University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

A little mystery, and an old acquaintance.

—Verplanck.

—Shakspeare.

—Milton.

Shakspeare.

I WILL introduce my reader to another sick chamber of a
very different aspect from the last. Indeed, a greater contrast
to the commodious apartments and assiduous attendants which
surrounded and administered to George Frederick Cooke,
could not well be imagined, than the mean and scantily furnished
hovel-like house of Mrs. Johnson, and the feeble assistance
which could be rendered to her, (suffering and sick as
she was,) by her only permanent attendant, a poor little
negress. True, she had the occasional consolation of her son's
presence, and that of Emma Portland: the consolation of
duteous affection, sympathy, charity, and love. When those
occupations which enabled him to procure the scanty sum
necessary for his mother's support, would permit, she had the

attendance of the best of sons. But his days were passed in
laborious preparation for his mother's future welfare, and even
his nights were devoted to gaining the pittance required by their
necessitous condition for present support; especially since a
chronic disease had rendered his beloved parent incapable of
those exertions which once had made their situation comfortable,
and enabled her to give him the education of an enlightened,
efficient citizen. She had frequently another attendant, (as
noticed above,) whose sex made her more competent to know,
and more skilful to perform, the offices which the sick require.
Emma devoted to Mrs. Johnson as much of her time as she
could; but she was wanted at home to assist her aunt and
cousin; and abroad, by others who were sick and poor.

Mrs. Johnson had one attendant in common with Mr. Cooke.
Of the many physicians who exerted their skill for him, one
had been led to the house of poverty, and administered that
relief which his professional skill and benevolent disposition,
enabled him to give. Emma Portland had a tie stronger
than pity and charity, or even sympathy toward a person so
like herself in disposition, and so like her lost mother in sentiments,
accomplishments, knowledge, and resignation to the will
ofheaven. Emma had become acquainted with Henry Johnson
before his mother's illness, when she, by her industry, aided
by strict economy, had supported her little establishment, while
her son was obtaining that knowledge in a merchant's counting-house,
which might lead to a competency for her future
comfort.

This young couple, (for they were already united in the
purest bonds of affection) had become acquainted in a manner
and in a place, of all others, most likely to create a pure union
of hearts, because the employment which brought them in the
presence of each other evinced the congeniality of their dispositions
and the kindred feelings of well regulated minds. They
were both teachers in the same sunday school: both employed
in the diffusion of knowledge to those whose condition in life
rendered it most difficult of attainment: both endeavouring to
rescue from vice those most exposed to become its victims—
the children of the ignorant and vicious. Sunday was the only
day that Henry Johnson was free from the labours of the
counting house; and until his mother's illness required his
presence in attendance on her, he had devoted it to the instruction
of those whose avocations or situations prevented or
prohibited other modes or opportunities of acquiring knowledge.
The form, the face, the general appearance of Emma

Portland, were sufficient to attract the admiration of Henry;
but he was captivated by her demeanor while bestowing instruction
on the little ones around her; who soon learned to
look upon her as a friend, and to love the lessons she bestowed,
for the love they bore their beautiful and kind instructress.

Some of the same causes operated to produce the same
effects in the breast of Emma Portland. She observed the
punctuality with which Henry attended to his voluntary duties,
and the patience he exhibited in performing them. His manly
form and expressive face might have passed unnoticed; but
his suavity of manners, his devoted attention to the welfare of
those who were entrusted him, attracted her attention and
gained her approbation. They had occasion to commune in
this their benevolent employment. They mutually made inquiries
respecting each other. The interchange of civility and
words led to the interchange of esteem, and finally of love.

The situation of Emma, with her aunt and cousin, was by no
means agreeable to Henry, and it was not until he knew
the refined and just sentiments, and had learned the history
of the lovely orphan, that he suffered love to lead his
hopes on to the anticipation of happiness with such a partner.
Love, with minds well regulated and accustomed to self-control,
is not that blind and irresistible passion which poets and
novelists have described. Once convinced of the worth of the
object of his admiration, the youth felt resolved to remove her
from her present situation, and doubted not that his resources
were equal to the task. Before sickness had reduced his mother
to the helpless state in which we now find her, Henry had
communicated his views of future domestic happiness, and had
obtained her approbation of his choice: those views were at
present obscured; but youth can see beyond the clouds.

They were no common clouds that enveloped the Johnsons.
Loss of health had caused the gradual approach of that extreme
penury which threatened to render the remnant of this
unfortunate lady's days peculiarly cheerless. The little shop
she had attended to, and in part supplied with needle-worked
articles for sale by her own industry and ingenuity, had
dwindled away, had been closed, and its remaining stock sold
at auction. Henry had discharged all debts, paid the rent of
the house they had occupied, and removed, with his parent, to
the hovel they took refuge in, there to meet the winter's storms
and hide from the cold looks of worldlings. All the poor
were not yet thrust into the suburbs of the city or the adjoining
villages, and this mean habitation was in the way of Emma

Portland in her walks of duty, she seldom passed the house of
Mrs. Johnson without paying the tribute of affection to suffering
merit. She seldom saw Henry there; and, indeed, his absence
sometimes appeared to her mysterious. We need not
say that the attentions of Emma to the invalid increased the
attachment of the son, and caused the mother to place her
hopes of that son's future happiness on the prospect of his
union with a creature of such rare virtues.

