University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

It was on the morning after the festivities of
Christmas, as Fitzvassal was conversing with Mr.
Temple, at whose house he resided when in town,
that a servant announced a woman in the hall who
desired to speak with him; at the same time the person
entered, being prompted by her characteristic impatience,

in whose dumpy figure and peculiar face,
he recognised no less an individual than Mistress Debora
Saultz. As she came forward, Mr. Temple
retired to another apartment.

“Lord 'a massy on us!” exclaimed the woman, as
she discovered in Fitzvassal the gentleman she had
been in search of; “do tell us if I have found
you at last!”

Fitzvassal received her courteously, and requested
her to be seated.

“Thank your kind heart!” replied the woman;
“well, I don't care if I do set down a bit, for it's pesky
cold this morning; the water friz in the pitcher
last night, and I e'en-a-most turned to an isuckle myself.
The rheumatiz troubles me a good deal too:—
did you ever have the rheumatiz?”

“It must be a very bitter morning!” said Fitzvassal,
turning his face toward the window, as if the
latter part of her speech had not been noticed, and
he were apprehensive that the garrulous old creature
would bore him to death.

“Pesky cold, as you ever saw;” replied Dame
Saultz, rubbing her leathery hands and holding
them to the blazing fire; “it's as much as Christian
folks can do to keep from freezing. And there I've
been tending a sick man, more's the pity! instead of
making mince-pies and squash-puddings; though I
don't care a farthing about Christmas; Thanksgiving's
the day for me. Now, last Thanksgiving, we

had the Rev. Mr. Morphine to dine with us; Goodman
Saultz, and me, and ever so many of us set
down to roast turkey and plumb-pudding.—Massy
on us! you can't think what a time we had a-making
pies and things—and the quantity of suet, and
plums, and citron, and butter—and—”

“Never mind,” said the buccaneer, who was already
tired out with her loquacity, “never mind,
Mistress Saultz;—you were just now speaking of
what you came about.”

“Lord'a massy! if I had'nt e'en-a-most forgotten
all about it. This comes of eating and drinking, and
a-taking of it so much. Well, if it is n't strange that
I should e'en-a-most have forgotten the very thing
I came about on purpose. So it is, strange enough!
strange enough, but we folks grow old before we
think of it, and then—”

“Your business, if you please, madam!” interrupted
the impatient mariner.

“Oh my business!” replied the dame, “Lauks!
you know it as well as I do. My goodman's Simon
Saultz, the apothecary who lives in Cornhill at the
corner of—”

“I remember very well,” groaned Fitzvassal.

“And I turn an honest penny by going out to
nurse, and laying out folks for the cooling-board.
Then I take in washing and ironing, and do a
plaguy many old chores about the house.”

“I'm afraid I take up too much of your time,

Mistress Saultz,” said the buccaneer, hoping that the
garrulous dame would take the hint and be off; “I
pray that you don't let me detain you a moment.”

“Lord'a massy on us! how these men-folks talk!”
exclaimed the woman—“they are full of implements
and flatteries;—bless your kind heart; I've got all the
live-long day before me, and you are welcome to the
whole of it—”

“God forbid!” ejaculated Fitzvassal, with earnest
solemnity.

“And that puts me in mind of what I came about
—for if you will only believe me, I've walked
e'en-a-most three long miles, and only on purpose to
see you.”

The mariner poked the fire in despair.

“Well you see,” resumed Mistress Saultz, “that
four days ago;—let's see,—yesterday was Christmas;
that's one; the thirty-mile man came the day
before with his eggs and poultry—and the day before
that—”

“For heaven's sake, Mistress Saultz!” exclaimed
Fitzvassal, starting up and walking the room, “do
tell me right out what you want me to do for you
this morning. I am not well, and have no leisure to
be idling any longer.”

“Lord'a massy on us! what's got into the man!
well if I must, I must, and there's an eend of it I
suppose: well, as I was going on to say, when you
interrupted me, it's now four days ago, since a man

called at the shop for medicine and nursery for a sick
man down at the Sea-Gull—”

“Ah!” replied Fitzvassal, becoming interested in
her business.

“As true as a sarmon,” continued Mistress Saultz,
“down at the Sea-Gull—you know the Sea-Gull?”

“Perfectly!”

“The man that keeps it is going to his reckoning,
or there's no truth in a death-watch—”

“Classon?” exclaimed the buccaneer, in a tone of
eager inquiry.

“Besides the death-watch, there was a winding-sheet
last night on the candle: Lord'a massy how
scared I was, to be sure!”

“Is Classon dying, did you say?”

“If you'd seen all the sights that I saw, you'd have
thought so—and a dog howled at midnight—and
the cows,—bless me what's that!” suddenly exclaimed
the nervous old nurse, starting at her own shadow.

“Did Classon send for me?” inquired Fitzvassal.

“No; I can't say that he did, exactly—but he
raved a good deal about his wife who died in a cellar—and
it seemed to me that it might have been—”

“I understand you, my good woman—many
thanks—many thanks!—you thought I might be interested
in the sick man—I understand you; no
more at present; no more now, I beseech you; go

back to him, I will be there in half an hour;—I
pray you leave me now.”

