University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

An old Bachelor's house, a Lawyer's office, and a Play in
Boston.

Locke.

The reader doubtless has found out before he arrives at
the present chapter, that this book is not a romance, but a
story of every-day life. A fiction, it is true, but copied from
real life. Yet who does not know that the events of real life
are more astounding—more difficult to reconcile to ordinary
reason than any romance ever written—setting aside perhaps,
the delightful Arabian Nights, and some other tales in which
supernatural agency is introduced? What romancer would
have dared to invent such stupendous events as history records
of the early crusades? Who would have dared to tell of thousands
of children flying from their parents and congregating to
conquer Syria from the Mussulman:—marching unappalled
by difficulties over a great part of Europe, without meeting a
power, moral or physical, to stop their progress to destruction
inevitable? What romancer, if he had conceived such an
event as the western world “loosened from its foundations
and precipitated upon the east,” would have dared to describe
what he had imagined? or could have imagined, that from centuries
of war, during which rapine was accompanied by dissolute
manners, and guided by ignorance—and where famine,
disease, and the sword destroyed millions—the blessings of
liberty, science and the arts would arise? But to recur to
later times—to the days yet scarce gone by: could poet have
thought in his wildest dreams of an adventurer rising up from
obscurity and binding emperors and kings in his chains; then
sinking, through overweening pride, to the state of an outcast

from society? Yet this we have seen. But setting history aside,
it is sufficient for my purpose to refer the reader to the volumes
of the Causes Celebres. Our story is a story of real life—and
real life is sufficiently seasoned, by the wonderful, to make it
interesting to those who look for the racy and the spicy in the
pages of a novelist. Not that I promise to spread such high
seasoned food before the reader of these pages.

Abraham Spiffard had commenced his career in this mutable
state of existence as an attorney, and having inherited his
father's estate (before our separation from Great Britain) by
the English laws of primogeniture, he did not, as is usual,
make it his business to dissipate it; but, on the contrary,
feeling the comforts as well as consequence which property
gave him among his neighbours, he determined to increase the
sources of such enviable possessions. He at first proceeded
slowly and in the way of his profession; but his industry and
invariable attention to the interests of his clients, gained him
practice of the best kind, which gave him an opportunity to
make purchases of real estate in lands and houses, with advantages
which none out of his profession could have. He was
honest, frugal, thriving, and became a rich man of unimpeachable
character.

His establishment was that of an old bachelor. A neat and
well-furnished house, with a court yard before it, and a garden
behind. One man servant, who was gardener, hostler, butler
and footman; and one elderly female, who filled the station of
housekeeper, and condescended to be cook and chambermaid
—both natives of New England, and both white—constituted
his household. Having long renounced his original profession,
Mr. Abraham Spiffard thus lived a life of retirement, with most
of the enjoyments which a mind of a philosophic inclination
could desire.

As the uncle had expected our hero, an apartment was in
readiness for him; and after the refreshment of tea and toast,
by a cheerful hickory fire, he dismissed him to bed by remarking
that he “was sure he must be tired,”—wisely determining
not to enter into an examination of his unpromising adopted
son until the morrow.

Being shown to his allotted apartment by his uncle, and left
with an injunction to extinguish the candle before he got into
bed, Zeb examined attentively every object about him, and in
truth felt much less sleepy than before he was ushered into a
domain of which he was told that he was the master, and before
the restraint of a strange old gentleman's presence was

removed. He saw and felt, as soon as he entered, that the
chamber had been prepared with a view to his permanent
residence and future comfort; and that all around him had an
aspect very superior to any thing he had seen at Spiffard-town.
A narrow bed, much longer than necessary, with quilted calico
coverlet well stuffed with cotton wool; surrounded by calico
curtains, on which were depicted Lord Anson, his ship, his
sailors, and the groves and fountains of the isles of those delightful
climes, the thought of which made Rousseau exclaim,
“O Tinian! O Juan Fernandez!”—Below this pictured
enclosure was a resting place of down (or goose feathers)
covered by sheets and pillow-case white as the driven snow.
A table (over which hung a mahogany framed looking-glass;
and, on which stood a neat writing desk completely furnished)
was placed on the side of the room opposite the bed. Two
mahogany chairs, solid and heavy, with calico covered bottoms
were deemed sufficient for the boy—and here again Lord
Anson, his ship, and his sailors, appeared in undiminished
beauty. But what gave most delight to Zeb was a handsome
chest of drawers (occupying part of the same side of the room
with the door) surmounted by a book-case with glass doors,
which showed rows of neatly arranged and well-bound volumes.

