University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

A discovery; and another.

—Fenimore Cooper.

—Anon.

—Shakspeare.

—Swift.

—Coleridge.

We need not dwell upon the scenes which immediately followed
at the house of Mrs. Epsom, after the death of her unfortunate
daughter. It was soon to be abandoned by the personages
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 Emma Portland, the Johnsons, Eliza Atherton,

and the Littlejohns. His friendship with the manager
was unbroken; but he avoided the 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 content,
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. Spiffard
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 accompanied
him to the house of the general. Spiffard knew he was
absent. The general made frequent visits to Philadelphia—
some said to see his sister—some said, for other purposes. It
was 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 previously
detailed incidents of our story, which had been somewhat
mysterious to Emma, and perhaps to our readers.

A gentleman entered, whose voice, as he directed a coachman
to deposit his trunk in the hall, had made Emma start;
but she was startled still more, and shocked, when he was introduced
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 flattering perseverance—the worthy Alderman of
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. Spiffard,” 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 profligate,

ruffian and hypocrite, who had persecuted her; but her
accustomed presence of mind prevented any marked appearance
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 articulated
“Very happy that Miss Portland had called;” and before
the sentence was completed, Emma took leave of Miss Atherton,
(who not only reciprocated the American shake of the
hand, but saluted her with a kiss,) and taking the arm of Spiffard,
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 meaning,
“look aloft” and breathe freely, while the conscience-stricken
wretch writhes, and cowers, and shrinks in his presence.

Here stood the female orphan, poor in wordly endowments,
without relations, and without fortune; but rich in conscious
purity—with a mind unclouded by the remembrance of any act
which might suffise the face, or depress the eye.

Before her stood one possessed of wealth; endowed by education
with knowledge, and the means of acquiring wisdom;
enjoying the world's smiles, with health, strength, towering
strature, 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 annihilation;
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 deserve.
Of the hereafter—we 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 harmony
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 how Mrs. Williams did. Eliza thought there was something
very strange in the behaviour of her friends, and of the
general; but it might be attributed to their dislike to his character.
Her mind was soon after occupied altogether by the

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; promising
to return at farthest in two days.

Happily I am not under the necessity of going into a detail
of physical distress and mental agony; 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 observer,
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 tempered
by the consciousness of well doing, and alleviated by the
exertions to save. The sorrows and faults of those who we
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, despised,
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

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 confronting
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 been brought into
this country; and although surrounded in her father's house
by the contemners of every thing American, their opinions she
had learned to distrust, (for children at a very early age discern
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, although
one of the best and most favoured on earth, her portion
of its 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 received
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 sisters
with the country, she had paid particular attention to its
history and to its institutions. She had a strong mind 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 contrast
happy days of youth in her own country, with those of
the more sober decline of life, (however blessed by circumstances,)
which must arrive to all. Above all—she had a disposition
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 Pennsylvania.
After the last trying scene he remained for a time
at home. He was overwhelmed with grief at the premature

death of his beloved wife. He observed all decent forms
and ceremonies, as may be supposed. He had still an income,
(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
we 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 remainder
of his days in France. A monument in the cemetery
of Pere La Chaise commemorates his many virtues. 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 character,
may be supposed to feel, under circumstances of so extraordinary
a nature as had occurred to him. He sometimes
the sternness of his conduct towards his wife. He sometimes
reproached himself as the immediate cause of her death. He
treated her mother with tenderness. He felt no ties of a
strong or durable nature between himself and his former associates,
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 himself
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 companions
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 remembered
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

his attachment to Cooke, which seemed to increase as the veteran
became more infirm. This faithful servant called with a
note from the tragedian, and Spiffard, after reading it, and assenting
to its request, felt impelled to approach the mysterious
subject.

“Well, Trusty, all goes on famously at the theatre, I
suppose?”

“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?”

“Much the same. The flies will come round the honey-pot.”

“Open house still?”

“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. Cooke
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 behind-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

prove it—that all the 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 men who have abused my unsuspecting
faith?—Is it not better to remain in doubt?” These
suspecting 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 conjured
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 conclusions,
and yet the words you heard, if set to stand alone,
would fall down, like an empty bag set on end, and mean nothing.”

“It is true. But did you ever think that the whole affair—
do you know what it was?”

“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?' 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?”

“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?' and the manager would say, `No, no, we've had
enough of it'—and all put together, is as sure to me as confessions

to Father Luke. And so you see, sir, I know nothing
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 Allen 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. Spiffard.”

“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. Spiffard, and what I have told you may believe.”

“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 impulse
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 unfitted
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 suspicion,
or his conviction of their frivolous conduct. With
his friend, the manager, he made no change, except to withdraw
himself from his hospitable board; recent circumstances
were sufficient as his excuse.