University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
A CRITICAL MOMENT.

At Cambridge George found himself moving in
a new world, and his whole deportment became
gradually changed as he adapted himself to the
situation in which he was now placed. Like Godwin's
Fleetwood, (and like almost every other
student of similar habits and disposition) the savage
of Cayahoga soon became metamorphosed
into a classical buck; “as he could not escape
the coxcombs of the University, he surrendered
himself into their hands with the best grace he
could, and selected one young person for a friend,
who kindly undertook his introduction into the
world.”

But, like too many others, he was unfortunate
in his choice, for beneath a specious exterior, this
Thomas Sandford, his new friend, wore a corrupt
heart. He was three years older than George,
had lost his father at an early age, and was the
ruined victim of maternal indulgence.

The virtuous disposition, correct habits, and
ingenuous manners of George, could not long
escape the notice of his class-mates, and while he
thereby gained the esteem of a few, he became
the subject of derision with many. Among the
latter was Sandford himself, though he concealed
the sentiment under the mask of consummate hypocrisy.
He considered all religion as a farce,
and its votaries as mere actors in a drama, assuming
a language and habit foreign to their real

character. In compelling his friend to relinquish
this garb, he thought he should confer on him a
most essential benefit. But aware of the strength
of early prejudices, he knew that great caution
and circumspection were to be employed in the
undertaking, but he also knew that if his efforts
were crowned with success, his triumph would be
worth the labor. To unmask the hypocrite, and
then hold him up to the derision of his associates,
was the object he contemplated, and to effect
which he put in requisition all the little ingenuity
of which he was master.

For this purpose, he sought every opportunity
of cultivating an acquaintance with his intended
victim, and of ingratiating himself into his favor,
until he could gain his entire confidence; he entered
into his sentiments, flattered his taste, and
counterfeited the friend and the moralist with so
much success, that notwithstanding the caution of
his father, the unsuspecting honesty of George
was imposed upon; a stranger to deceit himself,
he was too generous to suspect it in others. He
felt grateful that a youth of young Sandford's accomplishments
and correct deportment should
thus court his intimacy, and felt it a duty to make
every return in his power. He recollected the
advice of his dear father, to associate with none
but the good and the virtuous, and congratulated
himself on his good fortune in the choice he had
made. Almost every evening, during the winter,
was passed in each other's society.

Having thus succeeded, almost beyond his
hopes, in deceiving, Sandford had no doubt of
equal success in seducing. He began by occasionally
expatiating on the pleasures of sense in the
most glowing and exuberant language he could

command, and took frequent opportunities of reading
to him the poems of the voluptuous Moore, and
others who like him have prostituted their talents
in giving to the haggard looks of vice the most exquisite
coloring and captivating softness. All this,
however, produced no other effect on George than
that of drawing from him his most solemn protest
against the immoral tendency of such productions,
and some demonstrations of surprise at the taste
of his friend.

The mother of Sandford resided in Boston, and
our hero consented to accompany him thither on
one of his weekly visits. It was in the twilight of
a moonless evening in May, when they crossed
the bridge, and quite dark before they reached
their place of destination.

A servant received them at the door, and showed
them into an elegant parlour where a middle-aged
lady was sitting, who rose to receive them;
and welcomed her dear Thomas with many demonstrations
of pleasure. George was introduced
by his friend, who then left the room, and
in a few minutes returned with two beautiful girls,
his sisters.

Our hero now found himself very agreeably
situated, and wondered within himself why all
the female world were not so civil, polite, and
condescending as the trio with whom he was now
conversing, and he more than once complimented
Mrs. Sandford on the blessings she possessed in
two such daughters. The sweetest smiles and
kindest words were the answers he received to
every observation he made. “Excepting Catharine,
(thought he) Amelia, and Ellen, I have never
before seen such agreeable girls, and Mrs Sandford

is certainly the most amiable of women—my
aunt Cushing excepted.”

In a short time supper was introduced and invitingly
served up, when, by the kind interference
of his friend, George found himself seated at table
by the side of Maria, one of these pretty sisters.
The social glass went round, the conversation became
lively, and the polite attentions of his fair
entertainers unremitting. As soon as their repast
was finished, Sandford ordered more wine
for himself and his friend, while he requested
Maria to favor them with a few airs on the Piano
Forte. George earnestly seconded the request,
led her to the instrument, and listened to a sweeter
voice than he had ever heard, except Catharine's.
The subject was love, and the beautiful Maria
did it ample justice. George stood by her side,
and every tone reached his soul. The fair performer
would occasionally accompany some exquisite
cadence with a glance of tenderness from
her soft blue eyes, that made his every pulse throb
with an extatic sensation he had never before experienced.
He forgot himself, his friends, and
the world—forgot what he had drank, and accepted
a bumper from the attentive Sandford
whenever offered. Wine, music, and beauty, all
combined to charm his senses into a delightful
trance—he was absorbed in a sweet delirium,
and knew not, cared not, when or how it would
terminate.

