University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

The walk back to town.

—Shakspeare.

—Johnson.

—Dryden.

Spiffard had a predilection for aged companions. Old
age is reverenced for its supposed concomitants; as, perhaps,
Doctor Johnson would have said. If they are absent, old age
is poor, indeed. Our hero generally found age enriched by
experience, and sometimes by a well-stored memory, where

characters and events are recorded, that had escaped the historian
or biographer; and he found that the old, for the most
part, were pleased by his attentions, and rewarded them by
confidence. Age is garrulous; but this, if the memory is perfect
and the love of truth strong, may be a source of great
profit to youth. A selfish, dogmatical, egotistical old man is a
nuisance,—he is always, regardless of truth. Such was not
the character of Spiffards present companion.

James Littlejohn was a merchant, and a successful one. He
had imbibed a taste for books before he was confined to the
counting-house, and his knowledge was not limited to the accumulation
of dollars and cents, or his conversation to “the
market,” or the value of stock. He was a rich and prosperous
merchant. A good man off and on 'change: beloved by his
friends, and trusted to any extent on the Rialto of Wall-street.
Was he happy? No. He had lost his wife. He loved her
more than rupees. She left him two sons; the oldest a severe
student, lost health in seeking knowledge, and died at his desk;
the youngest likewise an ardent student, had devoted himself
to theology, and had been admitted to sacerdotal power, by ordination.
The fair promise of his usefulness had been blasted
by an unhappy attachment to a beautiful girl, who, after encouraging
his addresses, threw herself away upon a worthless foreigner,
an impostor, with an assumed title, who deserted her
to mortified pride, fruitless repentance, and early death. The
young man was changed, he shunned society, devoted himself
to abstruse metaphysical reading, and after a short career as a
preacher, admitted doubts and opinions which he honestly expressed,
and in consequence was obliged to retire from the
pulpit. The conflicts in his mind, with the disappointments
ambition and love had received, ended in his becoming a desponding
maniac, and as such he was now an inmate of the lunatic
asylum. During the earlier progress of this disease of
the mind, he, for a short time, sought refuge from his perturbed
thoughts, his doubts and misgivings, in stimulants; but his better
feelings caused him to reject this miserable resource, which
only hastened the prostration of intellect, and he sunk into
hopeless melancholy, with occasional paroxysms of violence;
during which he cursed existence, and accused the justice of
heaven. Many of these circumstances were imparted by the
afflicted father during this evening walk, and Spiffard frankly
made known the history of his brief life, and explained the
cause of his abhorrence of that particular vice, the contemplation

of whose effects had temporarily united him and his
companion, and seemed to indicate further intimacy.

Various topics were discussed, in a walk of several miles;
and Mr. Littlejohn was struck with surprise at the clearness
with which Spiffard spoke on many subjects not usually made
familiar to young men. He could not likewise but observe
the confidence Spiffard evinced in the kindly disposition of his
fellow-creatures, an absence of suspicion which bordered on infantile
simplicity. He had no “art to find the mind's construction
in the face.” The seeming good, were, to his eyes,
truly good.

After one of those pauses, which must occur even when dialogists
are prone to communicativeness, Mr. Littlejohn broke
silence by saying, “I was surprised when you told me that
you are a player by profession, for it is long since I have
thought of the theatre, or noticed a play-house placard. Your
appearance, manner, conversation, are all at variance with my
former knowledge of actors, and with my preconceived opinions
of that class of men. I must consider you as an exception to
a general rule. You have more acquaintance with literature,
more knowledge of history, and of the relative situations and
interests of the nations of Europe: you are better acquainted
with the laws and institutions of this country than belongs to
one whose pursuits are those necessarily connected with a profession
so superficial.”

“The profession does not deserve the epithet, sir, and as to
my knowledge of American affairs, you must suppose that as
an American I am bound to know more of them than foreigners
do: I certainly should be ashamed of myself if I did not.
A good actor must make himself acquainted with so many
things, that he can hardly be considered a superficial man, at
least when compared with the generality of mankind. The old
gentleman whose mock duel and bacchanalian behaviour attracted
your attention, is no superficial man. He has read
much, thought much.”