We feel assured, that our readers will be gratified, after
travelling from Vermont with the Green-mountain-boy, to
know, even to particulars, that he was set down in good quarters
after his long journey.

Tired as Zeb was, he could not resist the temptation to
examine the last-mentioned treasure. Delighted he took down
volume after volume, almost all new to him. A collection of
modern and ancient history. Pope's Translations; Milton's
poems; Dryden's Virgil; Shakspeare's plays; and a rich
store of voyages and travels; a bible and a prayer book, with
his name printed in gold letters on the cover of each, completed
the arrangement and filled the shelves of this well-chosen piece
of furniture. All thoughts of sleep fled before intellectual
excitement, and time passed insensibly, when a knocking at
his chamber door aroused Zeb from his enchanting occupation.
He opened the door. It was his uncle who had knocked and
now presented himself. He saw with astonishment what had
been the employment of the youth, and his eyes sparkled with
pleasure at the discovery.

“I observed a light under the door,” said the old gentleman,
“and I was afraid you had gone to bed and forgot to put out
the candle.”

“I beg pardon, sir, but I could not help looking at them.”

“You will have leisure enough, my son,” said the old man.
It was the first time he had used that appellation. “You will
have leisure enough to examine them; they are intended for
your use. They are your own. You are now fatigued, and
ought to rest, mind and body. To-morrow look at and open
the books, and every day after; and remember that it is for the
truth they contain that you are to study them. You must learn
to study fiction for truth's sake; and many a precious truth
you will find in the guise of fiction. The fables of Milton and
Shakspeare are mines of truth and knowledge. Knowledge
will give you power; if in the acquisition you do not destroy
your health; without health there is no power. Therefore
diligently read the best authors; and I have made choice of
some of those I think best; but do not deprive yourself of the
rest necessary to health, otherwise the knowledge you attain
by study will be as useless to others as its acquisition has been
injurious to yourself. The fatigues of your journey and the
excitement attendant upon a change of situation and prospects
render sleep doubly necessary to you now. Put out the light
and go to bed. I am pleased to see that you love books.
Good night! Put out the light!”

“I will sir,” said Zeb.

The uncle again wished him `good night', and retired to rest,
perfectly satisfied that the boy was such as he wished, notwithstanding
first appearances.

Zeb replaced the books, threw off his clothes, put out the
light, and as he laid his head on the pillow, thought he should
never be able to sleep: but that sleep that comes to all who are
healthy and guiltless, quickly came to the tired and delighted
boy, nor left him until the rising sun shone into his window and
on his bed.

He awoke only to renewed delight. He had sunk to forgetfulness
amidst the images of his kind uncle and those who had
been his companions during the journey, fading and changing
into a moving chaos of the forms he had seen the last day, mingled
with figures left behind at home; he opened his eyes upon
Lord Anson in Juan Fernandes—his own happy situation
flashed upon him as he looked at his book-case; and his soul
was filled with happy realities and overflowing with bright anticipations.
It was a November sun that shone upon our hero,
but it was through the medium of a pure and elastic atmosphere;
for the west wind had sprung up during the night and brought
with it just enough of frost to harden the surface of the earth,

and make clean walks for the early pedestrain. The youth
was quickly stationed at a window which gave him a view of
the waters of the wide spreading bay. All impatient to see
more of the wonders around and before him, it was but the
business of a few minutes to find his way out of the house, although
somewhat puzzled when encountering bolts and bars in
his way, at the street door, things unthought of at Spiffard-town.
The key was in the lock, and Zeb unlocked, unbolted and unbared
with the dexterity of one used to bending both body and
mind to the overcoming of difficulties; and nothing daunted by
the strangeness of his situation, or the novelties of the place,
he sallied forth, first observing the appearance of his uncle's
place of residence, and of its bearings with surrounding houses,
as he would the landmarks in the woods, and as he often had done
when there was no other means to find his way home again
while wandering on the hills of Vermont.

