 Henry, at times, paced the floor ; at times sat motionless, 
 gazing at the pitiable object whose presence banished rest, 
 and scarcely breathing in the hope that his mother slept ; but 
 when a sigh or sob fell on his ear, he started. 
 
 " Can I help you to any thing, mother ?" 
 
 " No, my son." 
 
 And again he walked the floor, while the past, the present, 
 and the future, revolved again and again in his troubled mind. 
 The last was a cloudy prospect, but hope seldom deserts youth, 
 and a light broke through the darkness, and discovered the 
 form of Emma Portland. But the clouds of the present encom 
 passed him around. His only resource for the support of his 
 mother through the winter, was the scanty wages he received 
 as a watchman a pittance earned by the sale of that rest which 
 youth requires. The last quarter s rent for the hovel they 
 lived in, had not been paid, and another had become due that 
 day. He had served the stipulated time, within a few weeks, 
 as a clerk, and had qualified himself for the salary, he was, by 
 agreement, to receive for the succeeding year, commencing at 
 the time his present service of probation ended ; but, in the 
 mean time, for months to come, he had only his present inade 
 quate resources to support his mother and himself, and no 
 means of pacifying his landlord, even by a payment of a small 
 portion of the debt, without depriving his mother of necessaries 
 for subsistence. 
 
 His father was present was before him was rolling in 
 wealth but he shrunk from him with loathing. He congratu 
 lated himself that he was unknown as his son. There sat, in 
 deathlike insensibility, the husband and father, who was the 
 cause of misery to the wife and son ; whose wife was sinking 
 prematurely to the grave prepared by him, and who was him 
 self committing the most cowardly suicide. 
 
 " Time and the hour runs through the longest day." And 
 so, the longest night. Day dawned on the mother and son : 
 but a winter s day on the first of February 1812 did not pro 
 mise much consolation to them, although worthy of " joy and 
 gladness." Long as is the night when the snow covers the 
 earth, and the winds howl around the poor, the sleepless, and 
 the sick, the day will come ; but it came unattended by com 
 fort to Mrs. Johnson. She looked from her curtained bed, 
 a luxury yet preserved to her, and saw the disgusting object, 
 still sleeping, who might claim her as a wife, and her beloved 
 Henry as a son. She turned again to her pillow, and drew 
 the curtains around her. 
 
Jl morning after a snoiv-storm. 121 
 
 The fire had almost expired, and Henry, chilled by long 
 watching, felt that the room had become cold : he brought 
 fuel from the ill-supplied wood-pile in an adjoining closet. He 
 brought it reluctantly ; for he saw that the scanty store would 
 barely suffice to warm the room for his sick mother for the 
 coming day. It is only day by day that the poor can pur 
 chase, and that at the dearest rate, that article necessary for 
 the support of life. The city authorities aid the poor in the 
 last extremity ; but it is such as those we are now contemp 
 lating, who are the last to look for such succour. They suffer 
 in silence, while the improvident and vicious complain. 
 
 Freely could Henry Johnson have given to the stranger and 
 the sufferer ; but he reluctantly threw down the wood on the 
 hearth, and turned away again with a degree of irritation, from 
 the man for whose immediate comfort he was about to sacri 
 fice what might be required for his mother s support. The 
 noise made by the falling wood roused the lethargic sleeper. 
 He looked with blood-shot eyes sleepily around him ; and that 
 face, which native intellect had so often brightened into all the 
 flashing changes of the most energetic passion that counte 
 nance, on which thousands of admiring spectators had gazed, 
 and testified their delight at the intellectual powers which il 
 lumined it by shouts of applause, was a bloated, discoloured, 
 disgusting mask, incapable of any expression but that of idiotic 
 vacancy. 
 
 "Where am I?" he asked. "Who are you? 0, ay the 
 watch-house. Watchman! Fellow! I m cold cold cold " 
 
 The last words were muttered as to himself, and he conti 
 nued in the same tone. 
 
 " The scoundrel ! Strike me me in his own house." 
 
 And his face assumed an expression of despair and malignity 
 as he growled somewhat louder, " I ve been ranging all night 
 in hell! Watchman ! Get me a bottle of brandy !" 
 
 0, who can feel who can realize the agony which these 
 sounds conveyed to the hearts of the hearers ? To a wife ! To 
 a son ! To a mother ! 
 
 When we see such objects, (they are even yet sometimes 
 seen) and hear them uttering sounds of insensate joy, or des 
 perate and, perhaps, blasphemous defiance. When we ask, 
 has he a wife, and children ? has he parents ? heart-stricken 
 parents certainly if death has not mercifully removed them ! 
 How painful is the question to the benevolent ! 
 
 Henry cast a look on the face of the wretched man and has 
 tily withdrew his eyes. 
 
122 A morning after a snoiv-stcrm. 
 
 " Fellow, I tell you I am cold here s money get me 
 brandy!" 
 
 The young man kneeled down and blew the fire. 
 
 " Watchman ! I say, get me a quart of brandy ! I am cold I" 
 
 " I will make more fire." 
 
 " Brandy ! I say, brandy !" 
 
 " You have had too much already." 
 
 " Ha! do you talk to me ! who are you, sirr?" 
 
 " A man, and in my senses. A man who has not drowned 
 the voice of conscience by strong liquor, or reduced himself by 
 indulging his vitiated appetite to a state of helplessness and 
 idiotcy.". 
 
 The youth stood erect before his father. The returning 
 reason of the unhappy being, on whom his stem eye rested, 
 seemed to be quickened by its flash. His eyes brightened 
 into partial speculation, and the pupils dilated as if to gain dis 
 tinct images for the sluggish and diseased soul they served. 
 He gazed in Henry s face then around the room at the 
 fire and again on the young man s face and the muscles of 
 his own visage betrayed emotions of pain and confusion. 
 
 " This is not the watch-house? The watchmen brought me 
 into the watch-house the snow the street I was sleeping 
 on the street yes it would have been my last sleep Oh, 
 God ! " 
 
 And he shuddered as awakened reason presented images 
 of the past, and of the imagined future, mingled and twined, 
 and succeeding each other in mazes, now bright, now indis 
 tinct, but all fearful ; and his face assuming the demoniacal ex 
 pression which he had studied for, and his admirers had ap 
 plauded in the horrible character of the unnatural father in 
 Massinger s play, he groaned as he shouted " brandy bring 
 me a quart of brandy !" 
 
 " Not a drop sir. I see that you can understand what I 
 say, and I tell you that you are in the room of a sick woman. 
 My mother ! and you must not disturb her by this vociferation. 
 You were found perishing in the street, and brought hither by 
 those who wished to preserve your life ; you shall have shelter, 
 and warmth, and food, until your friends come to you, or until 
 you can remove yourself, provided you behave with decency, 
 otherwise " 
 
 During these words the tragedian had rouzed himself, and 
 sat erect on the chair he occupied, and now, with a tone of 
 more sanity, he interrupted the speaker with " What sirr? 
 otherwise what V 9 
 
A morning after a snow-storm. 123 
 
 " I will thrust you from walls your presence pollutes." 
 
 Cooke s eye kindled, and he was preparing a reply, when 
 his attention was called to the bed by a loud groan from the 
 sufferer within. The fire blazed a momentary flickering light, 
 and he saw in the partial opening of the curtain, a thin pale 
 ghastly face, and heard a faint exclamation of " oh no ! no !" 
 
 "Who is that? what s that!" cried the conscience-stricken 
 man, and he crouched down in the chair, his eyes still fixed 
 on the curtain, now closed, and his lips moving in convulsive 
 horror. He then cast down his head, closed his eye-lids, and 
 covered his face with his clasped hands. 
 
 Henry went to the bed-side, and the son and mother com 
 muned in whispers. 
 
 Some minutes elapsed. The aged misguided sufferer seem 
 ed to sink into the insensibility from which the awakening of 
 reason and consciousness had aroused him. Suddenly he ex 
 claimed. 
 
 " I saw her ! I saw her before ! Where am 1 1 I have 
 seen her and heard her all night sick well young old 
 dying saving me cursing me " 
 
 The sick woman sobbed aloud, and her son advanced to 
 still the raving dreamer. 
 
 " Hush, sir, you disturb my sick mother." 
 
 44 Your mother? That face O, ay, I recollect now the 
 street the storm the snow you preserved me you saved 
 me from perishing like a famished cur in the street of a popu 
 lous city thrust out and dishonoured by a blow no matter 
 but you were not alone there was a female a guiding and a 
 guarding angel she appeared alone and strove to help me 
 she disappeared and devils came in her stead she appeared 
 again she hovered round me she strove to save me !" 
 
 " Yes, there was a female, one but for whom you had pe 
 rished, a frozen outcast in the night storm. There was an 
 angel that guided the strength which rescued you. Was she 
 the first female who, by her efforts, has rescued you from 
 death? Who, by her cares, has tried to save you from de 
 struction?" 
 
 " Who are you that ask that question? Fellow, do you 
 know Fellow ! good fellow you saved me give me give 
 me some water some water." 
 
 He threw himself back in the sick woman s chair, for it was 
 that he sat in, and Henry, softened to pity, flew to present a 
 glass of cold and refreshing water to his burning lips. 
 
 Again the old man shut his eyes, seemingly offended by the 
 
124 A morning after a snow-storm. 
 
 light which now streamed in through the ill-closed shutters, and 
 silence again reassumed her reign, only interrupted by the 
 noises of the busy street, the cries of those who administer to 
 the comforts of others, and the tinkling of sleigh-bells, from 
 the hackman s, the cartman s, or the milkman s, sleds. 
 
 Henry walked the floor, or occasionally approached the bed 
 of his mother. He suppressed his groans. He knew that the 
 day had commenced on which his landlord had threatened to 
 distrain for rent. He knew that he could only offer a small 
 portion saved from the wages of night watches. He knew 
 that his all, and the savings of his mother s industry, had been 
 exhausted by the expenses attendant on a sick bed. And now 
 he knew that his father, rolling in riches, and wallowing in de 
 structive excess, was before him. The thought occurred, 
 shall he be the means of our deliverance has his vices 
 driven him unknowingly to save the being who suffers for his 
 sins ?" But he spurned it from him. " Rather let her go to 
 the poor-house she is entitled to that shelter rather let us 
 perish perish ! am I not young and strong ? Is there not a 
 God above us? but my mother! she shall to the hospital, 
 rather than receive aid from " 
 
 These thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the street- 
 door, and Henry went out of the room. 
 
 Cooke was now thoroughly awake, although still under the 
 influence of the poison which was destroying soul and body. 
 Thought had been aroused, and retrospection tormented him. 
 He then recurred to the present situation, and felt a wish to re 
 pay the poor people who had succoured him. His attention 
 was called to the voices of the supposed watchman, and some 
 other person at the door. He heard sentences which, as his 
 senses became more acute, he put together, and formed the 
 conclusion that a bailiff was demanding rent, and threatening a 
 sale of furniture. He looked around and saw tokens of po 
 verty, and some remains of a better state, and proofs of taste 
 above the state of the habitually poor. He listened to the 
 words of those without. 
 
 " Speak lower she is very ill." 
 
 " He says I must sell to-day." 
 
 " I will write to him again. I can pay " 
 
 He says it will not do." 
 
 " She is very low kill her" 
 
 " Hospital" 
 
 " She cannot be moved. " 
 
 " Gracious heaven!" thought Cooke, " are they going to turn 
 
Ji morning after a snow-storm. 125 
 
 poor sick creature out into the storm, from which she has shel 
 tered me;" and he strove to rise from his seat, but his abused 
 and stiffened limbs failed, and he sunk down again he heard 
 the voices louder. 
 
 " I must obey my orders." 
 
 " I will resist/ She shall not be removed ! I have another 
 proposition " 
 
 11 I can t be going backward and forward day after day." 
 
 * Who s there 1" shouted Cooke. " Come in !" 
 
 " I will write to him I will compensate you. A day s 
 delay" 
 
 " Who s there? I say?" 
 
 Henry hearing Cooke s voice, and fearing that his mother 
 would be more disturbed by that than even by the presence of 
 the constable, came into the room with him. 
 
 " Henry, come hither, my son." The young man obeyed, 
 and the officer walked to the fire and placed himself between 
 it and the squalid figure in the chair, of which he took no no 
 tice, until he was addressed with the imperative, " Fellow, take 
 off your hat !" 
 
 " For what?" 
 
 " Don t you know me, fellow? I am George Frederick 
 Cooke." 
 
 <T Poh ! poh ! hold your tongue." 
 
 " Stand from before me !" 
 
 " Well, well ; I wont keep the fire from you, poor devil I" 
 
 * { Poor devil ! Yes, yes ; I am, I am !" 
 
 " Well, Mr. Johnson, if you have any thing to offer, do it 
 soon. I will go to the landlord once more, for I do not want 
 to inconvenience the old woman ; but, right s right, and the 
 rent must be paid, and / must be paid." 
 
 lf Sit down, if you please, I will write once more to Mr. 
 Jones." And Henry took from a hanging shelf (on which 
 were a few books) some paper and an ink-stand, and sat down to 
 make his proposal to his landlord, with little hope but of a short 
 respite, and time to think and to remove his father from the 
 scene of his mother s suffering. 
 
 In the mean time Cooke put a bank note into the constable s 
 hand, unperceived by Henry, and gained information immedi 
 ately, from the astonished officer, of the sum for which the 
 landlord s warrant was issued. 
 
 Henry having written a short note carried it to his mother. 
 It being now broad-day, she read it without opening the 
 curtains. 
 
 " This will not do, my son. Why not apply to your em- 
 
 YOL. II. 6 
 
126 JH. morning after a snow-storm. 
 
 ployer. He has promised that after next May you shall have 
 a salary in his counting-house, and he would, if he knew our 
 situation, advance enough to relieve us." 
 
 44 Mother, I cannot. He reproached me lately, on finding 
 me asleep at my desk, and accused me of dissipation ; suppos 
 ing my sluggish senses were overpowered in consequence of 
 night- watchings of a very different complexion from the reality. 
 I cannot apply to him. This application to Mr. Jones will 
 gain us time." 
 
 " Young man ! Come here !" said Cooke in a tone of com 
 mand. 
 
 Henry obeyed ; unconscious of the mixed motives which 
 guided his steps. 
 
 44 I am George Frederick Cooke !" Henry was about to 
 retire again with an air and feeling of disgust. t4 I will be 
 heard, sirr," continued the excited tragedian. " I have a right 
 to be heard and to be obeyed." Henry shuddered. Cooke 
 continued. 4< You have saved my life, sirr, and your mother 
 has sheltered me in this house, from which your landlord 
 threatens to eject her, and to snatch the bed from under her on 
 which she is, perhaps, languishing in her last sickness, and for 
 the paltry sum of fifty dollars for two quarters rent. I wil pay 
 the rent. Give me the pen and ink, and I will write an order 
 for the money." 
 
 44 No." 
 
 <4 Why not, sirr t" 
 
 44 My mother cannot, shall not, receive aid from from 
 you. 11 
 
 44 From me, sirr? George Frederick Cooke! Constable, 
 give me the table, and pen, and ink, and paper." 
 
 44 No. I say no. Never !" 
 
 44 Henry !" 
 
 44 Mother !" and he again shrouded himself within the cur 
 tains of his agitated, almost exhausted mother. 
 
 The constable, at the request of Cooke, placed the table and 
 writing materials before him ; he attempted to write an order on 
 the treasurer of the theatre for fifty dollars ; his hand would 
 not obey his will ; he gave an unintelligible icrawl to the of 
 ficer. 
 
 44 What this ? This won t do." 
 
 It was handed back and torne. Cooke then thought of 
 SpifFard, and in a scrawl, scarcely legible, he wrote a few 
 words to him, desiring him to come to him quickly. 
 
 The little black girl had by this time ended her second 
 
A morning after a snow-storm. 127 
 
 peaceful slumber, and had come forth from her dormitory and 
 taken her place by the fire. 
 
 Cooke having "finished his scrawl, now first saw the child s 
 black face, and eyes wide open and fixed on him. " Come 
 hither, blackey, can you take this to Mr. SpifTardl" 
 
 44 If misses pleases." 
 
 Henry again came forward, and in a collected manner ad 
 dressed his father. " Mr. Spiffard was assisting in bringing 
 you hither, sir, and has promised to be here again this morning. 
 He will remove you from hence." 
 
 " He will bring the money, and discharge this debt and this 
 constable." 
 
 " No. That he shall not. All we ask of you is your ab 
 sence, and that you will forget that you were ever sheltered by 
 this roof.- 
 
 As Henry Johnson now stood proudly rejecting the assist 
 ance offered by the man who had wronged his mother, his tall 
 and athletic person drawn up to its utmost height, gave addi 
 tional dignity to a face which would not be selected by the 
 sculptor or the painter as a model of beauty, but rather for one 
 of power; a model for a leader in the field, or in the council. 
 The reader may observe, in Sully s portrait of Cooke, that 
 breadth between the eyes, at the junction of the nose with the 
 forehead, which has been supposed to characterize strength of 
 intellect. It may be seen likewise in the portrait of \V ashing- 
 ton, by Stuart, and in Ciracchi s bust of the hero. This same 
 feature marked the face of Henry Johnson, combined with a 
 fine open broad forehead, large hazle eyes, and mouth of un 
 common beauty, in all which he resembled his mother. 
 
 The extraordinary situation in which Cooke found himself 
 placed, (extraordinary even for him, and as fie understood it, 
 but beyond measure more so in reality), consciousness of the 
 present, and indistinct recollections of the past night, seemed 
 to recall his mental faculties to their healthful operation, and 
 he spoke with the tone of restored reason. 
 
 " Young man ! what do you mean ? Do you think I am a 
 beast, devoid of reason or gratitude ? Do you think I can 
 ever forget the obligation I am under to you and your 
 mother ? Am I not under the greatest possible obligation to 
 her?" 
 
 " You are you are !" 
 
 " Am I not bound to assist her 1" 
 
 ** Yes ; you are, indeed ! More " 
 
128 Jl morning after a snow-stonn. 
 
 " I owe my life to you and to her. And do you deny me 
 the privilege of doing my duty towards her?" 
 
 " You cannot." 
 
 " Am I not rich ?" 
 
 " Rich ! rich ! Money ! riches and money ! Thus, in 
 your world, everything is swallowed up in the thought of 
 money. Money covers all sanctions all. Can your riches 
 restore to that dying woman the years of peace and health 
 which a ruffian s baseness has robbed her of? Can your 
 fifty dollars pay her for country friends peace of mind 
 health?" 
 
 " Henry ! Henry !" 
 
 4 I have done. Forgive me, mother ! Keep your riches, 
 sir. We will do as we have done, without your without them! 
 You will be removed to your home, and then we shall be re 
 stored to that quiet which is necessary to the sick perhaps 
 the dying." 
 
 " But you want a friend " 
 
 " Friend ? We shall find a friend. We have a friend who 
 has never deserted us, and never will desert us, as long as we 
 confide in him, and do our duty towards his creatures." 
 
 The energy of the young man the discrepancy between his 
 rough watchman s dress, and his comparatively polished lan 
 guage the mystery which, to Cooke s apprehension, appeared 
 to surround him and his mother combining with the agitation 
 and confusion existing in the old man s mind, now overwhelm 
 ed him. He sunk back again in the sick lady s chair, and 
 covered his face with his hands. 
 
 " But this won t do for me, Mr. Johnson," said the consta 
 ble. " I must do my duty. Why not take this old man s offer, 
 and let me go." 
 
 44 Never, sir ! never ! If Mr. Jones will not consent to the 
 proposition in my note, you must do your duty. Mr mother 
 can die in the hospital." 
 
 NOTE. Two facts are used by the author which are recorded iu the me 
 moirs of Cooke. He was found in the street covered with snow at mid 
 night, and conveyed by watchmen to a poor woman s house ; and he not 
 only offered but actually paid a quarter s rent, and prevented the sale of 
 the poor widow s furniture. 
 
129 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Some sunshine. 
 
 " Look how we can, or sad, or merrily, 
 Interpretation will misquote our looks." 
 
 " 0, how full of briars is this working-day world. 
 
 " Sweet afe the uses of adversity. 
 The icy fang, 
 
 And churlish Chiding of the winter s wind, 
 Which when it bites, and blows upon my body. 
 Even till I shrink with cold, 1 smile and say 
 This is no flattery." 
 
 " I am strong and lusty : 
 For in my youth I never did apply 
 Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood 
 Therefore my age is as a lusty winter 3 
 Frosty, but kindly." 
 
 (! There is a tide in the affairs of men, 
 Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune, 
 Omitted, all the voyage of their life 
 Is bound in shallows and in miseries." 
 
 u Tis not enough to help the feeble up, 
 But to support him after." Shakspeare. 
 
 SPIFFARD S first thoughts on awaking, were occupied by 
 the events of the past night, and the recollection of the situa 
 tion in which he left Mr. Cooke. The storm was over. Clear, 
 bright and cold was the morning. He was soon equipped for 
 a walk through the untrodden snow, and proceeded without 
 delay to Mrs. Johnson s. Before he entered that lady s door, 
 he very unexpectedly encountered a friend, with whom he had 
 had no communication for some weeks. 
 
 Mr. Littlejohn s attention had been occupied, as a merchant, 
 by the difficulties of " the times," and, as a father, by the joy 
 ful recovery of his son and his re-establishment under his roof. 
 Restored to perfect health, he now resided at home, and occu- 
 
t 
 130 Some sunshine. 
 
 pied himself in those studies which belonged to his clerical 
 profession, and accorded with his serious character. For the 
 present he withheld himself from the duties of public instruc 
 tion, as he knew that the nature of his late malady might, in 
 the public mind, injure or weaken the effect of his exertions, 
 until time should cast his veil over the past. The presence of 
 the son in bodily and mental health was (more than his mercan 
 tile prosperity), a subject of congratulation to the father. 
 
 Among the eccentricities of the elder Littlejohn was a habit 
 of early rising and strenuous pedestrian exercises before 
 breakfast, at all seasons of the year and in all weathers. In 
 summer he enjoyed the hour before the sun had overpowered 
 the freshness of the morning air, but with his rays had called 
 forth the notes of a thousand birds in the shades of Greenwich, 
 and gilded the broad expanse of waters where the two rivers 
 meet in our beautiful bay. In winter, he did not wait for the 
 lazy luminary, but as soon as his approach afforded sufficient 
 light, the old man, already long prepared, issued to the cold 
 and nipping air, and by a rapid walk prepared himself for an 
 early American breakfast of coffee and buckwheat-cakes. 
 
 On this clear and cold morning, Mr. Littlejohn was as usual 
 out for a walk of three or four miles, and making the first 
 tracks in the snow that had fallen during the night. Not far 
 from the door of Mrs. Johnson s humble dwelling, he was sur 
 prised to see his young friend Spiffard approaching Broadway ; 
 surprised, because he knew that players are obliged to sit up late, 
 especially those of the sock, and after returning late from the 
 theatre, being fatigued and exhausted, usually take late sup 
 pers ; and he knew, that although a water-drinker would not 
 be so likely to over-eat or over-sleep himself as a wine-bibber, 
 yet " late to bed makes late to rise." He turned to meet him. 
 
 " How s this, my young friend ? I never greeted you in my 
 morning rambles before. Have you become an early riser ?" 
 
 " Not usually so early as to-day, sir." 
 
 " I must reproach you for neglecting me. It is long since 
 you called upon me. My son is now at home with me." 
 
 "And well, sir?" 
 
 " Perfectly restored. Come and see him. He will be 
 pleased, now, to be acquainted with you. Your profes 
 sions are supposed not to assimilate, but I think your minds 
 would." 
 
 " Society has raised a bar between the preacher and the 
 player ; perhaps it would have been better had it never ex 
 isted ; but as it is. I would not advise your son or any other 
 
Some sunshine. 131 
 
 clergyman to step over it. When players, by their conduct, 
 remove the bar, then let the intercourse commence." 
 
 " That, you have done ; therefore be it as you say. Come, 
 shall we take our walk together ?" 
 
 " I am on an errand of business, sir ; and business in which 
 I think you will be interested and become a partner." 
 
 " Indeed ! I should not have thought that a young actor 
 and an old merchant would have entered into a business part 
 nership upon so short an acquaintance." 
 
 " I know, sir, that there is one feeling that is common to us 
 a feeling that young and old ought equally to partake of 
 the feeling of love to our neighbour, which generates pity 
 for hi* weakness, and the desire to strengthen and relieve 
 him. It is a business of this nature to which I invite your part 
 nership." 
 
 " I believe we understand each other pretty well, young 
 man ; but, before I agree to open a partnership account with 
 you, I must know something more particular than the mere 
 nature of the speculation. Communicate." 
 
 " I will, sir. If you will turn about with me, I will show you 
 the contrast of sickness by surfeit, and sickness from want." 
 The merchant took Spiffard s arm, who retraced his steps, 
 (for he had advanced towards Broadway to meet the old gentle 
 man), and they proceeded to the place where he had left Cooke. 
 
 " Here, sir, we shall find the unfortunate man who attracted 
 your attention by his excesses at Cato s, and by his urbanity at 
 Doctor Cadwallader s." 
 
 " Here !" 
 
 " In this abode of sickness and poverty." 
 
 " Brought here by his benevolent wish to relieve it ?" 
 
 " Brought here by others while in a state of insensibility ; a 
 wretched outcast, perishing on the pavement in the storm of 
 last night. This place, the residence of a poor woman, sick, 
 and, I fear, dying, was the nearest place found open to receive 
 him." 
 
 " But how why " 
 
 " You shall leai n the whole. Let us enter the house. He 
 was saved by what is called accident ; or the idol of the public 
 would have been found frozen to death in the streets of New- 
 York, surrounded by the well-warmed mansions of his idol 
 aters." 
 
 This meeting of the young actor and the old merchant hap 
 pened, by what we call chance, at the moment that Henry 
 Johnson was persuading the constable to carry a note to the 
 
132 Some sunshine. 
 
 landlord, requesting a suspension of the law s dread mandate? 
 and the creditor s unchristian cruelty. 
 
 * She shall not die in a hospital !" cried Cooke, throw 
 ing off a handkerchief with which he had covered his face, and 
 glaring at the young man like a tiger. " I will pay every debt 
 she owes. The shelter of her house has preserved my life 
 not that it is worth much ! No matter ! I owe my life to her 
 and to you. I ll pay my debt by paying her debts ! And, by 
 God ! she shall not die in a hospital !" 
 
 " I neither drink nor swear, sir. The being on whose will 
 my mother relies, may relieve her present distress. From you 
 she shall receive neither favour nor relief!" 
 
 * Do you know who I am, sir ?" 
 
 " Too well !" 
 
 " Who shall prevent my paying her landlord, and saving her 
 from the distress he threatens 1 Who ?" 
 
