 | Traits of American life |  |
THE LOTTERY TICKET.
Life's proud summit would'st thou scale?
Check thy climbing step elate,
Evils lurk in felon wait,
While cheerful peace, with linnet song,
Chants the lowly dells among.”
Burns.
Dick Woodcock was the only child of a respectable
farmer, living in one of the interior counties
in the state of New York. The father was a
practical agriculturalist, in the true definition of the
term; that is, he practiced himself the theories he
recommended to others; and in guiding a plough,
or in wielding a scythe or sickle, few in the neighbourhood
equalled, none excelled him. He was
also famed (and why need fame be appropriated to
the hero or poet only?) for keeping his estate in
thorough repair. Not a furlong of fence was wanting,
not a board hung endwise from any of his numerous
buildings, nor was an old hat ever seen
protruding its unmannerly crown through a casement
in his snugly-planned and comfortably-finished
habitation.
The consequences of such industrious thrift may
easily be divined. He was prosperous, respected
and happy. Dick was his only child—a fine-looking,
noble-spirited boy he was—the pride of his
parents, and a pattern for all the little boys in the
village where he dwelt. He was up with the robin
in the morning, and you might hear his whistle as
gay as its song, while he followed and emulated
his father's industrious movements through a long
summer day.
Many there were who advised Mr. Woodcock
to send his boy to college; and, to confess the
truth, his paternal pride would have been gratified
with the eclat of a liberal education for his son.
But he finally abandoned the scheme, partly because
he had the good sense to discover (and this he
did without knowing a word of phrenology, which
shows that the truth of the science may exist without
the theory being understood) that his son had
not the developments of a natural-born genius;
but chiefly because he could not bear to think his
excellent farm would be, at his decease, transferred
to the possession of strangers. He knew this must
probably be the case, should his son become a scholar;
and indeed his father would not have desired
him to return to the plough with all his college
“honours thick upon him.”
Mr. Woodcock was a patriot of the old school,
he thought both the best, without expecting, for his
faithfulness, worldly honour or emolument—asking
favours of none, save Heaven—esteeming an
honest man the noblest work of God—and an independent
American farmer as the most enviable
of all beings on the face of the earth. Thus he
lived, at peace with himself and with all men; and
when he died, his eulogium was the tear of unaffected
sorrow for the loss of a useful citizen, and a
pious Christian.
Dick was just nineteen when his father died;
but he wrote himself a man, and was so considered
by all his acquaintances. And none of those
prophecies of ruin to a fine estate, which are so
often breathed forth when the accumulator is laid
in the dust, were uttered on this occasion.
“He is gone,” said Colonel Piper, “but he has
left a worthy son, who will tread in his father's
steps.”
“Ay, ay,” rejoined Dr. Soda, “there'll be no
falling off, I'll warrant ye. Dick will keep the
body of his estate sound; he'll not hurry the circulation,
as some young heirs would.”
“Mr. Woodcock began the world with little or
nothing,” said squire Stapleton, “and he has left
property worth at least $10,000; if Dick makes as
in town.”
“And he is now one of the steadiest,” interrupted
deacon Church. “I always see him at meeting
o' Sundays, and I never heard him accused of a
vice, or even folly.”
The ladies, too, were unanimous in their praises
of Mr. Richard Woodcock; each remembering and
retailing some anecdote of his cleverness and intelligence;
and all rejoicing that his widowed mother,
in her hour of bereavement and sorrow, had
such a prop on which she might lean for support.
The young ladies might, perhaps, have felt rather
self-interested in his possessing a character
as fair as his estate, had they not been deprived of
all hope of obtaining such a prize: but they well
knew the young and handsome heir was already
engaged. And had not Chloe Harris been one of
the best girls in the world, her flattering expectations
must have excited envy among her associates.
But Chloe was so sweet-tempered, so unpretending,
so dutiful and industrious at home, and so
obliging to her friends, that her superior beauty,
and even the superior fortune to which she seemed
destined, were thought but the reward of her
merits.
Dick and Chloe had been companions from infancy,
and had loved before either ever read a
tender passion. Their affection was, therefore,
the dictate of nature, pure as her zephyrs, and
sweet as her roses; no vanity was flattered in their
preference for each other; no caprice indulged in
their intercourse; each “loved and was beloved,”
and the completion of Dick's majority was assigned
for their union—for ever. Alas! that the demon
of Chance should blast this fair prospect of happiness.
