University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
The philanthropist's family.

If my first introduction to the life of the philanthropic
Zachariah Longstraw (for that was his
name) was attended with circumstances of fear
and danger, I did not thereby escape those other
evils, which, as I hinted before, might have been
anticipated, had I reflected a moment on the situation
of his body. It was covered with bruises from
head to foot, and there was scarce a sound bone
left in it; so that, as I may say, I had, in reanimating
it, only exchanged anguish of spirit for
anguish of body; and which of these is the more
intolerable, I never could satisfactorily determine.
Philosophers, indeed, contend for the superior
poignancy of the former; but I must confess a
leaning to the other side of the question. What
is the pain of a broken heart to that of the toothache?
The poets speak of vipers in the bosom;
what are they compared to a bug in the ear? Be
this, however, as it may, it is certain I had a
most dreadful time of it in Mr. Longstraw's body;

and it would have been much worse, had not the
blows I had received on the head kept me for a
long time in a delirium, and therefore in a measure
unconscious of my sufferings. The truth is, the
body which I so rashly entered was in such a
dilapidated condition, so bruised and mangled, that
it was next to an impossibility to restore its vital
powers; and it was more than two weeks, after
lying all that time in a state of insensibility, more
dead than alive, before I came to my senses, and
remembered what had befallen me; and it was not
until four more had elapsed that I was finally able
to leave my chamber, and snuff the early breezes
of spring.

As soon as I began to take notice of what was
passing about me, I perceived that I lay in a good,
though plainly-furnished chamber, and that, besides
the physicians and other persons who occasionally
bustled around me, there were two individuals so
constantly in attendance, and so careful and affectionate
in all their deportment, that I did not doubt
they were members of my new family. Indeed, I
had no sooner looked upon their faces, and heard
their voices, than I felt a glow of satisfaction within
my spirit; which convinced me they were my very
dear and faithful friends, and that I loved them
exceedingly.

They were both young men, the one perhaps of
twenty-five, the other six or seven years older.
Both were decked in Quaker garments, the elder
being uncommonly plain in his appearance, wearing

smallclothes, shoe-buckles, and a hat with a
brim full five inches wide, which he seldom laid
aside. These gave him a patriarchal appearance,
highly striking in one of his youth, which was
much increased by an uncommon air of gravity
and benevolence beaming from his somewhat
swarthy and hollow visage.

The younger had no such sanctimonious appearance.
There was a janty look even in the cut of
his straight coat; he had a handsome face, and
seemed conscious of it; he swung about the room
at times with a strut that excited his own admiration;
and any three moments out of five he might
be seen before the looking-glass, surveying his
teeth, inspecting the sweep of his shoulders, and
brushing up his hair with his fingers. His plain
coat was set at naught by a vest and trousers of
the most fashionable cut and pattern; he had a gold
guard-chain, worn abroad, and his watch, which, in
all likelihood, was gold also, was stuck in his vest-pocket,
in the manner approved of by bucks and
men of the world, instead of being deposited, according
to the system of the wise, in a fob over the
epigastrium; and, to crown his list of vanities, he
had in his shirt a breastpin, which he took care to
keep constantly visible, containing jewels of seven
or eight different colours. It was manifest the
young gentleman, if a Quaker, as his coat showed
him to be, was quite a free one; and, indeed, the
first words I heard him utter (which were also the
first that I distinguished after rousing from my long

sleep of insensibility) set the matter beyond question.
I saw him peer into my face very curiously,
and directly heard him call out to his companion
—“I say, Snipe, by jingo, uncle Zack's beginning
to look like a man in his senses!”

These words imparted a sensation of pleasure to
my breast, but I felt impelled to censure the young
man for the freedom of his expressions. My
tongue, however, seemed to have lost its function;
and while I was vainly attempting to articulate
a reprimand, the other rushed up, and, giving me
an earnest stare, seized upon one of my hands,
which he fell to mumbling and munching in a highly
enthusiastic manner, crying out, with inexpressible
joy and fervour, “Blessed be the day! and does
thee open thee eyes again? Verily, this shall be
a day of rejoicing, and not to me only, the loving
Abel Snipe, but to thousands. Does thee feel better,
Zachariah, my friend and patron? Verily, the
poor man that has mourned for thee shall be now
as one that rejoices; for thee shall again speak to
him the words of tenderness, and open the hand of
alms-giving; yea, verily, and the afflicted shall
mourn no more!”