 41 Her son! Her son will not suffer hrt" to be " 
 
 What the excited youth might have said was lost. A second 
 and louder knocking at the door, (the first was unheard, except 
 by the little black girl, owing to the high-raised voices of the 
 father and son ; the louder knocking) cut short the angry dia T - 
 logue ; and the girl opened the door, and Mr. Littlejohn, fol 
 lowed by Spiffard, entered the apartment. 
 
 It may be supposed that Henry Johoson had not had either 
 opportunity or inclination, during the rapid succession of events 
 so distressing to him and his mother, to change his watchman s 
 dress for that suited to the counting-house ; and he now stood 
 in the presence of, and fronting, Mr. Littlejohn, in the rough 
 costume of a guardian of the night, except that the leathern 
 helmet had been removed. Their eyes met, and both started. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this, sir ?" said the merchant. 
 
 Henry was silent. 
 
 " This watchman came hither with Mr. Cooke-," said Spif 
 fard. 
 
 " Watchman, indeed ! Both, I suppose, from the same scene 
 of masquerading riot." 
 
 " He is the watchman that " 
 
 * He is a clerk in my counting-house." 
 
 Spiffard was silent ; Littlejohn proceeded 
 
 " So, Mr. Johnson, my unwelcome suspicions are confirmed. 
 You have been masquerading with this man of noted intemper 
 ance. Your unseemly situation in the counting-house is fully 
 explained. My good opinion of you has been on the wane for 
 some time, and this discovery seems likely to prove a death- 
 
Some sunshine. 133 
 
 blow to your character : the blow that must sever us ; and that, 
 too, when your period of probation is nearly past ; when, in a 
 very short time, you would have been entitled to claim a salary." 
 
 The undenied assertion, that the pretended watchman was a 
 clerk to the merchant, kept SpirTard silent. Cooke paid no 
 attention to what was passing. 
 
 Although Henry Johnson had been long known to Emma 
 Portland, he was not known to Spiffard, who, it will be recol 
 lected, had been but a short time an inmate of the family of 
 Mrs. Epsom ; and during that time occupied by perturbed 
 thoughts, and associating with men unknown to Henry John 
 son. In the character of a watchman, for such he had acted, as 
 well as appeared, during the events of the night, (and even 
 now,) he did not recognise a youth who had only been seen 
 and not noticed. He stood a perplexed and silent beholder of 
 a scene, to him as extraordinary as those he had witnessed re 
 lative to Cooke. That he was one of the watchmen who had 
 assisted in bringing the tragedian to this house, he knew and 
 nothing more. 
 
 Henry stood with his eyes fixed on Littlejohn, but unabash 
 ed. His colour changed frequently, coming and going with 
 the changing emotions which seemed almost to suffocate him. 
 Mr. Littlejohn continued : 
 
 * Twice nay, thrice, have I found you asleep over your 
 desk. You gave me no excuse no explanation ; I now see 
 that there was none to give. I laboured to find excuses for 
 you. Your confusion, and the appearance of your face, sug 
 gested a thought that I dismissed, but now see might have been 
 entertained ; for the night reveller will seek support from that 
 which has disqualified him for the labours of the day." 
 
 " Sir !" the youth exclaimed, indignantly, but checked him 
 self, and again became silent. His face was flushed its mus 
 cles quivered, but his eye quailed not. It was fixed on that of 
 his accuser. The merchant proceeded : 
 
 44 Yes, sir ! What other inference could I draw from your 
 appearance and conduct ? What else could I think ? Either 
 that you was under the influence of stupifying poison, or that 
 you had been watching the preceding night ; passing the hours 
 of natural rest without necessary sleep." 
 
 * It is true, sir. You had surmised the truth. I had been 
 watching. I had been sleepless." 
 
 " Is this a garb for a clerk in the counting-house of Little- 
 John and Company 1" The merchant paused. For a moment, 
 Henry made no reply ; then calmly said: "It is true, sir, 
 that you have surmised the cause of my sleeping at my desk ; 
 
 6* 
 
134 Some sunshine. 
 
 but it was after labouring faithfully for hours, and fulfilling my 
 assigned task. It is true, as you supposed, that the cause was 
 sleepless nights ; and for the sake of the cause of my sleepless 
 nights, I will now show you the cause. See it here, sir !" 
 
 He stepped to his mother s curtains, and, for a moment, 
 threw them open. He closed them ; arid again resumed a 
 firm, but respectful attitude. 
 
 " There lies the cause. A sick, and, I fear, a dying mother. 
 As for this dress, which draws upon me the titles of masque- 
 rader and reveller : this dress, unfit as you deem it, for the 
 associate of a counting-house, has fitted me to associate with 
 brave and manly companions, in an honest and honourable 
 vocation. This dress fitted me for the duties of the sleepless 
 nights which enabled me to procure necessaries for one who 
 had laboured through life to give me an education and place 
 in society that might guard me from vice or crime. Those 
 sleepless nights which caused my strength to fail after the du 
 ties of the day, and dulled my senses, and suffused my eyes 
 with blood, were endured cheerfully for a sick mother and 
 such a mother ! A reveller and a drunkard ! If I might feel 
 pride for having done a duty, 1 should be more proud of this 
 dress, than of that which fits me for your counting-house !" 
 
 " My son ! my son ! forbear !" said the afflicted mother. 
 
 There was silence after these words, and it continued 
 for what appeared to be a minute ; only that Cooke, on 
 hearing the exclamation of Mrs. Johnson, whispered to SpifTard, 
 "What s that? Who spoke 1" and all was again silent. 
 
 Littlejohn was much affected. His agitation seemed to 
 prevent speaking ; but with an effort, he at length exclaimed : 
 
 " Young man ! young man ! you have humbled me ! How 
 little do we know of what is beneath the surface ! What 1 have 
 I so mistaken you, and the causes of your actions ] Have I 
 done you, by thought and word, such base injustice 1 For your 
 mother for your sick, widowed mother, you have watched 
 night after night, to earn a pittance which our niggardly econo 
 my denied, though justly due to your daily toil at the desk !" 
 
 " Now, sir," said Henry, (his eyes filling with tears ;) " Now 
 you do yourself injustice. You gave me an opportunity of 
 acquiring that knowledge which would entitle me to wages 
 sufficient for my mother s support." 
 
 Littlejohn appeared not to hear him. " I, who have flattered 
 myself that I was an honest and a just man ; a man of some 
 observation and penetration into character I have accused 
 you of revelry, dissipation, and even odious ebriety because 
 
Some sunshine. 135 
 
 overwearied nature sunk under the weight filial piety had laid 
 upon it." 
 
 Cooke repeatedly had inquired wildly, " Whose voice was 
 that ?" and Spiffard was employed in persuading him to return 
 to the house from which he had wandered m the storm ; but 
 his only reply was, " never ! never !" Then again his confused 
 thoughts reverting to Mrs. Johnson s voice, he would ask, 
 " Who spoke ? what voice was that?" 
 
 When Littlejohn ceased speaking, he appeared deeply affect 
 ed. Henry was silent. The silence caused Cooke to look 
 around him, and seeing the constable sitting opposite to him, 
 by the fire, very much at his ease, and totally inattentive to 
 what was passing, he cried out in his harshest and most dis 
 cordant tone of voice, " Get up, sir !" 
 
 The officer remembering that he had pocketed the bank-bill, 
 and not willing to provoke inquiry, obeyed with wondrous 
 alacrity, without speaking. 
 
 " Go about your blood-sucking business, elsewhere, you 
 harpy. I command you ! Avoid the house ! Avaunt ! I 
 George Frederick Cooke, command you ! I pay the rent !" 
 
 " Never !" said Henry. 
 
 " What, Mr. Hipps," said Littlejohn ; " are you here to dis 
 train for rent V 
 
 " Yes, sir," respectfully answered the officer, 
 
 " How much is due 1" 
 
 " Fifty dollars, sir, for two quarters." 
 
 " I will be answerable." 
 
 " I cannot repay you, sir," said Henry. 
 
 " I pay the rent !" shouted Cooke. He was unattended to. 
 
 " You shall repay me out of your salary." 
 
 " My salary ?" 
 
 " The highest the firm gives is a thousand dollars. That is 
 yours, commencing from last August. It was in August I first 
 saw you sleeping at the desk. It was then I first did you in 
 justice. A half year s wages are due. Take care that your 
 mother has the best medical advice. I need not give you a 
 charge as to any thing else ; but, by all means, call in Doctor 
 McLean. I shall deduct the fifty dollars from the half-year s 
 salary, and send you a check for the balance, for you must not 
 come to the counting-house to-day. Good by ! You forgive 
 me ! But no more masquerades," said the benevolent mer 
 chant, smiling through tears, " and no more sleeping at the 
 desk. Mr. Spiffard you and I and Henry and my son, must 
 meet soon over a dish of tea, or a sparkling glass of water." 
 
136 -Some sunshine. 
 
 And taking Henry s hand, he pressed it, repeating, " forgive 
 me ;" then pointing to his mother, said, " go to her ;" and he 
 ran, rather than walked out of the house, without noticing the 
 person he came into it to see. 
 
 The tide of which the poet speaks had now commenced its 
 flood the flood that leads to fortune. Henry Johnson was 
 ready to embark upon the favouring current. Had he not 
 himself caused the propitious flood? Does not every man cre 
 ate the flood of his own fortune 1 
 
 Henry approached the bed, took his mother s hand, and sat 
 down by her, enshrouding both by the curtain. Mr. Hipps, 
 the constable, slunk unperceived away. Spiffard very soon 
 engaged a sleigh that happened to be passing, and fortunately 
 a covered sleigh ; for without hat or overcoat, Cooke, (who 
 had consented to go to Jemmy Bryden s), would have made a 
 pitiable appearance by daylight in the streets. Spiflard inter 
 rupted the conversation of the mother and son. 
 
 " Mr. Johnson, I have seen and heard enough to make me 
 wish to know more of you. I have seen you before, without 
 knowing you ; and, in the confusion of the last night, had no 
 recollection of ever having met you." 
 
 " We shall meet again, Mr. SpifTard. Your character is 
 well known to me, and I sincerely respect you." 
 
 " At present, this gentleman must be attended to." 
 
 * The sooner he is removed from this place " 
 
 " The better. I think so." 
 
 Cooke appeared unable to comprehend what had taken place 
 in regard to the rent, and insisted upon paying it. With diffi 
 culty SpifTard quieted him, and removed him from a place to 
 which he had been brought by means so strange, and for 
 purposes hidden from all but the benevolent cause and source 
 of all good. 
 
 Henry had sunk again on the bed-side, and drawn the cur 
 tain about him. 
 
 " My dear mother," said he, * we are unknown to him ; we 
 must remain unknown." 
 
 " He wished to assist to relieve us, Henry." 
 
 4 Heaven forgive him for for " 
 
 "I forgive him, Henry." 
 
 " I cannot yet. I will watch over him, and, if possible, 
 
 save him from the effects of his . I would do anything to 
 
 serve him. but I cannot forgive him not yet." 
 
137 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The hoax goes on. Confidence, and the lack of it their con 
 sequences in domestic life. 
 
 " Heavy lightness, serious vanity." 
 
 " Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast." 
 
 "I, from the orient to the drooping west. 
 Still unfold 
 The acts commenced on this ball of earth." 
 
 " I would the surfeit of my too abundant riches 
 Cure by enlarged bounty." 
 
 ct Women will love her that she is a woman 
 More worth than any man : men, that she is 
 The rarest of all women." Shakspeare. 
 
 "There are men who let their lives pass away without a single effort to- 
 do good, either to friend or neighbour; but wo to the man who is incapa 
 ble of feeling that the greatest possible good he can do for himself or for 
 others, is to do his duty, and leave the consequences to God." Coleridge. 
 
 WHERE was Trustworthy Davenport at the time his em 
 ployer so needed his help ? He had remained at the Tontine 
 Coffee-house, (Cooke s usual boarding-place), during a visit to 
 the house of an admirer, waiting only occasionally upon the tra 
 gedian to receive orders. The morning after the storm, Trusty 
 called, and was informed that the old man had left the house 
 after it was thought he had retired to bed, and that there was no 
 trace of him. Returning to the Tontine to consult Bryden, he 
 arrived just in time to relieve Spiffard from his troublesome 
 charge, and convey the yet bewildered old man to his chamber 
 and bed. 
 
 Spiffard returned home, content as man should be, with 
 having done his duty. The active scenes he had been 
 engaged in made him forget for the present the domestic evil 
 he felt and dreaded. He was ready to enjoy his breakfast. 
 But even this enjoyment was denied him. He found the fol- 
 
138 The hoax goes on. Confidence, and the lack of it. 
 
 lowing letter awaiting. The Philadelphia post-mark and hand 
 writing took away all appetite before he broke the seal, on 
 which an anchor was impressed : so careful and minute had 
 the idler Allen been in his industrious preparation for mischief. 
 Not that mischief was meant in the serious import of the word. 
 But who knows when he deviates from the track of truth where 
 the by-path may lead him ? 
 
 I do not like to receive a letter when I am preparing to sit 
 down to breakfast or dinner. Good news is least wanted when 
 a good meal is before me, and bad news spoils the most sa 
 voury dish. Spiffard read what he anticipated from the out 
 ward signs. 
 
 . PHILADELPHIA, Jan. 30, 1812. 
 
 SIR : I have to apologise for not meeting you at the Al 
 bany Coffee-house at the time appointed. I was called to this 
 city on an affair that did not admit of delay. I will be in New- 
 York on any appointed day, previous to my departure for Eu 
 rope, if it shall be necessary. My friend Thomas Beaglehole, 
 Esq. is intrusted with the adjustment of our affair, and has re 
 ceived my instructions. He will wait upon your friend and 
 receive your determination. If he is satisfied, I am : other 
 wise, on receiving a line from him, I shall wait upon you with 
 all speed. 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 JOHN SMITH. 
 
 It is difficult to conceive the feelings of a man who, for the 
 first time, is engaged in a duel. One who places himself in a 
 situation intended to tempt his fellow-man to aim at his life, 
 and intends to aim at the life of his fellow-man ; one who has 
 decided, or pledged himself, at the will of a third person, (call 
 ed a friend or second), to place himself in a situation which 
 may make of him a corpse or a murderer. 
 
 Such a man, after having given or accepted a challenge, 
 and placed himself at the disposal of a second, is in a state of 
 torture, troubled fluctuations, misgivings, or passionate excite 
 ment. His reason does not approve cannot approve. He 
 knows that he is acting contrary to the dictates of conscience 
 and the will of his Maker, from fear of man s opinions. He 
 makes his preparations for murder with affected calmness, 
 while his mind is a chaos. He screws himself up to the deed, 
 or the suffering, and while he must appear cheerful, curses on 
 
TJieir consequences in domestic life. 139 
 
 his adversary burst from his tortured soul, and he eagerly 
 grasps at the hope that his second may yet prevent blood. 
 
 The situation of Spiffard was not similar to this. He 
 thought himself the injured party, but did not wish revenge for 
 the injury. He was convinced that in repressing insult, he had 
 clone his duty as a man and a husband. He had agreed to 
 meet Captain Smith at the suggestion of his companions, 
 whose good opinion he did not wish to lose, and of whose good 
 faith he had no doubt ; but he went to the meeting neither to 
 apologise nor fight, but to show his supposed adversary that 
 there was no call for either. Now, however his situation was 
 changed, and he was called upon to place himself at the dis 
 posal of Mr. Allen, of whom he knew little, and of a Mr. 
 Beaglehole, of whom he knew nothing. He hesitated as to 
 the course he should ultimately pursue. Uncertainty, waver 
 ing, and irresolution, had taken possession of his mind. He 
 was sick at heart. His moments of self-approbation were few 
 and far between. As the progress of this hoax went on, Spif 
 fard became discontented, peevish, and a feeling approaching 
 to loathing of himself and all around him weighed upon his 
 spirit and withered his strength. His natural paleness was in 
 creased to a corpse-like livid hue. His eyes lost their fire, 
 his lips their colour, and his muscles their elasticity. 
 
 How little did the gay young men who produced this misery 
 appreciate the pain their sport inflicted ! Did they wish to in 
 flict pain ? Certainly not. The whole plot was .the result of 
 overflowing animal spirits, kept in perpetual ferment by the in 
 cessant recurrence of the feast and the stimulants accompany 
 ing it. The hot blood of youth pouring fire adding fuel to 
 the already overheated furnace. There is a mist which appetite 
 raises to cloud reason, and to this the fumes of the "sparkling 
 glass" the all-destroying alcohol were (in those days) habit 
 ually added, so that the minds of some were always enveloped 
 in a many-coloured cloud, sometimes bright as if illumined by a 
 thousand suns ; sometimes dark as night; but ever false 
 ever leading to misapprehensions and endless error. 
 
 The injury unintentionally inflicted on Spiffard, was shared 
 by his wife. Her own errors rendered her peculiarly obnox 
 ious to suspicion. The husband was silent, or peevish. The 
 question, " What s the matter, Mr. Spiffard 1" was answered 
 laconically by " Nothing." But this word was accompanied 
 by looks that spoke volumes to the unfortunate woman, yet 
 left her in suspense. Sometimes the question was put, " What 
 is the matter, Mr. Spiffard?" and the answer was even more 
 
140 The hoax goes on. Confidence, and the lack of it. 
 
 unsatisfactory, though the word was still " Nothing. 5 * But I 
 am anticipating. 
 
 Spiffard could neither eat his breakfast nor remain at home, 
 in the state of mind which the renewal of the affair of Captain 
 John Smith produced. After the ceremony of the morning 
 meal was over, he went in search of Allen. 
 
 He met Henry Johnson, (no longer the watchman), and 
 passed him with a friendly salutation, and " The ladies will be 
 glad to see you." 
 
 Henry, (after certain arrangements with his mother, and 
 the necessary attentions to his appearance), hastened to impart 
 to Emma Portland the tidings which imported change so great 
 to her. Emma had left him poor ; he was now blessed by 
 competence. She had made a discovery, which, although re 
 dounding to his honour, pained her, as it seemed like a want 
 of confidence in her ; something approaching to falsehood in 
 him. 
 
 The two couples which the thread of our story brings us to 
 consider under the same point of view, were strangely con 
 trasted. They were alike as being young ; for still Mr. and 
 Mrs. Spiffard were in the prime of life. They were alike in 
 being blest by nature with physical and mental powers. In 
 what then consisted the contrast ? The one pair was misera 
 ble, the other happy. What the cause ? Early education and 
 early associates. Johnson and Spiffard were both moral men ; 
 but the first, had been strictly trained ; and the path of life 
 pointed out by a pure and religious parent. The second was 
 left to the guidance of his blind fancy, and misled by one who 
 had been selected for his guide. Henry had chosen a partner 
 in the house of God, from among those who were teaching the 
 orphan, and the abandoned of earth, to seek heaven. Spiffard 
 had selected from among those who delight the mingled throng 
 who seek pleasure more than improvement. 
 
 The interview which took place on the present occasion, was 
 of great interest to Henry Johnson and Emma Portland : but 
 as I am aware that such scenes are not of the most fascinating 
 kind to the general reader, I shall leave the imagination of my 
 admirers to supply the terms in which the young man made 
 many explanations, and informed the lovely girl of those disco 
 veries which led to the unravelment of the intricacies which 
 were gathering around Mr. Littlejohn and himself. But we 
 must take a peep at the scene of happiness, notwithstanding. 
 
 He found Emma alone. That was just as it should be. For 
 a short time he was embarrassed, and she was thoughtful, He 
 
Their consequences in domestic life. 141 
 
 considered her as an incarnation of truth. She was so ; and 
 like Milton s Truth, " an immortal feature of loveliness and 
 perfection." And Henry, in the spirit of truth, sought to ex 
 plain any appearance that might offend her purity. 
 
 " I am delighted to find that the exposure to the storm of 
 last night, has not made you sick, Emma. And yet you do 
 not appear as cheerful as usual." 
 
 " I do not think that my health has suffered. The cold was 
 great, but I was well guarded, and the snow was dry." 
 
 " But your eyes do not sparkle as they were wont." 
 
 Perhaps they want sleep ; but no, I slept very soundly, 
 and later than I commonly do. Henry, it was a night of 
 wonders." 
 
 " Wonders, indeed !" 
 
 " And you do not know that I came from a death-bed before 
 I saw you ; and a sudden and unexpected death, although one 
 serene and prepared for. When I awoke this morning, I could 
 not but think I had been dreaming. The situation in which I 
 found Mr. Cooke and, Henry, the situation in which I found 
 you. The dying woman the storm the old man lying help 
 less, and perisfiliftg with cold the watch-house and the 
 watchman, Henry ! I would as little expect to find Henry 
 Johnson in such a dress, and with such companions, and in 
 such a place, as to find Mr. Cooke perishing in the street in a 
 snow-storm." 
 
 " I can explain to your satisfaction, Emma." 
 
 " Had I not a right to expect confidence from one, to one 
 who has confided in him most implicitly?" 
 
 "You had." 
 
 " I will not hide a thought from you, Henry. Meeting you, 
 as I did, when I little expected to meet any one whom I 
 had even seen, and when I trusted for the success of my mis 
 sion upon the common dictates of duty alone, was little short 
 of a miracle. At the time, it was a source of unmingled joy ; 
 but since, I have thought upon it with sorrow. With all my 
 confidence in your purity and honour, I have not yet been re 
 conciled to finding you so disguised, and so associated." 
 
 " For my mother, Emma ! for my angelic mother ! For 
 her who has toiled and suffered, that I might be instructed, and 
 made useful in society. You know what my expectations were; 
 and that I toiled at the desk all day, to be prepared, at an ap 
 proaching period, for a lucrative employment. In the meantime, 
 my mother was rendered incapable of exertion. I did not tell 
 you how very poor we were. I thought, for the short time of 
 
142 The hoax goes on. Confidence, and the lack of it. 
 
 my probation, I would watch during the night, as well as work 
 through the day, and when my promised salary commenced, 
 then resign the pittance, which has been, for some time, my 
 mother s support. Thus my days were occupied in labour for 
 future comfort, and my nights for the present means of subsis- 
 tince." 
 
 Emma gave him her hand, and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 4< But, Henry, did you think I could not appreciate such 
 motives ? Why not confide your necessities and your plans 
 to me?" 
 
 " My reasons may not appear sufficient to you, although 
 they were so to me. I thought that you might suppose the 
 hardships and exposures I should encounter, greater than they 
 really are ; and therefore that the knowledge of this mode of re 
 lieving my mother s wants, by depriving myself of rest, would 
 cause unnecessary anxiety to you. You must forgive me. It w ; as 
 with difficulty that I persuaded my mother to be reconciled to 
 the temporary resource, (for it was only to last a few weeks ;) 
 and I was, perhaps, vain enough to think it might be as diffi 
 cult to obtain your approbation, and might cause unnecessary 
 pain." 
 
 There was a pressure of the hand, and a smile through tears, 
 that spoke perfect forgiveness. Never do the rays of the sun 
 appear more beautiful, than when they are seen through the 
 mild, refreshing showers of summer, giving promise of a goodly 
 time to come. Such a smile was an assurance of future hap 
 piness to Henry Johnson. 
 
 "And now, Henry, I do believe that the watchman who 
 twice followed me, was the same that assisted me last night." 
 
 " You may believe it." 
 
 " Even yet I cannot be reconciled to a disguise." 
 
 " The dress was not put on as a disguise. I put on the 
 habit with the employment. I obtained the employment by 
 the recommendation of a neighbour, who had himself served as 
 such, but was disqualified by infirmity. I told no untruths. 
 My name and my motives were known to my companions." 
 
 " But such companions !" 
 
 "Do not misconceive of them. Do not, because European 
 books describe the watchman as a rogue or a fool, therefore 
 suppose the useful guardians of our cities to be such. They 
 are honest, industrious mechanics, and as well informed, on all 
 subjects, as men who gain their bread by the labour of their 
 hands can be. They have appreciated my superior education, 
 as, by degrees, they discovered that I possessed that advan- 
 
T/ieir consequences in domestic life. 143 
 
 tage. I hare been of service to such of them as imagined 
 ardent spirits of use to them in times of exposure, by convinc 
 ing them of the contrary. Most of them have been apprised of 
 my motives for putting on the garb, and sharing the hardships 
 of the band ; and they have given them their due weight. But 
 Emma, neither they, nor you, nor I, have known who I am." 
 
 " We do not know ourselves to be sure. Who does ? I do 
 not know myself; but I thought that, perhaps, I knew you 
 better than you knew yourself. I had my doubts, last night." 
 
 "I do not mean that self-knowledge." 
 
 " What then?" 
 
 " The discoveries of this morning are even more extraordi 
 nary than those of last night." 
 
 " Of this morning." 
 
 " After you left my mother, and even after the storm had 
 past, and the sun had risen." 
 
 " They must be strange discoveries, indeed, if more strange 
 than I made. For I last night discovered, in a poor, perishing 
 outcast, dying on a snow-heap, the idolized George Frederick 
 Cooke ; and in the sober, industrious, moral Henry Johnson, 
 a tenant of the watch-house." 
 
 "And I saw Emma Portland in charge of a watchman, and 
 ushered, at midnight, to the cognizance of the captain of the 
 watch. But the discovery that followed, and which I am to 
 impart to you, affects us both most seriously." 
 
 The playfulness of Emma gave place to anxiety ; her smiles 
 to an expression of fear. 
 
 " While we are conscious of our good intentions, Henry " 
 
 " I have no disclosure to make that can injure me in your 
 opinion. But I at length know my father." 
 
 " And living ?" 
 
 " Living. His life saved by you.". 
 
 " Mr. Cooke >" 
 
 " Is my father, Emma. My unworthy father." 
 
 " Owing his life to his son ! Does he know you ?" 
 
 " No. Nor shall he ever." 
 
 * And your mother?" 
 
 " She shall remain unknown to her unworthy husband. He 
 supposes her dead. Let him suppose so." 
 
 " That might disturb his last hours, Henry. "We must for 
 give. Your mother ?" 
 
 " I shall obey my mother. You must see her, and speak on 
 the subject ; and on another, if possible, more near to us, but 
 of a very different character." 
 
144 The hoax goes on. Confidence, and the lack of it. 
 
 4< I will see her to-day." 
 
 " But, Emma, does not the knowledge that I am the son of 
 such a father, change your feelings towards me, whom you 
 have heretofore considered as the offspring of misfortune, al 
 lied to intelligence, virtue, honour, and religion ; and now find 
 that I am the son of one noted for vices and stained by cruelty 
 to your friend and my mother !" 
 
 If you had been educated by and lived with your father, 
 such as you now describe him, I might fear to trust my fate to 
 your guardianship ; but I know that the virtues of your mother 
 have been your inheritance; I trust myself to the son of Mrs. 
 Johnson." 
 
 " Of her, driven by him from her native land, home, friends ; 
 turned adrift, like Prospero, with a helpless infant, upon an 
 unknown ocean !" 
 
