University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

A walk out of town.

—Shakspeare.

—Ben. Johnson.

—Shakspeare.

—Southey.

Spiffard found the veteran waiting for him, in full spirits,
and seemingly none the worse, at least to a casual observer,
for the excesses of yesterday. The colour of his cheeks was

a little heightened, but his skin, otherwise gave no indication of
intemperance. There was, however, a something in the expression
of his eye, that rivetted Spiffard's attention. He had
noted it before, and it brought to him recollections of his
childhood, but not of its joys. To-day, there was a brilliancy,
a sparkling lustre in the dark grey iris, (almost converted
to black by the expansion of the pupil,) that arrested the eye
of Spiffard, and although it brought the sharpest pain to his
breast, by the mournful images recalled of what he had seen
at home, without understanding then the meaning of the appearance;
yet, even this pain and these reminiscences, attached
him the more to his aged companion by a species of fascination.

Cooke had slept a death-like sleep after the excess of the
preceding day, and the exertions of the evening at the theatre;
and although he awoke with feverish symptoms, they were only
such as seemed, to him, to require drink, and that of no feeble
character. He had taken a bottle of brown-stout with his
breakfast, or rather for his breakfast, it being in the toper's
creed both meat and drink, and bread was as little in demand
with him as with Falstaff.

Remembering his engagement to dine at Cato's, he had
been in good time dressed for the occasion, and then taking a
glass of stiff brandy and water, he awaited his young companion
with all the gaiety of renewed youth. Thus is the path to
ruin strewed with seeming flowers.

It may be observed, of the unhappy subjects to habitual
ebriety, that they have intervals free from delusion, during
which rational conduct is continued, for a longer or shorter
period, according to the circumstances in which the person is
placed. When the desire for the unnatural excitement occurs,
and is yielded to, it grows by what it feeds on, for a time, and
the victim of depraved appetite, glorying in his shame, goes on
from one stage of disease to another, each one rising above the
preceding, in symptoms of madness;—madness, hailed as
health, until nature fails, and the degraded being sinks, crying
for aid to the physician or the friend, to save him from the
yawning grave he suddenly sees open before him; or the racking
pains which awakened reason, tells him are the fruits of
misconduct, and the precursors of death. Then comes that
pitiful repentance which knows not amendment, and that forced
abstinence, in which is no merit. Cooke was at this time approaching
the pitiable state above described, and had attained
its immediate fore-runner, that stage of the self-inflicted disease,

when the physical powers are screwed up to an unnatural
height, and the victim, notwithstanding repeated experience,
seems to feel assured that the poisoned cup contains the
draught that secures bliss and immortality—the “amreeta cup”
of eternal happiness.

“Ha, my boy! Here I am! ready and waiting for you.”

“Have you sent for a coach sir?”

“A coach! No. We will walk. I delight in walking.
Many a time have I left my lodgings, and rambled down to
Wapping, enjoying the scenes of that lower world, and then
along the Thames to Greenwich, and back again on that side
of the river.”

“But do you know, sir, that it is four or five miles to Cato's?”

“That's nothing! Ha! Some of my pleasantest days have
been passed in walking from morning till night in the environs
of London, when I could escape from the accursed enchanted
castle of Covent Garden and its keeper, the giant `Black
Jack.' O, how I have enjoyed myself in a solitary walk up
Oxford street to Tyburn, through the Parks, or to Richmond
Hill! At other times, it has been my whim to ramble among
the sailors and watermen down the river, either holding myself
aloof, and scanning the creatures I passed or mingling with the
motley herd, and enjoying my obscurity. We great men,” he
added, “relish an incognito.”

Thus commenced the walk to Cato's. The reader will
hold in mind, that at the time of which we write, this great city
of New York had no claim to that title from its size. None of
those magnificent streets, called avenues, existed. And excepting
the great commercial highways of river and ocean,
there were but two outlets from the town. One of these,
and the most frequented, our pedestrians followed, passing up
Broadway, then turning into the Bowery, and taking the old
Boston road where it diverges to the right at what was then the
United States arsenal, now the House of Refuge, a blessed institution!
where a system of education and reform, for children
of both sexes, is in successful operation, by which hundreds are
restored to society as useful members, who had been abandoned
by ill fortune or bad parents, to vice and beggary. A more
touching exhibition than three hundred pretty and well-dressed
children rescued from destruction, and joining in hymns of
thankfulness to their Creator, seldom falls to the lot of any
one to see.