In an evil hour Dick became possessor of a Lottery
Ticket; and if the motive could ever hallow
such a purchase, it would seem as if his must have
been laudable. He purchased it as an act of
humanity. A poor man, whose wife was sick and
in need of many necessaries, came to him, and relating
the story of his wants and woes, produced
the card of fortune, which he, it seems, had won
at a game of bowls, and begged Dick to purchase
it. Dick's feelings were compassionate—he would
willingly have afforded relief to the suffering woman
without any reward; but he knew the man,
even should the ticket be a prize, would not be
benefited by the windfall, as his habits were not
good, while the ten dollars would most probably
be applied to make his family comfortable, in the
exigence which really seemed to have touched his
heart with sorrow, and his conscience with compunction.
ticket; and repeating three several times to himself,
“It will certainly draw a blank,” he deposited
it carefully in his pocket-book.
However my young hero might flatter himself
with being perfectly unconcerned in the result of
the experiment, there was, that evening, a restlessness
in his feelings which he had never before experienced;
and when he laid himself down to
sleep, a thousand busy schemes and wild fancies
floated on his imagination. Golden dreams hovered
over his pillow; gay visions seemed beckoning
him to bowers of pleasure, and he awoke in a state
of fevered excitement, that, although it might presage
happiness, was very far from deserving that
epithet. He had now a new theme for speculation,
and the possibility of obtaining a prize rendered
information concerning the management of
lotteries far more necessary and important than the
cultivation of his farm. Even his visits to his beloved
Chloe were shortened; yet he intended fully
to repair his negligence when he could surprise
her with the tidings of his good fortune, and call
on her to assist him in forming plans for the enjoyment
of his wealth.
Ah, dear deluding Imagination! How lofty are
thy structures; how unclouded thy horizon; how
placid thy waters; how enchanting thy landscapes!
look, a breath, will dissolve such magnificence,
darken such brightness, disturb such tranquillity,
or deform such loveliness! But, Imagination, thou
art a false meteor, and whoever quits the steady
way of reason to follow thy delusive light, will
find a faithless guide—it glitters but to betray.
The important drawing was, at length, after various
delays, completed, and Dick received a confirmation
of his sanguine hopes. He had drawn
the prize! the highest prize! $50,000!! Ah,
Pleasure, canst thou come in a brighter form than
in the golden shower?
Well, I say nothing of Dick's feelings on this
occasion—they were too sublime for description;
but his friends congratulated; the world (by this
term I mean all who ever heard of Dick or his
good fortune) talked, and wondered, and envied;
and about five hundred tickets, in the “Second
Class,” were immediately purchased, mostly by
young men in that village and vicinity; the purchasers
all sanguine in the hope of obtaining a
similar prize. What a mercy that they were all
disappointed!
Dick had now become lord of himself; and, according
to previous arrangements, should have
been married to Chloe Harris. But he postponed
the wedding till he had visited the city and secured
Solomon, and our golden-fledged hero fully proved
the truth of the apothegm. The gentlemen to
whom he was introduced in the city, lavished on
him expressions of attachment, and offers of assistance:
cards and compliments gratified his vanity,
déjeûners and dinners his appetite, till the parade
and pleasures of the commercial metropolis made
him think the pursuits of a country life “weary,
stale and flat,” indeed, if not “unprofitable.”
There was one young merchant, by the name of
Ashton, to whom Dick became particularly attached.
Ashton was gay, intelligent, and insinuating;
and it is not wonderful a young and inexperienced
heart should be deluded by his fair seeming. He
soon perceived the ascendancy he had gained over
the mind of Dick, and employed it to convince
him that a life passed in the retirement of the
country must be monotonous and miserable; and
that, to insure himself permanent felicity and an
immense increase of wealth, it was only necessary
to enter into partnership with him, Mr. Augustus
Ashton, and fix his residence in the city. His
artifices were ingenious, and arguments specious—
that they were deceitful and unsound the event
proved: but perhaps, under like circumstances,
older and wiser men than Mr. Woodcock might
not have discovered their fallacy.