These words were even more agreeable than
those uttered by the junior; and I experienced a
feeling of displeasure when the latter suddenly cut
them short by exclaiming, “Come, Snipe, none of
thee confounded nonsense. I reckon uncle Zack
has had enough philanthropy for the season; and
don't thee go to humbug him into it any more.

Thee has made thee own fortune, and should be
content.”

“Verily, friend Jonathan,” said the fervent Abel
Snipe, addressing the junior, but still tugging at my
hand, “thee does not seem to rejoice at thee uncle's
recovery as thee should; but thee jokes and thee
jests sha'n't make my spirit rejoice the less.”

“Verily,” said Jonathan, “so it seems; but if
thee tugs at uncle Zack in that way, and talks so
loud, thee will do his business.”

“Verily,” said Abel—

“And verily,” said Jonathan, interrupting him,
“thee will say it is thee business to do his business;
which is very true—but not in the sense of
murder. So let us hold our tongues; and do thou,
uncle Zachariah,” he added, addressing me, “keep
thyself quiet, and take this dose of physic.”

It was unspeakable how much my spirit was
warmed within me by this friendly contest between
the two young men, and by their looks of affection.
I longed to embrace them both, but had not the
strength; and, indeed, it was three or four days
more before I felt myself able, or was allowed by
the physicians, to indulge in conversation.

At the expiration of that period I found myself
growing stronger; the twenty thousand different
pangs that had besieged my body, from the crown
of my head to the sole of my foot, whenever I
attempted to move, were less racking and poignant;
and, waking from a slumber that had been more
agreeable than usual, and finding no one near me

save the ever faithful Abel Snipe, I could no longer
resist the impulse to speak to him.

“Abel Snipe,” said I.

“Blessed be thee kind voice, that it speaks
again!” said Abel Snipe, devouring my hand as
before, and blubbering as he devoured.

“Thy name is Abel Snipe?” said I.

“Verily and surely, it is Abel Snipe, and no other,”
said he; “I hope thee don't forget me?”

“Why, really,” said I, “I can't exactly say,
friend Abel, seeing that there has a confusion come
over my brain. But art thou certain I am no longer
Abram Skinner?”

At this question Abel Snipe's eyes jumped half
out of his head, and they regarded me with wo and
horror. I saw he thought my wits were unsettled,
and I hastened to remove the impression.

“Don't be alarmed, friend Abel; but, of a verity,
I think I was killed and buried.”

“Yea,” said Abel; “yea, verily, the vile, ungrateful,
malicious John Smith did smite thee over
the head with a club, so that the bone was broken,
and thee was as one that was dead; but oh! the
villain! we have him fast in jail; and oh! the unnatural
rascal! we'll hang him!”

“Verily,” said I, feeling uncommon concern at
the idea, “we will do no such wicked deed; but
we will admonish the poor man of the wickedness
of his ways, and, relieving his wants, discharge
him from bondage.”

“Yea,” said Abel Snipe, with an air of contrition;

“so will we do, as becometh the merciful man
and Christian. But, verily, the flesh did quarrel
with the spirit, and the old Adam cried out to me,
`Blood for blood,' and the thing that is flesh
said, `Vengeance on the wicked man that smote
the friend of the afflicted!' But now thy goodness
reproves me, and teaches me better things: wherefore
I say, be not hard with the miserable man, for
such is the wicked, and such is John Smith; who
is now mourning over his foolish acts in the county
prison. Yea, verily, we will be exceeding lenient,”
—and so forth, and so forth.