Without a cessation of interesting conversation or lively
chat, kept up by artificial excitement on one part, and on the

other by the animation which exercise in the open air imparts
to youth and health, they were passing Kip's Bay, when Spiffard
called the attention of his companion to the scenery on
their right,—to Long Island and the waters dividing it from
Manhattan,—alluding to the history connected with the spot.

“Kip's Bay,” said the veteran. “Ah! here we landed after
crossing from yonder shore. Ha! how the Yankee-doodles
scampered when they saw our boats approach. They remembered
the day before, when they attempted to make a stand
upon the heights of Brooklyn. If Sir William Howe had followed
up, as he ought, where would have been your republic
now? I! I myself, was in full pursuit of Washington when a
retreat was sounded. I should have had him, and then the war
would have been at an end! I should have been gazetted,
`Lieutenant Cooke, of the 55th, has put an end to the American
rebellion, by seizing with his own hand, that arch rebel,
George Washington.' George—named by his loyal father, after
the royal house of Hanover. All the jacobites of England
called their sons Charles, and Charles Edward: the adherents
to the Hanoverian dynasty, named theirs George, and George
Frederick. My father, a captain of dragoons in the service of
his sacred majesty, George the Second, bestowed on me,
unworthy, the glorious appellation of George Frederick; and
I have served my royal master, George the Third, faithfully.
Accursed be General Sir William Howe, that I did not send
the traitor Washington to London, to be dealt with according
to his deserts, and the will of my gracious sovereign.”

Thus did the excited romancer pour forth a stream of words
at the suggestion of his heated imagination.

The reader who is acquainted with the ground in the vicinity
of New-York, and the shores of that water which divides the
lesser island and its city, from the greater and more fertile,
stretching south to the ocean, and north to the land of steady
habits, will perhaps recollect that at the period of which we
speak, most of the houses standing between the old road and
the east river were not in existence. Still, as the road runs
through a hollow, the water was scarcely discernible from it.
“Let us leave the road, and ascend those higher grounds,”
said Cooke. Spiffard willingly assented, as he wished the
internal exciting causes, which existed with his companion, diminished
by time and exercise, before they should join the company
with whom they had engaged to dine.

They accordingly turned from the road toward the river;
passing into a meadow through a gap in the fence. After

crossing several enclosures, as they approached the water, they
gained an eminence crowned by a flat rock. From this point
they looked down upon the bay or cove, which takes its name
from the former owner of the land surrounding it—“Kip's
Bay.”

A more lovely landscape of the half marine kind is seldom
seen, than that our pedestrians might now enjoy. On their left,
the eye passing over a portion of a pleasure-ground, (whose
foliage glittered in all the colours of the rainbow,) fell on the
calm water of the river, scarcely moved but by the eddies of a
tide-propelled current, and divided in the midst, between the
two larger islands, by the point of the islet called Blackwell's,
and the rocks in which it terminates; black dots on the surface
of the stream, marking the division of the main channel to the
pilots, whose white sails were seen on either side. To the right
might be seen a portion of the city, (not as now encroaching on
the great bay; not as now stretching eastward beyond the
Navy Yard, with its towering masts and close-housed line of
battle-ships,) and the opposite fast growing town (now city) of
Brooklyn. Immediately opposite to the wayfarers, two reaches
or bends of a small serpentine river were visible, dividing the
meadows and groves of Long Island, and flowing to the sea-water
of the bay. The swelling hills with their gardens,
orchards, and cultivated fields, terminated the view.

“Aha!” cried Cooke, when he had mounted the rock;
“Aha!” I see the whole of it now. Yes, sirr, down there to the
right, beyond the rocky and precipitous shore, is the bottom of
the bay where we landed. The wharf which you see was not
there then. But that rock, further south, afforded us a fine
shelter, if we had wanted shelter; but your Yankees did not
even wait until we were with within gun-shot distance: and see
that causey—that, too, is recent; we had to charge through
that marsh, knee-deep in mud and water.”

Thus, combining images which were before his eyes, with
historical recollections from his reading, and the creations of
his excited imagination, the old man indulged his romancing
vein, to the astonishment of his almost bewildered companion;
who, finding that he paused, remarked, “It has always been
granted that General Washington displayed great skill in bringing
off his undisciplined, discouraged, and defeated troops from
the opposite shore, and with so little loss landing them on this
island in the presence of a superior enemy—an enemy boasting
the proud title of the mistress of the sea.”

“Yes, sirr! he showed as great alacrity in running as Fat

Jack did in sinking. Sir, I shot his horse, and was advancing
to seize him, but to my surprise he sprung on his feet, and with
his long legs he soon distanced me. Long legs are the distinguishing
marks of a Yankee.”