Soon he gained the top of Fort-hill. He had never before
seen the salt-sea, or the huge machines which float on it. He
looked enraptured and bewildered over the beautiful sheet of
water, and its islands. He saw ships under sail intermingled
with smaller vessels, all alive and glittering in the morning sun.
He looked down upon the roofs and chimnies of houses below
him, and the topmasts of merchant ships moored at the wharves.
He had seen such things only in book-engravings. He had
been instructed by books, and by his father, in the events of
that war which made his country the greatest republic in the
world, and he thought of the momentous events which took
place in and near the town of which he had now become a resident.
His gazing and his reveries were interrupted by a
summons to breakfast. His uncle, from his chamber window,
commanded a view of Fort-hill, and he had seen the boy as he
stood wrapt in wonder, (gazing with delight at the many novel
objects before him,) and in due time sent for him.

It is not our intention, or our interest, to weary the reader.
We hope to engage his attention not only by the incidents of
our history, or memoirs, but by those fascinating fancy-stirring
changes of scene which delight the imagination, rouse it from
any tendency to slumber when one set of objects have been
too long before it, and make it subservient to the author's purposes.
We will pass rapidly over the detail of those circumstances,
which, more than books or teaching, formed the second
part of our hero's education, and of course had their share in
moulding his character, for we are as impatient as our readers
can be to come to those great events which render him an object

worthy of their curiosity, and our labours. But let us never
forget that the foundation of education and character was laid
at Spiffard-town.

Mr. Abraham Spiffard soon saw in what points the artificial
education of his adopted son were most deficient; and the
youth was placed in the best school Boston afforded, and Boston
has always had the best schools in the United States; the
best teachers, the best systems; and is honoured accordingly.

Zeb improved rapidly, and was judged by his uncle, whose
scholarship was not profound, to be fitted for commencing the
reading of law in some counsellor's office, in rather less than a
year from the time of his arrival at the great city of the east,
modestly, (at the period of which we treat) called the
“town of Boston.” To be sure he had, as said of another
great character, “little latin, and less greek;” but as Mr. Abraham
Spiffard had never found himself much the worse, as far
as he knew, for his lack of the same commodities, he recommended
to his nephew, that he should continue his study of the
dead languages in his leisure moments, for he had observed
that a quotation which neither jurors nor auditors of any description
understood, enhanced the character of the orator, and was
worth ten times the quantity of English. And you, courteous
reader, have thought more reverently of an author when you
have met a passage from Homer, Euripides, or Sophocles, in
the genuine Greek characters—although “all greek” to you.
Thus fitted and advised, the prudent uncle placed the youth
with a young lawyer of brilliant talents, but whose principal
recommendation to the old gentleman, was, that he had long
known him as the son of an old friend. Mr. Spiffard did not
exert his usual shrewdness in selecting a teacher for Zeb, as
will be seen in the sequel.

Thomas Treadwell, Esq., in whose office our hero now
passed a great portion of his time, was the son of a select man,
and had been carefully educated by his indulgent parent, who
justly admired his quick parts, (as all parents are in duty bound
to do,) and devoted him to the profession of the law, as the
surest road to the Presidential chair; which he doubted not
Tom would attain. He had the reputation of being a belle-lettre
scholar; and he wrote verses with some skill, great spirit,
and sufficient obscurity; unfortunately he was better versed in
the works of verse-makers, than of jurists—unfortunately at
least for his clients. No young man ever started in the race of
life, under better auspices, than Tom Treadwell, but he never
“took kindly” to labour, and he had Ranger's authority for law

being “a damned dry study,” and Ranger was authority higher
with him than Blackstone or Coke. He found the drama much
more to his taste, and the Muses and actresses much more
fascinating, than reports, records, or deeds. His deeds, and
their record, will be found to agree with such taste and such
conduct. In fact, just about the time our hero was placed under
his tuition, to be instructed in the depth and subtleties of
jurisprudence; the tutor had, in defiance of all prudence, privately
married a very beautiful girl, without education, property,
or decent connections, and was enamoured for the moment
with his new situation, so much as to neglect—the theatre;
his office had been deserted before. Of all this Mr. Spiffard
knew nothing, he only knew the father of the man to whom he
had entrusted his son. The consequence was, as may be supposed,
that Zeb was left pretty much to his own choice in the
course of reading he pursued at the office.