 " But, Henry, you were like the poet s Miranda, the pro 
 tecting angel of your parent. You are still her support. You 
 have saved your mother from want ; and now you have saved 
 your father s life. Indeed, I have not before known you." 
 
 44 That he is my father, must be a secret from all, but us 
 three, Emma. He must not know it the world must not 
 know it. But I have more to communicate." 
 
 Henry recounted the circumstances attending his interview 
 with Mr. Littlejohn ; and the young folks could not but re 
 joice in a futurity which was opening to them as bright as it 
 was unexpected lucrative employment bestowing indepen 
 dence on the son, consequent comfort, and perhaps health on 
 the mother, and a matrimonial union promising every blessing 
 that virtue can bestow on the deserving, or that sanguine youth 
 can anticipate. 
 
H5 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 Hoax continued. A sick-bed repentance. 
 
 * * * " The spirit s ladder, 
 That from me gross and visible world of dust, 
 Even to the starry world, with thousand rounds 
 Builds itself up ; on which the unseen powers 
 Move up and down on heavenly ministries." Coleridge. 
 
 " The love of wine, like the love of money, associates itself, and the means 
 of its indulgence, with all things else in heaven and on earth." American 
 Monthly Magazine. 
 
 O er the dread feast malignant chemia scowls, 
 And mingles poison in the nectared bowls. 
 Fell gout peeps, grinning, through the fleecy screen, 
 And bloated dropsy pants behind, unseen : 
 Wrapt in his robe, white lepra hides his stains, 
 And silent/renzy, writhing, bites his chains." Darwin. 
 
 " Their virtues else * * * 
 Shall in the general censure take corruption 
 From that particular fault. The dram of base 
 Doth all the noble substance oft do out, 
 To his own scandal." Shaksj>eare. 
 
 ALTHOUGH Henry and Emma had escaped unscathed from 
 the adventures of a winter s night and a snow-storm, not so 
 the unfortunate, misdoing, George Frederick Cooke. He had 
 taken that night a long step towards the grave. His friendly 
 physicians, and his invaluable valet, or help, trustworthy Daven 
 port, watched over him ; and though his case had become des 
 perate, and the water had found its way without the aid of the 
 warm-bath, still the termination of his eventful and mispent 
 life was delayed, as far as human means could turn off the dart 
 of death, by medical skill, and by the unwearied attention of 
 the faithful Yankee traveller, who, like his countryman, Spif- 
 
146 Hoax continued. A sick-bed repentance. 
 
 fard, seemed to be attached to the old man from motives inex 
 plicable to mere worldlings. 
 
 SpifTard, as we have seen, had had his breakfast spoiled by 
 receiving Captain John Smith s letter ; and, as was expected 
 by the writer, the letter was brought back to him by the unso 
 phisticated Yankee. Allen received the document and read 
 it with as much gravity as though he had not written it ; then 
 folded it, and said, 
 
 44 We shall of course hear from Mr. Beaglehole." 
 
 44 I suppose so." 
 
 ** We shall then know how to proceed." 
 
 " Do you know this Mr. Rabbithole ?" 
 
 " Beaglehole." 
 
 " Ay do you know him ?" 
 
 44 Yes, we all know him. He is a man of honour," said 
 Allen ; " a fellow of spirit. Hops like a flea. Can beat any 
 man in the country running on all fours." 
 
 " Like a pig or an ass." 
 
 44 Hands and feet against feet arms and legs against legs." 
 
 " As a proof of his honour?" 
 
 4< 0, he has proved that by shooting his man," said Allen. 
 " Hits a button ten times in succession he is up to a button 
 any day. If he has received Captain Smith s instructions, 
 which he has no doubt, as the captain is a man of honour and 
 says so " 
 
 " * All honourable men, " thought Spiffard. 
 
 41 He will wait upon you, and, of course, you will refer him 
 to me." 
 
 44 Of course?" 
 
 44 Certainly if I am to settle the business." 
 
 44 1 shall settle the business." 
 
 44 You will not apologize 1" 
 
 4 Certainly not," 
 
 44 Well nothing more can be done till we hear from Mr* 
 Beagluhole." 
 
 Mr. Beaglehole was an agent for a Birmingham button- 
 maker. These agents are a class that in England are called 
 riders ; but, when in this country, pass for gentlemen, and 
 were, 44 thirty years ago," received as such by the simple 
 folks of the day I am speaking of, and admired accordingly. 
 They felt a great contempt for the natives, had money at 
 command, (no matter whether their own or not) dressed well, 
 fed well, drank hard, and gave a false impression upon Ame 
 ricans of the character of Englishmen. We now know better. 
 
Hoax continued. Jl sick-bed repentance. 147 
 
 Spiffard left his friend Allen, who chuckled at the thought 
 that the sport went " bravely on," and little thought of the 
 misery he was preparing for others. Indeed it was not possi 
 ble for him and his young companions to anticipate the conse 
 quences ; although, when men of dissimilar habits become as 
 sociates, evil may be predicted ; and, when truth is violated 
 in jest, no good can arise from it. Truth, as well as tem 
 perance, * is a delicate wench." They are both strong, and 
 the cause of strength in others ; yet are they both very ob 
 noxious to injuries, and shrink from contact with their oppo- 
 sites, as if possessed of instinctive sensitiveness. The water- 
 drinker was not a fit companion for the disciples of Anacreon. 
 
 The business with Allen so far arranged, our hero turned 
 his thoughts^to the deplorable old man, who was a slave to the 
 vices which truth and temperance abhor. 
 
 To explain the immediate cause of Cooke s terrible situation 
 on the night of the storm, it is necessary to say, that he had on 
 the previous day dined with one of his admirers in a large 
 company, and indulged himself without restraint. He remained 
 at table until all the revellers were gone, and his host, without 
 difficulty, prevailed upon him to retire to a bed-chamber. 
 He retired, but would not go to bed, demanding brandy, and 
 abused his friend for not giving it. In attempting to leave the 
 room, his host, by main force, prevented ; and, placing him on 
 the side of the bed, thought he had prevailed upon him to re 
 main quiet ; but, after he had left him, the wretched madman, 
 when all the house was quiet, found his way out, and, without 
 hat or over-coat, rushed into the street, where he wandered 
 until oppressed by liquor, fatigue, and cold, he had sunk to 
 sleep the sleep of death. 
 
 SpifFard found him a sick and wretched penitent. He found 
 that, although courted and feasted, when he could be exhibited 
 as a curiosity, as a lion at the soiree or the dinner-table, he 
 was, in his sick chamber, a poor abandoned solitary individual, 
 left to reflect with remorse upon those vices which flatterers 
 and admirers had encouraged for their own amusement ; aban 
 doned by all except his kind physicians and his trusty trust 
 worthy Davenport. Under these circumstances, Spifiard s 
 feelings prompted unwearied attention to the comfort of the 
 unfortunate old man. 
 
 He had before, as the reader will remember, devoted himself 
 to the same efforts. He had recounted the incidents of his 
 former life for the sick man s amusement ; but he had avoided 
 
148 Hoax continued. Ji sick-bed repentance. 
 
 that circumstance which, perhaps, unknown to himself, impell 
 ed him to take such deep interest in the fate of one, whose 
 conduct constantly reminded him of the miseries which similar 
 self-inflicted madness had brought upon all his own family. 
 Every good feeling of the young man kept him mute on the 
 subject of his mother s failings. It was a source of mortifi 
 cation and grief which he cherished in secret. He looked 
 upon his own fate as connected with it. He contemplated, 
 in retrospect, the scenes of his youth, and their consequences, 
 with fearful misgivings, as it respected the future. 
 
 Cooke had often reflected upon the earnest devotedness 
 with which a youth and a water-drinker attached himself to an 
 old man of habits so opposite to his own. He took this occa 
 sion to question him on the subject, and express his surprise. 
 With that suavity of manner which distinguished him when 
 he was not brutalized, he addressed Spiffard thus ; at the same 
 time raising himself in bed and leaning on his elbow. 
 
 " More than once, before this, you have appeared to take a 
 particular interest in me, at times, when by my unfortunate dis 
 ease or, as some would say, my wretched folly and propen 
 sity to debauchery I have been prostrated thus on the bed of 
 sickness and unavailing regret. I never met with any one 
 before yes, one !" He paused, turned his head aside, and 
 wiped his eyes, by hastily, and as if to avoid being noticed, 
 passing the shirt-sleeve of his right arm before them. He con 
 tinued, " I never met with a man who appeared to take such 
 interest in me. Why is it?" 
 
 Spiffard, if he had been conscious of the true causes, (which 
 I doubt), was too delicate to avow them. But, although the 
 images of his mother and his wife flitted before hia mind s 
 eye, he thought he answered sincerely when he said, 
 
 " Surely, sir, admiration of superior talents, and the hope of 
 rescuing them (you must pardon me) from a vice which you 
 have suffered by degrees to assume a sway a most despotic 
 sway over them, are sufficient motives to account for my 
 conduct towards you." 
 
 " I do not know that. Your attention to me your patience 
 when I am harsh in speech your firmness your candour 
 all are very singular. No one else has treated me so. Yes, 
 one ; but there firmness was wanting. I feel my obligation to 
 you." 
 
 He grasped Spiffard s hand hurriedly pressed it and then 
 threw himself back upon his pillow. There was a minute s 
 silence, Suddenly raising himself again to his former attitude, 
 
Hoax continued. Jl sick-bed repentance. 
 
 he said, in a high tone, " Vice ! Why vice, sirr ? Sirr, it is a 
 disease an incurable disease ! a disease implanted by nature t 
 Sirr, a man is no more blameable because he is the victim of 
 it, than if he suffered rheumatism, calculus, fever of the blood 
 or brain, or any other of the 4 ills that flesh is heir to. " 
 
 " 4 That flesh is heir toT Flesh is not heir to the diseases 
 which proceed from intemperance. The indulgence of the 
 appetite that grows by what it feeds on. Natural appetite be 
 comes vicious and criminal, as it is hurtful, when it throws off 
 the restraint of reason ; and it becomes ten times more crimi 
 nal in me to indulge appetite after once knowing that it is inju 
 rious to my own mind and body, as well as to those most inti 
 mately connected with me." 
 
 Cooke groaned. Spiffard continued. ** The diseases that 
 you have enumerated, and others to which we are subjected by 
 our natural constitution, or the constitution of society, have no 
 disgrace attached to them. Not so intemperance and its evils. 
 They bring shame as well as suffering." 
 
 After a pause SphTard continued, " Rheumatism may be 
 brought upon us by causes over which we have no control ; 
 accidental exposures to heat, damps, cold. Epidemics with 
 pestilential influence sweep off their thousands. Diseases visit 
 us beyond the reach of medicine ; we suffer ; we die. These 
 are the 4 ills that flesh is heir to. In the course of our allotted 
 duties, while performing our parts worthily in life s drama, we 
 are subject to accidents and various maladies, by which we 
 are deprived of health, and brought to the tomb. But although 
 we suffer, we do not feel the stings of conscience we 
 have not acted in opposition to our better knowledge. We 
 may indeed say, resignedly, these are ills that flesh is heir to." 
 But the diseases which we bring upon ourselves by sensual in 
 dulgence, it is blasphemy to lay the flattering unction to our 
 souls, that they are evils inflicted by heaven, and not entailed 
 by our own vices." 
 
 Cooke was not willing to abandon the sophistry with which. 
 he had endeavoured to lull his conscience. 
 
 4< Surely," said he, " we are to be pitied when we suffer from 
 the dictates of passions and appetites which are implanted in 
 us by nature without our will ?" 
 
 * I would pity and endeavour to relieve," said his young 
 mentor, " but I would not encourage the belief that he is not 
 himself the cause of his sufferings. Reason is given us to 
 control passion and appetite. The will of God is made known 
 to us, to preserve us from following the dictates of those pas- 
 
 VOL. II. 7 
 
150 Hoax continued. A sick-bed repentance. 
 
 sions and appetites, which, when not improperly indulged, are 
 necessary to our welfare. But we find a momentary gratifica 
 tion in the indulgence of appetite, or in obeying the dictates of 
 our passions, and our wills, and forget the lessons of reason 
 or of revelation. We bring disease and misfortune upon our 
 selves, and we are so prone to self-flattery as well as self-in 
 dulgence, that we say, * I could not avoid it ; I obeyed the 
 dictates of nature. Thus we charge our own faults and their 
 consequences on our Creator. The intemperate man says, *I 
 only seek the gratification which nature points out or makes ne 
 cessary ; he fires his blood with wine and brandy, and then flies 
 to the haunts of impurity. Still he says, I have these impulses 
 from nature. If strife and murder, or disease and death, fol 
 low, all must of course be charged on nature. There is no 
 evil which man brings upon himself by his own selfishness 
 that he does not endeavour to impute to necessity, fate, nature, 
 or the Creator of the universe. Even the fears and torments 
 of the slave-dealer, whether on the coast of Africa, or at the 
 seat of our government ; or of the slave-holder, whether in 
 Havanna or Savannah, Cuba or Carolina, are all charged to 
 the same cause. He says, in excuse for all the misery which 
 slavery inflicts on slave and master, * Nature ordained it so. 
 He will tell you, even in the solemn assembly of a nation s 
 sages, (a nation that boasts its freedom, and has declared all 
 men equal in rights), that God has marked a certain portion of 
 his creatures as slaves to a certain other portion. Has he 
 not made them black ? Has he not given them wool instead 
 of hair ? He has given them the form of man, merely the bet 
 ter to accommodate them to my purposes. What crime can 
 man perpetrate, that he does not in self-delusion charge upon 
 nature ? No, sir ! Man has the choice of good and evil ; and 
 his Creator has given him the power to restrain every impulse 
 that leads to his destruction." 
 
 " But there is a point," said Cooke, "which, if passed, we 
 can never return to. I have been irresistibly impelled to what 
 I knew was destruction : an incurable disease has been upon 
 me for years." He threw himself back, and hid his face. 
 SpifFard continued as if under an uncontrollable influence, al 
 though advocating the doctrine of a self-controlling power; but 
 reason approved the impulse. 
 
 <4 It is a lamentable self-delusion to say My desires are ir 
 resistible, or the habits of intemperance, of any description, in 
 curable. While life, with reason, remains, the sanity of the 
 mind may be restored, and comparative bodily health regained* 
 
Hoax continued. A sick-bed repentance. 151 
 
 The only irredeemable step is that which has led to death. I 
 conjure you, sir, not to give way to the thought that your suf 
 ferings, or the habits which have produced them, are beyond 
 remedy. I beg you to recollect that when you have had any 
 particular object in mew when you have wished to appear well 
 in the eyes of an individual, or the public when you have de 
 sired to outdo a rival, or make a favourable impression on 
 coming to a strange place you can / know it I have 06- 
 served it you can, and have, repeatedly, refrained from touch 
 ing the accursed thing. And if for a comparatively trifling 
 object you can do it, can you not do it for health, strength, life, 
 good name ? Think, sir, think how infinitely more important 
 ihese are, than the paltry consideration of appearing to advan 
 tage in any given character on the stage, or before any indi 
 vidual in private life ; or to attract more plaudits from a mot 
 ley crowd than are bestowed on a rival ! What are these in 
 comparison with the will of God, and the blessings which fol 
 low the doing his will 1" 
 
 While Spiffard spoke, his countenance kindled his eyes 
 sparkled benevolence shone in every feature, action, and 
 word. The hearer of truth cannot be offended, even if it con 
 demns him, when he is convinced that the speaker has no sel 
 fish motive ; but that the counsel, or even the reproof, springs 
 from pure benevolence. Spiffard spoke with more energy than 
 any one could have done who had not seen and suffered so 
 much from the cause of Cooke s misery. The arguments he 
 used to save the friend before him, had been used, in different 
 language, to save one nearer to him. His feelings, though not 
 selfish^ were so far connected with self. 
 
 Cooke made nor further defence. He raised himself in bed, 
 clasped Spiffard s hand with both his, and the big tears coursed 
 each other down his furrowed cheeks till they became a tor 
 rent. He sunk again hid his face on his pillow, and sobbed 
 audibly. His young friend was affected most powerfully. The 
 scene was touching : the humiliation of age before truth from 
 the lips of youth. Spiffard was silent for a time, and then re 
 sumed in a soothing tone and manner. 
 
 " It may appear improper for a young man like me to coun 
 sel one of your age ; but my motive must plead my excuse. 
 The sufferings of those dearest to me, and the most poignant 
 sufferings of my life, have proceeded from the errors I so ar 
 dently combat I have seen a mother destroyed a father s 
 peace and fortune blasted all my kindred swept away lost 
 immolated at the altar of this demon. Let me persuade you 
 
152 Hoax continued. Jl sick-bed repentance. 
 
 that you have only to resolve to do what you have done for 
 temporary considerations, and you can retrieve all yet health f 
 fame, arid peace of mind." 
 
 Cooke had been motionless ; his face buried in the bed 
 clothes. He started up. 
 
 " No, no, no !" he exclaimed ; * I cannot recall the past. 
 For myself, I might amend health and life ; but misery inflict 
 ed on others is past remedy, and can never be obliterated from 
 rny memory. It has been to deaden the sense of my own un 
 worthy conduct towards others towards one, the best, the 
 most patient ; to drown the thought of the past, I have con 
 tinued the same practice which caused the guilt I lament. I 
 cannot undo what is done : I cannot recall the dead ! Would 
 you believe it 1 Even this resource now fails me. Even in my 
 hours of madness she appears to me ! As I live, I saw her 
 heard her in a miserable hovel sick stretched on her death 
 bed poor starving dying ! I have had such visions before 
 in my sleep, after my waking thoughts have been employed on 
 the past ; but never like this. I heard her voice ! It rings in 
 my ears still ! I know it was a dream, caused by an imagina 
 tion distempered from the previous day s excess : I have had 
 such visions before, but never so wild or so vivid. Would 
 you believe it 1 I thought I saw myself, as I was in my youth; 
 and then I thought I had a son, and I saw him before me ! I 
 shook off the image ; it was a watchman. I know they are 
 dead. But these images haunt me ! Where was I last night 
 when you found me? Where did you bring me from this 
 morning? Or was it last night? I think it was. No, no. I 
 lose time time ! I have lost time, indeed !" 
 
 Spiffard recounted the transactions of the night as far as he 
 had seen them ; and being convinced, himself, that his friend s 
 imagination had conjured up unreal images, and transformed 
 Mrs. Johnson and her son into personages connected with his 
 former life, he easily persuaded him that it was so. 
 
 Whether this conversation, or the solicitude of Spifiard, 
 would have been of avail under happier circumstances, must be 
 left in doubt. The irretrievable step, as it respected health 
 ind life, had been taken. 
 
153 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Hoax continued. The button duellist. 
 
 "For let the gods so speed me, as I love 
 The name of honour more than I fear death." S tdkspcare . 
 
 11 Within my bosom dwells another lord " 
 Reason " sole judge and umpire of itself." Home. 
 
 "Fought all his battles o er again, 
 And thrice he routed all his foes, 
 And thrice he slew the slain." Drydcn. 
 
 IT would be " stale, flat, and unprofitable" to go into a de 
 tail of the boyish scenes which the young companions of Spif- 
 fard planned and executed as a trial of his unsuspicious cha 
 racter, and as a source of amusement for themselves. 
 
 Beaglehole was a man who would enter with all his heart into 
 Allen s plot, and with the more glee as it was to be played off 
 upon a Yankee. Having been informed of the preceding tran 
 sactions the particulars of the first acts of what was intended 
 as a comedy he undertook the part of Captain John Smith s 
 friend, and waited upon Spiffard. 
 
 " My name is Beaglehole, sir." Spiffard bowed. The vi 
 sitor repeated, "Beaglehole, sir." 
 
 44 1 have no acquaintance of that name." 
 
 " My friend, Captain John Smith, you know him, sir." 
 
 " I do not, sir." 
 
 " You addressed certain words to him at the theatre which 
 require explanation." 
 
 " I spoke very plainly." 
 
 " He demands an apology." 
 
 "I have none to make." 
 
 " I am directed by him to call on you, and, if no apology is 
 made, I am requested to see your friend. You have nothing 
 further to say to me, sir?" 
 
 " Nothing. I was called to a meeting with a Captain Smith, 
 and went with the intention of representing the impropriety of 
 
154 Hoax continued. The button duellist. 
 
 his conduct ; with you, sir, I shall not enter into any discus 
 sion of the subject. I neither know you nor Captain John 
 Smith. 
 
 " You have consulted a friend on the subject ?" 
 
 " I have spoken to several on what I considered imperti 
 nence. The last person was Mr. Thomas Allen." 
 
 " I know him well. A man of honour. I will wait upon 
 your friend, sir." 
 
 " As you please. You certainly may wait upon whom you 
 choose to serve." 
 
 The button-merchant was not satisfied that the scheme 
 worked well ; but he reported to Allen not exactly the words 
 as delivered. 
 
 It was so contrived by the quizzers that the next day they 
 were to meet in front of the theatre, and draw SpifTard from 
 his business of the stage, so that he might witness a precon 
 certed pantomimic interview between Allen and Beaglehole. 
 Accordingly, Spiffard s attention was drawn to the gentlemen 
 by a remark made by Hilson. 
 
 " What are Allen and Beaglehole so earnestly talking about 
 over there in the park?" 
 
 " Settling a race," said one of the club, "or a hopping- 
 match. I will pit Young for a hop against anything." 
 
 " Except a flea," said Hilson, 
 
 " But for a race I ll back Beaglehole." 
 
 " Do you think he could carry your weight?" 
 
 " None of your quibbling, Tarn. He ll beat any man I know 
 at a run." 
 
 " The Colonel shall beat him, if the enemy is in the 
 rear." 
 
 * Tom, I must fight you yet ; by this I must." And he 
 touched a bauble suspended by a riband on his breast. 
 
 " What? the goose-and-gridiron at your button-hole?" 
 
 " The eagle, sir." 
 
 " Your Ben Franklin poor Richard says the eagle is a 
 dishonest bird. The goose would have been much better as 
 the emblem of rusticity or wisdom." 
 
 " Beaglehole shall beat any man in America at a race on 
 all-fours," said Cooper. 
 
 High, low, jack and the game," said Hilson ;" that s all- 
 fours." 
 
 " You know what I mean : at running on hands and feet." 
 
 " That depends on length of arms. The Colonel s are longer 
 than any man s since Rob Roy. But see, the two gentlemen 
 
Hoax continued. The button duellist. 15& 
 
 are taking leave of each other. How formally they bow and 
 touch their hats. The match is made." 
 
 Spiffard saw the two gentlemen apparently conversing with 
 great earnestness ; and after a considerable time he saw them 
 separate, each bowing with that kind of ceremony, which, to 
 the attentive comedian, indicated an appointment, in the fulfil 
 ment of which, he, like the felon on his way to the gallows, was 
 to be the principal performer. 
 
 Those who were in the secret enjoyed the earnest and eager 
 glances of Spiffard at the two ceremonious/rewcfo of himself and 
 Captain Smith. Mr. Beaglehole having dissappeared, Allen 
 joined the knot. But the result of this important interview 
 must be reserved for Spiffard s private ear, and the torture of 
 suspense protracted as long as possible, 
 
 " What have you and Beaglehole been settling so gravely 1" 
 asked one. 
 
 " Nothing/ 
 
 " Nothing comes of nothing, " said Hilson. " What match 
 have you been making ? His bay against your gray, or him 
 self against Young for a hop ?" 
 
 " It s most likely a pistol-firing at Tyler s," said another. 
 
 Although Spiffard had determined not to fight a duel, yet the 
 thought of controversy with a duellist was excessively annoy 
 ing. He might be insulted perhaps reduced to the necessity 
 of repelling blows by blows, At length he was informed that 
 Mr. Beaglehole would immediately acquaint Captain Smith 
 that an apology was denied, and of course the captain s pre 
 sence necessary. Spiffard did not see the necessity. He 
 said nothing but he was impatient to have the affair over. 
 
 Two more days pass gloomily at home. The teasing ques 
 tion again is asked, " Wat s the matter, Mr. Spiffard?" and 
 the uncharacteristic answer made " Nothing." 
 
 Then comes a notification that Captain Smith s second hav 
 ing written to his principal, said principal would be in New- 
 York the next day. Accordingly Beaglehole informs Alien 
 that Smith expects the rencontre at 7 o clock the next morn 
 ing. Notice is given to Spiffard by Allen that he had agreed 
 to the appointment. And thus, although without fear of death 
 or the necessity of committing murder to avoid it, the young 
 man is doomed to another day and night of anxiety. He had 
 said enough on the subject to have made a real second throw 
 up the office ; but it was not the wish of Allen and his partners 
 in mischief to understand; therefore preparations were made; 
 and Spiffard, willing to be from home, (where his looks were 
 
156 Hoax continued. The button duellist. 
 
 watched with very different feelings from those they produced 
 upon the hoaxers), was induced to pass the hour of dinner 
 which engrossed the evening with the same circle of convivial- 
 ists, who were sporting with his honest credulity, and enjoying 
 every token of his uneasiness. 
 
 It was now necessary that a new cause should be assigned 
 for the disappointment of the next morning. A pretext must 
 be found for the not meeting of combatants both so ready to 
 meet, but who never could meet. A plot was suggested, dis 
 cussed, agreed upon, and put in practice. 
 
 The first time that Spiffard joined the party, (after the im 
 portant arrangement), it happened that he entered, as frequently 
 occurred, sometime after the cloth had been removed, and the 
 nuts and jokes had been cracked until attention was called to 
 the colonel s history of his first campaign, or some other story 
 which was a joke to the company. 
 
 * The invasion of New-Jersey had broken up the school at 
 which I had been flogged, in the hope of fitting me for Prince 
 ton college ; and to mv great joy, I was at liberty for any mis 
 chief, without having the fear of the ferule before my eyes. I 
 have told you, that when the volunteers and minute-men turned 
 out and trained, the boys of Burlington formed themselves 
 into a company and trained too." 
 
 " Yes, Colonel," said Hilson, "you have told that once or 
 
 44 No, not twice. I never tell my stories twice to the same 
 company. I never fight my battles o er again give us that 
 decanter over again, more than once to the same lis 
 teners - " 
 
 * Well, fill, and push the decanter this way ; and push on }? 
 
 * Where was I ? 
 
 "Just out of school." 
 
 " Home didn t suit me. My head was full of drums, and 
 by the by, did I tell you that I was drummer to our com 
 pany, and- -- " 
 
 44 You were determined to make a noise in the world." 
 
 " A stale joke, Hilson. Well, colonel -- " 
 
 * 4 1 determined to join the army, and run away - " 
 
 * 4 A most heroic resolution !" 
 
 * 4 From home." 
 
 " I thought it was from the enemy." 
 
 " Tom, none of your jokes." 
 