“And long arms,” added a voice close to the ear of the
actor. They turned, and saw a man of towering stature, who
had come from a field (by the side of, and below the rock on
which they stood,) where he had been digging potatoes. He
had approached unnoticed, with a well-filled basket hanging on
his arm, and his spade musket-wise on his right shoulder. It is
probable this personage would have passed on below the stand
our pedestrians had taken; but attracted by Cooke's loud
harsh voice, and without being kept aloof by any repelling sense
of decency, (or perhaps thinking that what was uttered aloud
in so public a place, belonged to, or was intended for the public,)
he heard the words without stopping to listen, and felt disposed
to retort when the disparaging description of the distinguishing
marks of a Yankee struck his ear.

This interloper was as much above the Englishman's height
as Spiffard was below it, and stood at least six feet two inches,
as erect as a hemlock tree. His age was about fifty-five; his
iron-grey locks peeped from under a slouched hat that had once
been white. He wore no coat. His cloth waistcoat was open
in front, and showed a clean coarse white homespun shirt
which, tucked up at the sleeves, and open at the collar, displayed
arms and neck that might vie with a Grecian Hercules or an
Irish hod-carrier. His lower extremities were furnished forth
with woollen pantaloons and clumsy shoes, tied with strings of
black worsted. His whole appearance was that of an independent
American yeoman.

There can be no doubt that our countrymen are a taller race
than the European family from which they sprung. They have
a national physiognomy, more resembling the English than any
other people, yet marked by a distinct character. This man's
face was long; the muscles full and strongly marked. His eyes
were small, and expressive of humour: his nose broad and
straight; his mouth large; his lips thick; teeth irregular, and
chin full. His complexion was a brown yellow, which only
glowed faintly with red when he laughed, and that was not unfrequent.

Cooke eyed this giant from top to toe, and then said—“But
at the battle of Brooklyn, if battle it may be called, they made
better use of their legs than their arms.”

“We had to learn how to use our arms then; our legs had
been taught their exercise before.”

“Were you among the rabble-rout who fled at the sight of
the Union flag of Britain, and scarlet livery of your king?”

Spiffard, who although amused by the rhapsodies of his companion,
was pained by the consciousness of the cause, and had
constrainedly kept up his part in the colloquy, was glad to find
that he might now become merely a listener to a dialogue between
two characters so opposite as the loyal representative of
Richard and Iago, on one part, and a rough republican tiller of
Indian corn and buckwheat, on the other.

“I'll tell you what,” said the yeoman, “we found that the
red coats were getting between us and the town, and that our
Lord Sterling as they called him,—what had we to do with
Lords?—knew no more of manœuvering than we did; so we
thought we had better save ourselves for another opportunity,
and learn to handle our tools before we commenced the business
of fighting.”

“ `The better part of valour is discretion.' You were right
to run when you were over there, at Brooklyn, but here at
Kip's Bay, you had nothing to do but stand fast and shoot our
men as they approached, cooped up in their boats, and exposed
where every shot must have told. What did you run for, then?
There was no manœuvering here. Your hero, your Washington,
got you out of the scrape the night before, and very cleverly,
to give the devil his due,—though, if Sir William Howe
had done his duty, you would all have been prisoners, and sent
home to be hanged as rebels; but your commander saved you
during the night, while Howe kept aloof, why, no one knows.”

“Perhaps discretion kept him at a distance;—that `better
part of valour' you talked of.”

“What should have taught him that discretion, with regular
troops at his back, and raw yankees in front?”

“Mayhap he remembered that he and them same rig'lars had
been at Bunker's Hill a short time before.”

“Why, there is something in that,” whispered Cooke, looking
over his shoulder at Spiffard, who enjoyed the farmer's retort.
“But,” he continued, raising his voice, “we showed no
discretion when we crossed here in open boats, huddled together,
so that you might have shot us like black birds, or pigeons,
or any other defenceless animals, who congregate in
crowds, and sit still to be murdered; but you trusted to your
legs again, and again Washington (and running) saved you.”

“My friend, you seem to know a considerable of that time;
where might you have been?”

“Lieutenant Cooke, of the fifty-fifth was in the foremost
boat, and the first to land. I am the man!”

