University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Explanations and Concealments.

—Shakspeare.

It is no trifling matter, gentle reader, for us to draw aside the
veil of the matrimonial sanctuary—and expose to your gaze the
mysteries of wedded life. Be assured it is not to gratify your
idle curiosity that we do it, but to show you the inevitable consequences
of ill-assorted unions—matches that smell of the
brimstone—and to point out the blessings which as certainly
flow from a marriage in which the parties are induced to make
the important contract from a knowledge of each other's good
qualities founded upon long continued observation, and a sense
of their moral duties. To such, the quotations at the head of
this chapter do not apply.

Neither will we exclude from the list of good qualities, in male
or female, youth, health, or beauty. We would have you,
madam (or miss,) to marry a man a little older than yourself,
even ten years older if you should be foolish enough to think
of a husband at fifteen. Now, our hero, Zebediah Spiffard,
was five years younger than his wife, and this was not as it
ought to be, though the experiment may succeed. But, my
dear young ladies, as you value soul or body, do not marry an
old man—or even an elderly gentleman of fifty—wig or no
wig—however tempting his riches, his accomplishments, his
knowledge of the world, or even his virtues. Nature has forbidden
it; and she will be obeyed, or the pains and penalties
must be inflicted for the breach of her laws. She does not
bring those who break them into court, formally to arraign, try,
condemn, and punish them—the crime, as in many other
cases, “brings its own punishment.” As to the old gentleman,
or man of fifty, if he must have a wife, let him be content
to marry merit, and waive pretensions to youth and beauty.
But it is time we return to the man and wife of our story.

Mr. and Mrs. Spiffard, were left, by the departure of Emma
Portland and Mrs. Epsom, to the full and free enjoyment of

the bitter cup which they had been preparing for themselves—
each for the other—and each for self—by precipitation on one
part, and deception on the other.

Spiffard still continued sitting, as if unconscious of the departure
of the young lady or the old; or as if he had no part to
play in the matrimonial scene. In truth he was at a loss how
to begin.

Before he had arrived at the theatre of action, he thought he
had resolved to tell his wife how evil tongues spoke of her;—
and to question her bluntly; but now, that she was before him,
he had not the heart to do it. In truth, his nature was such
that he would not willingly inflict pain upon any human being,
and much less upon one who loved him. We say he would
not willingly, that is, when reason was unclouded by passion.
But it had become necessary that their marriage should be
announced—that his wife's name; that the words `Mrs. Spiffard'
should be in the play-bills. It had been at his request that the
union had been kept private, meaning to announce it at the end
of the theatrical season. The secrecy had originated in a fear,
which he did not avow to himself, of the ridicule of these same
young gentlemen, who had now, by commencing an attack
upon him, forced him to avow his blissful state. And what
reason should he give for the change of plan and opinion?

Spiffard was a lover of truth; a declaimer against disguise:
he had deviated from the path of rectitude in concealing his
marriage; he had acted under the influence of self-delusion,
and contrary to sober conviction, in contracting it: he was
punished by the consequences naturally flowing from the fault.

Mrs. Spiffard had resumed her uneasy seat, and sat looking
at the livid countenance of her husband, and feeling that sickness
of the heart which the consciousness of hidden acts, and
the fear of detection, causes. At length, impatient of a suspense
which became more dreadful each moment, and tortured
by imaginings more harrowing than any reality, she started
from her chair, and arousing all that whirlwind of passion
which a bad education, and evil example from childhood, had
made her own, and, as it were, engrafted upon her better nature,
(and a display of which had never been made before her
present husband, or even her cousin Emma,) she folded her
beautiful arms, and with a step which is called theatrical, but
which is the true indication of lofty feeling or great excitement,
and belongs to the nature of passion, she walked the room,
bending on her lord as threatening a look as ever Lady Macbeth
bestowed upon her wavering would-be-king when he

hesitated to do that which he wished done; letting “I dare
not wait upon I would, like the poor cat i'the adage.” At
length she ceased her walk, and stood before him; and, after a
pause, assuming a tone of irony, she said, “I thought you had
something of high import to propose, Mr. Spiffard!”

“Please to sit down, madam,” said Zeb, who had been
roused by his wife's tone and attitude; “please to be seated,”
and he led her to her chair. She resumed her seat with a
scornful toss of the head. He slowly drew his chair near,
and placed himself beside her.

“It has become necessary, Mrs. Spiffard, that our marriage
should be announced.”

A weight was lifted from the lady's bosom—she breathed
freer—and replied, “the concealment was a plan of your own,
Mr. Spiffard.”