 44 Go on, colonel." 
 
 44 1 was thought too small for a musket, and so I offered my- 
 
Hoax continued. The button duellist. 157 
 
 self for drummer in a Pennsylvania regiment, and was accept 
 ed. Well, my first knowledge of the whistling of a bullet was 
 at Trenton." 
 
 " Ah ! That was when you stooped down and pretended to 
 buckle your shoe, while the Hessians made the balls whistle 
 about the ears of those who carried their heads too high." 
 
 " Let me light this cigar before I give you the battle of 
 Trenton." 
 
 The entrance of the Vermonter gave an opportunity to 
 change the subject which was gladly seized, and the battle of 
 Trenton, which had been made rather familiar, was postponed 
 for the present. 
 
 When Spiffard was preparing to go home, Allen accosted 
 him thus : 
 
 44 It is necessary, Mr. Spiffard, that our watches should be 
 in unison. We must be punctual. Rather before the time. 
 How is yours ?" . 
 
 " It wants five minutes of twelve." 
 
 " I m exactly half past eleven." 
 
 All the company applied to their watches, and all in concert 
 cried, " half past eleven," except Hilson, who said, " it is 
 only fifteen minutes past eleven, by Saint Paul s, the orthodox 
 clock, and by Saint Paul s, I go." 
 
 il Every time you go to the theatre. No : it is exactly half 
 past eleven." 
 
 All cried out, " Half past eleven;" and Allen, asking Spiffard 
 for his watch, and putting it back twenty minutes, said, " there 
 now, it is exactly ten minutes too fast, It is best for you to be 
 before the time." 
 
 " I should not think so, if I was going to be hung, or shot," 
 said Hilson, " but every one to his liking." 
 
 * I tell you what, Spiff," said the colonel, " you had better 
 go to bed and sleep soundly, or you may not be in nerve. I 
 make it a rule on such occasions to take a hearty supper, my 
 bottle of sherry or ma deira, as it may be ; then sleep till my 
 waiter calls me ; take a bracer ; keep my hands warm during 
 the ride or the sail, as it may be ; and, with all my muscles in 
 order, coolly take my ground and my aim. Then, quick upon 
 the trigger, your man s down. Good night." 
 
 It will be perceived from the foregoing that the meeting was 
 talked of freely by the company; and as a meeting of death- 
 doing purpose. Spiffard had given hints, or more than hints, 
 of his intentions, but they were passed by as unheard. The 
 tormentors were determined to try him. 
 
158 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Another victim. 
 
 " It presses on my memory 
 
 Like damned guilty deeds to sii 
 
 sinners minds." 
 
 " Those that can pity, here 
 
 May, if they think it well, let drop a tear." 
 
 " The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth." 
 
 "hough what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not, shall 
 n ot make me tame." 
 
 " And when I ask d you what the matter was, 
 You stared upon me with ungentle looks." Shakspeare. 
 
 WHILE Spifiard was passing his time with companions so 
 unlike himself, what was doing at the house which ought to 
 have been his home ? 
 
 It was past eleven o clock, and fast approaching midnight. 
 In the same apartment, which the reader may rememher being 
 introduced to at the commencement of this history, sat Mrs. 
 Epsom, her daughter, and her niece. They were all, at this 
 late hour, busily employed. They surrounded, or occupied, 
 different sides of a table, in the centre of the room, on which 
 towered a brilliant lamp, throwing a pleasant mellow light, 
 through its transparent shade, over the three very dissimilar 
 figures and the materials on which they were employed. All 
 were silent. The two actresses, mother and daughter, were 
 intent upon what they called, in the technical language of the 
 stage, study. Each had a manuscript before her ; that is, a 
 
Another victim. 159 
 
 part. Before the old lady was an empty tumbler and a snuff 
 box. The lips of the students occasionally moved, though no 
 sounds proceeded from them. Mrs. Spiffard, at this moment, 
 leaned with her elbow on the table, shading her fine eyes with 
 her right hand ; the next she darted a look to the ceiling, her 
 lips moved with greater energy, and her sable brows were al 
 most brought in contact. 
 
 Emma Portland s countenance was as serene as the sky of 
 an American October night, when every star shoots its light, 
 and seems to smile on the face that is upturned to heaven. 
 She was occupied by the mysteries of the needle, and seemed 
 te approach the happy termination of the evening s labours, for 
 she lifted the fringed curtains" which had veiled her eyes, and 
 glancing them rapidly upon her all-absorbed companions, let 
 them fall again, as she inserted her needle into the green cloth 
 of the table. She then, with both hands, raised and extended 
 the garment she had been working on, and cried, with an air 
 of satisfaction, as she exposed the glittering dress to view, 
 " look, cousin ! it is done !" 
 
 She received no answer. She turned her eyes from the gay 
 and gorgeous robe to the person who was to wear it before de 
 lighted thousands. That person was in tears. This is not 
 only a picture of mimic life. The gay and the gorgeous is 
 the mask of misery in " city, camp, and court." 
 
 Emma folded the stage-dress carefully, and removing it and 
 the instruments of seamstress craft, lit a small brass chamber- 
 lamp, and withdrew, unnoticed, to pass a few minutes before 
 sleep, in reading, thought, and prayer. 
 
 Mrs. Spiffard threw down the manuscript. " It is all in 
 vain. The words convey no meaning, while my mind is else 
 where, contemplating the past. Thinking of what must come. 
 It shall come !" 
 
 " My dear, you took no supper. I will mix a little brandv- 
 toddy. Let Mr. Spiffard say what he will, you need it." And 
 she left the table, and prepared two large tumblers of the be 
 verage. Having left her spectacles on the table, she put a 
 greater portion of brandy, by mistake. The unhappy daughter 
 walked the floor ; then sat down and attempted to read. The 
 mother drank her part of the mixture, and placing the other 
 tumbler near her daughter, sat down demurely to study, after 
 mixing another glass for herself. 
 
 Again Mrs. Spiffard rose and walked the room. She broke 
 tbe silence as if unconscious of her mother s presence. " 
 
160 Another victim. 
 
 mine is no common lot ! To lose one who adored me ! A man 
 like Trowbridge ? Torn from me at such a moment in such 
 a manner ! driving me to ! why did I live 1 Why do I 
 live V She approached the table, seized the poisoned mix 
 ture lifted the tumbler to her lips suddenly put it down and 
 again walked the floor. Her agitation increasing every mo 
 ment, she abruptly stopped and addressed her mother : 
 
 " But for you, madam, I should never have married this 
 jnan. I have been a hypocrite. I have deceived him. We 
 must be miserable. Trowbridge was my countryman ! Shall 
 I be tyrannized over neglected by a man I do not yes, 
 you know it I do not love." She approached the table and 
 seized the fatal vessel, and, as if possessed by a demon, emp 
 tied the poisoned draught to the dregs. " I will not be a slave 
 lo any man, I will not be a hypocrite." 
 
 " You need not be, my dear, your talents will enable you to 
 live independant. The stage your profession ." 
 
 " Talents ! Cursed be my talents, and accursed the stage 
 on which they have been exhibited. I did not choose this vile 
 profession, which has led me to shame, and guilt, and misery ! 
 You taught me to tread the stage, and fitted me for the outcast 
 thing I am. I have been shunned am despised no, no s 
 no " She approached the table and seized the glass her mo 
 ther had prepared for herself, more potent than the first : in 
 fact, half brandy ; and which she had been sipping to prolong 
 enjoyment, and left almost full. In an instant the unhappy 
 victim of ungoverned passion swallowed the whole. 
 
 " Bless me why you have drank rny toddy ," and she 
 helped herself to another glass, bade the daughter good night, 
 and went to bed. 
 
 Mrs. Spiffard now was braced to a pitch, little short of mad 
 ness, and, with the looks and movements of a fury, she paced 
 the room, revolving in her mind past scenes, and working her 
 self up to a state of defiance and determined warfare. She at 
 last heard her husband knock. She had been wishing for the 
 moment when the thunder she had accumulated should be dis 
 charged on the tyrant ; but instantly a revulsion of feel 
 ings took place that occasioned her to sink in a chair. Was, 
 it conscience? She felt that she had been wrong-doing for 
 months and years, and was then unfit to see the man she had 
 made her husband. All the proud feelings, and the train of 
 proud thoughts, inspired by the forbidden draught, were gone ;. 
 all the unnatural strength which the fell poison had imparted^ 
 
Another victim. 161 
 
 fled and left her : nerveless mists, and clouds, and darkness, 
 gathered round her. Again her husband knocked, and she 
 recollected that she was the only person up in the house she 
 started she felt that her limbs were not at her perfect com 
 mand, and the apartment swam and danced, as she with effort 
 seized the chamber-light. The thought of her degraded con 
 dition flashed on her, accompanied by the perfect recollection 
 of the last serious warning uttered by the man she was now 
 to encounter. 
 
 Her husband had parted from his mischievous tormentors in 
 no very enviable mood. He took his leave with a forced non 
 chalance. "Pleasant dreams to you Spiff," said Hilson. Spiffard 
 turned as he strided through the door-way, and as he saw every 
 eye fixed on him (for they all waited his departure for a burst 
 of merriment) he felt an underinable suspicion which he would 
 have been glad to have welcomed as reality ; but it passed 
 ** good night," and moistening his lip, by passing his tongue 
 rapidly over it, he strode from the meeting. Should he go 
 home 1 Not yet. He had parted from his wife ungently. 
 Her image recalled that of his mother. His mother in that 
 form which had haunted his imagination through life ; that 
 form which was his evil genius. He turned into Broadway 
 and sought the cold breezes with which the broad expanse of 
 waters pour on that unrivalled public walk, the Battery. 
 
 " My life has been chequered and full of events to over 
 flowing, yet but one hope did I ever entertain of rest or happi 
 ness. One hope suggested by one image. I had seen the 
 misery consequent on marriage where the wife was beautful, 
 but unendowed with mind. I knew I could only be happy or 
 contented in the marriage state, and I sought a partner who 
 had intelligence, genius, spirit. I found one." 
 
 Our hero was doomed to suffer, during the spring and sum 
 mer of his life, from one cause. He had seen that his unhappy 
 parent was devoid of intellectual powers or cultivation, and he 
 attributed her fall to that alone. He had mistakenly concluded, 
 that where a strong mind, wit, spirit, genius, and intelligence, 
 resided, so sordid a vice as that he most abhorred could not 
 have gained an entrance. He had seen that his theory was 
 contradicted by the practice of the great tragedian ; but this 
 conviction came after he had become the admirer of the bril 
 liant and spirited woman he had made his wife. He did not 
 know that the want of good early education, of that education 
 which teaches the love of God and our neighbour, (that en 
 during love which is founded on the contemplation of the Crea- 
 
162 Another victim. 
 
 tor s infinite goodness and mercy, filling the heart with thank 
 fulness to him and charity to his creatures, and comprising 
 the second command in the first) he did not know that the 
 want of this early education, which teaches our duty in so 
 ciety, and a knowledge of the organization of that society, of 
 which we form a part, and on which our happiness depends 
 in short, he did not know, that without these fundamental prin 
 ciples of religion and morality, the most splendid talents availed 
 nothing in the struggle man, or woman, has to maintain against 
 passion within and temptation without. He proceeded soli 
 loquizing almost audibly. " Yes ! she has a quickness and 
 strength of mind that 1 never expected to have found in wo 
 man ! Could I have thought that such an one had yielded to 
 the same demon who had poisoned my father s days ! And for 
 her sake I am now engaged in what may terminate in vio 
 lence ! And she perhaps no no after what has passed it 
 is impossible. I will go home I was too harsh I will say 
 so I will not press my pillow without forgiving and forgive 
 ness Forgiveness! As we forgive. She has probably been 
 unhappy all day. and now waits for me in anxiety and tears." 
 He had turned his steps homeward at the first thought of re 
 conciliation, and now stalked along with more than usual 
 length of stride. He reached the door arid knocked. The 
 interval between his first and second knocking was filled by 
 thoughts varying so quickly, that to attempt to fix them here 
 would be to chain the words ; but regret for the harshness of 
 his former expostulations and tenderness towards his wife pre 
 ponderated. She opened the door, and the light she held in 
 her hand displayed, as in the noon-day sun, her face, and the 
 terrible realities therein written. She smiled but such a 
 smile ! She attempted to say, " I am glad you have come" 
 but her tongue no ! the picture is too horribly disgusting let 
 the consequences suggest it to the reader s imagination. 
 
 The whole truth flashed upon the unhappy husband, and he 
 stood a moment motionless. The thought passed through his 
 mind of turning from the door. " Then I must account for 
 my conduct to my friends they will attribute it to the ap 
 proaching meeting." He passed on in silence, leaving his 
 wife at the door. He entered the dining-room, and saw the 
 disordered appearance of the table ; the manuscript, tumbler, 
 extinguished lamps, spectacles left behind by the mother, were 
 seen by the glimmering light which the wife held in one hand, 
 while with the other she fruitlessly endeavoured to lock and 
 bolt the street-door ; willingly protracting the absence from, 
 her husband. 
 
Another victim. 163 
 
 Reason, so cruelly banished, returned with a whip of scor 
 pions brandished aloft and threatening destruction. Conscience 
 frowned with the aspect of Medusa. The torpor of the senses 
 gave way rapidly, and the truth appearing through the mist of 
 intoxication, was discoloured and distorted, and exaggerated 
 into monstrous forms that cried, " despair." 
 
 " She had bolted the street-door, and could no longer defer 
 the interview she dreaded. She came into the dining-room 
 rigidly bracing her limbs to a steadiness they refused ; the lamp 
 she bore threw its glare over her features ; an effort at coun 
 terpoise partly succeeded as she lifted her sight to the figure 
 of her husband, who had seated himself without taking off his 
 hat, and resting his hands on his cane, fixed his piercing and 
 projecting eyes upon her face with an intentness that seemed 
 to her supernatural. She again attempted to speak and to 
 smile but the mental powers were restored before the phy 
 sical the smile was ghastly the sound of the voice was dis 
 cordant. " I am glad you have come I " At that mo 
 ment the comb intended to ornament and support her massive 
 hair, and which had been previously displaced without her 
 consciousness, fell on the floor, and her thick, disordered, un 
 seemly locks rushed over her neck and face, adding a wildness 
 to the features that may be pictured by the imaginative, but can 
 not be described. 
 
 Spiffard had collected his discomfited thoughts and brought 
 them so far into subordination, that his mind was made up for 
 the exigence of the moment. He rose from his seat, took up 
 the fallen comb which the unhappy woman was endeavouring 
 to recover, but which, as her desheveled hair streamed over 
 her eyes by the action of bending to the floor, she could not 
 see. He took the lamp from her hand, and placed the comb 
 deliberately in it. He threw aside his cane, and taking her 
 by the unoccupied hand led her silently to her chamber ; the 
 unhappy woman suffering herself to be assisted, and seeming 
 utterly abandoned to despair. 
 
 Spiffard did not go beyond the door of the chamber ; but, 
 having placed her within, he put the lamp in her cold hand, and, 
 in the act of retiring, stept back from her, at the same time 
 taking hold of the door, and gently drawing it between his wife 
 and himself, showed his intention to depart. 
 A terrible thought presented itself to the miserable woman. 
 She bent her eyes upon her husband, all their brilliancy more 
 than restored, while she said, in a faltering tone, " are you 
 sr?" 
 Yes." 
 
164 Another victim. 
 
 11 You will not leave me you will come " She paused. 
 
 He gently pulled the door towards him, as he said solemnly r 
 " never." 
 
 They were separated for ever. 
 
 She did not attempt to open the door. It was not fastened. 
 The key was in the lock, and inside. She looked at the door 
 as if she still saw him. She heard him slowly descend the 
 stairs in the dark. She heard him enter the room they had 
 left, and heard him shut the door after him. The lamp fell 
 from her hand as she threw herself on the bed, where sleep 
 was never more to visit her. She could not weep. She heard 
 her husband s heavy steps as he walked the floor beneath by the 
 light of the fire. The word " never," rang as a knell inces 
 santly in her ears ! 
 
365 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The phi unveiled almost. 
 
 
 
 "* Have I laid my brain in the sun, and dried it, that it wanlB matter to 
 prevent so gross o erreaching." 
 
 " If I be serv d such another trick, I ll have my brains taken out and but 
 tered, and give them to a dog for a new year s gift." 
 
 " Tis a kind of good deed io say well ; and yet words are not deeds." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 41 HE is a good fellow after all, and injures no one but him 
 self." Such is the " bald disjointed chat," that thoughtless, 
 mischievous, vice-encouraging, talk, which we frequently hear 
 even from those who ought to know better. No one can in 
 jure himself without injuring others. Very frequently, (per 
 haps always) the pain is felt more by others than by the victim 
 of intemperance. 
 
 It is the very nature of a good deed to reward the doer ; 
 while it not only adds to the happiness of those who receive 
 the immediate benefit, but it adds to their disposition to do 
 good to others. It makes the recipient better, and promotes 
 his future, with his present happiness. It is like the poet s 
 mercy, * twice blest. It blesseth him that gives, and him that 
 takes." The light flowing from a good example has no limit. 
 " So shines a good deed in a naughty world." Its influence 
 is through all time to eternity. 
 
 On the other hand, every evil thought, if not rejected instantly 
 with horror, contaminates the thinker ; and probably leads to 
 the act which was thought of. The desire to do evil has al 
 ready corrupted the heart. The indulgence of a criminal wish, 
 gives it strength ; and the disposition to good is proportionably 
 weakened. Criminal indulgence spreads its baneful influence 
 like a pestilence. Who shall calculate the misery inflicted by 
 one bad example ; or set bounds to its influence ? 
 
166 The plot unveiled almost. 
 
 It had been the lot of Spiffard to see one vice in all its na 
 tive deformity ; and to contemplate, for years, the misery in 
 flicted by the weakness of one individual, on all connected with 
 her. Here example did not produce imitation, because the evil 
 effects were seen and understood as soon as the cause. The 
 scenes presented to him in his father s family, when a child, 
 though not then understood and appreciated, unfolded them 
 selves in their deformity, as his mind expanded. " And is my 
 father s fate to be mine ?" he asked himself. No, no ! Though 
 a fascination, beyond my comprehension, has drawn me thus 
 far within the net, I can and will burst it ! I have been rash 
 precipitate have deceived myself; but I will not be the father 
 -of children whose mother is no mother ; who are born to dis 
 ease ; and whose only refuge is death." 
 
 Such were his thoughts as he walked the floor, or occasion 
 ally threw his exhausted limbs on an unctishioned sofa, for 
 change, not rest. 
 
 As soon as it was light, he sought the open air. It was cold, 
 but he felt it not. He walked the pavement, trying to devise 
 some means of extricating himself without injury to his unhappy 
 wife. He had yet determined on no mode of procedure, when 
 his watch gave him notice that the time he had appointed with 
 Allen was close at hand. This appeared to him, now, a secon 
 dary business ; but it must be attended to ; and accordingly, 
 he met his false friend at the time appointed, as guided by the 
 time-indicator, purposely et wrong on the preceding evening, 
 by the plotters against his rest. The town^clock, he perceived, 
 did not agree with his watch ; but then Allen and Beaglehole 
 had set their watches together, and their time was to regulate 
 the affair, and not town-clocks, or even suns. 
 
 The principal and his friend were on the ground at ten 
 minutes before the time, but no opponents appeared. Spif 
 fard was not only disappointed but chagrined, that there was no 
 Captain Smith to be found. He wanted this affair off his 
 hands; he had something of more importance on his heart. 
 After waiting the time deemed necessary by the code of honour, 
 as Allen chose to read it, they departed. 
 
 Spiffard had been silent, serious, firm. Allen gave him great 
 credit for courage : of course he knew nothing of the cause 
 which produced so great an alteration in his deportment. The 
 unhappy young man was no longer anxious and restless ; but 
 calm, solemn, deliberate. The quizzers had expected a report 
 from the pretended second, that would convulse them with 
 laughter at the anticipated trepidation of their victim. 
 
The plot unveiled almost, 167 
 
 Allen denounced Captain John Smith as a poltroon, and 
 asserted his intention to call upon the second, Mr. Beaglehole, 
 for explanation and satisfaction. He went so far as to advise 
 Spiffard to post the captain. This would have been a capital 
 joke. To expose his friend to redicule for posting a nonentity,, 
 an imaginary antagonist as a coward. Spiffard only an 
 swered by, " No more of it." 
 
 The friends separated. The second to recount to the com 
 bined hoaxers the result of the appointment between his princi 
 pal, and the shadowy Captain Smith ; in which they were 
 disappointed ; not that no meeting took place, but that their 
 butt had behaved in such a manner as to give no cause for 
 merriment at his expense. 
 
 Spiffard was undecided what course to pursue in his unhappy 
 situation. Should he consult with Mr. Littlejohn 1 Should he 
 make known his misfortune and perplexity to Miss Atherton? 
 Objections started up in his wavering mind to both ; and before 
 he had determined on any mode of procedure, he found himself 
 in Wall-street, and on his way to Cooke s lodgings. 
 
 It may be fairly inferred from the incidents I have detailed, 
 that if the water-drinker had only associated with water-drink 
 ers if he had not, by his choice of a profession, been thrown 
 into the intimate society of men whose habits were at variance 
 with his own, he would not have been involved in the perplexi 
 ties, uneasiness, pain not to say misery arising from a sup 
 posed quarrel with a supposed personage ; which, although in 
 fact, unreal, was real to him, and productive of real torture. It 
 is further probable that if he had not been made unhappy in his 
 mind by the mischievous sport of these young men, that he 
 would not have been peevish and irritable at home ; that he 
 would not have had a secret which he thought necessary to hide 
 from his wife ; that instead of making her unhappy by his ap 
 parent distrust, he might have gained her confidence by confi 
 dence and kindness ; and thus, as well as by the force of rea 
 son, have reconciled her to herself, and weaned her from a habit 
 which could not but destroy their domestic tranquillity. 
 
 Still, let it be constantly kept in mind, that the young gentle 
 men who had been led, step by step, to contrive and continue 
 this practical joke, which inflicted most acute pain, most real 
 and substantial misery, on a companion, did not intend his suf 
 fering, and had no knowledge or thought of its extent. They 
 found Spiffard so unexpectedly credulous and confiding, that to 
 their imaginations, he appeared almost as a creature of another 
 species one made for their amusement. Every successful 
 
168 The plot unveiled almost. 
 
 experiment led to another and another. Sometimes they feared 
 that by dropping the plot too suddenly, their victim would dis 
 cover the trick that had been played him, and they were con- 
 scioud that they were obnoxious to his serious displeasure. 
 Again, when over the festive board, which, in those days, was 
 the daily-board, they, in mere gaiety, contrived further modes 
 of continuing the existence of Captain Smith; who, as a crea 
 ture of their own, was a favourite. Of the domestic woe expe 
 rienced by Spiffard, they had no knowledge. They could have 
 no conception of the addition their mirth made to his pain. The 
 man who was the leader in the plot, would have risked fortune 
 or life to serve the person he tormented. Allen was a well- 
 meaning young man, overflowing with wealth, health, and 
 animal spirits. Cooper was a man who had proved, again and 
 again, that he would share his fortune, however hardly earned, 
 with those who wanted a friendly and open hand to assist them ; 
 and confront any danger in defence of a worthy or oppressed 
 object. 
 
 Cooke was still in bed. His fatal symptoms daily increased ; 
 and it was only by means of stimulants that he could feel any 
 enjoyment in life, or fulfil any of its duties. His physicians 
 knew his case to be desperate, and only watched over him to 
 prolong existence, and make it as comfortable as disease and 
 decay would permit. . 
 
 Before Spiffard entered the old tragedian s bed-chamber, he 
 encountered the faithful Trustworthy Davenport, in an outer 
 apartment, and after receiving answers to his inquiries respect 
 ing Mr. Cooke, he was puzzled by his brother Yankee s re 
 questing permission to ask him a question. This appeared 
 very unnecessary, as it was Trusty s constant practice to ask 
 as many as he pleased. 
 
 " It s none of my business, Mr. Spiffard, to be sure, but it 
 seems to me that you have been troubled of late : and though 
 it s none of my business, yet I think it is every man s busi 
 ness to be concerned for any body he thinks well of." 
 
 " But what s your question, Trusty ?" 
 
 " Why I ve no right to ask but isn t Mr. Allen a good 
 deal of what may be called a quizzer?" 
 
 " After your country fashion, Davenport, I will answer your 
 question by asking one. Has Mr. Allen been quizzing 
 you?" 
 
 * No, no ! He knows I ve seen salt water without shore, as 
 well as himself; arid for that matter, so have you, sir. But 
 I m not the game for such sportsmen." 
 
Tlie plot unveiled -afaost. 
 
 " What is it you aim at?" 
 
 * Don t you think, sir, that the same set of quizzera that 
 made Mr. Cooke fight a duel, and no duel, might be playing 
 the same sort of frolick again 1" 
 
 A beam of light flashed on the mental vision of the come 
 dian, but only to confuse him. A sea of troubled thoughts 
 tossed tumultuously on his brain. " Is it possible that any 
 trick has been played off on me ? Impossible !" And all the 
 circumstances connected with Captain Smith were called up 
 and examined in haste. They were dismissed. They were 
 recalled. " Impossible ! Could they ? Would they, dare 1" 
 All this, and more, occupied but a moment. Davenport 
 gazed inquiringly in his face ; but could gain no intelligence 
 from the mingling and shifting expressions he saw there. 
 
 " Again?" At length, said Spiffard, choosing the last word. 
 "Again? Surely there has been no attempt at quizzing Mr. 
 Cooke while in his deplorable situation." 
 
 " O, no ! That would be too bad." 
 
 Trusty paused. He was afraid he should do mischief. Ho 
 wished to communicate his knowledge and his suspicions ; 
 but, thought he, " I may do more harm than good." He waa 
 silent and looked confused. 
 
 Spiffard inquired " What do you mean ? What do you 
 know ?" 
 
 " Why, Mr. Spiffard," said Trusty, * I do know what 1 
 mean, and I know I mean right, and I know you mean the 
 same." 
 
 " I know," said Spiffard smiling, that I don t know what 
 you mean." 
 
