 | CHAPTER III. Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
A Renunciation.
“Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.”
“Temperance is a delicate wench.”
—Shakspeare.
My story is one of ordinary life. Its incidents are such,
mainly, as I have known to occur. If I have introduced an
Irishman and a Yankee, it is because my scene is in New-York;
and in New-York one cannot turn a corner but an Irishman is
at one elbow and a Yankee at the other. It will be seen by the
sequel that I mean no disrespect to the natives of the Emerald
Isle—I feel none. Take Pat from the influence of bad, or no
education; give him a fair chance in the race, he will out-strip
the best and the proudest of Europe; and Jonathan is my
own countryman, only born further “down east,” where I have
found some of the most enlightened heads, and truest hearts,
of all who can boast the name of “Yankee.”
We will now take up the thread of our story, and open the
conversation which was on the eve of commencement when we
dropt the stitch in our knitting-work. We return to the colloquy
of Mrs. Epsom, Mrs. Spiffard, (late Mrs. Trowbridge,) and
Emma Portland, which has been so long necessarily delayed.
“Emma, dear,” said Mrs. Spiffard, as she selected the dress
she intended to wear in the evening; “will you help me with
these ruffles?”
“Certainly, cousin;” and putting aside her needle-work,
she crossed the apartment to receive the stage ornaments.
“Why, these are old fashioned.”
“They are for an elderly lady; I am to play an old lady to-night
in Cumberland's `Wheel of Fortune.' You, who do not
read plays, may not know that Penruddock is one of Kemble's,
Cooke's, and Cooper's fine parts. As this is the first time of
Mr. Cooke's playing the character in America, I am anxious
that he may be well supported, as far as my exertions can go
towards giving support to his talents.”
“I have read the `Wheel of Fortune,' said Emma, “and
most of Cumberland's plays. My brother”—and a slight cloud
passed over her beaming countenance; “my brother did not
prohibit dramatic authors, but he selected for me. I once had a
strong relish for plays.”
“When you were young, I suppose,” said Mrs. Epsom, with
a sneering snuffle.
“When I was—”Emma was going to say `happy;' but delicacy,
and the consciousness of present good, checked her.
“When my—”again she stopped. “What shall I do with this
ruffle, cousin?”
Mrs. Spiffard gave the necessary directions, and described
the dress which was intended for the character of Mrs. Woodville,
in the above named play, and then continued—“I don't
think you ever saw me personate an old woman. I am to play
a part, perhaps, unsuited to my figure to-night, and I hope you
will go and see how I perform, that I may have your opinion
to-morrow.”
Emma had anticipated the trial which now approached. Even
before the outrage which had been offered by the unknown
ruffian, and which we have related, she had felt a growing reluctance
to visiting the private part of the theatre. That occurrence
had determined her; and with due consideration she had
made up her mind, (after consulting a friend who will be hereafter
introduced to the reader,) to avoid, unless some duty
required her attendance, (some service not otherwise to be
performed for her protectors,) to avoid any communication
with the recesses of the theatre. To introduce the subject to
her friends, as they were situated, was a difficulty which her
delicate mind shrunk from. She had feared to mention the story
of the insult that had been offered to her; and feared still more
to make known the determination which had been its result;
but now she found it necessary to avow her resolution, and assign
the cause. Having thus resolved what her conduct must
firmness of a philosopher, but with all the gentleness of her sex,
and peculiarly sweet character, “No cousin, I hope you will
excuse me.”
“No! why not?” and both the ladies fixed their eyes in astonishment
upon her.
“I hope my aunt, and you, cousin, will permit me to remain
at home this evening, and not even ask why?” Again she felt
unequal to her task, and wished to avoid explanation.
“You may do as you please, certainly. But why not see the
play? The Wheel of Fortune is an unceptionable comedy.”
“I have read it, and many by the same author. Mr. Cumberland
has been characterized by Goldsmith as `the Terence
of England, the mender of hearts;' but I do not think his plays
unexceptionable. There are many objectionable passages; and
in all his works he is an advocate for the absurd and unchristian
practice of duelling.”
