University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
In which the catastrophe is continued.

I was, indeed, so shocked, so overwhelmed, by
ingratitude coming from such a quarter, that it was
some time before I could recover myself sufficiently
to think of the steps necessary to be taken for my
preservation. I remembered, however, that he,
even he, my thrice unfeeling nephew, had recommended
me to borrow of my friends what would
be enough to retrieve my affairs from ruin. I ran
from the house, not doubting that I could easily

raise the sum. Fifty paces distant was my new
house—that is, Jonathan's. My old friend Ebenezer,
the father of the maid Ellen, was standing
before it, looking up to the carpenters, who were
nailing the shingles on the roof.

“Ebenezer,” said I, “thee is my friend—does
thee know I am on the brink of ruin?”

“Very sorry,” said Ebenezer—“all the town-talk;
looked for nothing better. Perhaps thee will
sell the house—pho! I forgot; thee gave it to
Jonathan.”

“Ebenezer Wild,” said I, “if thee is my friend,
lend me that twenty thousand dollars. It will
save me from ruin.”

“Really, Mr. Longstraw,” said Ebenezer Wild,
(who was no Quaker, though his father had been
before him), “I am surprised a reasonable man
should make such a request. I have told you twenty
times you would ruin yourself by your cursed
philanthropy—can't consent to be ruined with you.
Pity you, Mr. Longstraw—awfully swindled;
wonder you could trust such a knave as Abel Snipe
—sorry to hear matters look so black for Jonathan
—thought better of him—quite unnatural to be defrauded
by one's own flesh and blood.”

What Ebenezer meant by his concluding remarks
I did not, at that moment, understand. But
I comprehended them well enough when I had run
to five or six other friends, rich men like him, all
of whom treated my request to borrow with as little
respect, while all wound up their commonplace

condolings by assuring me, first, that Abel Snipe
had swindled me; and, secondly, that there was
much reason to believe my nephew Jonathan had
done the same thing.

Reader, this is a very wicked world we live in.
My philanthropy did not make me, as philanthropy
often does, selfish with my friends. I felt as
much pleasure in obliging one who happened to be
in a difficulty, with a loan of any sum within my
reach, as in relieving actual distress. Of twelve
different persons whom I now sought in my dilemma,
I had in this manner, at different times, obliged
no less than eleven; of not one of whom could I
now borrow a dollar. Every man pitied my misfortune,
every one inveighed with becoming severity
against the villany of those by whom I was
ruined, but every one was astonished that a reasonable
man like me should expect another reasonable
man to part with his money. In short, it was evident
that my friends loved borrowing better than
lending; and I left the door of the twelfth with the
agreeable conviction on my spirit, that human nature
was of the nature of a stone, I being the only
man of the thousand million in the world that had
actually a heart in my bosom.

This consideration was racking enough; but it
made a small part of my distress. Every man had
charged my friend, honest Abel Snipe, with having
swindled me, as Ebenezer Wild had charged before;
and every one, in like manner, swore that my
nephew Jonathan had borne a part in the nefarious

transaction. This seemed to me incredible enough;
but when I remembered Jonathan's late behaviour,
his unexpected defection, his hard, unfeeling, nay,
his treacherous selfishness, I felt prepared to believe
almost any wickedness that might be said of
him.

I ran to Abel's office, resolved to sift the affair to
the bottom. The work was already done to my
hands; I found the office full of people, some of
whom were officers of the police, who had seized
upon books and papers, and (awful to be said!) the
body of Abel Snipe; and all raging with vociferation
and confusion, except the latter worthy, who
looked as if astounded out of his senses. “It's a
clear case of swindling,” cried a dozen voices as I
entered, “a design to defraud—fraud from beginning
to end; flagrant, scandalous, scoundrelly swindling—,
nay, worse than swindling—it is a conspiracy!
Jonathan has confessed it—been going on this
three months;—Jonathan has confessed it!”

Jonathan had confessed it! confessed what?
Why, confessed, as every one gave me to understand,
and confessed in the hands of justice (for it
seems he had been arrested), that he and Abel
Snipe had entered into a conspiracy to defraud me
of my property, which had been carried on from
the moment that the latter was established in business,
and was now completed by a long-designed
bankruptcy.

Let the reader imagine my feelings at this disclosure
of ingratitude and villany so monstrous.

My best friend—a man whom I had wrested from
the extremity of poverty and disgrace, and my only
relative—a youth whom I had adopted and reared
as my son, who was my heir at law, and the living
partner, as I may say, in all my possessions—had
leagued together feloniously to deprive me of what
I never denied them the privilege to share,—to rob,
to fleece, to reduce me to beggary.

Words cannot paint my grief. I crept away
from the scene of confusion, ashamed of my manhood,
ashamed even of my philanthropy. I reached
the door of my house; it was just dusk; a poor
man standing at the door implored my charity for a
miserable creature, as he called himself. “Go to
the devil!” said I.

“You are Zachariah Longstraw?” said another
man, tapping me on the shoulder. “I am,” said I,
supposing he was a beggar like the other; “and
you may go to the devil too.”

“Very much obliged to you,” said the man;
“but you're my prisoner; and so come along, if
you please.” And with that he took me by the
arm, and began to march me down the street.