 " I have admired at your endeavours, sir, to save Mr. 
 Cooke, who, for all his faults, I do admire, though I should 
 be sorry to imitate him ; but, as I was saying, I feel interest 
 for you the more for your interest in him. But as to what I 
 know, I don t know but I had better keep it to myself, and 
 that can do no good. I doubt whether I ought to tell, be 
 cause I overheard it ; not that I listened ; that I scorn ; but I 
 was obliged to hear ; and yet I heard nothing that I could 
 make head or tail of; but I heard them talking in a way that 
 made me think, whether I would or no, that some scheme 
 was on foot, and going on, for their fun ; and that it concerned 
 you ; and yet, as to what I know, I know nothing ; for all I 
 heard was altogether beyond understanding, because it was 
 incomprehensible," 
 
170 The plot unveikd almost. 
 
 44 Truly, Trusty, you make out a plain case ; but, if it was 
 plainer, I don t see how I am concerned in it." 
 
 " Now, Mr. Spiffard, I can t tell, for it was all buzz like, a 
 little here and a little there ; and if the thought had not struck 
 me that it concerned you, I should not have put it together. 
 One said, * let Simpson do it. * No, said another, he will 
 know him. Then somebody said, somebody, I did nt 
 lightly hear the name, 4 he s the man. Ay, says another, 
 * he don t know him. And then they laughed, and all talked 
 together, so that I could only catch a word now and then ; but 
 what made me certain that it must be either you or me that 
 they meant, was, that I heard one say, * If we could make him 
 drink a glass of brandy, it might do ; but it s hard to blind a 
 water-drinker. * Pooh, said another, * he ll believe any 
 thing. Then, thinks I, 4 they can t mean me. " 
 
 Spiffard bit his lip and frowned ; and the possibility of his 
 haying been made a sport for these young men again occur 
 red ; but how, was a perfect enigma. Besides, they were 
 his friends. Some of them had proved themselves so. The 
 thought was not to be reconciled to his previous knowledge of 
 them. Captain Smith again occurred, and some misgivings; 
 but these thoughts were so confused ; so irreconcileable ; so 
 many circumstances appeared to contradict the images which 
 Trusty had conjured up, that he dismissed them as mere crea 
 tures of the good fellow s imagination, entertained by him 
 through good will. 
 
 44 Do you know any thing more, Davenport?" 
 
 44 I know nothing, as I said before : it might a been me 
 that they meant when they said, 4 it s hard to blind a water- 
 drinker ; but when they said, 4 he ll believe any thing, I 
 knew they couldn t mean Trustworthy Davenport. Not that 
 I mean to say but I have sometimes thought that you were a 
 very easy-believing gentleman for one who, like myself, have 
 been a traveller." 
 
 Further colloquy was interrupted, and perhaps further dis 
 covery prevented, by the arrival of another person, whose 
 communications and their consequence we shall communicate 
 in due time. We must return now to other persons of our 
 dramatic history. 
 
171 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Real repentance. Love. 
 
 " And what is love, I praie ihee tell 1 
 It is that fountain and that well 
 Where pleasure and repentance dwell ; 
 It is, perhaps, that passing bell 
 Which tolls all into heaven or hell : 
 And this is love, as I heare tell." Anon. 
 
 " Christianity embraced all speculative and contested maxims in those 
 two great practical and incontestable truths ; adoration to one God and 
 fraternity and charity amongst all men." La-marline. 
 
 " For charity itself fulfills the law ; 
 And who can sever love from charity?" Shakspeare. 
 
 *" Those words which sum up all human godliness My father., not my 
 will but thine be done. Lamarlme. 
 
 " These are thy glorious works, parent of good. 
 Almighty ! Thine this everlasting frame, 
 Thus wondrous fair : thyself how wondrous then, 
 Unspeakable." Milton. 
 
 Like the lily 
 
 That once was mistress of the field and flourish d, 
 I ll hang my head and perish." Khakspcare. 
 
 " Mercy and truth have met together, 
 Righteousness and peace have kissed each other. 
 
 David King of Israel, 
 
 How beautiful is that religion which teaches to love God 
 above all things, and my neighbour as myself! religion is be 
 nevolence, and benevolence includes every virtue. The truly 
 benevolent cannot be uncharitable, cannot be unfaithful, cannot 
 be censorious, cannot be impure in act or thought, cannot be 
 selfish : they love God and their neighbours, and they do as 
 they would be done by. 
 
 But who is religious ? Who is benevolent ? Who is at all 
 
172 Real repentance. Love. 
 
 times pure in thought and deed ? Who is at all times free from 
 censoriousness, from uncharitableness. None. No, not 
 one. The precepts taught us as those on which " hang all the 
 law and the prophets," the love of God and the love of our 
 neighbour, may be impressed upon the heart and have the 
 whole undivided assent of the understanding ; while the rnind 
 is in this state the individual is religious. But the cares of 
 the world must at times occupy the thoughts, and its jarring col 
 lisions divert the mind from this wholesome state. The pas 
 sions which have been cherished by bad education ; the in- 
 dulgencies that have become habitual before the beauty of 
 wisdom was perceived ; the thousand and ten thousand occur 
 rences which tempt the rich to uncharitableness, and the poor 
 to envy and malice, all, by turns, banish truth from the mind. 
 This has led men to the desert and to the monastery ; to be 
 come hermits and monks ; forgetting that religion requires to 
 do as well as to suffer. Truth becomes effective by frequent 
 contemplation ; and the habitual recurrence of its precepts 
 induces practice. 
 
 The mother and brother of Emma Portland had taught her 
 those truths by precepts and example. And though the cares 
 and conflicting incidents of life might have distracted her 
 mind from them, and sometimes even suggested thoughts in 
 opposition to them, yet she habitually cherished them, assidiv 
 ously recalled them, acted in conformity to them, and drove 
 from her pure breast the intruders of an opposite character as 
 soon as she detected "their presence; perhaps this is all that 
 we can do ; perhaps it is all that is required of us. 
 
 Eliza Atherton was another creature whose purity and whose 
 soul was love. Her lot had been in all things different from 
 Emma s. Yet the result was nearly the same. Miss Ather 
 ton had not enjoyed that love which begets love, or received 
 that education, cither by example or precept, which leads to wis 
 dom. The education of Emma Portland guarded her from 
 the intoxicating effects which the consciousness of possessing 
 uncommon beauty, aided by the admiration it elicits from 
 others, might have produced. Miss Atherton had not this 
 temptation to contend with. And the almost repelling aspect 
 produced hy disease, added to the neglect of her weak parents, 
 and the preference given to her beautiful sisters, had operated 
 to produce the cultivation of her mind, the love of wisdom, the 
 desire for truth, and the practice of forbearance, forgiveness, 
 love, and piety. 
 
 These two beings, so unlike in appearance, but so similar in 
 
Real repentance. Love. 175 
 
 mind and inclination, were kept asunder by circumstances, at 
 this time, which we have communicated to our readers. 
 
 On the night, the events of which, as they are connected 
 with Mr. and Mrs. Spiffard, we have dwelt upon at somo 
 length, Eliza Atherton, and her trusty English servant, Ellen 
 Graves, by Jturns watched with the almost exhausted Mrs. 
 Williams. Though both were watchers, the difference between 
 mental and physical, was, as the night waned, apparent. Ellen 
 slept. Her mistress approached her sister to administer me 
 dicine, which was to be given at stated hours, and found that 
 although under the influence of an anodyne, she was struggling 
 and in ago*iy. " The tender sister raised her, to assist the efforts 
 of nature ; she opened her eyes wildly, with an expression of 
 terror, and a cry of" save me, save me !" 
 
 * Be calm, dear sister !" 
 
 " Help me ! I can t go ! He forgave me ! Eliza !" 
 
 " I am here, sister ! be calm. You are in my arms." 
 
 " Save me, Eliza ! I am dying !" 
 
 44 You are not yet awake !" 
 
 44 O, such terrible sights !" 
 
 41 It was only a dream !" 
 
 44 1 know I am dying. I never felt so before. There is no 
 hope for me here or hereafter ! I saw my mother my father ! 
 I murdered them ! I am without hope !" 
 
 4 They forgave you. I will send for Doctor Cadwallader. * 
 
 44 Send for Mr. Carlton to pray with me. I can t pray.* 
 
 44 Ellen ! Ellen ! I will pray with you. Ellen ! Ellen !" 
 
 Eliza Atherton promptly roused the sleeping Ellen. The 
 other servants were called, and one of the men was dispatched 
 for Doctor Cadwallader, while Ellen being sooner ready to 
 go out, from the circumstance of being a watcher, and dressed, 
 was sent to request the attendance of the Reverend Doctor 
 Carlton, whose church, she, as well as the rest of the family, 
 attended, and whose place of residence was near. Ellen was 
 unsuccessful. The reverend Doctor Carlton had not returned 
 from a concert of sacred music then performing in his church. 
 It was past eleven o clock. As the young woman was des 
 cending the steps from the clergyman s door, and debating with 
 herself whether she should go to the church, or return home, 
 she saw a person approach, wrapt in a black cloak, and other 
 wise having a clerical appearance. She hastened to meet him, 
 and addressing him as Doctor Carlton, requested him to attend 
 Mrs. Williams, who, as she said, was dying, and wanted his 
 prayers. 
 
 VOL. II. 8 
 
174 Real repentance. Love. 
 
 I am not Doctor Carlton." 
 
 But, sir, you look like a clergyman." 
 
 " I am. But I am a stranger to Mrs. Williams." 
 
 4< She s dying, sir." 
 
 ** She may not wish to see a stranger." 
 
 " But, sir, are you of the church of England !" 
 
 Ellen was one of those who had been taught that there was 
 but one way to heaven, and that the key of the gate was in 
 trusted to but one description of men. 
 
 44 I am an episcopal clergyman," the stranger replied, " and, 
 I hope, of the church of God," 
 
 44 That s what I mean, sir ; but I am a stranger in America,, 
 and do not know your modes of speech." 
 
 44 1 will attend you, and see Mrs. Williams. If she will per 
 mit me to join with her in the prayers of the church, or of the 
 heart, I will attend and assist, as far as in my power, to recon 
 cile her to her Maker." 
 
 <4 She will, sir ; and Miss Atherton, her sister, will be happy 
 to join, sir, for she is as good a church-woman as e?er lived." 
 
 And Ellen Graves led the way to the bed-side of the dying 
 woman, after having received her mistress s permission. 
 
 The clergyman was a tall, thin man, of a pale complexion ; 
 in fact, his face was destitute of any warm tint it was white, 
 and contrasted strongly with his jet-black eyes and hair. His 
 features were all strongly marked, but well formed ; and his 
 countenance far from austere. His eyes were brilliant ; his 
 hair, in large dark masses, caused the whiteness of his forehead 
 and cheeks to appear like alabaster. The intense darkness of 
 the colour of his eyes, and their prying fixedness, would have 
 been overpowering, but for the serenity of his brow, and the 
 expression of benevolence which seemed native to his well- 
 formed but colourless lips. 
 
 Mrs. Williams was tranquil. Ellen brought a prayer-book,, 
 and presented to the priest. He kneeled by the bed-side. 
 Eliza Atherton kneeled at the foot of the bed. Her faithful 
 servant kneeled a little behind, in habitual deference, even in 
 what she felt the more immediate presence of Him, before 
 whom all are equal. The clergyman looked at the sick 
 woman, and her opening eyes met his. He commenced, " Let 
 us pray !" 
 
 4< I cannot pray !" was uttered in a voice, harsh, broken, un 
 earthly. 44 1 cannot die ! O, save me !" 
 
 Miss Atherton rose, and gently approached her sister ; rais 
 ed her in her arms, and supported her." 
 
Real repentance. Love. 
 
 * Let us join in prayer to him who can save," said the 
 stranger. 
 
 * I cannot ! I am dying without hope ! I murdered my 
 father and mother ! I have caused my own death ! Murder 
 and suicide !" 
 
 " You are repentant." 
 
 " Dear sister ! our parents lived to an advanced age ; your 
 mother your father, died blessing and forgiving you. You 
 have suffered from and repented the errors of youth ; and 
 although those sufferings misled you to further error, you are 
 penitent, and heaven is merciful !" 
 
 " Your earthly father," added the priest, " forgave you ; 
 how infinitely greater is the forgiving love of your Father who 
 is in heaven. To doubt his mercy is sin ; and that sin must 
 be eschewed, otherwise you cannot die in peace, or feel the 
 love of the Father, who is all love. I will read to you the 
 words of him who is all truth ; and of whose love there is no 
 end." 
 
 * Having requested of my friend, Dr. J. W. Francis, to give me, as a me- 
 cal man, some notices of the effects of stimulants upon the unhappy per 
 sons who have been induced to have recourse to them from various 
 causes, he has favoured me with a very interesting letter on the subject, a 
 part of which I will here introduce, and reserve other portions for subse 
 quent pages. 
 
 NEW-YORK, MARCH 31, 1836. 
 
 DEAR SIR Your interrogatories are distinctly within my recollection, 
 and I would be happy to give them the fullest answers, were the subject 
 susceptible of illustration within the compass of an ordinary letter. Your 
 desire to embody some of the more prominent facts connected with the 
 phenomena of intemperance, so far as they are associated with morbid 
 changes in the physical structure, occurring in persons who have long in 
 dulged in spirituous potations, is such, however, as induces me, though 
 with little time at command, hastily to put together a few leading facts, 
 from which you and other general readers, may, perhaps, derive the 
 strongest arguments which can be adduced, on medical grounds, against the 
 practice of using ardent spirits. It is for the divine, the moralist, and the 
 economist, to attack the pernicious habit on other principles equally potent. 
 All that I aim at on this occasion, is to group together, for your special use, 
 a number of the most striking occurrences which we encounter, when pro 
 fessionally called upon to prescribe for the intemperate, or to perform a 
 more unpleasant service, which occasionally presents itself as a duty ; I 
 mean the drawing up a report of the disordered changes wrought by alcohol 
 in the corporeal system of the inebriate, when dead. 
 
 The malade imaginaire affords a pretty good proof that Moliere drew some 
 of his leading illustrations from cases of what are now denominated delirium 
 tremens, or mania a pottt. The disturbed, unequal, and often exhausted state 
 of the faculties of the minds of persons who have long indulged in spirituous 
 
176 Real repentance. Love. 
 
 Such was the effect of the reading of this gentleman, which 
 was like a pure full stream, issuing from the heart, that the 
 unhappy, conscience-stricken woman was restored to a quiet 
 resignation to the will of her Maker, before Doctor Cadwalla- 
 der arrived. He saluted the clergyman as Mr. Littlejohn. 
 
 This pious and tried man, now possessing health of bodj 
 and mind, was no other than the son of the benevolent mer 
 chant with whom the reader is acquainted, restored to the 
 world, and to his father. He had likewise been attending tho 
 concert of sacred music, but had left it earlier than the rector 
 of the church, Doctor Carlton. 
 
 drinks, is familiarly known ; and the same condition of the functions of 
 the body has as often been observed. Hypocondriacism, or other species 
 of mental aberration, are noticed in one class of patients, and functional 
 derangement in another, but oftener both in the same individual; and 
 hence, too, we see alcoholic insanity conspicuous among the numerous forma 
 of deranged manifestations of mind in many of our public institutions, ap- 
 propraitedto the treatment of lunacy. In our mixed population, (I mean of 
 foreigners and natives,) we find this type of disease more abundant than in 
 any other of the disorders which are classed under the deiwmination of in 
 sanity. Gloomy as this picture may seem, it has this cheering feature, that 
 inasmuch as the mania of intemperance is more medicable than several 
 etherforms of the complaint, we may, in cases of this origin, promise a suc 
 cess in our means of cure, when capable of carrying our remedial measures 
 into full effect, that might be altogether unwarrantable in some cases aria- 
 ing from a different source." Stetkt chaptei entitled " Lwtatic Asylum," Vol. I. 
 
177 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The hoax concluded. 
 
 N Thus ended the scene, plotted and conducted by these ingenious gen 
 tlemen .; but not thus ended the consequences which resulted from it." 
 
 Godwin. 
 
 "Thus we play the fool with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in 
 the clouds and mock us." 
 
 "Whose nature is so far from doing harms, 
 That he suspects none." 
 
 " I do not like this fooling." 
 
 " Go to your bosom 
 
 Knock there and ask your heart what it doth know 
 That s like your brother s fault." Shakspeare. 
 
 WHEN the sportive, unintentional tormentors of Spiffard 
 again met, (which was while he was at Cooke s lodgings,) they, 
 after receiving Allen s report, again debated whether the affair 
 was to be dropped or continued ; and if continued, how. 
 
 The credulity of their victim had been so great, that Allen, 
 who was flattered by the success of his own skill, (like the 
 sportsman who is reconciled to the torture inflicted on the 
 harmless bird, by the self-applause which the proof of his un 
 erring aim produces,) could not yet give up what appeared to 
 him such a capital joke. He therefore proposed " getting up" 
 a plausible apology for the failure of Captain Smith. 
 
 " It was not his fault. He and his second had been on the 
 ground, and left it. We were too late by reason of our watches 
 being half an hour too slow. Thus Spiffard had not been at 
 the appointed place in time ; and, in consequence, Captain 
 Smith, and his second, Mr. Beaglehole, had just cause to be 
 offended. Therefore, an apology or explanation must take 
 place, and if they require another meeting, which they must 
 
178 TJie hoax concluded. 
 
 do, it must be given. In the mean time, Captain Smith must 
 go to Baltimore, and, of course, the meeting be deferred. This 
 will give time to keep up the joke capitally. Spiff must be 
 made to practise with the pistol. We will take him out load 
 both my hair-triggers and I will bet two to one, that I make 
 him believe that he can snuff a candle at twenty paces." 
 
 " I don t believe he ever fired a pistol in his life," said 
 Cooper. " He can t hit a barn-door at ten paces." 
 
 " If that was the case before Captain Smith s birth," said 
 Simpson, " now that you have wasted Spiffard to a skeleton, 
 he will not be able to hit a barn." 
 
 " I ll give him a few lessons with the pistol," said the little 
 colonel. " I trained Jack Oglevy of Magra s Pennsylvania 
 Regiment, so perfectly, that in three weeks practice, I had the 
 pleasure, as his second, to see him wing Bob Tenterton, of 
 Sheldon s Dragoons, and make him spin like a humming-top." 
 
 " It will never do," said Cooper.. "Drop it." 
 
 " And they fought with Tenterton s horse-pistols ; no hair- 
 triggers then " 
 
 "The thing has gone far enough." 
 
 But Allen persisted. " Only let him try at a mark, the size 
 of a dollar, and I ll convince him that he has hit it, though he 
 shoots ever so wide." 
 
 " By dint of argument profound." 
 
 " No. I ll stand behind him and fire over his head. My 
 ball will pierce the centre ; and it will be no difficult matter 
 especially if we all say so to persuade him that my shot-hole 
 Was made by his bullet the result of his steady aim." 
 
 "Allen, you must have a very high opinion of your persuasive 
 powers." 
 
 41 Why, a man who can be persuaded that the blackguard he 
 bullied in the Shakspeare box, was a gentleman, may be per 
 suaded to any thing." 
 
 " By those in whose words he has confidence," slily remark 
 ed Simpson. 
 
 " Your plan is impracticable. He will see into the trick, 
 and that will open his eyes to the whole affair. Besides, I 
 don t believe Spiff ever intended to shoot, or be shot." 
 
 " Surely," said Allen, " he would not have gone to meet the 
 man, otherwise." 
 
 " I don t know that," was Cooper s reply. "Spiff thinks that 
 truth is as powerful as lead ; and that a frank explanation, and 
 cool reasoning, will settle any difference." 
 
 " That may be the case now, but it was not so with us," said 
 
The hoax concluded. 179 
 
 the colonel. " When Tom Dickson, of the first Maryland 
 .Regiment, said Jack Tomlinson " 
 
 " But," said Allen, " suppose his adversary s arguments 
 should be blows." 
 
 " He has no fears of personal violence. Though he never 
 practised pistol-shooting, his boxing and fencing, as I know by 
 experience, are of the first quality. He can make a decided 
 hit, and a hard one. Ho is as strong and active as a Sadler s 
 Well s Hercules, and boxes, cudgels, and fences, like an ad 
 mirable Crichton. " 
 
 " Besides," said Simpson, " it is quite time to drop it. We 
 have gone too far already. If ever he should find out the 
 tricks we have been playing him, we may have a serious quar 
 rel, although no duel. He has suffered in both the spirit and 
 the flesh." 
 
 " Why you don t think his lank sides and hollow cheeks are 
 caused by the doughty Captain Smith ?" said Allen. 
 
 " What else ?" was asked. 
 
 " For some time past," said the manager, " I have had my 
 suspicions that there is a more formidable as well as a real 
 personage, the meeting with whom at home has thrown him 
 into the snares prepared for him abroad. Poor Spiff, I wish 
 I could free him from all his engagements as easily as from 
 this of Captain Smith." 
 
 " I ll tell you what, my masters," said Hilson, " Spiff cer 
 tainly does look miserable, and we ought to make an end of 
 the hoax." 
 
 " Well, well," said Allen, " but don t let us break off too 
 abruptly. He will expect some account from me of the rea 
 son given for the challenger s non-appearance. He has a 
 right to expect it. I have promised it. Therefore he must 
 have the explanation, as I have told you it was owing to the 
 difference of the watches and all that and this explanation I 
 am supposed to receive from Beaglehole." 
 
 " You forget that you told Spiff that Beaglehole s watch was 
 set to yours." 
 
 "True. I forgot that." 
 
 * There s an old proverb on that subject." 
 
 " You mean, that Liars should have good memories. If 
 it was not a company concern I d challenge you for that." 
 
 " For what? It was your conscience that said it not I." 
 
 " I do sometimes think that we have gone too far ; but we 
 can t stop now. I must excuse the watch business ; then I 
 
ISO The hoax concluded. 
 
 muet not receive the excuse of Smith s second ; I threaten to 
 post Captain Smith ; Captain Smith threatens to horsewhip 
 Spiffard. That will do ! And, then, as Captain Smith is a big 
 bully of a fellow, Spiff must be persuaded to buy a pair of 
 pocket-pistols ; and I will parade him up and down Broadway; 
 and every now and then I can see Captain Smith waiting at a 
 corner, ready to put his threat into execution. 
 
 Thus, forgetting his late qualms of conscience, the youth 
 delighted himself with anticipating the triumphant conclusion 
 of his long-protracted boy s-play. 
 
 Some of the party protested against any further prosecution 
 of the boyish sport ; others agreed with Allen that more must 
 be done to prevent suspicion; and he, tracing Spiffard to 
 Cooke s lodgings, entered the antichamber in time to interrupt 
 the colloquy between cur hero and his brother yankee, and to 
 prevent some further notions being communicated which would 
 have defeated the intention of Allen s visit. 
 
 As it was, some thoughts had been generated by Trustwor 
 thy in the mind of Spiffard which were adverse to Allen s 
 scheme ; but anything like the truth could not be imagined by 
 one so guileless. 
 
 Allen told Spiffard that he came to inform him of the re 
 sult of his interview with Beaglehole. 
 
 Spiffard made no reply, but looked in the face of the infor 
 mant as though he would read more than was spoken. Still 
 he had no suspicion of deliberate falsehood. He was obliged 
 to view the faces of those with whom he conversed, from that 
 point which portrait-painters prefer. He looked up to the 
 face of Allen, and saw nothing but manly beauty. He saw 
 nothing dishonest in the half-opened lips, disclosing their even 
 and white indwellers ; or in the quiet grey eyes, surmounted 
 by lofty arched brows that never had been bent by care. All 
 was as fair as the herculean youth s complexion. The scru 
 tinising look was continued from absence of mind. Spiffard 
 was thinking of something else after the first glance. 
 
 Allen blushed. 
 
 The supposed conversation was recited nearly as we have 
 given it in anticipation ; concluding with Captain Smith s 
 threat of personal chastisement. 
 
 " I do not fear the arm of any man." 
 
 " He is a stout muscular fellow," said Allen. 
 
 "You have seen him, then?" 
 
 This was a thrust not to be parried. Another of those false- 
 
Tlie hoax concluded. 181 
 
 hoods which men of honour can tell under tne paltry shelter of 
 " it s a joke," must be resorted to. One lie begets another. 
 A falsehood cannot stand alone. To hesitate would not have 
 comported with the acknowledged reputation of Allen in the 
 art of quizzing, and he boldly answered, " I saw a very stout, 
 athletic, nautical-looking man, part from Beaglehole as I ap 
 proached him." 
 
 This (although pure fiction) was spoken with such an un 
 daunted air of confidence, and so much in the manner and 
 tone of truth, that joined to the probability (all the preceding 
 circumstances being believed as undoubted facts) that Spif- 
 fard s incipient wavering doubts if he had any were dis 
 persed. 
 
 " I do not fear the arm of any man," he quietly repeated. 
 
 * But to receive a blow !" 
 
 " I can arrest a blow." 
 
 " But from a horse-whip ?" 
 
 " I trust my activity, skill, and strength, to wrest such wea 
 pon from the hand of an antagonist." 
 
 " But the scandal of such a contest in the streets ?" 
 
 " I do not seek it." 
 
 " If you carried pistols, you might, by presenting one on his 
 approach, prevent an altack ; and if assailed, you would be jus 
 tified in shooting him." 
 
 " / think not. I will not shed blood. I have never intend 
 ed it." 
 
 " But self-defence." 
 
 " I can defend myself." 
 
 " The probability is, that by merely showing a pistol, blood 
 shed will be prevented ; for if you undergo his chastisement 
 you will challenge him ; I shall insist on that. You must 
 have satisfaction, otherwise you cannot look your friends in 
 the face." 
 
 " I shall not do wrong for fear even of my friends. You 
 must act as you please." 
 
 " It is you that must act. These fellows must not boast 
 that you have kept yourself out of their way through foar, \ 
 have been to Bonfanti s and purchased a pair of little bull 
 dogs. We will walk Broadway to show the bullies that we 
 are not to be frightened into hiding-places by blustering. You 
 had better take the pistols." 
 
 " No, sir. I am going into Broadway as soon as I have 
 seen Mr. Cooke." 
 
 8* 
 
132 The hoax concluded. 
 
 He went into the old gentleman s chamber, and Allen fol 
 lowed. Spiffard, having determined to visit Mr. Littlejohn, 
 made his stay very short with his sick friend ; and, passing 
 through Wall-street, he took his way up Broadway, accompa 
 nied by Allen. Mr. Litllejohn s residence being in the lower 
 part of Courtlandt- street, the young man proceeded thither. 
 Some of the conspirators followed, thinking that Allen had suc 
 ceeded in hi>s plan, while Spiffard was almost unconscious of 
 his presence. Allen at times thought he sa\v in the counte 
 nance of his pupil, thai anxiety he wished to see ; and then, 
 again, was puzzled by the abstracted air of the unhappy man, 
 whose friend he roally was, notwithstanding this worse than 
 boy s-play. But little did he think whence arose that ab 
 straction. In this state of bewilderment, they passed the 
 house of Mr. Littlejohn unnoticed, and the absent-man was 
 roused by the voice of Allen, hitherto unattended to : "There 
 he is !" 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 And looking up he perceived the ferry-boat just pushing off 
 for Faulus Hook. 
 
 " There he is 1" cried Allen again. 
 
 " What and whom do you mean 1" 
 
 " I mean Captain Smith. There he goes !" pointing to 
 the ferry-boat. " That s the man. There he goes, the cow 
 ardly braggart." 
 
 Spiffard, more fully aroused from his reverv, asked quietly, 
 " Which is he ?" 
 