Ashton introduced him to his sister. She was
very pretty, and highly accomplished—that is, she
dressed elegantly, danced gracefully, and played
divinely. Dick loved music, naturally—he had
never read Shakspeare, and knew nothing descriptively,
about the “concord of sweet sounds,” yet
his ear delighted in harmony, and he had, for several
years, been esteemed the very best singer in his
own village meeting-house. But such airs—such
symphonies, he had never listened to before! Oh!
when the fair Belinda Ashton touched her instrument,
his very soul seemed to thrill, and was indeed
“wrapped in Elysium!”
There was, at this time, but one circumstance
which prevented Dick's felicity from being perfect;
and that was such a trifle that I am almost
ashamed to mention it. But somehow, trifles do
form our happiness, and trifles will make us miserable;—he
had become disgusted with his name.
Woodcock!—it was not a romantic or heroic name,
to be sure, but it had always sounded well enough
in the rustic place in which it was his lot to be
born, and where he might have lived and died
without discovering its uncouthness. Now such
bliss of ignorance was denied him, for he had, one
fatal evening, overheard two city ladies repeating
it with peculiar accents of ridicule. He never afterwards
could endure it; and on disclosing to
friend assured him it might easily be removed.
An application to the legislature for leave to alter
his name was all that was necessary.
Now was the fancy and taste of Miss Belinda
Ashton exercised and displayed, in selecting a
name for the friend of her dear brother. It would
require a volume to record all the consultations
held concerning this important matter. Novels
were ransacked, characters compared, sounds and
syllables criticised. The labours of Webster,
when tracing the etymology of bridegroom, would
have yielded in intensity to this name-seeking research.
Finally, Beaumont was the fortunate
name which had the honour of receiving the preference.
Ashton posted, forthwith, to Albany,
where the legislature was, providentially (as Dick
thought, though he did not dare to allude to such
a cant word as Providence in the presence of Belinda),
then in session, to expedite the alteration;
and Dick hastened home to arrange his affairs, and
prepare for a permanent residence in the city of
New York.
He still intended to fulfil his engagements with
Chloe Harris; yet there were several reasons which
urged a further delay. He wished to settle in
business, and acquaint himself more fully with the
customs of the city, before introducing his wife
though he shrunk from expressing it, that she
could become more accomplished before making
her debut. There was a strife between his newly-awakened
vanity and his early affection, which the
woman who loved as Chloe did, could not fail of
perceiving. It wounded her to the heart—and
when he saw her sorrowful, his first feelings of
tenderness were awakened, and he would dwell on
the scenes of happiness which awaited them, with
all the lover's enthusiasm; but when, in the ardour
of his passion, he pressed her hand, another vision
arose. He sighed while he lamented that she
had never been taught to awaken the piano. “It
would now be vain to attempt it,” said he; “you
have, my dear Chloe, been obliged to work so
much, that your hand would never be quite pretty
enough for display; nothing looks so lovely as a
soft, white hand, when just touching the keys with
a motion that gives the fingers the appearance of
glancing sunbeams.”
From that evening Chloe despaired of ever
making him happy. However, she listened to his
promises of a speedy return, without exhibiting
any distrust; and it was not till after he had departed
for the city, that she wept in bitterness over
her withered hopes. That they were to be blasted,
a few months decided. A paper from New
Beaumont, merchant, to the amiable and accomplished
Miss Belinda Philomela Ashton.
Such an outcry as it raised in the village of —.
“What, Dick Woodcock married to a city miss!”
said Colonel Piper. “He'll pay dearly for his
whistle, I guess. Fine birds must have fine feathers.”
“He never will prosper in this world—that's
certain,” said Miss Clarissa Comstock; a maiden
lady, whose age gave her authority as an oracle.
“It is a bad business, dealing in lottery tickets,”
observed Doctor Soda, who, by the way, had drawn
three blanks. “Riches got in such a hasty manner
never wear well.”
“'Tis a pity, truly a pity, and I mourn that one
so promising should fall into error,” said the
clergyman, who was truly benevolent and sincere.
In short, not a person in the town, except Chloe
Harris, was silent on the occasion of Dick's fickleness
and faithlessness. Even his own mother,
dearly as she loved him, and proud as she was of
his prosperity, acknowledged he was greatly to be
blamed. Many talked of a prosecution, and guessed
that Chloe might obtain full half of his fortune
as her damages; but none dared hint such a manner
of revenge to the fair, injured, but uncomplaining
girl.