Blackstone is always at hand in a lawyer's office in case any
one comes to seek the man of science for advice in law or
equity; and except on such occasions the knight is little attended
to, even in appearance, by some students we wot of.
The love and practice of truth was never abandoned by our hero.
But insensibly this paltry mode of deception was becoming seductive.
He once placed a book of reports on his desk, open,
while he read a novel. Happily he saw his error before it was
too late—the first love prevailed—he blushed at the meanness
of pretending to one thing and practising another, and ever after,
truth marked his character almost undeviatingly.

Spiffard read history with delight. The translations of all
the great poets, ancient and modern, became familiar to him.
Milton's great poems and Shakspeare's plays he devoured.
The novels of Smollet and Fielding added to his pleasures, and
he was too ignorant of vice to be injured by them, much. His
evenings were devoted to teachers of French, Italian, Spanish,
and German: nor did he neglect the studies commenced at
school; he likewise took lessons in dancing and fencing.

He had been permitted, accompanied by his uncle, to see
some plays, immediately upon his arrival at Boston. The impression
made upon him by the first exhibition of the kind that
he witnessed, though by no means singular in its general effects
must not be passed over in silence. All appeared as the work
of enchantment. Seated in the pit, he could see before the
play commenced the gayly decorated fronts of the boxes glittering
with what was in his eyes gold and jewels. Beautiful
women, with all the advantages of dress entered those boxes.

The gay company by degrees took their seats—tier above tier
they sat, all happy, doubtless, for all smiled. Even the third
tier, or upper boxes, appeared to him the abode of happiness
and purity. To the pure, all is pure. To the ingenuous boy
the smiles he saw were innocuous.

The music of the orchestra struck up, and although others did
not appear to hear it, our hero's delight was increased almost
to intoxication.

But however much his sense of hearing was captivated by
the orchestra, or his eyes attracted to the brilliant company in
the boxes, above all he looked at the green curtain with interest,
for the hidden and unknown is far more attractive than the
visible, however beautiful. After gazing with a wandering and
restless pleasure on the many-coloured objects around and
above, his eyes were fixed on the plain dull surface of the cloth
before him, which told nothing, but was pregnant with mysterious
meaning; for he knew that behind that lay the something
that was to crown all—when that should be removed his felicity
would be complete. How he knew not—but he was sure
of it. A bell tinkled, and the front lamps rose as if by magic.
Another bell rung louder. The curtain vanished. All was
dazzling light and many-coloured brilliancy; the silence of
breathless expectation succeeded. Then appeared beautiful
men and women, with fine dresses, and sparkling eyes, and
red cheeks! surely actors and actresses must be not only the
most admired, but the best, most lovely, and happiest of mortals!
In the course of Zeb's novel reading he had not yet
read Gil Blas: and Wilhelm Meister was unknown to English
readers.

The play was the Jealous Wife. The boy's delight was extreme,
except during that scene in which Charles is exhibited
in a state of ebriety. While others laughed, he was absorbed
in a melancholy reverie. He felt sick. He wished himself
at home, and sighed for the seclusion of his chamber. The
remembrance of his mother's infirmity took such possession of
him from that moment, that only the novelty of the enchanting
spectacle, and his interest in the story, especially in the fate of
Charles, would have made the general impression of the evening's
entertainment, when recollected, pleasurable. The after-piece
(for he staid to the last, and wanted more,) the after-piece
was Rosina, which gave him pure delight.

Such was his first impression of the theatre. Now, that he
was with Treadwell, he had a full gratification of the desire
created by the few plays he had seen before he became a student

of law; for his master gained him free admission to the
pit and boxes, and thus led him to the study of the dramatic
works of the French and English poets: of these he found
that Mr. Treadwell's office contained an abundance. Among
them was a complete old edition of Bell's British Theatre; all
of which he greedily devoured; a dose sufficient to poison a
regiment of Green-mountain boys! If such reading did not
destroy all his moral and religious propensities, it was because
his natural tendency to good—his love of truth—his ignorance
of practical evil—his habits—and his abhorrence of ebriety,
shielded him from the death-doing influence.