 " That fellow in the watch-coat with an enormous horse 
 whip in his hand. The fellow with three capes to his over 
 coat, and a whip which he had not courage to use. Do you 
 see him?" 
 
 " I see a man with a great-coat and horse-whip." 
 
 " That s the fellow I saw with Beaglehole. His second 
 has not been able to keep him up to the mark. Would you 
 have known him ?" 
 
 No." 
 
 " That s the man, depend upon it." 
 
 Spiffard doubted not that he had seen Captain Smith ; but 
 he thought little of it, and turned to retrace his way to Mr. 
 Littlejohn s. He was somewhat surprised to see several of the 
 usual club or knot, near the wharf. Allen joined them, point 
 ing to the boat, and he heard the name of Captain Smith as he 
 passed. He heard a laugh he thought of Davenport. It was 
 
The hoax concluded. 183 
 
 dismissed in a moment. He left his friends to laugh at 
 his credulity, and wearied by long watching, anxiety, and 
 forebodings of evil, he sought and found a counsellor in his 
 friend the merchant ; a friend whom he ought to have con 
 sulted before his affairs had arrived at this fearful crisis. 
 
 
184 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 JL promising match ; and an old acquaintance very unpromising* 
 
 "Your mind shall no longer suffer by your person ; nor shall your eyes, 
 for the future, dazzle me into a blindness towards your understanding. 
 
 IStcelc. 
 
 "Restor d to heaven and heaven s ways, 
 Tis rapture that all woe repays ! Anon. 
 
 " But this lies all within the will of God." 
 
 " Thus may we gather honey from the weed, 
 And make a moral of the devil himself." 
 
 " Compare dead happiness with living wo. Shakspeare. 
 
 THE Reverend Mr. John Littlejohn, when he returned home 
 from his accidental (and almost midnight) visit to Mrs. Wil 
 liams, was filled with thoughts that had of late been strangers 
 to him. They were not thoughts inimical to the holy functions 
 he had been performing ; and, indeed, they were intimately 
 connected with the scene at the bed-side of the sufferer. 
 
 He found his father anxiously waiting for him, having sat 
 up beyond his usual hour of retiring. Although he had 
 every reason to suppose that his son was restored to a sane 
 state of his reasoning faculties, yet the father could not forget 
 the past, and every minute that the son overstaid the time of his 
 expected return, caused a pang, such as none but a parent, 
 who had suffered from such a cause, can conceive. 
 
 Saint Paul s clock struck twelve. The old man closed his 
 book and crossed his spectacles on its cover. He looked at 
 his w r atch, although he knew that it agreed with the clock. He 
 got up and traversed the room. He took up his book again, 
 and tried to read. He snuffed the candles and wiped the 
 glasses of his spectacles : still he could not read. He listen 
 ed to catch the sound of every passing footstep on the pave 
 ment. He heard the approach of steps "it is no." They 
 pass. Another, and another. One step the bell rings the 
 
A promising match, <c. 185 
 
 impatient father flies to the door. It is his son such as he 
 wished to see him. 
 
 It is somewhat singular, but as true as the generality of this 
 history, that all the principal personages concerned in it were 
 sleepless on this night : some the whole night, others much 
 beyond the usual time of sinking to rest. We have seen Spif- 
 fard and his merry companions ; his unfortunate wife, his mo 
 ther, and Miss Portland ; Mrs. Williams and Miss Atherton ; 
 all awake : Cooke and his faithful Yankee may have rested or 
 not ; Williams was at Philedelphia, seeking pleasures adapted 
 to his character ; Mrs. Johnson, improving in health, slept 
 soundly ; and Henry, no longer a watchman, enjoyed the re 
 pose, not of the monarch on his couch of down, but of the 
 ship-boy rocking on " the high and giddy mast." But return 
 we to Courtlandt-street and the Littlejohns. 
 
 " I was in hopes, sir, that you were in bed and asleep. I 
 fear, from appearances, that you have been made uneasy by 
 my protracted absence at this time of night." 
 
 " I ought not, perhaps, to have felt any uneasiness, but your 
 late indisposition " 
 
 11 I believe, sir, that you need never be anxious in that res 
 pect again. And yet we cannot soon forget the past." 
 
 The father was silent. He pressed the hand of his son and 
 tears filled his eyes ; but he remained silent. 
 
 They entered the parlour, and the son proceeded. 
 
 " When I look back to the past it is like a horrid dream. 
 But that which preceded the dream can never occur again. It 
 appears to me that I have attained to a clear view of my duty 
 to my Creator and his creatures, since the aberration of my in 
 tellect. And a clear view of man s duty presents a clea*- view 
 of his interest. But I have seen one, even this night, within 
 this hour, who, if her conduct is uniformly such as I have wit 
 nessed, would insure peace and sanity to all who came within 
 the sphere her brightness illumines. A steady continuance in 
 the right path to any one who could be fortunate enough to 
 have her for a companion." Thus frank was the accustomed 
 intercourse between this son and father. There was, how 
 ever, an evident excitement in the young clergyman which 
 might have alarmed the old gentleman ; but the son went on 
 to detail the incidents of the evening with so much collected- 
 ness, that, although he dwelt rather minutely on all that con 
 cerned one person, his father had no fears for his intellects. 
 The young rnan inquired, rather earnestly, what he knew res- 
 
186 Jl promising match, 
 
 pecting the sister of Mrs. Williams. His father had never 
 heard of the existence of such a person. 
 
 After a pause, the young priest said, " she is a very fine wo 
 man. A very extraordinary woman." 
 
 " Mrs. Williams," said the father, " is said to have been a 
 beauty ; and her sister may be such now, if younger and " 
 
 " She is not like her sister. Never could Mrs. Williams 
 have been like her! she is all mind, soul, purity, piety ?" 
 
 " And beautiful?" 
 
 " no. Not according to the world s view of beauty : ex 
 cepting the beauty of gracefulness and form. She has neither 
 what I once thought youth, nor beauty. Her face is marked 
 by the scars left on it by that disease which modern science 
 has banished from the civilized world : yet her countenance is 
 lovely, because animated by benevolence her eyes beam with 
 intelligence and her lips, although colourless, are in form 
 and expression perfect." 
 
 " Why, Thomas, I do not wonder that you staid so long," 
 said the old man smiling. 
 
 " I only staid for prayer, and to read to the unhappy Mrs. 
 Williams, and for a few moments conversation with Miss 
 Atherton." 
 
 " Atherton? True, I have heard that was the name of the 
 family. Good night. I suppose we shall hear more of this 
 wonder." 
 
 Next day the young clergyman left his father s door to visit 
 Mrs. Williams, as he had promised, at the request of Miss 
 Atherton, the previous night ; the night of sleeplessness. Tho 
 thought of seeing again that scarred and seamed face did not 
 deter him. But he was always a " man of his word." 
 
 As he descended the steps he met SpirTard, and recognising 
 him as the person he had seen with his father in the lunatic 
 asylum, he bowed to him and passed on. 
 
 Spiffard looked at him as at a stranger. He did not think 
 of the unhappy man he had visited on that occasion. The 
 graceful figure and intelligent countenance of the person who 
 saluted him, could not be reconciled to the remembrance of 
 the sick, and haggard, and wild appearance, of that son he 
 had seen ; and he could not forbear, almost as soon as he was 
 admitted to the merchant s presence, saying, " have you more 
 than one son, sir?" 
 
 4< No not now. You must have met my son as you came 
 in ; but so happily changed that you did not recognise him. 
 
and an old acquaintance very unpromising. 187 
 
 Heaven has restored him to me, only made more dear to me 
 by the trials he has passed and the sufferings we have both en 
 dured. I had another son, older than Thomas. He was even 
 brighter in intellect and richer in every endowment of nature 
 than this : he was pure, stainless, body and soul ; brilliant and 
 quick of apprehension, rich in knowledge, which flowed upon 
 him as if by the attraction of love to its lover. But his ever 
 active mind exhausted his perfect frame, and he fell dead at 
 my feet, with the pen in his hand, and an unfinished essay on 
 death spread open on his desk." 
 
 " I am sorry I have recalled the memory of past sorrow, 
 sir." 
 
 " O, we see the evils of the past as through a veil. The 
 hard lines and sharp angles are lost. Their connection 
 with our present existence is felt in mitigated sorrow, and 
 sometimes as adding beauty to our hopes of the future, 
 shedding sun-light through the mist on the distant prospect. 
 Happily for man, the brighter passages of former days come 
 out to his retrospection with additional brilliancy ; and he pos 
 sesses the power to linger on the review of them. The griefs 
 we have sustained lose their poignancy ; resignation to the will 
 of God, founded upon the contemplation of his attributes and 
 his works ; upon the events we have seen and see ; and upon 
 the knowledge communicated to us by his word ; takes the 
 sting from every evil, and from death itself. I thought when 
 you accompanied me to the asylum of the deranged, and heard 
 my remaining son utter the ravings of insanity, that the afflic 
 tion was beyond bearing : yet that aberration of intellect now 
 appears to me, at times, as a surety for a healthful state of 
 mind and body for a long futurity. Certain it is he is made 
 dearer to me, and I believe better, by his sufferings. 0, how 
 beautiful is the parable of the lost son restored !" 
 
 Thia conversation restored the hopes of SpirTard. He 
 opened to the merchant the recesses of his sorrows. He con 
 fessed the headlong rashness which had precipitated him into 
 an engagement for life with one whose former life and private 
 habits he had not made himself acquainted with. He confided 
 to this man, whose benevolence ho had witnessed, and whose 
 wisdom he heard, the whole of his matrimonial sorrows, and 
 exposed their cause. He expatiated upon the miseries he had 
 witnessed in youth, as inflicted upon his father and his house 
 hold. He blamed his own blind credulity in taking a woman 
 to wife, however admirable, merely on the knowledge of her 
 obvious talents, and apparent strength of intellect. He attri- 
 
18S # promising match, 
 
 bnted his reliance upon his wife s being above the reach of 
 temptation, to that confidence he placed in the powers of her 
 mind. 
 
 Mr. Littlejohn encouraged him to hope. Advised him to 
 repress his feelings in his wife s presence, and remember that 
 he had had too great confidence in himself. He conjured 
 him to return home ; treat the erring one with kindness rather 
 than passion or sternness. Examine himself, whether he had 
 not, by negligence or waiat of confidence, irritated a quick and 
 feeling temper. His conscience said, " guilty;" but, " could 
 I help it ?" whispered something, perhaps self-love. 
 
 After a long conversation, in which Mr. Littlejohn played 
 the friendly monitor, our hero resolved to return home, pour 
 the balm of reconciliation and forgiveness into the wounded 
 spirit, (for such he knew it must be) of the faulty creature he 
 had left with harshness, and he went his way encouraged to 
 hope that he yet might find a wife and a home. 
 
 As Spiffard was about to depart, the merchant, remembering 
 the behaviour of the young comedian at Doctor Cadwalla- 
 der s, on seeing Mrs. Williams, and now interested in what 
 respected her, from his son s eulogiums on her sister, asked 
 him if he had learned any thing more of Mrs. Williams since 
 that evening. 
 
 44 Yes, sir, she is my aunt, the sister of my mother." 
 44 Your aunt? And the lady, now attending upon her is 
 her sister." 
 
 "Her younger sister, sir, and consequently likewise my aunt ; 
 but no more like her elder sister than the morning star to 
 Erebus. The likeness of Mrs. Williams to my mother, both 
 in person and in the badges of weakness which were so apparent 
 when I first saw her, occasioned feelings and conduct that 
 must have appeared very extraordinary. This lady is an 
 angel. She has, (her parents being dead) come to this country 
 from motives of love and benevolence : and when her sister 
 shall have departed this life, she will be without friends or fa 
 mily connexions, except in me." 
 
 Mr. Littlejohn did not pursue the subject further, and his 
 young friend departed. 
 
 As Spiffard passed rapidly through Broadway on his return 
 home, (or what he hoped once more to make a home,) he was 
 much excited. He walked fast. All the apparent listlessness 
 of the first part of the morning was gone. He no longer felt 
 the lassitude resulting from a sleepless ni<jht, and many hours 
 of extreme anxiety. All thoughts was determined to one ob- 
 
and an old acquaintance very unpromising. 189 
 
 ject. He heeded nothing ; he saw nothing in the great tho 
 roughfare ; the main artery of the great commercial metropolis. 
 Many passed him who knew him. but saw him not. Intent on 
 their own purposes, hurrying from their dwelling places to 
 South-street, Water-street, Pearl-street or Wall-street, to the 
 store-house, counting-house, bank or exchange. Others, to 
 whom he was known as the favourite comedian of the day, 
 laughed as they looked at his care-worn face, and thought it 
 very comical ; while some, pointing to the man whose talents 
 had delighted them, while he gave life to the clowns of the 
 poet, which are to live when he is forgotten, said, " that s 
 Spiffard ! how pale he looks." 
 
 He heard not, he saw not, when suddenly, " Ho ! Spiffard!" 
 was shouted in his ears, so loud and discordantly, that he could 
 not but look up to see whence the salutation came. 
 
 He saw, a few paces from him, crossing the street, and ad 
 vancing to place himself in his path- way, a man much taller 
 than himself, with his eyes glaring on him, and his face glow 
 ing through a mask of dirt. His mouth was distended by a 
 smile as he shouted the name of " Spiffard," but the smile 
 contradicted the expression of the eyes, which was wild and 
 ghastly. He lifted aloft and swung round his head a piece of 
 hickory, plucked from a load of fire-wood recently thrown on 
 the pavement ; which enormous club he wielded with the 
 strength of a giant. He stood directly in front of Spiffard, 
 obliging him to stop. With arm uplifted, and rags fluttering in 
 a north-west wind, he repeated, " ho ! Spiffard !" and added, 
 " stand at my command !" 
 
 The young man looked mildly but firmly in his eye, nd 
 said quietly, " how is it with you, Knox ? I am sorry to see 
 you thus so thinly clad in this biting wind." 
 
 The poor wretch, who thus barred his passage, and accosted 
 him, had been last seen by him in the lunatic asylum, as has 
 been noticed. He had escaped, and found means to exchange 
 the decent apparel which had been supplied by the liberality 
 of George Frederick Cooke, (and which, of course, he wore 
 at the time of his escape) for the motley tatters in which he 
 now appeared. The exchange was effected at the " Five- 
 points," and he imagined his present dress a disguise. Those 
 who had robbed him, administered the poison that wrought 
 him to the lamentable frenzy in which he now presented 
 himself. 
 
 His miscellaneous apparel was composed of all manner of 
 decompositions. Part of a check handkerchief round his close- 
 
190 Jl promising match, 
 
 shaved head, and straws fantastically entwined with it. The 
 debris of a surtout coat, formed a waistcoat for him, covering 
 one thigh to the knee. The remnant of what is commonly 
 called a plaid cloak, was thrown over his shoulders, like a Ro 
 man toga, or a Mohawk s blanket. Coat he had none. A 
 pair of tattered nankeen pantaloons, hung a little below the 
 knee on one leg, and to the ankle of the other ; otherwise, 
 his unhosed legs and feet were seen through the rents of an 
 off-cast pair of short boots. His toes were at perfect liberty. 
 
 Soothed by the calm and familiar manner in which his bois 
 terous address was met, he dropped his ponderous stafl^ and 
 said : " Is it not an excellent dress for Edgar 1 Poor Tom s 
 a cold. Tom will throw his head at them. Would you believe 
 It, Mr. Spiffard, the manager refused me an engagement ; four 
 nights as a star. I only asked a clear benefit. Spiff! I want 
 money ! I must be obeyed ! I want brandy !" 
 
 This man had been well educated : had prided himself on 
 being a gentleman. Showed scars obtained as a duellist in 
 his own country. Talked of the infamous climate of " this 
 country." Came from home as one of the theatrical corps for 
 the New-York Theatre, and had been discharged for excessive 
 intemperance. He had been known to drink two quarts of 
 unmixed brandy to prepare himself for acting. Cooke lec 
 tured him, and pointed out the evil and its consequences, and 
 after his discharge, supported him. But what was given for 
 food or raiment, was bartered for poison ; madness followed, 
 tmd he was consigned to the hospital.* 
 
 * This wretched victim of intemperance resided at one period in a garret 
 room in Courtlandt-street, before his final discharge from the theatre; and 
 has been known to go to the business of the stage, after a preparation of 
 the kind above mentioned. He would find his way to his garret drink 
 again that he might sleep what a sleep 1 and then in a species of raving 
 somnambulism, escape by means of the garret-window, and ramble the 
 streets, until exhausted nature deposited her loathsome burthen in some 
 cellar, or some bulkhead. He died of apoplexy. In connexion with this 
 case, I subjoin an extract from Doctor Francis s letter, before mentioned. 
 
 " As medical witness in our courts of criminal judicature, I have often 
 been summoned to give testimony in cases of death occasioned by intem 
 perance, or by other causes which have eventuated fatally : and for the bet 
 ter discharge of this duty, have, within the period of the last twelve or four 
 teen years, examined many bodies deceased by accident, or dther causes, 
 operating suddenly. The details, therefore, which I now communicate, 
 are derived almost entirely from autopsic examinations thus made. 
 
 "The body of the dead inebriate, often exhibits in its external parts, a 
 physiognomy quite peculiar, and as distinctive as that which presents itself 
 when life has been terminated by an over dose of laudanum. Sometimes 
 
and an old acquaintance very unpromising 191 
 
 Spiffard endeavoured to soothe him, and persuade him to 
 return to the asylum. He offered to call a coach for him ; 
 and, as he appeared for a moment to listen, represented the 
 comfortable state in which he had seen him in the hospital. 
 Suddenly he broke out : 
 
 " Return ! Return to the house of bondage ! Ha ! ha ! I m 
 free ! No chains ! No wife ! You are married ! ha, ha, ha ! 
 Huzza for liberty and brandy ! Go to your wife ! To your 
 wife! Ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 Shouting with violent gesticulations, he brandished his club ; 
 and the poor creature rushed past, crying " Go to your wife ! 
 Your wife ! To a nunnery go ! To a nunnery go I" 
 
 the surface, more especially at its superior parts, as about the head, neck, 
 or face, betrays a surcharged fullness of the vascular system ; and the cuta 
 neous investure of these parts, and of the extremities, is characterized by the 
 results of an increased action of the exhalents, by blotches, &c. : and this 
 state, the consequence of previous over action "has so impaired the vital 
 energies of the surface, that effusions of a serous or sanguineous quality 
 are to be observed. I remember a most striking instance of this last cir 
 cumstance, occurring about eighteen months ago. The individual, a mid 
 dle aged adult subject, had long indulged freely in the use of distilled spirits. 
 He died of universal dropsy. Some few days previous to his death, hemor- 
 hagic discharges from the surface of the inferior extremities, were noticed hi 
 several places, and they continued until the close of his life. Nor would 
 creosote, or pyroligneous acid, or any other means, modify in the least tha 
 sanguineous discharge. I have also known old cicatrized wounds to bleed 
 anew in such subjects previous to their decease ; and blistered surfaces to 
 become extremely annoying. 
 
 " The brain of the intemperate is the rallying point of much disorganizing 
 action; but to notice the morbid changes minutely, would be too technical 
 for your purpose. Dissections have shown preternatural fulness of a venous 
 character. The membranes of the brain over distended with blood. Effu 
 sions of serum, to a great extent, between the substance of the brain and 
 its immediate coverings ; and in the lateral ventricals large quantities of 
 serum. Dr. Cooke, of London, in his work on nervous diseases, has re 
 corded the case of a man who was brought dead into the Wesminster Hos 
 pital, who had just drank a quart of gin fora wager. The evidences of 
 death being quite conclusive, he was immediately examined ; and within the 
 lateral ventricles of the brain was found a considerable quantity of a limpid 
 fluid, distinctly impregnated with gin. both to the sense of smell and taste, 
 and even to the test of inflammability. Dr. Kirk of Scotland, has demon 
 strated a like truth, by the dissection of the dead body of an inebriate. The 
 fluid from the lateral ventricles of the biain, exhaled the smell of whiskey; 
 and when he applied a candle to it, in a spoon, it burnt with a lambeiH 
 blue flame. 
 
 " I have repeatedly had cases of a similar character within my inspection. 
 IJpon removing the bony covering of the brain, the exhalation of ardent spi 
 rits, on several occasions, has been strongly manifested to the olfactories of 
 the by-standers; and the effused fluid conspicuous for its quantity and 
 quality. On one occasion, some spectators who were entering the room 
 while the anatomical examination was going on, asked what puncheon of 
 rum we had opened." 
 
192 JH promising match. 
 
 Even these words from a maniac but in madness self- 
 inflicted sounded portentous to the ear of the husband, and 
 recalled the scene of the past night. His new raised hopes 
 sunk, and he continued his walk with a sickened and despair 
 ing spirit. 
 
 On entering the house, his hopes could not but revive upon 
 seeing Emma Portland, with her book in her hand, sitting by 
 a cheerful fire ; and the "breakfast-table ready for the family, 
 as usual. He was welcomed with smiles, which showed that 
 she was unconscious of aught amiss. 
 
 She supposed that Mr. SpifTard had gone to take a morning 
 walk. Mrs. Epsom, she knew, had gone to market. Mrs. 
 Spiffard, as is usual with most players, passed the morning, 
 until late, in bed. 
 
 To look on innocence and bear.ty, is quieting to man s spi 
 rit ; and innocence and beauty were united in no common 
 degree, with taste and intelligence, in Emma Portland. 
 
193 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 T7te denouement of a tragedy. 
 
 " Sorrow ends not when it seemeth done." 
 
 " theise external manners of lament, 
 
 Are merely shadows to the unseen grief 
 Which fills the souL"Shakspeare. 
 
 " Mercy is seasonable in the time of affliction, as clouds of ram in ths Ua 
 of drought." Ecclesiaslicus 
 
 "Against self- slaughter 
 There is a prohibition so divine, 
 That cravens my weak hand." Shakspiart. 
 
 " - So lovely fair, 
 
 That what seemed fair in all the world, eeemed now 
 Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained, 
 And in her looks." Milton. 
 
 THERE is a charm in simplicity of dress, a conviction of 
 which ought to be deeply impressed on the mind of every fe 
 male^ It is confessed by all, that when they look at a beauti 
 ful Madonna, by Raphael, where the silken hair, parted on the 
 forehead, falls in natural ringlets on either side the face, adorn 
 ing that which it shades. Yet, what fantastic forms have been 
 adopted by females between the time of Raphael, and that of 
 Emma Portland, who sat now before the hero of our story, 
 as she might have sat before Raphael or Guido, for a saint or a 
 muse. 
 
 But even the presence of beauty, taste, purity, and virtue, 
 could not long quiet the troubled spirit of Spiffard. The ap 
 pearance of his wife, as he last saw her, was as vividly present 
 to him, although but in his " mind s eye," as that of Emma 
 Portland, and attracted more of his attention. He sat down. 
 The circumstances under which he had parted from Mrs. 
 
194 The denouement of a tragedy. 
 
 Spiffard ; her figure so deplorably degraded ; the words he 
 had uttered as he left her ; all recurred. He became fearful 
 of he knew not what. His suspense became intolerable, and he 
 jstarted up to proceed to his wife s chamber ; but he had only 
 reached the door, and placed his hand on the lock, before he 
 stopped. He returned. 
 
 * Perhaps your cousin is asleep t" 
 
 " I have not heard her stirring." 
 
 14 You can steal softly into the room ; my heavy tread might 
 awake her." 
 
 Thus his fears would thrust another before him. It would 
 be well if she should be awake, for another to tell her that he 
 had returned had inquired for her intended to see her 
 notwithstanding the word, " never." 
 
 With cheerful alacrity Emma proceeded on her errand, and 
 with noiseless foot-fall. Spiffard sunk down on a chair, scarce 
 breathing, and endeavoured to catch the sound of her steps. 
 He heard her descending, and she entered the room. 
 
 " The door is locked, and I don t hear any movement 
 within." 
 
 * Go up again, my dear ; it is late; knock at the door." 
 
 She went. He opened (and stood listening by) the parlour 
 door. He heard her knock at the chamber door. Breath 
 lessly he strove to catch a reply. He heard none. The 
 knocking was repeated ; this time louder : and he heard Ernma 
 call, "Cousin! cousin! cousin Spiffard !" But there was no 
 answer. Again the knocking was repeated, and the call upon 
 his wife ; but no answer. He trembled, and again sank on a 
 chair. He heard the descending footsteps of Emma, who en 
 tered, and having no cause to dread any sinister event, calmly 
 said, " My cousin sleeps uncommonly sound, as well as late, 
 this morning." 
 
 These words sounded like a knell on the ear of the husband. 
 He unconsciously echoed, * sleep sound," and then hastily 
 inquired, " does your cousin usually lock her chamber door, 
 after I have gone out." 
 
 " No, never. I never knew her to do it before. I have 
 been accustomed to enter and call her to breakfast, you 
 know I am a restless one." 
 
 Spiffard conquered his prostration of muscular power and 
 sprung suddenly from his chair. Almost before Emma ceased 
 speaking he was rushing up stairs, and ouly paused when he 
 had reached the chamber-door. It was a dreadful pause. He 
 
The denouement of a tragedy. 195 
 
 listened, though without hope. All was silent, and to his ap 
 prehension it was the silence of death. He knocked, and 
 called, but received no answer. 
 
 " Mrs. Spiffard ! Mary ! My dear! My dear Mary ! 
 If you hear, answer ! Forgive the words I made use of when 
 I left you." 
 
 His impatience had arrived at that height, that it was dis 
 traction. He knocked louder. He attempted to force the 
 the lock. 
 
 Emma stood trembling in the room below. 
 
 At this crisis Mrs. Epsom entered the street-door, having 
 returned with her servant woman from market. Spiffard did 
 not heed, did not hear, the entrance of his wife s mother, and 
 the lock resisting his efforts, he called still louder for ad 
 mittance. 
 
 Mrs. Epsom, hearing this clamour, demanded from the foot 
 of the stairs to know what was the matter; and Emma, en 
 couraged by her arrival, rushed out of the parlour. Her ap 
 pearance was so dissimilar to that which characterized her, 
 that Mrs. Epsom s alarm was increased, and she began to as 
 cend the stairs ; but suddenly stopt, and descended, on hearing 
 the crash made by bursting open the chamber door. Knowing 
 the violent temper and habitually ungovcrned passions of her 
 daughter, her vulgar imagination (and perhaps her vulgar ex 
 perience) suggested as the cause of the noise she heard, some 
 difference between husband and wife ; and her dread of her 
 daughter s resentment, caused her to retrace her steps, and to 
 carry Emma back, with her, into the parlour, where, after 
 shutting the door, she began to question her. 
 
 The apprehensions of Spiffard, which had a few minutes 
 before deprived him of strength, now gave him a tenfold por 
 tion ; and by the exertion of his powerful muscles, urged by 
 fears that drove him to madness, he burst off the lock, and, 
 rushing to the bed, beheld the lifeless corpse of his wife. 
 