A short time, however, brought a letter from
the recreant swain to his forsaken mistress, in
which he made many awkward attempts at apology;—declaring
his friendship for her unalterable,
wished her a better husband than ever he should
make; and finally, begged her acceptance of a
draft for $1000, which his letter enclosed, as some
reparation of the wrong he had done her.
This is a speculating and selfish age; and to
think “money will answer all things,” is too much
the characteristic of Americans. Shame on them,
that, with their high privileges of intellectual, moral,
and civil improvement, they should make gold
their god! Even ladies have not escaped the contamination
of selfishness. A few hundred dollars
will dry the weeping eyes of the most despairing
damsel, and make her think the defection of her
plighted swain a very lucky speculation—and so,
instead of breaking her own heart, she very coolly
determines to break his credit, comforting herself
with the thought that cash is more current than
love. Such is avarice. Honour, patriotism, religion,
even delicacy and affection, are sacrificed on
the altar of avarice. God of my country! is there
no word of power can exorcise this demon from
among us!
The noble mind of Chloe Harris disdained such
a mercenary appeal. She had loved Richard fondly,
she could not forget her tenderness; and now,
should she accept of paltry gold as an equivalent
for his affection? No—she spurned the base idea.
She returned him his letter and draft, without
comment or expostulation, leaving the injuries he
had done her to God and his own conscience for
accusation and punishment. Her faded cheek and
melancholy eye alone told the tale of her wrongs
and her sorrows, and the pity of her friends was
only exhibited by added respect and increased attentions
and tenderness towards the dignified and
innocent sufferer.
Thus passed away two years, during which
time they frequently heard of Mr. Beaumont,
alias Dick Woodcock, and of the splendid style in
which he was figuring. Many of the old people
shook their heads, and observed they feared (that
is, hoped) he would see hard times before he died;
but nearly all the young men thought him a very
fortunate and happy fellow. Dick could have told
them a different tale. Yet few grow wise by the
mistakes of others; it is only by experience we
are convinced that gaiety is not happiness. Dick
had surfeited on the pleasures of the world, and
found them fallacious. He had been introduced to
every fashionable amusement, and when their novelty
was gone, they were amusements no longer.
and found his peace and health and fortune were
to be sacrificed in the pursuit. He was new to sin,
and open to reproof; and had he but possessed one
faithful friend, to have warned him of his danger,
and pointed out the means of escape, he might
have been rescued from ruin. But he had forsaken
those who loved him for himself, and was
surrounded by a set of interested sharpers and
holyday-friends, who only wished to fleece him of
his substance, or feed at his expense.
His wife was all sentiment in her expressions,
and all selfishness in her heart. She had married
him solely for his fortune, and seemed determined,
by the extravagance of her expenditures, to make
herself amends for what she considered her sacrifice
of dignity in the connexion with an uneducated
country booby. In short, Dick found his elegant
house was only for the accommodation of company;
that the costly furniture was all arranged for parties;
that his servants were kept to wait upon his
guests, and his wife's smiles, and music, and taste,
and time, were all devoted to the entertainment of
those she thought better worth her attention than
her husband.
Where now was the social hearth, the kindred
smile, the domestic confidence, he had been educated
to enjoy? Too late he repented his infatuation.
modest virtues and home-loving disposition; of the
estimation in which all his wishes had been held
by her, and—but it was “too late”—the die was
cast; onward he must go, knowing, also, that the
end would be ruin.
It seemed as if fortune, with her proverbial inconstancy,
now sought to torment and disappoint,
as much as she had before favoured him; almost
every speculation into which he entered, owing
either to his own ignorance, or the villany of those
with whom he was concerned, was unsuccessful;
and from what might well have been termed an
independent fortune, he soon began to be in want
of money. To relieve himself from some of his
embarrassments he disposed of his paternal estate,
which he had left in the management of his mother.
This, he feared, would give her uneasiness,
but knew not how to avoid it.