It was noon on Sunday—Henry, who at this period, passed
that day in attendance upon his mother, had been reading to
her in the family bible. He had ceased, and a few minutes of
silence had elapsed. He turned to the leaf on which is usually
recorded those important events in domestic history, the marriage
of the father and mother, and the day and hour on which
it took place: this, in most cases, is happily followed by the
dates of the birth of each child. Henry looked, as he had
often before done, mournfully upon this leaf in his mother's
bible. It was mutilated. The top of the leaf on which the
date of the marriage of his father and mother had been, as it
would appear, written in the accustomed manner, had been cut
off. There was no record on the leaf, save of the birth of a
son on the 16th of June, 1791, baptized in blank church, (the
name of the church carefully erased,) Manchester, by the
name of Henry.

“Mother, it is long since you promised me, that, in due
time, you would tell me who and what my father was. You
know that I look often at every part of this book; but, since I
first could read, this leaf has fixed my attention more than any
other. I know your worth too well to entertain a thought to
your disadvantage; but it sometimes occurs painfully to my
mind, that only some act committed by my father, either disgraceful
or criminal, could induce you to permit me to arrive
at man's estate ignorant of even the name of one of the authors
of my being. Relieve my mind from this impression, and say,
at least, that my father's name is not dishonoured in his native
country.”

“I am sorry that you recur to this subject, Henry.”

“It grieves me to cause you sorrow; but, believe me, dear
mother, if you should be taken from me, and leave me in this
incertitude, I would not rest until I had searched the records of
every church in Manchester, with this leaf in my hand; if by
no other means this mystery could be cleared and my curiosity
satisfied. I pain you, madam, but forgive me. For your

sake I have deferred pressing this question, although it is seldom
absent from my thoughts—for your sake I would still
defer it—but another is now interested in it. Emma Portland
is entitled to ask, and should know, that the father of the man
she looks forward to honour, was not one whose name shall
hereafter cause a blush on that face which was never suffused
with the livery of shame. If your strength does not suffice to
enter into a full explanation of the meaning of this mutilated
leaf in the sacred volume, at least say that my father's name is
not a reproach and a by-word in his native land.”

“Henry, I cannot now enter into a painful story—but I repeat
my promise—you shall know all—even if I should die
this day—you will know all.”

“And my father's name is not pronounced, (when he is
spoken of) with epithets of contumely attached to it?”

“On the contrary—in terms of admiration.”

“And yet—you are in a foreign land—and his son is ignorant
of that name. Mother! you are as pure as the mind of
man can imagine, or the heart of a son can desire. You have
bred me in the love of truth, and abhorrence of mystery—and
yet—”

“And yet—my son, I cannot willingly pronounce the name
of your father. Forbear—I entreat you—you cannot long remain
in ignorance. It is my wish to inform you of every circumstance
before my death, and that must be in a few weeks—
perhaps days—I am ill—give me that glass of water—
quick—”

With affright and contrition her son obeyed her. And
while tenderly supporting his parent's head and in broken accents
asking her forgiveness, Emma, who with the little black
girl had been at St. Paul's chapel, entered and flew to his assistance.

In such hands the fainting woman soon revived. With
such a nurse sickness and sorrow were soothed to serenity.
The mother banished the recollections of former woe, and
blessing the virtuous pair who revived her hopes of happiness
in an earthly futurity, though not for herself, she sunk sobbing
on her pillow, her overcharged heart relieved by a shower of
salutary tears.

Such was the scene at the bedside of the poor unknown.
We have seen what was passing by the sick-bed of the rich,
the famous, the idolized George Frederick Cooke—more of
both, anon. We will return to Zebediah Spiffard.

About this time the comedian's recollections of Boston

were revived by an accidental meeting with a person whose
conduct had materially affected the course of those events
which we have recorded, and of course those yet to follow in
our story. The chain of the past, the present, and the future,
is never broken.

As Spiffard passed through Nassau-street, he was accosted
by a man who came at the moment from a public house, notorious
as the resort of those who, like Bardolph, carry faces
that might be mistaken for my landlady's red petticoat. This
person stopping directly in the footway, cried, “sure it is
Mr. Spiffard!”

“That is my name, sir.”

“Why, Zeb, have you forgotten your old master?”

The truth flashed upon Spiffard, and with it a pang shot to
his heart—a pang only to be accounted for by the circumstances
of his childhood, the last scenes in his father's house,
his present doubts and fears, and the peculiar susceptibility of
his character, on the subject of the species of moral degradation
which he at once perceived written on the countenance of this
unhappy man. He gasped for breath as he exclaimed, “Mr.
Treadwell!”