“It was, madam, and like all concealments, was foolish if
not criminal, and rewarded accordingly.”

Mrs. Spiffard felt the blood rush to her cheeks and forehead
—again she breathed hard, as she said, “What has changed
your view of the subject?—I mean—what —?”

Our hero felt unequal to the task of telling the truth, although
thus questioned. He shrunk from inflicting pain on one who
had committed her welfare to his keeping. He took refuge in
a second concealment, while reprobating the first. This is
weakness, but not uncommon. He hesitated, and then said,
“concealment looks like fear of shame—or consciousness of
wrong.”

“The concealment was in compliance with your wish,”
replied his wife; but in a tone faltering and subdued.

“My intention was, as I then stated to you, that your
name should remain unaltered in the bills until the end of your
present engagement; when we would leave town, and announce
our marriage at the time. But circumstances—impertinent—in
short, it is best to tell the truth openly—and meet—”
he hesitated.

Mrs. Spiffard again had been pale; now, the blood rushed
to her face and neck. “Meet what, sir?”

“The consequences.”

“The consequences!” she repeated. “The consequences!”

“At least,” he continued, “when it is known that you are
my wife, I shall not hear—or—if I do—I shall have a right to
resent as insults to myself—” again he hesitated.

The haughty spirit of the unfortunate woman had been
aroused. She had begun the conversation in a strain of high

feeling, and a tone of offended pride, and assumed superiority;
but conscience now asserted its rights. We mean, by conscience,
the memory of past transactions, which reason pronounces
to be wrong. And the inward inquiry of, “What has
he heard?” overpowered her.

“It is the misfortune of our profession—its curse—” at
length, she said, “that the idle, the mischievous, and the malignant,
feel at liberty to suggest any ill, or frame any report to
our detriment, and the world is ready to credit any story that
may be fabricated to the disadvantage of an actress.”

“It is too true. But you can defy—?”

“I do defy, sir!”

Short as had been the time between the quailing of her lofty
spirit and the last question, she had rallied the energies of
her character, so far, at least, as to act the offended innocent,
but it was in a style of unnatural exaggeration; which, although
not satisfactory to her husband, gave an excuse and
opportunity for self-delusion; and he resolved to believe,
where it was so much his interest that the belief should be well
founded. Much of the belief of this credulous world has the
same species of foundation.

All the native kindly disposition of the water-drinker returned—or
rather burst forth from the cloud which had obscured it
—and taking his wife's hand, he said, “I have been urged to
uneasiness, irritation, anxious thought, and almost to unjust
suspicions, by the foolish babble of two or three gentlemen, who
no doubt knew, by some means, of our marriage, and took this
mode of punishing me for the concealment. They perhaps,
for the moment, think themselves justifiable; though I cannot
see how the term quiz or hoax can justify falsehood of any description.
Truth is too sacred to be jested with; and its violation,
in any shape, is a blot upon the character of man or
woman; it is a fault that ought to be punished by the contempt
of the world, as well as by self-disapprobation. I will immediately
announce our marriage. I wronged both you and myself
in the wish for a moment's concealment. Your name
shall appear as Mrs. Spiffard in the next bills of the theatre.
This will prevent any more hoaxing; and I hope you will
forgive me for allowing the jests of these thoughtless young
men to have a momentary effect upon me.”

Mrs. Spiffard burst into tears. She was moved by conflicting
thoughts; and, though tears were a relief, there was a
portion of bitterness mingled in the stream from the overflowing
cup of conscience.

The husband spoke soothingly. “Come, come, no more
of this—I am going out for a short time—when I come back
let me see that this cloud has left no trace behind it.”

“Oh, God! oh, God! what a wretch am I!” exclaimed his
wife, as soon as left alone.

Having thus introduced our readers (in that abrupt manner
recommended by critics, and long practised by story-tellers in
prose and verse,) to some of the prominent personages of our
history, we will now go to the beginning, and, soberly and
regularly, give an account of the birth, parentage, and education
of Zebediah Spiffard; and perhaps show that he is of
noble descent, and might bear heraldric honours on his coach,
if he had one—that is as it may be.

We will speak of the water-drinker, showing how he passed
through the states or stages of life—of a barefooted Green
Mountain boy—a Boston lawyer's clerk—and a travelling
yankee gentleman, to the stage, on which we found him, of the
New-York Theatre. But in all this it will be our pleasant
duty, more especially, to account for that morbid sensibility,
which was woven into his very essence, on the subject of
ebriety; that dread which he entertained of the effects of any
approach to a habit of intemperance—a dread, which, with the
species of fascination that every victim to the habit exerted
over him, formed the basis of his character.