“O my Emma, you are a little prude,” said Mrs. Spiffard;
and rising, she took a seat nearer Emma, accompanying her
words with a playful tap on the cheek.
“I hope not, Cousin,” said the blushing girl.
“I can't see what objection you can have to seeing your
cousin's scenes,” snuffled Mrs. Epsom.
“Will not my dear aunt permit me to remain at home?”
“You grow more and more opposed to the theatre, I think,”
was the reply; “and with your voice and figure, it is exactly
the line of life you ought to choose, and I have told you so
again and again.”
“But you have also told me, dear aunt, that you would have
me consult my own happiness. My needle, and my habits of
industry place me above the dread of want; and I have no ambition
to display my voice or figure.”
“And then,” continued the aunt, “what an advantage to
have the instruction of your cousin and myself.”
“But Emma,” added Mrs. Spiffard, “would feel herself degraded
by treading the stage.” This was said with some
asperity—perhaps from consciousness.
“Oh,” exclaimed Emma, her beautiful cheeks glowing with
additional colour, “Oh, how I have dreaded and wished to
avoid this subject! But I find that in this as in every thing
else, an honest, plain avowal of the truth, is the best mode of
overcoming difficulties.”
“I beg your pardon, my dear,” said Mrs. Spiffard, earnestly
and tenderly. “I did not mean to hurt your feelings, or
has been very unlike yours;” and she sighed. “But you
had better go with us—perhaps—you will be very lonely here.
Take your book, as you have before done, and sit in our room,
if you will not go in front and see the play.”
“Unless for some very particular reason, cousin,” said Emma,
firmly, “I will never again enter the walls of that theatre.”
“Heyday! what have we now!” exclaimed the aunt.
Emma, then, with simplicity, related the insult she had received,
and the fright she had experienced. She narrated the
occurrence, not as we have described it (we, to whom all things
are known,) but as it appeared to her. She apologized for letting
so many hours pass without mentioning the circumstance.
She expressed her deep feeling of the insult offered to her from
some one evidently acquainted with the house, and, as she
could not but suppose, feeling at home in it. She expressed
strongly her gratitude to her protector, and added, “It is not
the fear of personal injury that has made me come to this resolution,
but a sense of what is due to you and to myself; to
you, my aunt and cousin, as protectors of my orphan state; to
myself, as one depending for future prosperity and usefulness
on present conduct. I ought, as the subject is now unavoidably
brought into discussion, to add that it is not alone the event I have
recounted to you that has caused my determination, but the improper
words I have, at various times, been obliged to hear in
passing and repassing to your apartment in the theatre, and the
improper conduct I have been forced to witness. With you—in
your company, I am protected from insult, and see, at least, the
appearance of decency among the people called supernumeraries,
and others, who, when unrestrained by the presence of
their superiors or employers, are not governed by laws or feelings
which render them proper persons for a young and unprotected
female to be placed so near, as to be within hearing of
their jests and ribaldry. You cannot be always with me—your
duty calls you before the public—and my appearance does not
command respect from the ignorant, or shield my conduct from
the suspicions or the censures of the libertine. My pleasure is
in retirement. The gay frequenters of the boxes—or the glittering
decorations of the proscenium of the theatre, give me, of
late, no delight; I am isolated among the auditors; and the
scenes which appear to please them, too often disgust me. If
such is my situation in front of the curtain, behind it I feel that
I am exposed to insult except in your immediate presence.
The gentlemen and ladies of the theatre are engaged in their
That I may be subjected to calumny is but too apparent, while
placed so nearly in contact with vulgar indelicacy—not to say
indecency. I hope my good aunt and cousin will yield to me
in this, and not attribute my refusal to visit the theatre (except
on occasions when duty to them requires) to false delicacy or
any improper motive.”