Maria rose from the instrument, and in stepping
forward her foot caught in the carpet; she
must certainly have fallen, but for the fortunate
position of the bewildered George, who received
her in his arms. Her cheek was prest to his, and
her lovely breast throbbed against his wildly palpitating

bosom. Her long hair fell from the comb
that had sustained it, and in flowing luxuriance
enveloped them both in a kind of vail. His hand
was in hers, she unconsciously prest it, and they
sunk on an adjacent sopha with their burning lips
glued to each other's.

The mother, sister, and Sandford, had disappeared.
George Washington Willoughby was in
the arms of a prostitute!

And must the fair fabric of virtue, so industriously
erected by the best of parents, be in one
fatal moment destroyed? No. Though reason
slumbered, his guardian angel was awake, and
by what casuists would falsely call accident, directed
his eye to the floor, where lay the handkerchief
of Catharine Fleming, with the fortunate
G staring him full in the face.

With something like a shrick he sprang from
the guilty embrace of the astonished syren,
snatched the token of his Catharine from the
floor, and dropping on his knees ejaculated
with convulsive energy, “Almighty God. I thank
thee!” Then seizing his hat, darted into the
street, and left the town.

There is no such thing as accident or chance;
never was—never will be. Every occurrence
in the world, however trifling or accidental it may
appear, is brought to pass by some cause originating
in the spiritual world. All contingencies
or accidents, usually ascribed to chance or fortune,
are of divine providence, which operates in
such an invisible and incomprehensible manner,
for the sole purpose of preserving man in a state
of perfect liberty and freedom, so that he may
either attribute them to Providence or to chance.
If Providence always acted in a visible and comprehensible

manner, man would be compelled,
from this sensible appearance, to acknowledge it.
and yet he is such by nature, that in his life and
conduct he would contradict it. This is the reason
that miracles have so seldom wrought conviction
on the human mind.

Our not possessing discernment sufficient to
trace the connexion of those minute links which
unite the chain of more conspicuous events, is
no argument against the existence of such connexion.
One end of the chain is only visible to us,
the other is in the spiritual world.

It was a circumstance of no apparent consequence,
scarcely worth recording, that an agitated
female should take a few wrong stitches in a piece
of cambric; and thereby produce a letter but little
differing in form from the one she intended to
mark; yet, trifling as it may appear, that little
letter was the instrument of Providence in saving
her dearest friend from embarking on a sea of
guilty pleasures, where none escape shipwreck,
and few eternal destruction.

It would perhaps be doing injustice to the reader's
penetration to inform him that our hero had
not been introduced at Mrs. Sandford's, but to one
of those temples of pleasure which disgrace every
populous town. This scheme of villany had
been long hatching in the mind of Sandford, who
was confident of its success. The weak indulgence
of his mother supplied him with whatever
money he wanted, and that was a sufficient passport
to houses of this description, and removed
every difficulty in the arrangement of this deep-laid
plan of seduction. His mother and sisters
were personated by the most frail of their sex.
who had previously studied the parts they were

to perform, and the managers left the stage when
they saw the catastrophe of the drama at hand.
Sandford retired with his paramour chuckling at
his success, and anticipating the triumph which
awaited him.

Maria was almost frantic with rage, on seeing
her prey escape from the silken snare which had
been so artfully woven. She had anticipated a
rich harvest of gain from the artless “novice,” and
could not brook her disappointment. So much
confidence had she in her personal charms, that
a doubt of success had never crossed her mind;
what then must have been her mortification at
seeing those charms rejected with such coldness
and contempt, at the moment when she thought
them triumphant. She cursed George for a fool,
and pursued him to the door, but he had vanished.

For the part she had acted, Sandford had promised
a liberal reward, and this she resolved not
to forfeit by an impolitic report, and therefore retired
alone to her chamber. Sandford, who entered
the parlour soon after, had no doubt but his
friend had accompanied her, and at a late hour
departed for his mother's, clated with a pleasure
which devils alone might envy.

George was not acquainted with this part of
the town, but ran on, regardless of his course,
without once venturing to look behind him. When
he became a little more composed, he slackened
his speed, and began to reflect on the incidents of
the evening. Never before had he reflected on his
conduct with pain, but now, the picture filled him
with despair. Bewildered with the wine he had
drank, he knew not precisely of what he had been
guilty, but a general idea of impropriety pervaded
his mind.

“What have I done!” exclaimed he, smiting
his forehead—“how have I acted! I was a guest
in the family of my friend, who treated me like
their own son, and how shamefully have I repaid
their kindness and hospitality! how basely abused
their confidence! To get intoxicated, and then
attempt to corrupt the honor of an innocent artless
girl, who confided in me as the friend of her brother!
O my dear father! I am unworthy your
love! Amelia—Catharine—it would break your
hearts to know it. How can I look my injured
friend in the face? he will read my meditated
guilt and despise the wretch who could be tempted
to abuse his confidence. How damning are
the effects of drunkenness.”

Absorbed in such reflections as these, he pursued
his solitary way; a watchman directed him
to Cambridge-street, he crossed the bridge, arrived
at the College about midnight, and for the
first time retired to bed unhappy.