And he bowed her out of the room, which she left
rather unwillingly, saying:

“Mind now, you don't fail to come—for he is
awful sick, and if you—”

“Never fear,” replied Fitzvassal, closing the door
upon her gently; “the tedious old fool!”

“Can it be,” mused the buccaneer, “that Classon
is really dying? Well, I will go and see the poor
wretch;—perhaps I may be able to help him; for I
begin to sympathize with the sufferings of others, even
the most abandoned.”

For a few moments he paced the room absorbed in
such reflections.

“It is remarkable,” thought he, “that we should
not begin to feel for others, till we are ourselves
heart-steeped in misery! It seems to me now as if I
had within me a fountain that wells up for all mankind,—it
seems as if I could devote my life to the alleviation
of human distress! What was it Nameoke
said? `The crime you have already committed may
be removed far away by deeds of Charity.' But I
have added crime to crime, since then—and it is now
too late to go back!”

He then threw himself in a chair by the fire, while
his thoughts dwelt on the enchantress.

“Nameoke!” exclaimed he, thinking aloud, “who
are you? what link has bound our fortunes together?

why should you have cared for Fitzvassal? why
should you have interested yourself in his misfortunes?—Have
you also, like him, been heart-broken,
and crushed in your affections; and have you only
pitied him for that?”

Just then, Mr. Temple entered, and Fitzvassal, excusing
himself for not remaining, informed his venerable
friend that he had been called away to see a
sick mariner at the lower end of the town. He then
bowed and departed.

In about half an hour, the heart-sick step-son of
Classon arrived at the Sea-Gull. He passed the bar-room,
where sailors were as usual carousing, being
served by a carrot-headed boy with liquor. Mrs.
Saultz had already arrived.

“Lord'a massy on us,” said she, on discovering
him as she was descending the stairs, “how glad I
am that you are come; the man is as mad as a March
hare, e'en-a-most. I'm jest going to fetch a drop of
water, and will be with you in a minute.”

Mrs. Saultz presently returned with a can of water,
and commenced ascending the stairs.

“This way if you please, Captain Mix—this
way!”

“Nix!” said Fitzvassal, correcting her, “my name
is Nix, and not Mix.”

“Well now, if I did'nt think it was Mix all the
time. There was several Mixes of my acquaintance
that used to live down town—”

The narrative of Mrs. Saultz respecting the Mixes
was now cut short by their entering the chamber of
the sick man.

“That's him!” said the nurse, pointing to a person
who was standing up half-dressed, with his back towards
them, and in fancy pitching coppers into a
hat.

Fitzvassal stood still to observe the movements of
the publican. He had expected to find him in bed,
and was surprised to see him standing up in the
chamber.

The apartment was hardly high enough for a tall
man to stand erect in. It was none of the broadest,
besides having but one low window that looked out
upon the street. A small fire was blazing in the
room, and the sun was shining in upon the floor,
which was coarsely carpeted. Several bottles were
on the mantle-piece, and one was rolling under the
bed. A small bedstead was near where the patient
was standing, that seemed to have been tossed and
tumbled by one in a fever. As we have already stated,
Classon was fancying that he was pitching coppers
in a hat.

“Devil take the things,” said he, talking to himself,
“they won't go in! Let's try again—there!
missed again!—Now for it! They won't go in!
they won't go in!”

Fitzvassal drew near to him and arrested his attention—but
Classon did not know him.

His step-son gazed on him with wonder, pity, and
disgust. His long hair was matted over his low
forehead, and his eyes were glazed and sunken. His
cheeks had fallen in, so that his jaw-bones projected
fearfully, and his legs were emaciated almost to a
skeleton's. His whole frame shook as with a palsy,
and his voice sounded hollow and husky.

“How do you feel, Classon?” inquired the unknown
step-son.

“Ah! you are the doctor, aint you?—Come here
to me, and don't let that old beldame see us,—she has
been trying all day to cut my throat,—don't let her
come any nearer!”

Fitzvassal drew nearer towards him, when he
seized him by the collar, and drawing down his ear to
his ownlips, he whispered in a death like, sepulchral
tone:

“Did the old woman cut up well?”

And on this, he screamed out into an hysterical
peal of laughter, that made the blood fly to his head
perceptibly.

“Would'nt it be better for you to turn in awhile?”
said Fitzvassal, fixing his eyes upon him.

“Yes! yes! I will turn in—but I won't sleep—I
won't sleep—unless you sit down there—for they are
trying to murder me. Look there, doctor!” and he
lowered his voice again to a husky whisper, “there's
one of'em creeping under the carpet, close by that
monstrous spider!”

And Classon, lying down, wrapped himself hastily
in the clothes, which in a few seconds after he
threw violently from him, and sat up in the bed.

“Oh these spiders!” moaned the delirious man,
making motions with his fingers, as if he were picking
the revolting insects from his body, and throwing
them over the side of the bed, “Oh these spiders,
how they plague me!—They are winding their webs
about me all the time;—I must get out of the bed
while I can, for they tie me up, and I shan't be able
to move, presently.”

