University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
In which Sheppard Lee is prepared for the brilliant destiny that
awaits him.

There were many things in the conversation of
my friend Tickle which I did not exactly comprehend,
though I had a vague, confused appreciation
of all, and afterward understood him well enough.
The fact is, I was in the same difficulty which had
beset me when scarce warm in the body of Mr.
Higginson, that is, a confusion of characters, propensities,
and associations, only that the last were
imperfect, as if my memory had suddenly given
way; and besides, the difficulty was in both cases
increased by the feeling of amazement with which,
for several hours, when properly conscious of it, I
pondered over the marvel of my transformation.
How such a thing could happen, or had happened,
I knew no more than the man in the moon: it was
a new thing in the history of man, and there was
nothing in philosophy (at least, such philosophy as
I had at that time) to explain it. I had certainly
done nothing, on my part, in either case, to effect a
change, save merely wishing it; and it seemed to
me that I possessed a power, never before known
to a human being, of transferring my spirit from
body to body, whenever I willed, at least, under
certain circumstances. But on this subject I will
have more to say hereafter.

Happen how and by what means it might, it was
certain a transfer had taken place; and that I was
no longer the poor miserable John H. Higginson,
with the gout and a scolding wife; the conception
and full consciousness of which were so rapturous,
that I suddenly bounded on my feet, and danced
about like a madman, now running to the glass to
admire my youthful and elegant appearance, and
now flinging my arms round the neck of my friend,
and hugging him twenty times over.

The conversation that passed between us was
exceedingly joyous and varied; though, as I said
before, I had but an imperfect understanding of
many things Tickle said; for which reason I will
record no more of his expressions, lest they should
confuse the reader's mind, as they did mine. Some
things, however, I gathered from him in relation to
my catastrophe and resuscitation which are proper
to be told.

It seems that when I—that is, John H. Higginson—wished
I were, or might be, the defunct,
Dulmer Dawkins, I fell down under a sudden
stroke of apoplexy, which was supposed to be
caused by my exertions to rescue the unfortunate
beau; and, indeed, I saw in the first newspaper
I looked into, upon getting to Philadelphia afterward,
a long account of my demise, with a highly
eulogistic and affecting account of my heroism in
sacrificing my life for another's; for, as the paragraph
stated, I was of a full and plethoric habit,
strongly inclined to apoplexy, of which I was

aware myself, as well as of the danger of over
exertion; and therefore my act was the more truly
heroic. The paper was of a highly democratic
character, and the notice was closed by a ferocious
warning to the young bug of aristocracy (meaning
the elegant and fashionable. I. Dulmer Dawkins),
“to remember, when wasting his trivial existence
in that heartless society, whose pleasures were
obtained at the expense of their worthier, though
poorer fellow-creatures, that the preservation of it
had cost the nation one of its most excellent citizens,
and the world a virtuous man and pure patriot:”—
by which I understood that John H. Higginson
was of the democratic party; although that
was a circumstance of which the gout and my wife
had kept me ignorant, as long as I lived in his body.

As for me—that is, I. D. Dawkins—being lugged
into the tavern, along with my late tenement,
the body of John H. Higginson, I was fallen foul
of by all hands; and what with tweaking my nose,
beating my arms, scorching my legs with hot
bricks, flaying me with salt, whiskey, spirits, and
such things, and filling my lungs with dust and
ashes from an old fire-bellows, I was brought to life
again, greatly to the triumph of my tormentors, before
the appearance of a physician; who, however,
subsequently assured me they had revived me with
such effect as to give him double trouble to keep
me in the land of the living afterward; for it seems,
after being more dead than alive all that night, I had
remained in a kind of stupor all the following day,

from which I awoke on the second morning, well
enough, as the doctor prognosticated I would be,
but only after I had remained more than thirty-six
hours in a state of insensibility.

As for my body—that is, Higginson's—it had the
honour, after being cogitated over by the coroner,
of riding home in my splendid barouche, with the
thousand-dollar hourses; but whether my wife went
with it or not, I never cared to inquire. It was
enough she was gone; and oh, rapture of raptures!
gone for ever.

My friend Tickle illuminated me as to other matters,
especially in relation to the fair Miss Smith;
with whom, it seems (and I recollected all about it
when he had set my new associations properly to
work), I had been quite particular, until he himself
discovered the insolvency of her father's estate;
when (and this I began to recollect in the same
manner) I instantly turned my attentions upon another—the
fair Miss Small—who jilted me. These
things, I say, I soon began to recall to mind, as
well as many other incidents in the past life of I.
Dulmer Dawkins; and, indeed, in the course of a
few days, I was as much at home in his body, and
among his affairs, as he had ever been himself.
But of this anon. I learned that Mr. Periwinkle
Smith, after seeing me lodged in the tavern, had
driven off to town to engage medical assistance;
and this he did so effectually, that I had no less
than seven doctors at one time to send me their
bills; which was a very foolish thing of them.

Of these things, I say, I discoursed with my
friend Jack Tickle, whose conversation, together
with the happy consciousness I had of my transformation,
infused inexpressible vivacity into my
spirits. I was marvellously pleased at the idea of
being a fine young fellow, with the freedom of
chip-chop society; and I was impatient to return to
the city to enjoy my happiness.

“Bravo!” said Jack; “we'll walk in together.
But do you know, Dawky,” he went on, nodding
and winking, “that this is a cursed no-credit place,
and that the man below betrayed a certain vulgar
anxiety about scot and lot, and the extra expenses
you had put him to? What do you say about paying?”

“Really,” said I, clapping my hands into my
pockets, “I have forgotten my pocketbook!”

“To be sure you have,” said Tickle, laughing;
“but why need you tell me so? I am no shop-keeper.”

“I mean,” said I, in alarm, “demmee, that I
have lost it, and with that hundred-dollar bill my
brother Tim—”

“Your brother Tim!” said Tickle; “who's he?”

I was struck all aback. I remembered that I
was I. D. Dawkins.

Tickle perceived my confusion, and enjoyed it,
attributing it to another cause.

“Right!” said he, grinning with delight; “but
don't make any pretence with me. I didn't expect
you to have any money; and, the Lord be thanked,

I have. I'll square your account, my dear fellow,
and help you to a pigeon besides.”

With these words, and many others not needful
to be mentioned, he led the way down stairs, where
he became astonishingly grave and dignified—a
peculiarity I found myself falling into—slapped his
ratan against his legs, called for “his friend Dawkins's
bill,” and paid it—that is, I suppose he did,
for I stalked out upon the porch, as if I considered
such vulgar matters beneath my notice.

Here, being soon joined by Tickle, and the day
proving uncommonly fine, we set out on foot towards
the city; and I was conducted by my friend
to the door of my own lodgings.