I do not think it needful to repeat all the wise
and humane things said by Abel Snipe: they convinced
me he was the most benevolent of beings,
and warmed a similar spirit that was now burning in
my breast, and which burnt on until it became at last
a general conflagration of philanthropy. Yea, the
transformation was complete; I found within me,
on the sudden, a raging desire to augment the
happiness of my fellow-creatures; and wondered
that I had ever experienced any other passion.
The generous Abel discoursed to me of the thousands
I—that is, my prototype, the true Zachariah
—had rescued from want and affliction, and of the
thousands whom I was yet to relieve. My brain
took fire at the thought, and I exulted in a sense
of my virtue; I perceived, in imagination, the tear
of distress chased away by that of gratitude; I
heard the sob of sorrow succeeded by the sigh of
happiness, and the prayer of beseeching changed

to the prayer of praise and thanksgiving. A gentle
warmth flowed from my bosom through the uttermost
bounds of my frame, and I felt that I was a
happy man; yea, reader, yea, and verily, I was at
last happy. My only affliction was, that the battered
condition of my body prevented my sallying
out at once, and practising the noble art of charity.
The tears sprang into my eyes when Abel recounted
the numbers of the miserable who had
besieged my doors during my two weeks of insensibility,
crying for assistance.

“Why didst thou not relieve them, Abel Snipe?”
I exclaimed.

“Verily,” said Abel, turning his eyes to heaven
with a look of fervent rapture, “I did relieve the
sorrowing and destitute even to the uttermost
penny that was in my pocket. Blessed be the deed,
for I have not now a cent that I can call my own.
As for thine, Zachariah, it became me not to dispense
it, without thy spoken authority; the more
especially as thy nephew, Jonathan, did hint, and
vehemently insist, that thou hadst bestowed too
much already for thy good, and his.”

These words filled me with concern and displeasure.

“Surely,” said I, “the young man Jonathan is
not averse to deeds of charity?”

“Verily,” said Abel, clasping his hands, and
looking as if he would have wept, “the excellent
and beloved youth doth value money more than
the good which money may produce; and of that

good he esteemeth chiefly the portion that falleth
to his own lot. Of a surety, I do fear he hath an
eagerness and hankering, a fleshly appetite and an
exceeding strong desire, after the things of the
world. He delighteth in the vanity of fine clothes,
and his discourse is of women and the charms
thereof. He hath bought the picture of a French
dancing-woman, and hung it in his chamber, swearing
(for he hath a contempt for affirmation) that it
is a good likeness of the maiden Ellen Wild; and
yesterday I did perceive him squeaking at a heathenish
wind-instrument, called a flute, and thereupon
he did avow an intention to try his hand at
that more paganish thing of strings, called a fiddle;
and, oh! what grieved me above all, and caused
the spirit within me to cry `avaunt! and get thee
away, Jonathan,' he did offer me a ticket, of the
cost of one dollar, to procure me admission into
the place of sin and vanity, called the theatre,
swearing `by jingo' and `by gemini' there was
`great fun there,' and offering to lend me a coat,
hat, and trousers, so that the wicked should not
know me. Yea, verily, the young man is as a
young lion that roameth up and down—as a sheep
that wandereth from the pinfold into the forbidden
meadows—and as for charity, peradventure thee
will not believe me, but he averred, `the only
charity he believed in was that which began at
home.' ”

These confessions of the faithful Abel in relation
to the young man Jonathan, caused my spirit to

wax sorrowful within me. But it is fitting, before
pursuing such conversations further, that I should
inform the reader who the faithful Abel and the
young man Jonathan were.

The latter, as Abel himself informed me, was
my—or, if the reader will, my prototype's—nephew,
the only, and now orphan, son of a sister, who
had married, as the phrase is, “out of meeting,”
and, dying destitute, left her boy to the
charge of the benevolent Zachariah, who, being
himself childless, adopted him as his son and heir,
and had treated him as such, from his childhood
up. The great wish of Zachariah was to make
the adopted son a philanthropist, like himself; in
which, however, he was destined to disappointment;
for Jonathan was of a wild and worldly turn,
fond of frolic and amusement, and extremely averse
to squander in works of charity the possessions he
designed applying in future years to his own benefit.
Nevertheless, he was greatly beloved by his
uncle; and I, who was imbued with that uncle's
spirit, and destined to love and abhor what he had
loved and abhorred, whether I would or not, soon
began to regard him as one of the two apples of
my eyes.