His step-son endeavored to soothe him, by assuring
him that there were not any spiders near him.

“Don't tell me that! don't tell me that!” said
Classon, looking angrily about him—“don't I see
them, and feel them too? Is'nt that one?—ha! ha!
I've caught one of you, have I? No, no, no, he's gone
again!—but there are a thousand of them; only see
how they crawl about me!”

The wretched man then sunk back for a moment
exhausted, but not to sleep.

“He'll rest a pesky little while, Captain Mix,” said
the nurse, “and then he'll be up again with his tantrums.”

“Don't he sleep any?”

“Lord 'a massy! he has'nt slept none these three
days.”

“The man must die if he does'nt get some sleep
soon. Has he seen a physician?”

“Doctor Sikes has been to see him twice; but
lauks! would you believe it, he kicked him down
stairs yesterday for saying that he should'nt have
any more brandy!”

“At the sound of that word, Classon sat up again
in his bed, and held out his hand imploringly.

“Give me some brandy!” said he in tones that
went to the heart of his step-son, who, much as he
detested the man, now felt for him some small degree
of commiseration.

“The doctor has said that you must not have any!”
remonstrated Fitzvassal,—“it would only make you
worse.”

“Death and damnation!” shouted the inebriate,
frantic and strong with rage; “and who in the devil
is the doctor that says that Abner Classon shan't
drink in his own house?”

Then softening his tone as well as he could,
with all the artfulness of insanity, he said in a persuasive
voice.

“Be so good as to give me only one drop!”

“Not a particle!” answered Fitzvassal.

“And who are you, pray, that dares to say so?” exclaimed
the madman, rising towards his step-son,
with fearful threatening.

The buccaneer never moved or quailed, but fixed
his eyes steadfastly upon him, till Classon shrunk
from their gaze, and once more fell exhausted on his
pillow.

The cold sweat stood in big drops on Classon's
forehead, while his frame shook like an aspen;
his eyes rolled back in his head, and his dry tongue,
white and feverish, hung from his gasping mouth.

Fitzvassal ordered the nurse to bring a little brandy;
it was the only hope that remained—and it was
an act of mercy, even if there had been no hope, to
smooth his passage to the grave.

A spoonful of brandy diluted with water, was
poured into his mouth, and he revived like a collapsed
cholera-patient whose veins have been filled with the
injected stimulant—or like a coal over which the
ashes of death have already gathered, when the
breath of heaven fans it for a moment.

But he was too far gone, to exhibit any signs of
reason; on the contrary, his thoughts were haunted
with horrible imaginings—and he would sometimes
scream aloud, in his fright at the phantoms around
him.

“Oh!” exclaimed Classon, with a groan that seemed
to come from the very abyss of despair; “Oh save
me! save me from them! They are trying to force
me into this coffin and it is too small—away there!
I will not have it! I will not have it! That winding-sheet
has been used before!—it smells of the
grave!—take it away—God! God! I will not go—
I will not go with you! They are now digging
the ground, the hard frozen ground. The pick-axe
strikes fire from the ice! You shan't put me

down there!—Help! help! oh, God! they are
cramming me down into a grave!—Air! breath!
breath! mercy!”

As this fit of delirium passed off, Classon, suddenly
reviving, attempted to spring from the bed;
but Fitzvassal held him down with the strength of
three common men.

The miserable wreck of drunkenness struggled in
the grasp of the buccaneer like a ship that trembles
on a coral-reef the moment before it breaks to pieces
in the surge. His eyes stared wildly, and his hands
were stretched before him, as if he were scared to death
by some appalling spectre. In his agony of dread,
he bit his tongue, that fell clotted and dangling from
his lips;—on this, he gave one scream, that rattled
blood smothered in his clogged throat, then drooped
his head and expired!

Fitzvassal laid the body of Classon on the bed, and
covered it over with a sheet; he then turned Mrs.
Saultz from the room, and burst into a flood of tears.

Alas! poor wretch! those were the only tears
that were ever shed over thee;—and yet thou wast
once a man in all the exteriors of his being, and
with all the means of angelic excellence! Who shall
condemn thee utterly!—who are they who pray that
the like of thee may be swept from the face of the
earth, that only sober men may remain? Alas!
they know not what they pray for, while their own
pharisaical hearts are whirling with as bad an intoxication

as the drunkenness of wine. Is it better to
cast away, or to redeem?

Would you reform the drunkard? Treat him
kindly; for his is a human soul wandering on the
brink of a precipice, and the frowns of his fellowmen
are more horrible to him than the death that
gapes below. He is a half-insane sufferer, saturated
with conscious evil;—and if you scan him no deeper
than his rags, you overlook a man-angel in misery.
Take him by the hand, and the heart that seemed
dead to all ennobling impulses, leaps at the God-sent
sympathy. There! that one emotion of gratitude
is an immortal bud shooting from the half-withered
trunk of humanity. Nurture it—cherish it—do not
quench the spirit at your peril! Would to God,
that men could love their neighbor as themselves!