“Ay! I am very glad to see you my boy! Come in—come
in,” and he turned to the door he had just left. “Come in—
I have been inquiring for you, and was going to see you—
come in—you can help me—you can give me the information
I want.”

He led him, though reluctant, first into the bar room of the
tavern, and then into a private apartment. He loathed the
sight and smell of the place, but he could not refuse to follow
one who revived recollections of a happy period of his youth,
and who he had once been accustomed to respect and obey.
He was urged on likewise by the feeling of shame at being
seen in the street with a man whose appearance denoted the
effect both of past and present excess.

In despite of Spiffard's remonstrances Treadwell ordered
brandy; and talking with rapidity soon made known the cause
of his journey to New-York. He displayed his own turpitude
with an assurance which nothing but his present excitement,
and a belief in the laxity of morals attached to the profession
his quondam pupil had chosen, could account for.

Mrs. Tomlinson, a favourite actress, had been engaged
for the New-York theatre, after a separation from her husband,
an event which had taken place in Boston, and Spiffard
now learned that his former legal instructor, although married

and the father of a family, had been the cause of the divorce.
With the recklessness which the progress in guilt naturally induces,
he had come on to effect a re-union with the unhappy
woman, by inducing her to return to the place of his
residence. She had, however, formed another attachment in
New-York, and, hearing of Treadwell's arrival, secreted herself
from his pursuit.

Little doubting but that Spiffard could give him the desired
information, he concluded his communication with—“you
will tell me where she is to be found.”

“I do not know, sir.”

“My dear fellow, that is impossible. She is of too much
importance in the theatrical world to allow me to believe that.
You may as well tell me, for I will know. Thomson, to
whom I gave her letters when she left Boston, shuns me—and
I suspect—but I have come here to see her, and I will see
her.”

“I know nothing of her, except as I have seen her on the
stage; and her character is such that I wish no nearer acquaintance.”

“That's too good! Your wife does not associate with her?”

“Certainly not, sir.”

“That's very well! very well, indeed! When all the world
knows how her character stood before—”

“Stop, sir!”

“Mrs. Spiffard, or Mrs. Trowbridge—”

“Stop, sir!” and Spiffard's eyes flashed fire, his face was
flushed, and his limbs were braced to the tension of the tiger's,
before he springs on his prey. “Stop, sir, one word spoken
disrespectfully of my wife, will be resented on the instant.
Contrary to my wishes, you have told me your own infamy,
and that of the person you seek; yet you have dared to ask
me if she is the companion of my wife. I despise your insinuations,
but I will not suffer them to be repeated.”

“Why, why, why, my dear fellow, why do you fly out in this
manner? We all know—that is—come, come, take some
brandy and water.”

“Mr. Treadwell, you have already taken too much. If you
had not deprived yourself of the sense of shame, as well as the
power of reasoning, you would not have exposed yourself and
the unhappy woman, who, perhaps, but for you, would have
been a respectable wife and mother. I must leave you, sir.”

“What? Why, Zeb? Don't you ask your old friend to
come and see you? What! cut me!”

“I am obliged to believe your own account of yourself.
When I heard your story from others, I tried to disbelieve it.
Our acquaintance ends here.”

Spiffard did not listen to his reply, but left the house abruptly.
He left the house, but another arrow had entered his inmost
soul, his heart's heart, and was borne away with him. The
words he had heard in the Park, when we first met him; the
mystery which hung over some passages of the life of one
whose fame and welfare he had rashly united to his own; the
consciousness of precipitancy in contracting an engagement
for life, so vitally important to his peace; all rushed upon his
tortured mind as he left the tavern; and the unhappy Treadwell's
looks, as well as the inuendos he had given, continued
to haunt him with horrid recollections. He passed through the
bar-room to gain the street. When on the pavement, he heard
from within a shout of laughter from those who surrounded the
bar; and his imagination pictured a crowd of bloated fiends,
sitting in the clouds, and rejoicing at his misery.

Treadwell sought to drown the voice of conscience, and the
sense of humiliation, on the spot. A few words will terminate
his story. While unsuccessfully seeking the woman for whom
he had deserted his home, and whose infamy he was proclaiming
by the search, her husband arrived in New-York, on his
way from south to east, and hearing of Treadwell's presence,
and avowed object, he sought him, and in a public place inflicted
the chastisement of the most contumacious words, accompanied
by blows. The wretch returned to his native place; he
had no home; he died neglected by all but the wife he had
deserted.

The unfortunate husband whose domestic peace had been
invaded, his wife, and the friend of the seducer, who appropriated
the guilty consignment to his own use, all perished
early and miserably. Such things have been; and, perhaps,
if mankind knew that their deeds of evil would not be covered
by the veil of charity, but proclaimed for the truth's sake, many
might be checked in the downward course, and brought to
real repentance; which is amendment.