When the new owner arrived at the village, and
announced to Mrs. Woodcock the purchase of the
farm, not even excepting the reversion of her
dower, she seemed thunderstruck; but when he
actually took possession, her reason well nigh deserted
her. She had borne the death of her husband
with the fortitude of a Christian,—that was an
inevitable evil. She had been cheerful, too, under
the desertion of her son, for she was a bustling
her mind, and prevented her from dwelling on the
dangers to which he was exposed. But now she
was bereft of all—and to see the fields her husband
had cultivated, the trees he had planted, the house
he had erected, in the possession of a stranger,
while she had none to “soothe her passage to the
grave,”—her mind could not support it. A nervous
fever attacked her; and now it was that the
strength and disinterestedness of Chloe Harris's
affection for her first and only love was tested.
She lavished on the mother the tenderness, which
neither his falsehood nor time had destroyed, towards
the son. Day and night she sat by her pillow,
and tended and soothed her, as if she had been
indeed her mother. And when the poor heartbroken
woman wept over the follies, and predicted
the ruin of her prodigal, Chloe always found some
extenuating circumstance to urge in his favour,
even while weeping herself at the remembrance of
his cruelty and injustice. A short time, however,
terminated the sufferings of Mrs. Woodcock. She
died blessing Chloe, and charging her with reproofs
and forgiveness for her erring son.
Richard had been informed of his mother's illness,
but did not—perhaps could not—visit her, and
she was laid in the grave, and wept only by Chloe.
From that day, the sweet girl seemed pining with
she had loved was happy, she had endeavoured to
bear her own disappointment unmurmuring; but
now, when convinced that he had sacrificed his own
peace and honour at the shrine of folly, and that
the day was not far distant when, deprived of his
fortune, he must be degraded and miserable, she
wept for him as well as for herself; and her sorrow,
joined with the fatigue she had undergone in nursing
Mrs. Woodcock, soon terminated in a quick
consumption. She welcomed the approach of death
as a kind messenger, which would bear her from a
world of sorrow to a region of peace, and departed
without a struggle. Before her strength was exhausted,
she had written a letter to Dick, in which,
after detailing the scenes of his mother's death, and
delivering her dying admonitions, she adverted to
her own situation, briefly describing the tortures
he had inflicted on her trusting heart, and concluded
by saying—“Before this meets your eye, I
shall be laid in the calm and silent grave. I die
willingly—I die peacefully—but—oh! Richard,
how will you meet the king of terrors? When
that hour approaches, assure yourself of my forgiveness;
yes, when your own conscience speaks
in thunders, let my remembrance whisper forgiveness
of all I can forgive. Would that I could assure
you of the pardon of heaven! Farewell! farewell!
had given directions that it should not be sent till
after her death.
Dick, meanwhile, was suffering the penalty of
his faults. Partly to stifle reflection, and partly
yielding to example, he had become a gambler, and
always losing, as is generally the case with novices
in this pastime, his ruin had become inevitable.
Attachments were levied upon his property;—if he
went abroad, he was assailed by duns—at home, he
was met with reproaches, till he felt existence a
burden, and even breathed blasphemous wishes,
that he might be annihilated.
It was during one of these paroxysms of desperation
that the letter from Chloe Harris was put
into his hands. He recollected the hand-writing,
and trembled; yet there were sweet feelings mingled
with his terrific ones. He thought of her
love, of the happy hours they had passed together,
of the happy life they had anticipated—his heart
melted; he kissed the signature, while his eyes
were filled with tears. He broke the seal, but
when he had read the contents, the whirlwind of
his passions defied control. His dying mother—his
darling Chloe—he saw them—he heard their meek
voices raised to bless the wretch who had sacrificed
them to his vanity!
“Oh!” exclaimed he—“if they had only cursed
—I would have bowed down in the dust, and submitted
to any punishment. Yes; I deserve the
most horrible!” and then he raved against his own
folly, and called heaven's vengeance on the villain
who had betrayed him, till his strength was exhausted—then
recurring to the forgiveness of those
injured beings, his soul softened, and he wept aloud.
Forming a hasty resolution to quit a place which
had become intolerable to him, he took passage in
a vessel which was just getting under sail for New
Orleans. He took no leave of his wife—all was
the effect of a momentary determination. During
the voyage he was gloomy and abstracted—his
only satisfaction being derived from perusing the
letter of Chloe Harris, which he kept constantly in
his bosom. Sick at heart, when he landed at New
Orleans he took no precautions to guard against the
yellow fever, which was then prevailing: it attacked
him, and in three days from the time he landed,
pressing the letter of Chloe to his bosom, he fervently
ejaculated—“O God! forgive me!” and
expired.
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