“I never heard of you before; but you are not the only
hero who has been obliged to sound his own trumpet; and I
don't like you the less for having been one of the rigglars of
that day, especially as it's all over a long time, and as I know
that though you landed in the summer of seventy-six, those
that were left of you, embarked from the same little island in
the fall of eighty-three. So, if you, and this little quiet gentleman,
will jist turn in here,” and he threw open the gate of a
fence a little below the height on which they had been parleying,
“and go to my house, we'll fight over all our battles
again, while we wash down enmity with either cider or whiskey,
or brandy, as you like best,—I don't keep wine, only currant,
home-made.”

“That I will, with all my heart!” said the tragedian, and
down from the rock he hastened, by the side of the hospitable
farmer. Spiffard followed, mournfully, for he foresaw in the
invitation, an increase of mischief.

They entered a neat two-story wooden house, which fronted
the water, and had the hill as a shelter from the northern blasts.
All was comfortable within. The good woman sat knitting
yarn stockings for her long-legged husband; and two pretty
girls, her daughters, were busied in preparing habiliments of
finer material, and more urbanity, for themselves. The matron
was portly, and the household duties of the morning having
been performed, she was dressed, as if she expected company,
in the seemly sort befitting her age and station. Her round,
good-natured face was bordered by a neat cap, which was tied
under her chin. Her gown of calico, and apron of white linen,
pure as snow, new fallen, corresponded with the well-starched
kerchief that rose from the shoulder to the cheek. She looked
like the fitting wife of the substantial yeoman. The girls had
more pretension in dress and appearance, as might be expected
from their youth and the encroachments of the city. In fact,
they emulated the style of young ladies, and would, if they
dared, have protested against the rough guise, the basket,
spade, and naked arms of their father, who shouted on entering,
“Mother! I have brought these gentlemen in, to take a
drink after a long walk.”

“I'm glad to see them. Chairs, girls! From town, gentlemen?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Come, stir your stumps, girls!” said the father. “Some
cool water from the well; put down your trinkum trankums,
and take the pitcher, bring tumblers, and mother, turn cut the
cider, the brandy, the whiskey, and your oldest currant wine.”

All was soon before them. Cooke took his grog, nothing
loth, and Spiffard a glass of water. The farmer was pouring
out for himself, and without taking his eye from the glass,
“Wife,” said he, “what do you think? This old gentleman
says he made me run in the year seventy-six, when I was sodgering
over there at Brooklyn.”

“Like enough,” said the dame, laughing, “I never believed
half the stories you have told me of your fights with the red
coats.”

“Thank you for that, mistress.”

“Was this gentleman among the British then?”

“Yes. He was a gay young officer when I carried a musket
in Sterling's brigade. He says we run like heroes.”

“Ay, that ye did,” shouted Cooke, who had already swallowed
a second glass of the stiffest brandy and water, “that
ye did, and your General with you, your Washington, I was
close upon him, I had nearly caught him—”

“But you didn't.”

“No, he was too quick at retreat.”

“You should have sprinkled some salt on him—fresh salt,
the boys say. When you would catch an old bird, sprinkle some
fresh salt on his tail. My sarvice to you.”

Cooke looked astounded. He drew himself up with all the
assumption of offended dignity, while he shot from his overhanging
eyelids glances that were intended to awe the rustic.
“Sir!” he began, but the ludicrous image suggested by his
blunt host, with the consciousness that he was playing the
braggart, overcame his acting and the desire to continue it; he
suddenly changed from the heroic scowl to a look of arch good
humour, and stretching his hand out to the yeoman, “You
have beat me,” he said, “give me your hand. I shall never
be able to fight the battle of Brooklyn again. That salt has
preserved Washington.”

The yankee shook the outstretched hand with a hearty
laugh, and a grasp that made lieutenant Cooke flinch from the
encounter. “Wife,” said the farmer, “you can give these
friends a dinner of bacon, eggs, and potatoes, can't you?”

“Yes, and chickens and greens, and a good apple dumpling,
with a hearty welcome.”

“I wish,” said Cooke, “we were not engaged. This is
new. This is fresh. This would not be believed t'other side
the water.” Then in full apparent possession of his gentlemanly
manner, which was eminently prepossessing, he seemed
by an effort to regain the entire command of his rational faculties,
explained the object of their walk, and took leave with
thanks for American hospitality, adding, “Your fresh-salt
shall preserve the memory of the master, the mistress, and the
beauties of Kip's Bay as long as George Frederick Cooke
lives to tell a story of `yankee land.' ”

He bowed, and followed by the laughing girls, and smiling
matron to the door, the Thespians departed. The farmer accompanied
his guests until he saw them, by a shorter route,
gain the high road to Cato's; and then returned home, saying as
he left them, “I shall be glad to fight the battle of Kip's Bay
over again with you any day you have a mind for it.”