“Not to much purpose, or he would not pervert the gifts of
God in the manner he does. But in that he is not singular. I
do not charge this vice on your profession exclusively, but I
fear that those who are devoted to the stage are more in the way
of temptation than most men.”

“Then sir,” said the actor, “the stage must be an evil.”

“As it has been, and is conducted in most countries, and
especially in England and America, I believe it is,” rejoined
the merchant.

“Yet, sir,” said Spiffard, “good men have advocated theatrical
establishments.”

“In the abstract. The theory is beautiful. Moral lessons,
rendered as indelible as they are delightful. But if the manager
or director aims at pleasing rather than instructing, at filling
his purse rather than other men's minds, he seeks that which
will please the idle and profligate, because they are the majority
of mankind.”

“Garrick has said, sir, `those who live to please, must
please to live.”'

“So the unhappy victim of seduction may excuse her flaunting
finery and painted face. It is the plea of the meretricious.
If it is necessary to flatter vice, and encourage folly for the
support of an institution, that institution is wrong, and must be
abandoned. I can conceive of a theatre which would be a
school of morality, but it must be directed by a wise government,
or academical institution, and not by those who live to
please, and `must please to live.' Temperance has not hitherto
been encouraged by theatrical institutions. Intemperance
and its attendant vices prevail within and around theatres;
and the lessons of dramatists are little calculated to eradicate
the evil. Sheridan exhibits his hero and his companions
revelling in bacchanalian licentiousness, and makes vice
glory in her deformity. Who can calculate the mischief produced
and propagated by that one scene of revelry in the School
for Scandal, or of the one song, `let the toast pass?”'

“Or of any other drinking song, sir, of which we have so
many not connected with the drama.”

“True, but from the stage it is conveyed to thousands, in
its thousand-times repetition, who would otherwise never have
heard of it. Besides, sir, it comes recommended by the
wit of the author personified in the profligate Charles, who
is held up as the object of admiration and imitation. It
is recommended to assembled thousands, who thoughtlessly applaud
while poisoned by the cup they commend to the lips of
others. Who shall say that this very song did not cause its
author to live a scoffer at prudence, and die a bloated pauper?”

“But, sir, the stage presents many of the finest lessons in
favour of temperance, and in the most impressive language.”

“Its lessons are rendered of no avail by the frequency of exhibiting
ebriety merely as a venial vice, and its subjects as
pardonable objects, to be laughed at merely, if not commended.
Whereas the dramatist who should do his duty, would

show the vice as leading to all evil, and its subject such as he
truly is, disgusting, loathsome, and a cowardly suicide.”

“You forget, sir, that men will not congregate to see the
disgusting and the loathsome,” said Spiffard.

The merchant replied.—“The skilful dramatist has shown
the misery consequent upon the practice of gaming, and might
exhibit the sufferings which flow from the disgusting and destructive
vice of which we speak; and he should contrast
them with the strength, health, cheerfulness, and power of doing
good, which are the result of temperance.”

“And so he has. The passages are numberless to that effect,
especially in Shakspeare's plays. How beautiful is the
picture of the faithful old servant in `As You Like It,' whose
temperance has given him the power to protect the oppressed
son of his deceased master!”

“Beautiful!—but I fear that the picture of the guzzling,
bragging, lying, contemptible (yet favourite) Falstaff, is longer
remembered, and more often copied, than that of good old
Adam.”

“Then the lesson given by the evils Cassio experiences in
consequence of yielding to temptation. His deep sense of
his own degradation. His bitter exclamation, that he is `hurt
past all surgery.”'

“I remember the scene well, and have often meditated on
it; but common auditors see in Cassio's fall from duty, only a
subject for laughter; while Iago's `wine is a good creature,'
makes a more lasting impression than Cassio's disgrace and
repentance. Why cannot some dramatist show the wife weeping
over her children the live-long night, heart-sick at the anticipation,
from experience, of a husband and father, returning
to his home brutalized, to insult her he had sworn to love and
cherish; to mislead those who look to him for precept and example.”