 The disheveled hair and disordered dress of their last inter 
 view had disappeared. It was evident that deliberate prepa 
 ration had been made for the death-scene ; and the corpse, but 
 that it was habited in the dress of the day and not in night- 
 clothes, and disposed on the surface of the bed, instead of 
 being covered, as the season required, for warmth, might have 
 been mistaken for a sleeper, at the first glance, by a stran 
 ger. But the husband saw it was death, and doubted not. 
 His agony was extreme, but, after the first moment, his thought 
 
196 TJis denouement of a tragedy. 
 
 was to prevent knowledge of the cause. He listened. No 
 one was approaching. He saw a paper near the bed and a 
 phial. He eagerly seized upon these witnesses of suicide and 
 secreted them upon his person. This barely accomplished, he 
 heard the footsteps and voices of the females on the stairs. 
 Before he could decide whether to prevent their approach, 
 Mrs. Epsom and Emma entered the chamber. 
 
 The scene that followed is not for my purpose to describe, 
 if I could. 
 
 When Spiffard had an opportunity he read the contents of 
 the paper he had secreted. 
 
 " Let whoever finds this convey it, unread, if they value the 
 injunctions of the dead, to Mr. Spiffard or Miss Portland. 
 
 " I have been most unfortunate more erring. I was never 
 taught my duty by my parents parents ? I had none. I was 
 never governed by them, and I only governed myself but to 
 accomplish some object I desired. From childhood I was in 
 dulged, and saw around me scenes of passion and appetite in 
 dulged scenes of licentiousness applauded. 
 
 " Emma, the world I have lived in has been veiled from your 
 eyes : 1 will not withdraw the veil. You can pity, and even 
 love, the poor misled Maria. 
 
 " I have determined no longer to live enduring torments in 
 flicted by conscience, and misled by habits which I have 
 hitherto endeavoured in vain to counteract. I have endea 
 voured to drown the recollection of guilt in madness. I have 
 justly incurred the contempt of my husband by the attempt. 
 
 " Mr. Spiffard, you have been misjudging in your treatment 
 of me. I forgive you. I have deceived you. 
 
 " I did hope that time might have quieted remorse. I did 
 hope that, by the aid of a husband, whose virtues I saw and 
 could appreciate, I might, in time, attain to a station in society 
 more congenial to my mind my proud mind. I did hope to 
 have been a source of domestic contentedness, at least, to my 
 husband, although I had no warmer feelings towards him than 
 esteem. But I could not confide to him the errors (perhaps I 
 ought to give them a harsher title) of my former life ; and I 
 have lived in constant dread of his discovering them. I have 
 at length been convinced that he does not confide in me. I 
 have no cessation from torment, but when, by breaking my 
 
The denouement of a tragedy. 197 
 
 promises to him, I render myself unfit for the society of my 
 husband ; and then, for a moment s forgetfulness, I incur re 
 doubled torture for hours. Emma, from you I have, in some 
 measure, concealed my hours of degradation. Mr. Spiffard, 
 if this meets your eye first, hide it from the pure eye of Emma. 
 I will not live the thing I am. I have no hope. I have 
 been sinking lower lower from shame to deceit. I did in 
 tend to reveal but no. I forgive my mother! I ask for 
 giveness !" 
 
19S 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 JL discovery ; and another. 
 
 "Look aloft, sir, look aloft! The old seamen say the devil wouldn 
 make a sailor unless he look d aloft." Fenimore Cooper. 
 
 " How chequer d is the web and woof of life ! 
 Now bright with gorgeous eolour d threads, 
 Now blotted, torn, and stained: shrouded in darkness. Anon. 
 
 " But in these cases 
 "We shall have judgment here." 
 
 " Like poison given to work a great time after/ 
 " Pluck from the memor a rooted sorro 
 
 Raze out the written 
 
 ry a roote sorrow ; 
 tablets of the brain." 
 
 " This disease is beyond my practice 
 More needs she me divine than the physician." 
 
 " Avoid ! No more. 
 We are such stufi as dreams are made of." 
 
 " Come, temperate nymphs ! and help to celebrate 
 A contract of true love." Sliaksptare. 
 
 " I have no other notion of economy than that it is tlic parent of liberty and 
 ease. Swift. 
 
 " A man who admits himself to be deceived must be conscious that there 
 is something upon, or respecting which, he cannot be deceived. Coleridge. 
 
 WE need not dwell upon the scenes which immediately fol 
 lowed at the house of Mrs. Epsom, after the death of her un 
 fortunate daughter. It was soon to be abandoned by the per 
 sonages we have considered as our hero and heroine. The 
 cause of the unhappy woman s death was unknown to all save 
 her husband. He renounced the stage as a profession, and 
 never more returned to it. The links that connected him with 
 society now, were Emrna Portland, the Johnson?, Eliza Ather- 
 
A discover ; and another. 199 
 
 ton, and the Littlejohns. His friendship with the manager 
 was unbroken ; but he avoided th3 festive board. To Cooke 
 he adhered until death severed the link. 
 
 Let not my readers think that our remaining pages are to be 
 devoted to gloom. If there has been heretofore too much, 
 it is not my fault. I profess to tell the truth, and if I looked 
 for a subject all bright, all happy, or even all pleasure or con 
 tent, I must look beyond this world. If I invented a story all 
 joy and gladness, I should give a false picture of human life. 
 Life is a tragi-comedy. Those dramatists who have mingled 
 mirth and sadness, wisdom and folly, pleasure and pain, joy 
 and sorrow, life and death, in their scenes, have been the only 
 true copyists of the world s theatre. 
 
 Although the young and strong and brilliant Mrs. Spif- 
 fard had been consigned to the tomb and the worm, the dying 
 Sophia Williams lingered in life. At the request of Eliza 
 Atherton, (made through her nephew) Emma Portland accom 
 panied him to the house of the general. Spifiard knew he was 
 absent. The general made frequent visits to Philadelphia 
 some said to see his sister some said, for ether purposes. It 
 \vas generally during these visits that the nephew visited his 
 aunts. 
 
 Miss Atherton left the chamber of her suffering sister to 
 receive Emma Portland. During their conversation a person 
 unexpectedly arrived whose presence threw light on some pre 
 viously detailed incidents of our story, which had been some 
 what mysterious to Emma, and perhaps to our readers. 
 
 A gentleman entered, whose voice, as he directed a coach 
 man to deposit his trunk in tho hall, had made Emma start; 
 but she was startled still more, and shocked, when lie was in 
 troduced to her as General Williams. In this accomplished 
 character she saw the man who had professed himself her 
 lover who had been so interested in her welfare as to wish to 
 withdraw her from her theatrical relatives had pursued her 
 with such nattering perseverance the worthy Alderman f 
 Mott-street the ardent Corydon of the theatre and its alley. 
 
 Miss Atherton introduced the general to Miss Portland, 
 who opened her eyes as the military hero cast his to the floor. 
 He bowed. Both were silent. 
 
 " Mr. SpifTard," said his aunt, * you know the general.- 
 
 " Yes, madam,- was emphatically answered, " I do know 
 him." 
 
 Emma thought, " I do know him," but she said nothing. 
 She was shocked to find in General Williams the detested pro- 
 
200 A discovery ; and another. 
 
 fligate, ruffian and hypocrite, who had persecuted her; but her 
 accustomed presence of mind prevented any marked appear 
 ance of surprise or recognition ; and her prudence suggested 
 that nothing in her deportment ought to attract the attention of 
 Miss Atherton, or excite inquiry from her or Mr. Spiffard. 
 She looked steadily at the blushing face of the criminal before 
 her ; coldly answered his profound bow, while he half articu 
 lated " Very happy that Miss Portland had called ;" and before 
 the sentence was completed, Emma took leave of Miss Ather 
 ton, (who not only reciprocated the American shake of the 
 hand, but saluted her with a kiss,) and taking the arm of Spiff 
 ard, withdrew. 
 
 Can any one believe that virtue does not reward its votary, 
 and vice punish its slave ? Even " on this bank and shoal of 
 time" does not the honest, the frank, the true, the well mean 
 ing, " look aloft" and breathe freely, while the conscience- 
 stricken wretch writhes, and cowers, and shrinks in his pre 
 sence. 
 
 Here stood the female orphan, poor in worldly endowments, 
 without relations, and without fortune ; but rich in conscious 
 purity with a mind unclouded by the remembrance of any act 
 which might suffuse the face, or depress the eye. 
 
 Before her stood one possessed of wealth ; endowed by edu 
 cation with knowledge, and the means of acquiring wisdom ; 
 enjoying the world s smiles, with health, strength, towering 
 stature, and a person of nature s fairest form and proportions ; 
 yet abashed, trembling, quailing at the prospect of detection 
 and exposure ; feeling the sickness that might wish for annihi 
 lation ; scarcely breathing in the presence of the frail being 
 who could testify to his deep depravity. 
 
 Such criminals say, with Macbeth, " We ll jump the time 
 to come." But they cannot, (and they do not) escape the 
 sword of Macduff, or the still more biting contempt they de 
 serve. Of the hereafter ice judge not. 
 
 Mere human reason is an impartial judge. The criminal 
 never escapes the condemnation of the court within him. The 
 judge. may be hurled from his seat; but there is neither har 
 mony nor peace in chaos : and the judge regains his throne. 
 
 Spiffard and Miss Portland departed. The accomplished 
 hypocrite turned to Miss Atherton, and inquired, in softest 
 tones ho\v Mrs. Williams did. Eliza thought there was some 
 thing very strange in the behaviour of her friends, and of the 
 general ; but it might be attributed to their dislike to his cha 
 racter. Her mind was soon after occupied altogether by the 
 
A discovery ; and another. 201 
 
 sufferings, both of mind and body, that thronged around her 
 unhappy sister, and she forgot the introductory meeting of 
 Emma Portland and General Williams. 
 
 He, much disappointed that the final scene was not over, 
 was called by pressing business again to Philadelphia ; pro 
 mising to return at farthest in two days. 
 
 Happily I am not under the necessity of going into a detail 
 of physical distress and mental ttgony; the sure followers of 
 former follies, vices, or crimes. We may control causes, but 
 effects are unavoidable. 
 
 Some weeks passed before the death of Mrs. Spiffard was 
 followed by that of Mrs. Williams. Though these persons 
 were in character and circumstances widely different, they fell 
 by the same fatal errors. 
 
 The last moments of Mrs. Williams were soothed by the 
 virtues and tenderness of a sister, who, to the common ob 
 server, might have been supposed a child of sorrow, passing 
 through life in the midst of misfortunes, and ever borne down 
 by a load of grief. But was it so? No. She had seen that 
 the misfortunes of her family were occasioned by their faults 
 and she was armed against those faults, and their consequent 
 sorrows. She strove to repair the injuries others had inflicted. 
 She saw that it was the will of Heaven that sin should bring 
 sorrow she was resigned to the will of Heaven ; but that 
 resignation does not withhold the hand from exertion to save 
 those who are under the influence of error ; and although the 
 good grieve* for the faults of their brethren, it is a grief temper 
 ed by the consciousness of well doing, and alleviated by the 
 exertions to save. The sorrows and faults of those who w r e 
 love of all our fellow creatures but more especially those 
 tied to us by the bonds of nature will checker with many 
 colours, the days of the most patient and pure of mortals ; and 
 Eliza Atherton had seen in her family a succession of events 
 caused by folly and guilt, and ending in sorrow and shame : 
 but she had been taught wisdom thereby ; and in the practice 
 of benevolence had experienced her share her full share of 
 happiness. And the future promised still more : for now, her 
 conduct during the last scenes of her family s sorrows at the 
 death-bed of her once beautiful, admired, cherished, gay and 
 deluded sister ; while sustaining the withered, neglected, de 
 spised, and (but for her) desponding penitent ; received that 
 reward which her merits deserved, and her situation in life 
 most needed ; a husband worthy of herself. Not long after 
 
202 A discovery ; and another. 
 
 the death of Mrs. Williams, Eliza Atherton became the wife 
 Thomas Littlejohn. 
 
 I have said in the course of this history, (or intended to say) 
 that no American can marry an English wife (still less a 
 French or Italian,) without imminent risque of confront 
 ing manifold domestic evils ; unless he preferred passing 
 his life in his wife s country rather than his own. There may 
 be many exceptions to this general rule, as well as all others. 
 Certainly the union of the Rev. Thomas Littlejohn and Eliza 
 Atherton is one. She, when a child, had hcen brought into 
 this country ; and although surrounded in her fathei s house 
 by the contemners of every thing American, their opinions she 
 had learned to distrust, (for children at a very early age dis 
 cern good from evil,) and her own impressions and opinions 
 formed at school, and among Americans, were all favourable 
 to the country. When carried back to her native land, al 
 though one of the best and most favoured on earth, her por 
 tion of it:? joys was overshadowed by the weaknesses of her 
 family, their errors, and their poverty. That poverty had 
 been removed by an American. From America she had re 
 ceived nothing but good. Relatives or intimates she had 
 none in England. She had no London life to regret, nor 
 any of the luxuries of refined society or literary facilities 
 to contrast with a lesser degree of the same blessings in 
 America. In consequence of the connection of her two sis 
 ters with the country, she had paid particular attention to its 
 history and to its institutions. She had a strong juind from 
 nature, improved by study and observation ; and she was far 
 from concluding that a nation was composed of rogues because 
 one of its adventurers was a swindler. She could not con 
 trast happy days of youth in her own country, with those of 
 the more sober decline of life, (however blessed by circum 
 stances,) which must arrive to all. Above ail she had a dis 
 position from nature, confirmed by experience and religious 
 feeling to be happy, and make others so. Such a woman, 
 united to a man who could appreciate her worth, may be 
 happy in America, let her be born where she wilL We pass 
 over the time of mourning, courtship, and other affairs. The 
 youngest Littlejohn and Eliza were married. 
 
 The reader already knows, or may imagine, where General 
 Williams was during "the last scenes of his wife s pilgrimage. 
 He found reasons for frequent visits to his relative in Penn 
 sylvania. After the last trying scene he remained for a time 
 at home. He was overwhelmed with grief at the premature 
 
A discovery ; and another. 203 
 
 death of his beloved wife. He observed all decent forms 
 and ceremonies, as may be supposed. He had still an in 
 come, (the fruit of the marriage) which he enjoyed as well, 
 and as creditably, as such a man might be expected to do. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Littlejohn had no further intercourse with him. 
 Emma never divulged the secret that was placed in her power. 
 It is unnecessary to say that the other personages in whom 
 ice are interested, cut his acquaintance. I will do the same. 
 He returned to Europe, either disgusted by the coarseness of 
 republicanism, as Tom Moore, the disciple of Anacreon, and 
 the mirror of elegance, has since been, or to avoid a kind of 
 suspicion, (that was increasing upon him,) that his virtues, 
 talents, knowledge and patriotism, were not so generally or 
 highly appreciated as they ought to be. He passed the re 
 mainder of his days in France. A monument in the cemetery 
 of Pere La Chaise commemorates his many vhtues. As his 
 wealth died with him, he was never canonized. 
 
 We will return to other personages of importance in our 
 story. 
 
 Spiffard felt, as a man of principle with his peculiar charac 
 ter, may be supposed to feel, under circumstances of so ex 
 traordinary a nature as had occurred to him. He regretted 
 the sternness of his conduct towards his wife. He sometimes 
 reproached himself as the immediate cause of her death. Ho 
 treated her mother with tenderness. He felt no ties of a 
 strong or durable nature between himself and his former as 
 sociates, Cooper excepted, who had always been at bottom a 
 true friend ; and who now yielded to his wishes of withdrawing 
 from the stage, at least for the present. To Cooke his 
 sympathies seemed to wax stronger, although it was apparent 
 that the cord must soon be severed. When he accused him 
 self of hastening the death of the unhappy Mary, by behaviour 
 at times harsh, at times sullen, always wavering, and to her 
 inexplicable ; he conceived that his conduct in part to the 
 distress of mind he had felt, while urged on by his compan 
 ions to violence, and involved in a supposed quarrel entered into 
 from regard to her. He could not but think with regret of the 
 want of confidence in his wife which his conduct implied ; and 
 which must have rendered his behaviour onerous. He re 
 membered every unkind word or look that had escaped him. 
 The hints of the honest yankee traveller occurred to him. 
 He feared, yet he wished to sound Trusty on the subject ; and 
 an opportunity offered which led to further knowledge. 
 
 Trustworthy Davenport was like his countryman Spiffard in 
 
204 A discovery ; and another. 
 
 his attachment to Cooke, which seemed to increase as the ve 
 teran became more infirm. This faithful servant called with a 
 note from the tragedian, and Spiffard, after reading it, and as 
 senting to its request, felt impelled to approach the mysterious 
 subject. 
 
 "Well, Trusty, all goes on famously at the theatre, I 
 suppose 1" 
 
 " I don t think, I guess, that it goes on so well without Mr. 
 Cooke and you. However, I never go now." 
 
 * And how is it at the Manager s 1" 
 
 " Much the same. The flies will come round the honey- 
 pot." 
 
 " Open house still 1" 
 
 " Open house and open hand. But as I stick close to the 
 old gentleman, I haven t been called upon to help George as 
 I used to be invited when the company was large, as it was 
 almost every day, judges and generals, lawyers and doctors, 
 and always Mr. Allen, the most mischievousest of all, and 
 the old colonel, and Mr. Hilson a good-natured laughing 
 soul. But, as I said before, I stay at home, for Mr. Gooke 
 wants me more and more." 
 
 " Davenport, do you remember what you said to me some 
 time ago respecting quizzing hoaxing or something of that 
 sort?" 
 
 " Not exactly." 
 
 " But you remember you said you overheard something that 
 you thought might apply to me ?" 
 
 " It s not extremely improbable but I might remember 
 saying something of that nature, but I disremember the 
 words." 
 
 " You had a suspicion which I then thought ungrounded* 
 that I had been deceived made a 
 
 " Fool of." 
 
 "Yes, in plain language, made a fool of and if so a 
 miserable fool indeed." 
 
 " Why, plain language is best, when one knows the body 
 one is speaking to ; and I verily believe there is not a 
 man on arth that has less twistification in thought, word, or 
 deed than you, Mr. Spiffard. I did think there had been a 
 pretty considerable quantity of round-about-the-hedge and be- 
 hind-the-bush-play in that there affair." 
 
 " What affair ?" 
 
 " That s not like yourself, because you know what I mean. 
 !Now I verily believe but I can t assert it because I can t 
 
i2 discovery ; and another. 205 
 
 p rove it that all 1he challenges, and letters, and messages 
 about the duel were all moonshine." 
 
 It is in vain to endeavour to portray the agitation of our 
 hero s mind on hearing the confirmation of his misgivings. 
 He wished to be certain he doubted he believed he feared 
 to know the truth he was bewildered the thought occurred, 
 " how shall I act towards these rnen who have abused my un 
 suspecting faith ? Is it not better to remain in doubt 1" These 
 vacillating thoughts kept him silent. 
 
 Davenport resumed. " I did think, Mr. Spiffard, that it 
 was a shame to make you unhappy by a will-of-the-wisp con 
 jured up for these young gentlemen s sport ; and I ventured 
 to hint-like my conclusions from circumstances ; but I was 
 sorry for it afterwards, and I would not have said a word about 
 it now if you had not a asked me." 
 
 " My good Trusty, tell me all you know !" 
 
 " Why, the mischief of the case is, I know nothing certain. 
 You must have known many times, Mr. Spiffard, when you 
 have heard and seen just enough to make you draw conclu 
 sions, and yet the words you heard, if set to stand alone, 
 would fall down, like an empty bag set on end, and mean no 
 thing." 
 
 " It is true. But did you ever think that the whole affair 
 do you know what it was I" 
 
 " Lord bless you ! I heard them talk of challenges, pistols, 
 Hobuck, Love-lane, and all that, that I knew there was a 
 duel, rale or sham, as well as if they had took me into the 
 plot." 
 
 "Plot?" 
 
 " I thought, and think so still, and can t help it. I heard 
 one of them say, could any one have believed that he could 
 be persuaded that the blackguard he had silenced so easily, 
 was a gentleman and a man of honour V that I heard plain as 
 preaching. And then what I told you before, about saying 
 that such an one would not do, and what I saw and what 
 I heard since a word here, and a word there, makes me surer, 
 by connexions, and concoctions, that they were all the time 
 bamboozling you with a man of green cheese what did they 
 call him 1" 
 
 " Captain Smith." 
 
 " That s the name. I ve heard them name it again and 
 again, and laugh, and ask, when is Captain Smith to come 
 again V and the manager would say, No, no, we ve had 
 enough of it and all put together, is as sure to me as con- 
 
 9* 
 
206 Jl discovery ; and another. 
 
 fessions to Father Luke. And so you see, sir, I know no 
 thing that I can testify." 
 
 " Davenport, I hope you have said nothing of this to any 
 one else." 
 
 " Certain, I have not. I hate a mischief maker. It was 
 that Alien was the soul of it. I never said a lisp to any body ; 
 and I was sorry afterwards that I said any thing to you." 
 
 " Then, Trusty, keep your suspicions to yourself, as you 
 value my friendship." 
 
 " You may depend upon me. I love fun ; but I hate to see 
 that made game of, which, as I take it, is the very best of a 
 man; I mean that disposition to think other folks are as true- 
 spoken as oneself; and that s you, Mr. SpirTard." 
 
 " I thank you, Davenport." 
 
 " There s no needs for I can t help it." 
 
 " It is hard if a man cannot confide in the words of his 
 fellow man. In the words of gentlemen." 
 
 " I never pretended to be a gentleman, and I never saw the 
 fun of telling a lie, although I am a traveller. I have told you 
 all I know, Mr. SpirTard, and what I have told you may be 
 lieve." 
 
 " I do." Spiffard shook the hard hand of the yankee 
 traveller, and if he had been any other than an American 
 in the station of a servant, he would have followed up the im 
 pulse he felt to put money in the hand, but he knew his own 
 countrymen too well. 
 
 Trustworthy departed, and our hero threw himself on a 
 chair, and thought over all the late circumstances of an affair 
 that had so agitated him at the time, and still perplexed him. 
 His conviction that he had been made a dupe of, for the sport 
 of others, and that his anxiety had soured his better feelings, 
 and tended to produce the fatal event which hung heavy on his 
 mind his wavering in thought as to the conduct he ought to 
 pursue towards these young men the shame of avowing his 
 credulity his aversion to acknowledge that he had been 
 moved as a puppet by a man so inferior to himself as Mr. 
 Allen, all these mingling and contending thoughts long un 
 fitted him for business and society. He however became 
 calm by degrees, and came to the wise resolution of suiting 
 his companions to his habits ; and so to behave towards his 
 former associates, that they should have no clue to his sus 
 picion, or his conviction of their frivolous conduct. With 
 his friend, the manager, he made no change, except to with 
 draw himself from his hospitable board ; recent circumstances 
 were sufficient as his excuse. 
 
2C7 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 The death of G. F. Cooke. 
 
 " Men s evil manners live in brass; their virtues 
 We write in water." 
 
 "Who by repentance is not satisfied 
 Is not of Heaven nor earth. 
 
 " So happy be the issue * * * 
 
 The venom of such looks, we fairly hope, 
 
 Have lost their quality, and that this day 
 
 Shall change all griefs, and quarrels, into love." Shakspcare. 
 
 THE murders (including suicides and deaths by duelling) 
 that are the fruits of intemperance, constitute far the greater 
 portion of those which stain the records of the judicial, or pri 
 vate history of society. 
 
 The brutal quarrels which end in the immediate death of one 
 or both of the parties ; the polite differences that are termi 
 nated in blood by the sword or pistol ; the female victims who 
 are sacrificed by drunken husbands, and who sink under vio 
 lence more barbarous than the most ferocious soldier perpe 
 trates, when in the career of glorious victory he sacks a city 
 or the wives who sink sorrowfully by the slow torture of disap 
 pointed hope ; the deadly blow inflicted by jealousy stimulated 
 to madness after the enticing" draught ; the self-murder com 
 mitted under the immediate influence of alcohol ; or the de 
 liberate, suicidal, dastardly crime, which is weeks, and month?, 
 and years in the accomplishing : all belong to the same fami 
 ly, and fill the greater part of the history of guilt. 
 
 It is our task to record a few instances of the misery occa 
 sioned by this deplorable vice. They are not creations of the 
 fancy, but the sad picture of reality, softened in feature and 
 
208 The death of G. F. Cooke. 
 
 colouring, rather than exaggerated, or even exhibited in a 
 strong light. The story of the eminent tragedian who has oc 
 cupied so many of our pages, is an example of the latter class 
 of suicides. May his tale (the tale of thousands,) be a salu 
 tary warning to those who read it ! and may this simple cata 
 logue of murders, all springing from the same source, make 
 the young turn from the temptation which besets them ; and 
 the old, who may have erred during the customs of " thirty 
 years ago," abjure that which is destroying themselves, and is 
 a snare to those who follow them ! 
 
 Far be it from me to assert, or insinuate, that the detestable 
 vice which is the parent of so many crimes, is (or has been) 
 more prevalent in this country than in others. Lamentable as 
 are the instances I have recorded, they are but a few of the 
 many I have witnessed. Yet we know that in Europe the 
 same destruction is going on triumphantly. Witness the gin 
 palaces, and the theatres of London. I will quote from an 
 American author of the highest character, who is known not 
 to spare the faults of his countrymen. " On the whole," says 
 James Fenimore Cooper in his Switzerland, " I repeat for the 
 eleventh time, that I have come to the conclusion there is less 
 of this degrading practice at home, among the native popula 
 tion, than in any other country I have yet visited. Certainly 
 much less than there is either in England or France." 
 
 But let us not cease our endeavours to eradicate a practice 
 that is so deadly to every faculty of body and mind ! 
 
 The note from Cooke, mentioned in the last chapter, re 
 quested the immediate presence of his young friend ; who 
 accordingly repaired, after composing his thoughts, to the 
 lodgings of the tragedian. He first told Miss Portland, who 
 still for a short time remained with her aunt, where he was 
 going. 
 
 On his arrival he found that the physicians were in consulta 
 tion in an adjoining chamber. Davenport was in attendance 
 on Cooke. Spiffard was struck by the evident change in the 
 old gentleman s appearance, although he had recently seen 
 him. 
 
 " I am glad to see you, my young friend. I have a request 
 to make. You must introduce that angel to me who saved 
 me, for a little while ; whether for better or not, is something 
 doubtful ; but, at all events, I would thank her I would see 
 her sweet face instead of those of Davenport and the Doctor s. 
 They are holding a consultation in the next room, as to the 
 time of execution,! presume, for condemnation is past. There 
 
The death of G. F. Cooke. 209 
 
 is a gathering of them ; for you know where the carcase is 
 " there will the crows be gathered together." 
 
 " It is eagles, not crows. You misquote," said Spiffard. 
 