Before proceeding with the story, (notwithstanding the reader's
impatience,) we will, with permission, go back to the second
play our hero saw performed before his introduction to the
mysteries behind the curtain and the scenes; this was Othello.
He had read Shakspeare; yet did not know what to expect
from a representation of characters so remote from any thing
he had seen in real life. What ideas could a Green-mountain
boy form of a Moor—a thick-lips—a negro—commanding an
army of white men—of Italians? It is the player, the skilful
artist, that gives reality to the pictures of the dramatic poet.
The young or uninstructed mind forms confused images while
reading, in proportion to its ignorance.

On Zeb's second visit to a play-house, the delight experienced
from the proscenium and preliminaries, was not so
vivid as at the first; but his impatience for the raising of the
green curtain was full as intense. The music gave him little
pleasure, and the beauties in the boxes had lost half their
charms.

The effect of this representation of one of Shakspeare's most
glorious productions upon our hero was such, that his reasoning
powers seemingly gained an advance of years. His intellect
grew almost perceptibly during the sitting; or while, as the
French say, he assisted at the representation. His whole soul
was alive to the story: the apothegms sunk upon his young
and yielding mind with a thrilling sensation of approbation,
that made them part of his moral being.

Again he was shocked by the representation of ebriety; and
his detestation of Iago was more increased by his playing the
part of a tempter, and subverting the reason of Cassio by wine,
than even by his atrocious villany in deceiving the noble Moor,
and destroying the wretched Desdemona. Cassio, deprived of
reason, was, to Spiffard, a spectacle of horror. While others
laughed, he experienced a sickness of the heart—a sinking of

every physical power—a confusion of his mental faculties—
a loathing of existence; feelings that can only be conceived by
those who have had their hopes blasted by the effects of this
accursed vice. He gazed on the representative of Cassio, but
he saw his own desolated home. When the virtuous and betrayed
lieutenant recovers his reason, and with disgust, reprobates
his folly in putting “an enemy into his mouth to steal
away his brains,” the tears rolled down the cheeks of the boy,
and he sobbed aloud, until he found that he had become an
object of derision to those around him.

Shakspeare has truly represented intemperance as a vice
leading to certain degradation, crime, and self-reproach. He
has, in other parts of his works, shown it as the habitual practice
of the criminal, (as in Hamlet's uncle,) the murderer,
the usurper, and fratricide. He has portrayed it as the vice
of the weak-minded, and of the brutal and the vulgar ruffian;
as in Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby, in the Twelth
Night. But, generally, the stage has held up the drunkard
merely as an object of amusement, to be laughed at, not pitied
or detested; and has thus been deficient or negligent, if not
criminal, when it ought to have exposed its deformity, and
pointed out its inevitable consequences, misery, madness,
death, and contempt.

His master's attachment to the theatre at length introduced
our hero behind the scenes. What he there saw at first disgusted
him. It appeared as if Ithuriel's spear had, by a touch,
caused the angel form to vanish, and the fiend to appear; had
changed beauty to deformity. That which had pleased the eye
as the glow of health, was, in reality, a coarse white and red
daubing, associated in his mind, from infancy, with disease or
moral depravity. The modest mien assumed before the audience,
was sometimes suddenly dismissed, after passing the side
scene, and replaced by coarse mirth, or coarser rage. The
devout or patient hero would instantly be converted into a fury,
venting curses upon the prompter or call-boy. The brilliant
dress, decorated with gold and jewels, was transformed to a
flimsy rag, covered with tinsel, glass, and foil; the warrior's
mail, into paste-board and spangles; all the order, harmony,
and splendour of the scenes, into confusion, wrangling, the
darkness of smoking lamps, and the jostling of dirty scene-shifters
and vulgar supernumeraries. Yet all this is only an
image of the masking and unmasking in every day scenes of life.
To be sure, we do not see the mask lifted often; when we do,
we are shocked as the boy was. Though shocked, yet the ugly

chaos was recommended, in some measure, by novelty; and,
by degrees, (as to other ugly things,) he became reconciled or
indifferent. In the green-room he found amusement; and
sometimes, very rarely, was surprised by finding wit.