“The public would not receive the piece,” said the actor.

“I will not believe so meanly of the public.”

“Why, sir,” persisted Spiffard, “even a novelist would not
dare to make so low and despicable a vice the theme of his
story.”

“Then,” resumed Littlejohn, “the momentous moral lesson
must not be given for fear of shocking the ears or eyes of
the polite? Or, perhaps the poor author might write in vain,
as no publisher could be found to patronize his work.”

“Then I think, sir, it must be because the publisher thought
it would not sell,” said Spiffard.

“True,” said the old gentleman, “I believe that is the only
criterion, for I have known publishers who made the strongest
professions of religion and morality, giving to the world the
seducing scenes of `Tom Jones,' without scruple; scenes in
which obscenity is only veiled sufficiently to be made more
dangerous.”

“I think, sir, you can scarcely say it is veiled.”

While thus conversing, an incident occurred which was a
commentary on the subject of discussion. Our pedestrians
had left at Cato's a set of revellers who were distinct from
those they had seen and moralized upon. And their conversation
was interrupted by shouts, cracking of whips, clattering
of hoofs, and the rushing sound of wheels. Two gigs rapidly
passed them, and the same moment, while striving for the glory
of precedence, came in collision. While yet the air resounded
with riotous shouts, one of the youths who had uttered them, lay
senseless and mangled by a rock which had received him
upon the overturning of the carriage. His skull was fractured.
The reasoning faculty which had been bestowed by the Creator,
to preserve life, with life had fled, after having been driven
from its post by the enemy of life and reason. The pedestrians
hastened to the spot, and found the youth dead. That
frame which a minute before was rioting in pulsation, and spurred
to madness by wine, was senseless;—irretrievably self-murdered.
His immediate companion lay groaning at a short distance,
unable to rise, but reserved, perhaps, to profit by the
dreadful lesson. The hack horse had gladly stopped by the
overturned gig. The votaries of reason and temperance busied
themselves with endeavours to remedy the ills produced by the
folly they detested.

And where were the companions of the dead, the rivals in
the race?

On they went, shouting in triumph! With the recklessness
of irrational beings. On they passed, either careless of their
late associates in revelry, (for nothing hardens the heart so much
as the practice of what is called goodfellowship,) or thinking
lightly of the overturn, as of a frequent occurrence, in which
they had no part.

One of the youths was dead, the other stunned by the fall.
When assisted and led to the spot where the first lay a mangled
corse; the full sense of his situation rushed with returning
consciousness upon the survivor. The fumes of wine
were dissipated, he recollected the past, saw the horrors of the
present, and anticipated the scene that must ensue when the

parents should see a son brought into their presence a corpse,
who had last been seen in all the pride of opening manhood.
When the unhappy youth was thus suddenly restored to reason,
he uttered with a cry of agony, “My brother!” and fell
on the corse, senseless.

We pass over particulars. The brothers were placed in the
carriage, late so triumphantly mounted and impelled. One
brother supported the inanimate body of the other, while Mr.
Littlejohn walked by the side of the gig, and Spiffard led the
horse. They stopped at the first house on the road, and were
received with kindness, but no assistance could be rendered,
and in the same order they proceeded to town.

Our pedestrians left their charge at the house of the parents.
It was not for them to intrude, and they retired unnoticed during
a scene of confusion and misery too profound for us to attempt
a description of.

Late in the evening, Mr. Littlejohn and his young friend,
now united in intimacy by these chance circumstances, separated
for their several places of rest. The rich merchant, after
giving his card, and a hearty shake of the hand, to his
young companion, wended his way to a towering house, (at a
distance from his store-houses and compting-room,) where he
found every comfort and luxury but those of domestic society:
the poor player directed his steps to an humble dwelling, not
far from the theatre which he enriched by his talents. He
found society, but not such as was suited to him. That portion
most immediately connected with his happiness had undergone
a change in his eyes, and was daily deteriorating from
that alluring appearance which had caused him to become one
of the household.