Her “good aunt” sat petrified during this address. She
had never heard any thing like it from female mouth before,
and thought the girl “possessed.” Mrs. Spiffard's countenance
had varied as Emma spoke. As she looked at her animated
face, her own dark eyes sparkled—as she listened to the
accents of truth, purity, and feeling, she thought of the innocence
of childhood, and the train of events which had since
occurred and changed her to that which she knew herself now
to be.
When Emma ceased to speak, her cousin dismissed these
remembrances of former days and subsequent events—she felt
as if she would willingly be in union with the holiness of the
beautiful object before her, and at the same time be its prop.
All her better self filled her bosom and glowed in her countenance,
as she exlaimed, “I will never ascribe any of my
Emma's actions to an improper motive!” and she kissed the
girl with enthusiasm, while tears of affection dimmed the lustre
of her eyes—but the jewel, which nature has bestowed on all
her children, shone with its native radiance through those healing
tears.
“I don't know what is the matter with me this morning,”
said Mrs. Epsom. “I have not felt well since breakfast,” and
she went to a closet, and mixing something in a tumbler applied
to it as a medicine.
Before the good lady had taken the emptied glass from her
mouth, Spiffard entered—in that frame of mind which the
reader may imagine to have been the result of the conversation
and inuendos heard in the park, the ramble with Cooke, and
the soliloquy which followed; all of which we have made the
world duly acquainted with.
The first thing that caught his sight was the tumbler at the
mouth of Mrs. Epsom. His eye was fixed upon it, and upon
the old lady, with an expression, the description of which,
words cannot convey. All the terrific images which he had
been combatting rushed again triumphantly upon his imagination.
His lips were compressed—he was fixed to the spot—
and the eyes of his wife and her mother were fixed upon him.
seat with great and dignified composure.
Spiffard turned his eye to his wife with a look of inquiry.
“What's the matter, Mr. Spiffard?” she asked.
“The matter? nothing—I—I have had a long walk with
Mr. Cooke—I—I am a little fatigued.” And he sat down.
His feelings approached to that sickness which occasions total
prostration of bodily power—some times called heart-sickness.
“I hope,” said Mrs. Spiffard, “that the old gentleman was
gay and agreeable. He was not very clear at rehearsal, and cut
it rather short, leaving the prompter to supply his place. I am
afraid he has been busier with his bottle than his book.” This
was spoken in a forced manner, and to hide the feelings occasioned
by the previous scene.
“What a pity it is,” said Emma, who had now resumed her
secluded seat by the window, “that a man of such talents
should be a slave to such a debasing vice.”
“It is a great pity,” said the old lady, with a most hypocritical
sigh, as she took a huge pinch of Irish blackguard.
“It is damnable,” cried Spiffard, with a tone and look which
was as new to his auditory as it was unaccountable from any
thing that had occurred since his appearance among them.
It is thus that we bring into new scenes and companies the feelings
acquired elsewhere—and which are discordant, and sometimes
irritating, to those of the persons we approach; and thus
we, by our ill temper, mar the social harmony of our friends.
How is this to be avoided? By repressing our selfish sensations,
and adapting ourselves to those we mingle with.
“Perfectly damnable,” he continued. “How can rational creatures
be reconciled to the infamy which must attend so loathsome
a habit, even if they do not dread the misery that precedes the
death they purchase by their folly? We do not sufficiently show
our detestation of the practice in men, but even the most
thoughtless are shocked when they see it in a woman:” and
he looked at Mrs. Epsom, not unobserved by his wife.
“Indeed, Mr. Spiffard, you take the matter up too seriously,
and speak too severely,” she said. “A little stimulus is necessary,
absolutely necessary after, and sometimes during the
exertions our profession demands.”
“I deny the necessity, madam. If it exists, the profession
ought to be abandoned. This stimulating, when often repeated,
becomes a habit. The practitioner from a little goes to more,
until the stomach becomes vitiated, and the appetite depraved.
Then the time inevitably comes, when to refrain appears worse
and remorse! unless some friendly hand, or blessed circumstance,
snatches the victim from destruction.”