 " Birds of prey birds of prey call them what you will, 
 eagles or crows : these are good fellows. They are consult 
 ing but I know the result I can t last many hours." 
 
 He spoke in a husky voice, little above a whisper ; but 
 smiled in the face of his friend, and pressed his hand affec 
 tionately. 
 
 The principal among the many liberal minded medical men 
 of the city, were interested in the welfare of the tragedian. 
 Doctors Caclwallader, Hosack, McLean, and Francis, were 
 at this moment in consultation. They entered, and Cadvvalla- 
 der, as the oldest, communicated their opinion in as gentle 
 terms as he could devise ; for they had thought proper to no 
 tify the sick man that he had but a few hours to live. 
 
 " Doctor," said the patient, in the same low whisper, but 
 with a look that seemed to contradict the,ir opinion, " we must 
 all play the principal part in life s last scene, and I am favour 
 ed in having such prompters and actors with me." Pie then 
 added, with levity, perhaps to be attributed to disease, or the 
 composing draught of the previous night, " I have for a great 
 while played $.9 first part perhaps I have now the most diffi 
 cult the next will be mere dumb show, the part, of a mute in 
 the churchyard scene. I have played every speaking part in 
 Hamlet, from the prince to the grave digger ; the next will be 
 the skull. Some fellow with a dirty spade will be thumping 
 me on the pate ; or some learned philosopher will read a homi 
 ly on the effects of the passions or appetites upon the bones of 
 the cranium, for the benefit of medicine or morals. Where 
 be your gibes now! Quite chap-fallen ! Well, well, 4 And a 
 man s life is no more than to say, one. " 
 
 The dying man, for such he was, appeared less to feel his 
 situation than any one present Spiffard and Davenport more, 
 There was silence for a time, which was broken by the audi 
 ble sobs of Trustworthy, who had been sitting by the foot of 
 the bed, but not being able to repress his emotion, started up 
 and left the room. 
 
 Cooke, on hearing and seeing this, hid his face on the pil 
 low for a few moments, and then looking up with recovered 
 firmness, addressed Doctor Cadwallader. 
 
 " I thank you, Doctor, for being frank with me. I thought it 
 must be so. I have often been racked with pain similar to, 
 but more violent than I have lately felt ; but I never thought 
 
The death of G. F. Cooke. 
 
 it was death s hand that was on me till to-day. I am now 
 comparatively free from pain. I have whimpered, and whined, 
 as you know, Mr. Spiffard, and have been as maudlin at one 
 time, as brutal at another. I see it all now. I have no dis 
 position to be lachrymose ; but if I could undo some of the 
 mischief I have done, I should be the happier for it. That s 
 past that s past! but I have a strong desire to see and 
 serve essentially serve those who preserved me when I other 
 wise should have perished like a houseless cur in the snow of 
 the streets. Mr. Spiffard, you know that night ! O that 
 night ! It is present in my dreams ; and oftener, in my waking 
 reveries ; oftener than my words have indicated. That night ! 
 That night." 
 
 " Your feelings are too much excited." 
 
 " I must prohibit talking." 
 
 " Nay, Doctor, a few minutes longer or shorter an hour 
 more or less matters not now ; but a deed of justice matters 
 much. There was a young nymph-like figure that hovered 
 around me an angel perhaps a token of forgireness. I re 
 cognised her as one I had seen before but then there were 
 others that I thought I had seen and heard before ; but that 
 was madness. Mr. Spiffard, you have acknowledged that you 
 know who the angel was." 
 
 " I have told you, Sir. It was the niece of Mrs. Epsom." 
 
 " Can I see her? Do I know her?" 
 
 " You once rescued her from insult at the theatre." 
 
 " I remember ! and she rescued me from death. Can I 
 see her?" 
 
 Spiffard assured him that he thought she would attend at 
 his request. 
 
 The physicians interfered to prevent excitement, and told 
 him that it was only on condition of his being composed, they 
 <iould promise him the power to express his gratitude to Miss 
 Portland. He promised obedience, and his physicians, leav 
 ing such medicines as were necessary, departed. Spiffard, 
 promising him to bring Emma to see him, left him with his 
 faithful attendants. 
 
 The next morning Spiffard conducted Emma Portland to 
 the bed side of the grateful old man. She might have felt 
 some reluctance at the thought of being brought forward to 
 receive thanks for what appeared to her as the common duty 
 of humanity, but she had higher views and holier hopes to sup 
 port her. 
 
 She knew, though her conductor did not, the relation in 
 
The death of G. F. Cooke. 211 
 
 which her betrothed and his mother stood to the erring man. 
 They had determined to remain unknown to him, and to con 
 tinue the name and character in which they had heretofore ap 
 peared in the country of their adoption. There were perhaps 
 engagements which he had entered into on the supposition of 
 their death, which were not to be broken or disturbed. But 
 Emma, among other hopes, felt a wish to be, although in 
 secret, a link between the man who was to be her husband 
 the woman who was already her second mother and the peni 
 tent who had abandoned them ; and worse, driven them from 
 him. 
 
 Unhesitatingly she approached the man who only twice be 
 fore had b^en in her presence ; once acting as her guardian 
 and protestor from insult, and once wanting even such protec 
 tion as her weak frame, but strong mind, could give, to save 
 him from death the death of the unsheltered outcast wan 
 derer. 
 
 Cooke held out his hand and welcomed the lovely girl. At 
 his request, and with the permission of one of his kind physi 
 cians, he was bolstered up, as he said, " to look once more on 
 the face of an angel." 
 
 " I am sorry, sir," said Emma, blushing, " to see you so 
 reduced in strength." 
 
 " You have seen me in a worse plight." 
 " I have seen you a gallant knight rescuing a forlorn dam 
 sel from the attack of a monster," she said, smiling. 
 " Monster, indeed, that would injure you /" 
 " And I hope to see you again protecting the weak, and 
 aiding the distressed." 
 " No, no!" 
 
 " Mr. Cooke," said his physician, " you must make your 
 interview short." 
 
 " Well, well, I will obey*, First, my dear young lady, re 
 ceive my thanks for saving me from a dog s death. Don t 
 say a word. I must be concise. You must do me a favour. 
 I understand that the good people who received me under their 
 roof on that right, have had a happy reverse of fortune. 
 They, therefore, do not need, and have refused, pecuniary 
 tokens of my gratitude. Be it so. You must mediate be 
 tween them and me. You must prevail on the lady to receive 
 and wear a ring, as a remembrancer. You must give it with 
 my blessing and thanks no one can deny you. Trusty ! in 
 my desk, of which you keep the key, you will find in the left 
 hand drawer a ring-case. Bring it to me." It was brought 
 
 VOL. II. 15 
 
212 The death of G. F. Cooke. 
 
 to him. " This ring has had no owner for twenty years and 
 more let it remind that good lady that George Frederick died 
 gratefully remembering her." 
 
 He sunk back after Emma had received the jewel. The 
 physician hurried her and Spiffard out of the room. In an 
 hour from that time the worn-out frame of the great tragedian 
 was lifeless.* 
 
 * The remains of George Frederick Cooke were buried in St. Paul s 
 Church Yard, New- York, (after certain portions were abstracted,) and a 
 monument was some years afterwards placed over them by Edmund 
 Kean, a man of great genius s who followed in Cooke s steps, arid exceeded 
 him, if not in skill, certainly in depravity ; and of course sunk earlier in 
 life to debility, disease, and the tomb. The writer of Kean s life tells us a 
 story of Kean and Cooke s great toe. If other parts of his book are as 
 accurate, his hero, who is represented as a profligate, may have been a 
 saint. It is true, that Kean carried, as a relic, to England, a fragment of 
 the man he imitated. It was the bones of that fore-finger with which 
 George Frederick enforced the words of his author in a manner never to 
 be forgotten by those who saw him on the stage. 
 
 It has been my task to exhibit, I hope for the good of my fellow creatures, 
 the effects of intemperance upon the external appearance, conduct, moral 
 character and happiness of this extraordinary man, and I have called upon 
 Dr. John W. Francis, one of his physicians, to aid me, by showing the in 
 ternal ravages of the fiend upon those organs which the beneficent Author 
 of Nature has given for our comfort and usefulness, as evinced in the case 
 of Mr. Cooke and others. I make an extract from his most valuable reply 
 to my interrogatories : a portion of which is already given. 
 
 " Every body knows that intemperance exercises a singularly direct in 
 fluence on the liver : the pancreas and the spleen are also deeply affected 
 by long continued inebriety, particularly the pancreas. The researches of 
 the pathologist have led him to describe several striking alterations in the 
 liver. It may become, by free drinking, preternatural! y hard or scirrhous ; be 
 converted into an entire mass of tubercles ; and these may be more or less 
 deep seated or superficial, with or without abscess; its whole structure 
 may also be changed : it may be rendered, by undue excitement, congested 
 and obstructed, and become extraordinarily enlarged ; and we may here 
 remark, that the inordinate plethora of the blood-vessels, which so repeat 
 edly accompanies excess in eating and hard drinking, evinces its powers 
 particularly on this organ. But many pages could be devoted to a descrip 
 tion of the diseased changes which have been noticed in this important 
 part of the human economy. I once ask^d old Mr. Fife, the anatomist at 
 Edinburgh, who was dissector at the University, how great was the largest 
 sized liver he had ever encountered in his examination of dead bodies for 
 collegiate purposes ? He answered fifty-seven pounds !! and this occurred 
 in the person of an inebriate who had long lived in the East Indies. You 
 may judge the more accurately of the ponderosity of this liver, when you 
 reflect that the ordinary size of the organ may vary from four to seven or 
 eight or nine pounds ; and you might infer that such a liver would have 
 formed bile enough for an army ; yet this man died from the deficiency of 
 this secretion. The livers of those who abuse their constitution by alco 
 holic, or distilled drink, is, however, generally preternaturally diminished 
 and found in a scirrhous state ; while fermented drinks will the rather aug 
 rnent the volume of the organ ; such at least I have found to be the fac- 
 in several dissections. In poor George Frederick Cooke, as you may re fc 
 collect, the liver was very small, studded with tubercles, and as hard, as- 
 cartilage. The pancreas, so important to serve healthy digestion, under* 
 
The death of G. F. Cooke. 213 
 
 On the return of SpifFard and Emma to Mrs. Epsom s, 
 they found Henry Johnson. It was Emma s intention to visit 
 Mrs. Johnson and execute her trust in private ; but before 
 she left home for this purpose, Davenport brought the tidings 
 to Spiffard of the death of Cooke, and in all haste the young 
 man repaired with the messenger to the spot, where he still 
 found the physician. 
 
 Henry and Emma repaired to Mrs. Johnson s. The young 
 bearer of thanks delivered the message. But on the sight of 
 the ring Mrs. Johnson was deeply affected. 
 
 " My children," she said, after being relieved by tears, 
 tl this ring was a present to me before marriage. When I fled 
 my country I returned it. See how it has come again. Henry I 
 ought I not to see him ?" 
 
 " It is too late, madam, if it were right it is too late. This 
 message to you was the last sentence he spoke." 
 
 Strange as it may appear, the health of that amiable woman 
 was restored ; seemingly mending from that time. She lived 
 long to witness and enjoy the happiness of Henry and Emma. 
 He, after a time, the prosperous partner of Littlejohn & Co., 
 as well as of the once Emma Portland. She a thriving part 
 ner in a no less prosperous concern. The prosperity of both 
 houses based on the immoveable foundation of temperance. 
 
 goes many alterations in the bodies of inebriates ; a scirrhous condition is 
 perhaps the most frequent. The spleen seems most to suffer from the con 
 sequences of inordinate excitement, and becomes overloaded." 
 
 " Other parts of the economy are also brought to suffer from the rebellious 
 influence of alcohol ; but I should trespass far beyond the prescribed limits 
 to detail them here. Enough has perhaps already been given in these im 
 perfect notes; a large catalogue would neither suit your plan, nor my pie- 
 sent convenience. Moreover, ex pede Herculem." 
 
 $* 
 Very sincerely your friend, 
 
 J. W. FRANCIS, 
 
 WM. DUNLAP, Esq. 
 
214 
 
 CHAPTER THE LAST. 
 M disposed of. 
 
 " To say nothing, or to say all you think, and at all times, provided no 
 personal offence is intended, or sought to be given, is the course for an honest 
 man, for a lover of truth, invariably to pursue. Anon. 
 
 "Thither in a sieve I ll sail." 
 
 " To what issue will this come." 
 
 "Read on this book." 
 
 " I hold it fit that we shake hands and part." Shakapeare. 
 
 " Fame is the wise man s means ; but his ends are his own good, and 
 the good of society. Bolingbroke. 
 
 " Purpose is but the slave of memory. Farewell. Shakspeare. 
 
 THE REV. MR. LITTLEJOHN sat between his father and wife. 
 He had been intently reading the Scriptures. 
 
 " I strongly desire again to become a teacher of the lessons 
 of life, but I must refrain for years yet to come. I will employ 
 those years in those studies which enrich the mind and fit the 
 student for his high calling. I will not ascend the pulpit until 
 the world is convinced that the former aberration of my reason 
 has left no traces but those of salutary humiliation and sell- 
 doubting. " 
 
 " My son, the perfect restoration of your health and reason 
 are already proved." 
 
 " To you not to the world not to the public who are 
 more prone to observe the failing than the amendment. I do 
 not mean to censure them for it. The failing was glaringly 
 obtrusive : the amendment is quiet, and shrinking from obser 
 vation. Quiet does not catch the attention of the busy or the 
 gay ; and the busy or the gay are the world. Man may justly 
 require a long continuation of the interrupted exertion of rea 
 son, to give assurance of perfect restoration and habitual 
 
Jill disposed of. 215 
 
 health of mind, in one who professes to teach truth. I have 
 in you, my father, and you, Eliza, a double assurance that I 
 shall continue in the paths of peace." 
 
 He pressed his father s hand. The old man s eyes filled 
 with tears of love and joy. Eliza threw herself on her hus 
 band s neck and wept. He alone could speak. 
 
 " The restoration of physical and mental health ; the- gifts 
 of fortune and of such friend?, might be thought enough for 
 earthly happiness ; if we did not know that happiness can only 
 be gained by continued efforts to bless cur fellow men by 
 doing our duty to man, and thereby doing the will of Gcd." 
 
 With such views and resolutions we may leave this domestic 
 circle. 
 
 One of the personages introduced to the reader, and for 
 whom I hope some interest is felt, was not inclined to quiet. 
 
 George Frederick Cooke had not neglected his faithful ser 
 vant ; and Trustworthy Davenport found himself, by the accu 
 mulation of wages, and a handsome legacy, in possession of 
 what he said was " a considerable small fortune." 
 
 After he had most sincerely mourned for his friend and mas 
 ter, he told Dennis Dogherty that he was " railly at a. nonplush 
 as to what next to do." 
 
 " Why don t you set up for Congress V said Dennis. 
 
 " No. I don t like to talk and do nothing ; besides I like to 
 have my own way. I have determined to travel ; but I am at 
 a loss to make up my mind as to the how, or the which way." 
 
 " Travel. For what would you travel]" 
 
 " To see the world and bring home notions. I never was 
 tied to one spot so long before ; and now that I can t help the 
 only cretur on arth I ever called my master now thai good 
 man that mought a been, if he would a took the water natu 
 rally now that he is gone, I must go." 
 
 " Not the same way, sure V 
 
 " Not yit. But I was born with the desire to travel. My 
 mammy never could keep me long enough on her lap to feed 
 me. I have got the name of the Yankee traveller, and I well 
 deserve it. To be sure I might, now that I have serv d a sort 
 of prenticeship to the stage I might make my debiitt, as they 
 call it, and then go to London as a star, " slow rising from the 
 west," as one of the poets has it. But I have an objection to 
 stand up, without any breast work, to be shot at by encores or 
 hisses, just as any drunken blackguard or conceited coxcomb 
 pleases, and have no chance to fire back again. No ! Free 
 trade and travel for Trusty!" 
 
216 Ml disposed of. 
 
 44 But what will you get by it?" 
 
 44 Knowledge arid seal-skins. I never envied any man so 
 much as my brother Yankee, that Ledyard, who kept going 
 round the world, as long as he could go ahead, by land or 
 water, and rather than not be going he would go barefoot to 
 Siberia. Then there was another Yankee, that Shockford, 
 a rale water-dog, that mann d his own vessel with his own 
 hands" 
 
 " Niggers, I suppose." 
 
 41 And steered her with his own head. Himself captain, 
 mate, cook, cabin-boy and crew ! How grand that fellow 
 must have felt when he danced on the waves, and buffetted the 
 winds ! When he had the whole ocean to himself, and could 
 say to the sun, " You and I are the only creturs above this 
 wide and boundless prairie orsalt water, and for aught I know, 
 I am the greater of the two !" 
 
 Trusty, who could not be stopped by Dennis s " Niggers," 
 was now silent in the contemplation of his imagined sublimity ; 
 and the Hibernian was as much bewildered as one of that 
 clear-headed race could be. 
 
 " Mr. Devilsport," he said, at length, " Dis is not the first 
 time that you have bother d me : and what you mane by your 
 self and your son, and your hands and your mate, I don t com 
 prehend exactly at all. But is it how you are to manage to 
 spind your fortune now you are Cooke s executor ]" 
 
 " His legatee. Heaven bless him, I didn t call him master 
 for the sake of a legacy. He is gone, and so I ll travel. I 
 am rich that is, I am well to do in the world, if I do well. 
 Plain dealing and switchell for that." 
 
 il If I understand, you have not yet made up your mind." 
 
 " Pretty much. Travel I will. But whether I shall invest 
 my funds in a carriage, horse, and a stock of wooden clocks 
 and tin ware for the western states and territories, and so 
 travel by land ; or whether I shall build a vessel, load her, and 
 navigate her round Cape Horn to trade with the savages and 
 cannibals of the South Sea Islands ; then cross the Pacific to 
 China, and return by the Cape of Good Hope, I have not yet 
 determined." 
 
 44 Blood and tunder ! Why you must have a bank or a trea 
 sury department of your own to do all that. Build a ship 
 man her and victual her ! You have big notions, Mr. Devils- 
 port !" 
 
 "Yankee notions. Did you not hear of a man who crossed 
 the Atlantic in a boat just big enough to carry himself, his 
 
M disposed of. 217 
 
 provisions and water ; mann d her with himself, and by himself, 
 and was owner, captain, mate and crew?" 
 
 " That I did not. And what countryman was he ?" 
 
 " What country but Yankee-land could grow sich a cretur ? 
 Now if he could do that thing, I ll be swampt if I don t do 
 more." 
 
 " And swampt you will be, sure enough." 
 
 " I ve a conceit that I ll be the greatest Yankee-traveller the 
 world ever saw. Yes, Dennis, I think the south sea voyage 
 is more sublime than the tin-cart !" 
 
 As we have not heard of any extraordinary sensation pro 
 duced by Trustworthy in the territories, or the Rocky Moun 
 tains, we suppose that he indulged himself as a navigator, and 
 is now luxuriating in the Sandwich Islands, or exploring the 
 yellow sea, or making discoveries at one or other pole. We 
 doubt not his safety, and unless when he returns he should 
 write his autobiography or reminiscences, we hope to be em 
 ployed for the benefit of posterity in doing both for him. 
 
 I)ennis aspired to a seat in congress. His first step was 
 a corner grocery, by which he found that the city elections 
 were to be influenced through the naturalized. How high he 
 stands on the ladder we know not. 
 
 George Frederick Cooke died on the 26th of September, 
 1812. Attended to the last by his family physician, his trusty 
 valet, and one who had been his faithful nurse throughout his 
 illness. None knew the story of Mrs Johnson and her son, 
 but that son s wife. 
 
 Of the inferior actors in our tragi-comedy, one more shall 
 be noticed. Old Kent married a second wife, but never for 
 got the first. In process of time, with his younger wife, 
 and a brood of young Rents, he wisely determined, for his 
 children s sake, to remove to Liberia, where we hope he is 
 still usefully employed as a teacher, and keeper of a circu 
 lating library, his school well attended, and his books (among 
 which we hope this will be placed) much sought after. He 
 writes occasionally to his friends in New York, particularly 
 Mrs. Emma Johnson ; and joins in blessing the leaders and 
 supporters of the society for removing the descendants of 
 Africans to the land of their fathers, imbued with those prin 
 ciples and precepts instructed in that knowledge and those 
 arts, which will make the desert bloom as a garden, and cause 
 
218 Mdispostdof. 
 
 the white man to blush at the thought that ever there should 
 have been a day in which it was necessary for the negro to 
 cry, " am I not a man and a brother? while exposed for sale 
 to the highest bidder in the city of Washington. 
 
 Before the marriage of Eliza Atherton to Thomas Little- 
 john, she insisted upon Spiffard s receiving such accumulation 
 as had accrued of the proceeds of the annuity which he, in his 
 days of supposed wealth, had liberally purchased for the 
 Atherton family. After her marriage, the benefit of the whole 
 was transferred to him. This made him independent: the 
 Littlejohns insisted upon his receiving that which was no 
 longer needed by those who had enjoyed his benevolence. 
 He became a traveller ; but a less ambitious one than his 
 fellow Yankee. 
 
 Twelve years after the death of Mrs. SpifFard, a little thin 
 gentleman was seen mounting to the pulpit of a church in 
 Virginia ; and to the surprise of the stranger, who had arrived 
 from New York, he recognised Zebediah SpifFard, his old 
 acquaintance of the Park Theatre. After hearing a most ex 
 cellent sermon, the stranger waited in the street to accost the 
 preacher, and accomplished a meeting, after the reverend 
 man had passed through the kind and affectionate greetings 
 of a large congregation. He was, after due study, ordained. 
 He enjoyed the fruits of his experience and of his benevolent 
 disposition, having all the comforts of life about him, except a 
 wife. But there existed in Virginia circumstances which, after 
 struggling against them in vain, forced him to return to the north. 
 Many were the inducements to remain in that favoured land : 
 frank manners, kind dispositions, unbounded hospitality ; 
 but he, even ai that day, he set his heart upon establishing a 
 " temperance society," foreseeing that if such a plant could 
 be made to take root, it would spread, and be nourished and 
 cultivated by all who saw or tasted of its fruit. Yes, Zebediah 
 SpifTard, who had seen and felt the evils of intemperance, was 
 the projector of the scheme which has saved thousands from 
 destruction. But, alas ! the obstacles that have always op 
 posed projectors, did not fail to oppose our worthy clergyman. 
 The mint-julep before breakfast in summer, and the egg-nog^ 
 in winter ; the enticing toddy, with ice, at one season, and 
 smoking hot at the other, as a prelude to dirmer with all the 
 of good old Jamaica rum, French brandy, real 
 
Jill disposed of. 219 
 
 Hollands, Irish whiskey, cordials of names innumerable, 
 (although of one unchanging nature,) and wines from every 
 part of the globe all were in dread array opposed to the 
 water-drinker s scheme. 
 
 Who can describe the Vermonter s astonishment, when on 
 the morning after his arrival, (it was in the month of June,) 
 he opened his eyes at the noise made by opening the chamber 
 door, and saw a negro approaching his bed with a huge bowl, 
 crowned with the fresh and fragrant herb, cool from the gar 
 den, and mingled with transparent ice. 
 
 * Master says, please to take a drink, and make you sleep 
 till breakfast bell." 
 
 Somewhat oppressed by heat, and feverish from the previous 
 day s travel, he looked on the green mint and ice he smelt 
 the odour only of the dew-spangled leaves, and took the bait 
 from the hands of the slave but the hook was soon obvious 
 to his unsophisticated sense and as the fumes of rum min 
 gled with the cool atmosphere that surrounded the tempting 
 draught it was rejected almost with disgust. 
 
 The negro stared ! 4< Him very good to mako sleep, 
 master." 
 
 SpifTard excused himself sent his thanks to the hospitable 
 planter, who wished to welcome him with that which delighted 
 himself and instead of Riint-julip, took water and a walk 
 before breakfast. 
 
 Another repulsive enemy to his peace was ever before his 
 eyes. It was Skxvcry. I may be permitted to mention it as 
 an evil, although it is cherished at the seat of my country s 
 government. But whether I have permission cr not, I will 
 say that I think and know it to be an evil ; and (any sophistry 
 to the contrary, notwithstanding) it is an evil that congress have 
 power and right to root out of the district, which is appropriated 
 as the hallowed spot where freemen meet to deliberate for the 
 welfare of freemen. 
 
 SpifTard knew he was in a slave-holding state, but he be- 
 liered, until he became a resident, that slave-holders con 
 sidered slavery an evil entailed upon them, which they wished 
 to throw off, and he was willing to assist them. But when he 
 saw that negroes were bred for exportation that they were 
 pen d irt appropriate places, men, women and children shut up 
 together, and kept in drunkenness until the prison ship was ready 
 to carry them to the Mississippi and that most of the male part 
 of his congregation ardently desired the creation of more slave 
 stales as recipients for this growth of their plantations he, in 
 
220 Jill disposed of. 
 
 melancholy mood, turned his face home, and now lives with 
 the Littlejohns, assisting to rear the children of his aunt Eliza, 
 and his friends Henry and Emma Johnson, in the precepts of 
 heavenly love, and in promoting schools and societies for the 
 diffusion of that knowledge which will bring peace to indivi 
 duals and to nations. 
 
 It is, perhaps, unnecessary to say (but if only the necessary 
 had been said or written, how few would be now our books, 
 and how short the records of public speaking) that a moral is to 
 be drawn from the story of Zebediah Spiffard, almost as use 
 ful as from that of George Frederick Cooke. For although 
 temperance guarded the Yermonter fr6m the ills which the 
 tragedian drew upon himself, yet the water-drinker provided a 
 train of other ills to torment the early portion of his life. 
 Firstly his disingenuous conduct toward his uncle then by 
 yielding to the allurements of a theatrical life, and renouncing 
 the profession intended for him and lastly, by his precipitate 
 choice of a partner for life. The ills flowing from these false 
 steps were consummated in the last ; and the faults themselves 
 were, each one, consequent upon the other. Experience, the 
 great castigator, at length rendered him wise, and many years 
 of his life were passed happily, employed in the offices of 
 teaching and assisting others. He established temperance so 
 cieties, organized schools, and assisted in every good plan 
 proposed by others, for enlightening and ameliorating the con 
 dition of the poor or the erring. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 NOTE. To prevent any misapprehensions respecting Mr. Cooke s ma 
 trimonial affairs, be it remembered, that the fiction of a marriage with Miss 
 Johnson must be dated in 1790. In 1796 he was really married to Miss 
 Daniels, from whom he was divorced in 1800. In 1808 he married Miss 
 Lamb, who took refuge from him with her friends, in March, 1809. In 
 November, 1810, he arrived at New York, and on the 19th of June, 1811, 
 he married a lady of Baltimore, who faithfully nursed him until his death, 
 in September, 1812. 
 
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