Treadwell's propensities induced a constant attendance,
(after the honeymoon,) upon those scenes either before or
behind the curtain, which his love of idleness had made
habitual; and as he wrote prologues, epilogues, and puffs, for
the managers, and performers, he was a free and welcome
visiter. Spiffard, of course, made acquaintances among the
players. He was found to be amusing; his voice was strong
and flexible, and it was discovered that his ear was quick for
music and mimicry. Thus he became transformed, by degrees,
from the plain green-mountain rustic, to a knowing frequenter
of the play-house; but still he shrunk from the contagion of
the vice which too frequently congregates there. Two characteristics
distinguished him from the mass of his companions,
even more than talents; he never drank any thing but water,
nor spoke any thing but truth. He had another singularity, he
was as credulous as he was sincere. Time diminished this
characteristic, but could not eradicate it.

In the mean time, although Squire Spiffard, of Spiffard-town,
frequently wrote to his son, and mentioned his mother, as usual,
as, “your mother sends her love, &c.;” yet the son was ignorant
of what he most wished to know. He could not but
hope that his father's patient and prudent conduct would produce
the reformation he most desired. The father avoided
the subject—how could he do otherwise? This one idea haunted
the son, and he knew not how to gain the information he wished.
He could only inquire after his mother's health; and the
answer could only be “well,” or “sick,” “better,” or “worse.”
At length, he accidentally met in the street one of his father's
neighbours, who had come for the first time to Boston, and was
gazing upon the wonders of the town open-mouthed.

Spiffard placed himself directly in his path, as he slowly
moved, with head turned aside, and eyes fixed on the treasures
of the shop-windows. The lord of an hundred acres, after
almost stumbling over the young man, stared for a moment in
his face, and then exclaimed, “Why, I'll be dang'd, if here
is'n't little Zeb!” After scrutinizing him from head to foot,
the yeoman exclaimed, “why, Zeb! why you're not the same;
and yet you are the same, too. Taller and handsomer, and yet
the same funny face. Well, Zeb, I seed your daddy and mammy,

and all the boys and gals! And so here you be a fine
town gentleman!”

After a hearty shake of the hand, our hero was glad to carry
his friend to the solitude of his master's office; feeling a little
prudent shyness, or false shame, in consequence of the loud
and hearty greetings of his townsman.

Farmer Freeman, after examining the premises, expressed
his admiration of Treadwell's book-cases. “Why, Zeb, what
a power of books you've got! Arnt you afeerd, as the bible
says, `too much larning will make you mad?' ”

“No fear of that, Mr. Freeman. And so—all the folks—
come sit down; and so all is well at Spiffard-town?”

“Why, pretty middling; all stirrin.”

“The town grows?”

“O aye, and the folks grow; but I don't know that they
grow much better. Turner, the store-keeper, you know, jist
there t'other side the church; why he has run off to Canada,
they say, and took as many people in as he could: but there
are two stores set up since. And would you believe it? Bill
Tomkin's, your school-fellow, is married to Sally Bell; he's
not nineteen yet, and she's sixteen next February; and his father
is building a right smart house for him, not far from —.”

“That's well! And how does my father look? Is he well?”
Zeb did not dare to ask first after his mother's looks, though
she was uppermost in his thoughts.”

“Why the squire looks a little thinnish, I must say,” was
Freeman's reply. “He seems a little under the weather, somehow;
and yet he's not sick. He looks as if he had been jaded
like.”

Zeb sighed. “And my mother?” hesitatingly he asked.

“Why she's more and more varysome:—one day pale, and
another day red. I suppose its the natur of your old country
complexions. And you know your mammy is changeful in
her ways of acting and speaking too: sometimes mighty funny,
and sometimes a little snappish, and grumlike. The neighbours
do say—”

Zeb felt as if sinking through the floor. The farmer continued,
“they think the squire's lady has never been herself
since that old country chap with his dogs, and his fine lady
wife lived among us.”

Zeb lifted his head—breathed more freely—and Freeman
went on with his gossip. “She looks a little queerlike, sometimes,
and slamakin, and then her face grows fat, and her body
grows thin, and then—”

“And the children?” asked the miserable son, hastily interrupting
that of which he had heard but too much. “The
children—they I hope are well?”

“Yes,—they are pretty so so—not hardy, though:—they
don't look like my boys and gals; and the squire seems more
and more fond of them; but somehow or another your mammy
seems—” The yeoman paused, as if in want of a simile—and
Zeb quickly changed the conversation, by abruptly inquiring
what he had seen in Boston, giving him an invitation to his
uncle's house, and making offers of service, with perfect sincerity
and goodwill.