“I believe there is much truth in what you say,” said his
wife; “but I do not see what has occasioned your great warmth
on the subject at this moment. Before you came in, we were
engaged in a very interesting discussion—one in which you will
take part; and I must make an appeal to you. What do you
think? our little Emma has determined never to enter within
the walls of the theatre; and I can assure you that she has delivered
her determination with an emphasis and manner—not
to say discretion—which has convinced me that she would be
the ornament of any stage in the world. But she abjures playhouses
in toto—at least all behind the curtain, if not both boxes
and stage.”
“She is right!” said Spiffard, emphatically; “the stage! no!
she is right!”
“Right?” exclaimed the two actresses.
“Yes, right. She is innocent—she is pure—she is unsophisticated
and uncontaminated: and to remain so let her hold to
her determination.”
“Thank you, sir,” said his wife, and her eyes flashed their
lightnings, and then were overclouded by the dark black descending
brow; while her previously flushed cheek blanched.
“My mother and myself are indebted to you!”
“The husband was silent. His silence was not that of one
who has said that which was wrong or untrue. He looked
firmly in the eyes of his wife, as if to read his destiny there.
Emma felt as if she was the cause of this threatening silence
—the stillness which precedes the thunder's crash—and she
wished to conduct, harmless, the lightnings of the gathering
storm. She lifted her sunny eyes as she spoke, and fixed them
upon Mrs. Spiffard.
“Nay, cousin, Mr. Spiffard knows, as we all do, that many,
very many ladies, exemplary for virtues, as well as conspicuous
for talents and acquirements, have not only frequented the theatre,
but trod the stage. Ladies, who have adorned real life by
their good conduct, their prudence, and their charity, as splendidly
as they did the stage by their accomplishments and genius.
I need not go to a foreign land for examples, when I can name
so many at home—and when I know and feel the purity and virtues
of my kind and good cousin.”
This was spoken by the charming girl with the full confidence
of truth, for such was her conviction. But the words
blood rushed to her face—her cheeks burned—and from her
lowering brow and dark eyes, flashed a glance upon Emma,
such as only truth might bear unharmed. But it met the open
eye and arched brow of innocence, unconscious of offending,
and the glance of the conscience-stricken was cast on the floor,
with an expression of troubled emotion, confused ideas, and
wandering thoughts, almost too much for endurance.
Emma felt that she had failed to produce the good she wished;
but could little conceive the cause of the failure. The gloomy
silence continued. At length Spiffard spoke, mildly and in a
subdued tone. “Mrs. Spiffard,” said he, rising, and taking her
hand, “I have something to communicate to you.”
The lady rose gloomily to accompany her lord.
“I will finish this ruffle up stairs, and bring it to you in a
minute or two,” said Emma; and without waiting reply she left
the room with an air as light and graceful as we may imagine
the waving of an angel's plumes, when winged to the regions of
bliss.
There was a pause of a few moments. Zeb seemed to think
that as the young lady had left the room, the old lady might do
the same; but old ladies do not always follow the example of
young ones; and when they do, they do not always move upon
angels' wings. She did not seem inclined to move at all. The
husband sat down. His wife took her seat again in a dignified
sullen silence. He revolved in his mind the communication he
had to make. “Should he speak of the remarks of the young
men?” He dismissed the thought. “How should he break the
subject?” His reverie was interrupted by his wife's voice.
“Mamma, Mr. Spiffard, it appears, has some private communication
to make to me. Shall we retire?” and she again
moved from her seat.
“I am going, child.” And the stately dame took a liberal
pinch of snuff, gathered together her sewing materials, and her
book, and with a swimming air and no very sweet expression of
countenance, left her son and daughter to the matrimonial happiness
which appeared to await them.
Mrs. Spiffard looked gloomily upon her spouse. He started
up—walked—and then sat down again.
The importance of our subject—viz.—conjugal happiness, or
the reverse, is so great, that we are compelled to commence
another chapter before venturing upon it.
| CHAPTER III. Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker | |