University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

A dinner parly in 1811.

—Shakspeare

Ecclesiasticus.

—Shakspeare.

—Chaucer.

Time rolled on, or flew, or crept, or limped, according to the
circumstances or the feelings of his children; those children
who murder him, and whom he, though murdered, never dying,
devours.

Winter had arrived, and the many-coloured leaves of autumn
had been scattered to the winds, or fallen to the earth, as a
covering for the roots from which they had derived their summer
nourishment; the long protracted rain-storms of November
had given place to the freezing blasts of the north-west,
before George Frederick Cooke had so far recovered, as to be
permitted by his physicians to resume his place at the festive
boards of his numerous admirers.

Doctor Cadwallader, (who had attended the old tragedian,
in conjunction with Doctors Hosack, McLean, and Francis,)
had long promised his friends the pleasure of dining with the
eccentric thespian; accordingly, having stipulated that the
bottle should be under the control of two medical attendants,
a day was fixed when Cooke was to be the lion of the party;
and exhibited in the evening, to the female acquaintance of Mrs.

Cadwallader, and as many of the elite of the city as the drawing-rooms
might accommodate.

Spiffard was invited to the dinner and tea party in due form;
for he had become acquainted with all Cooke's physicians, from
the circumstance of being found so frequently at the bed-side
of their histrionic patient. As we have said, Cooke was attended
by no less than four of the faculty, of the highest grade; but
Cadwallader took the lead as the senior, although Hosack,
McLean, and Francis were all consulted: all separately visited
the invalid at times, and sometimes altogether.

The young comedian declined the invitation. He had determined
not to make one in parties from which his wife was
excluded. Mrs. Spiffard was one of the acknowledged heroines
of the stage at this time, but as utterly shut out from female
society as if she had been infected with the most deadly contagion.
Spiffard had thought little of this before marriage; it
was one of the after-thoughts that tormented him.

Actresses have never been received into society, in this
country, on a footing of equality. Some are visited, sought
after, and invited into the circles of the rich and fashionable,
when they have recently arrived from Europe, under particular
circumstances; but even then, they are rather considered as
objects to gaze at, and show off, than as persons belonging to
the class who pay them these attentions. This class consider
themselves as patrons. The patronized are generally superior,
both in talents and accomplishments, to their patronizing entertainers;
yet are they never considered as other than inferior
to those who show them off, and pride themselves upon their
liberality in so doing.

It is in vain to deny, or endeavour to conceal from the actress,
that the very circumstance of publicly exhibiting for hire, that
person, and those talents, so admired and applauded, has degraded
her in the eyes of the world. Be it just or unjust, so it
is; and, perhaps, so it ought to be.

That this is unjust, in some instances, is certain. We have
known ladies of superior talents and education, who have
made the stage their profession, under the immediate guardianship
of their parents, that they might retrieve the fortunes of
their fathers, and support the younger branches of their family
in a necessary course of education. The tribute to these ladies
from justice, ought to be reverential respect and praise.

The knowledge we all have of the character of an audience at
a theatre—the mingled character, in which so much of the baser
material preponderates—the conviction that the plaudits of a play

house are sought with avidity—almost valued as the supreme
good by many, and boasted of by the individuals, as “I got
three rounds”—“the pit rose to me.” The certainty that the
actress must come in contact with (and the world knows not
how intimately) those of the same profession of both sexes
known to be impure, although of equal or superior talent to
herself—on the same stage—behind those mysterious curtains
and scenes—in those dark recesses, of which the secluded matron,
or even the dashing woman of fashion, knows no more
than she does of the world beyond the grave—the knowledge
of these circumstances, and the considerations and impressions
flowing from this knowledge—all these items ever did, and still
do, make the world pause and hesitate and feel shy and queer,
when required to associate with an actress, however much it
may admire the skill or talents of the individual.

Spiffard had not thought of all this before his marriage. As
a boy, in Boston, he only saw the stage to admire; in England,
he had only seen the bright side of the picture which the
drama exhibits. He was pure himself, and void of suspicion
in a degree that exposed him to ridicule. He knew nothing of
the higher class of English society, except as represented in
books, and he knew that actresses were admitted amongst the
nobles of the land, and even united in marriage with them.
Now that he was married to an actress of talents, he was at
first surprised to find, that his wife was considered of an inferior
caste by those who applauded her; and that, although
they invited him to their parties, his domestic partner was not
thought of as his and their companion. He had made other
discoveries not less inimical to his peace; and although he had
no wish to lead Mrs. Spiffard into the drawing-room of Doctor
Cadwallader, or any other magnate of the city, he felt that
where his wife was doomed to linger, he ought to remain; and
that, content or not, he must rest with her. They were united
for better for worse. It was worse than he expected—it will
happen so sometimes—he hoped to make it better. He had
chosen, and chose to abide by his choice.

Such was the ground Spiffard took in respect to receiving
the invitations of those who admired his talents and those of
his wife—invited him and neglected her. He therefore accepted
no invitations. But in the present instance, Cooke prevailed
upon him to go with him, as his protector from himself. The
physicians urged him to comply. The tragedian at length refused
to go without him, calling him his mentor, his guardian,
and promising to be guided by him. The water-drinker was

persuaded to waive all objections (the objections, as may be
supposed, were neither stated nor discussed), and finally to
yield.

The party at the dinner-table was large. The physicians
of the theatrical lion made a part. Mr. Littlejohn and his
friend Governor Tompkins sat near Spiffard and Cooke. Opposite
to them was a gentleman Spiffard had never seen before:
a man far past the meridian of life, tall, above the usual
height of Americans (and that exceeds the European standard):
this height was reduced, however, by a habit of courteous bowing.
His face remarkable for symmetry; his complexion fair,
but rather ruddy; and his full blue eyes were half closed with
smiles while attending to the words of every speaker. The
dinner was good, ample, and served with taste. When I speak
of a good dinner, I mean such as might have been thought
good in England fifty years ago, before gastronomy was a science,
or cooks, artistes. The wine was good, and of every
choice kind. The host was a man who knew how to welcome
his guests and make them at home, by freeing them from superfluous
attentions. The ladies of the family, Mrs. Cadwallader
and daughters, with a favoured few, graced the table, and
according to the custom of those days, soon withdrew after
the dessert, taking with them several other nymphs related to
them, called Temperance, Sobriety, Moderation, and sometimes
Decency.

Cooke, who was, to use a green-room phrase, “the great
pan of the dairy,” had great attention paid to him, and it was
evident that much was expected from him; but nothing came.
He was courteous, reserved, not quite silent, but very cautious.
When challenged to a glass of wine, he touched the brim or
sipped. The master of the feast observed his caution, and deferred
any attempt to draw him out for the present. Spiffard,
who had been introduced to Governor Tompkins by his friend
Littlejohn, was by far the most of a star: for he shone upon
every topic which he touched in the course of conversation,
without any of the affectation of the theatre, or the forwardness
of the traveller; and displayed a knowledge of subjects so foreign
to what is generally considered the train of study a comedian
would pursue, that he excited the admiration and fixed
the attention of all who were in his vicinity.

A subject happened to be started which gave Mr. Littlejohn
an opportunity of entertaining those near him, and especially
Spiffard, by detailing circumstances connected with a scene
dear to every American of right feeling. It is one of the privileges

of age to be sometimes interesting, merely as witnesses
of by-gone events, if a habit of observation has charadterized
the youth of the witness, and a love of truth accompanies the
decline of life.

A difference respecting the date existed between governor
Tompkins and the remarkably handsome tall gentleman who
sat opposite to him. Few men, for beauty or courtesy, could
compete with the governor; but his present opponent, though
older, was more dignified in appearance, and would in most
eyes pass for the handsomer man. The general, for that was
the title by which he was accosted, was a more fashionably
dressed man than the governor, or perhaps any person present;
his fine formed face showed little mark of age, except about
the eyes and brows, and the brilliancy of his florid complexion
the smoothness of his skin, as well as demeanor, turned away
all suspicion, which times' powder-puff or crows-feet might
have excited. As we have said, he was tall above the average,
of even American height, and might be said to be a very handsome
as well as very well dressed gentleman.

Such were the courteous disputants.

“Mr. Littlejohn, I dare say, can tell us,” said the governor.

“His knowledge,” said the referree, “is at all times at the
service of the man of the people's choice.”

“We were at a loss for the date (that is, the day, for no one
can forget the year) of a very important transaction; no less
than that which put a seal to the federal union and the constitution
of the United States.”

“The doctor's library would resolve that question, but to
save trouble I will be your authority. It was the thirtieth day
of April, 1789. I believe you, governor, are too young to have
been present, but the general might have witnessed the scene.”

Littlejohn looked at the general with an expression which
Spiffard noticed, but which was mysterious, and at the time, to
him, inexplicable.

“I was in France at the time,” said the general.

“Were you present at the ceremony?” asked Spiffard with
enthusiasm, addressing the merchant.

“I was, and assisted, in the capacity of grenadier; standing
in front of the building erected on the site of the old provincial
town-house, for the accommodation of Congress, and which
was called Federal Hall after the adoption of the constitution.”

“My dear sir,” said Cadwallader, whose attention was attracted

by the subject, as well as by reverence for the speaker,
“as the building you mention has been long swept from the
face of the earth, and the place where Washington pledged
himself to support that constitution his wisdom aided in forming,
has been devoted to the children of mammon, and to the
strife between cupidity and tax-gathering, your description of
a place, the memory of which is hallowed in my mind, would
be very interesting to us men of these utilitarian days.”

“And a description of the ceremony,” said Governor Tompkins;”
for though I was old enough to have seen it, I was at
Westchester, probably playing the idler at the time, for I was
on a visit to my father, and glad to escape from my master's
office, and the study of Coke upon Littleton.”

“Federal Hall, as well as the building which gave place to
it, projected into Wall-street where Broad-street terminates,
on the one side, and Nassau on the other. A covered way
accommodated foot-passengers; over it was a balcony, the
pediment surmounting which was supported by massive pillars,
swelling fancifully in the centre, rather according with the
architect's whim than with any known order.”

“Who was the architect, sir?” asked the general.

“Major L'Enfant.”

“Aha! a Frenchman. How infinitely are Americans indebted
to France. She stepped forward in the cause of freedom,
and with unexampled liberality sent her fleets and armies
to rescue America from oppression.”

“When I hear of the liberality of Louis the Sixteenth's government
in the cause of liberty, and of the debt we owe to
France for seizing a favourable opportunity to cripple the
power of England, I can only express my dissent by one word
—a very expressive old English word, though not perhaps
classical.”

“What is that, Mr. Littlejohn?” asked the governor.

“Fudge!”

“Ha! ha! But we must not lose Federal Hall and the
first presidential inauguration. You have described the pediment
and its pillars or columns.”

“These pillars divided the open space within which the inauguration
took place into three parts, making a picture to
those in front of the building, like Raphael's apostles at the
beautiful gate of the temple. As Broad-street terminated at
this spot, forming an open space, the persons on the balcony
were in full view of the populace. The volunteer companies

of militia, in full uniform, paraded in front of the Hall, on Wall-street.
Some troops of horse, well mounted and equipped,
two companies of grenadiers that might have pleased old Frederick,
the one filled by the tallest youth of the city, the other
composed of Germans; many of them men who had found
means to remain, as citizens and freemen, among the people
their masters had sent them to reduce to the condition of
slaves. These, with a company in the garb and military equipment
of Scotch Highlanders, were drawn in line with several
bodies of artillery and infantry. My good friends, Generals
Morgan Lewis, and Jacob Morton, were both active officers
on the glorious day, and could give you many interesting details
which may have escaped me, a private, and confined to the
ranks. Both houses of Congress being assembled, they, with
foreign ambassadors and other distinguished persons, filled the
balcony and the space behind it. From this elevation, the view
of Broad-street was of one living mass, a silent and expectant
mass; with faces upturned, they gazed upon the man of their
hearts as he walked from the interior of the building, and took
his place in the centre of the balcony, between two pillars
which bounded the compartment, and formed the principal
group of this great historic picture.”

“Mr. Spiffard,” said Cadwallader, “precious as youth is,
one would almost consent to be old, to have seen such a
day!”

“Not only almost, but quite, sir!” replied Spiffard.

Cooke listened without appearing to attend. The handsome
general bowed, saying, “You have an excellent memory, Mr.
Littlejohn. It is a great blessing.”

“That depends upon circumstances, sir,” was the reply, accompanied
by a glance such as he seemed to keep in store for
the general. “It is sometimes convenient to forget—and
memory may be a curse.”

Cadwallader appeared to notice the look and the reply, although
the general's face gave no symptoms of any movement
within; and the doctor adroitly said, “It was indeed a great
historic picture! You can, perhaps, not only remember the
persons present, the figures of the price, but their situation on
the canvas.”

“As though it were yesterday.”

“Pray give us the picture,” said the doctor.

“In a painting, costume is essential to truth; and if I paint,
truth shall be my first object.”

Cooke observed in a whisper, “Then you will be the first

historian (writer or painter) that ever paid her ladyship such a
compliment.”

The merchant proceeded. “The president elect made his
appearance, that day, in a plain suit of brown cloth; coat, waistcoat,
and breeches; the dress was homespun—home-manufactured,
even to the buttons; which my old friend Rollinson, the
engraver, takes pride in saying, displayed the arms of the
United States, chased by his graver. White silk stockings
showed the contour of a manly leg; and his shoes, according
to the fashion of the time, were ornamented with buckles. His
head was uncovered, and his hair dressed and powdered; for
such was the universal custom of the day. Thus was his tall,
fine figure presented to our view, at the moment which forms
an epoch in the history of nations. John Adams, a shorter
figure, in a similarly plain dress, but with the (even then) old-fashioned
Massachusetts wig, stood at Washington's right
hand; and opposite to the president elect stood Chancellor
Livingston, in a full suit of black, ready to administer the prescribed
oath of office. Between them was placed Mr. Otis,
the clerk of the senate, a small man, bearing the bible on a
cushion. In the back-ground of this picture, and in the right
and left compartments formed by the pillars, stood the warriors
and sages of the revolution. The men who forgot self for the
sake of their country.”

“O, for a painter!” cried Spiffard.

“Go on with the accessories to your picture,” said the
doctor.

“The man on whom all eyes were fixed, and on whom all
hearts rested, stretched forth his hand with that simplicity
and dignity which characterized all his actions, and placed it
on the open book. The oath of office was read. The bible
was raised, and he bowed his head upon it. The chancellor
announced that `it was done'—that George Washington was
the President of the United States of America. The silence
of thousands was at an end; and the air was rent with acclamations,
bursting simultaneously from the hearts and tongues
of men who felt that the happiness of themselves and their posterity
was secured.”[1]

“Thank you, sir,” said the doctor.

“O, what a contrast is this simple picture, to the impious
mockery and insulting pageantry which attends the coronations

of European potentates,” was the exclamation of the Vermonter.

“Those imposing ceremonies, sanctioned by religion, and
made sacred by time, have their effect,” remarked the general.

“Imposing ceremonies! Yes, they have their effect on
those who are kept in ignorance by impostors.” Then turning
from the general (who bowed, but could not smile) to Spiffard,
the merchant continued. “My young friend, every American
must feel proud when contemplating the simplicity and wisdom
of our institutions.”

“Will they not last forever?”

“Forever is a long day,” whispered Cooke.

“That is a question not for us to answer. It is certain that
they will be imitated, and as certain that they will be looked
upon with jealousy and enmity—misrepresented and plotted
against by those who will be interested to destroy them, and
perpetuate their own power.”

Doctor Cadwallader seeing that many of his guests were
evidently disappointed in not finding the entertainment they
expected from the eccentricities of George Frederick, and
concluding that it was only when the wine was in, that the humour
would come out, addressed the tragedian in a tone, and
with the intent, to attract the attention of the company. “I
have had my professional and guardian glances unceasingly
directed to you, my patient, knowing how long you have suffered
from your late illness, and I perceive that you are more
afraid of madeira than I think necessary.”

“Doctor,” said Cooke, with a glance from the corner of his
eyes over his shoulder, “I need not tell a man of your experience,
that `a burnt child dreads the fire.' I believe I shall
for the future follow the example of this venerable gentleman
at my elbow, Mr. Spiffard, who has, like myself, in early life
drank so freely of wine, that now, to qualify it, he takes nothing
but water.”

“But, as you have not yet attained his venerable age, or
had either opportunity or inclination to injure yourself in that
way, I advise, as your physician, that the water-drinking be
put off until to-morrow.”

“ `To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.' ”

“So, here's a bumper toast. The first cultivator of the vine.
I prescribe a bumper of madeira to you, and one of Manhattan
water to your venerable neighbour—unless he returns to his
former ways, and takes wine for the remainder of the day—
come, fill! Here's to the memory of the first cultivator of the

vine, and inventor of the exhilarating liquor pressed from its
fruit.”

Every glass was filled with madeira, except that of the
water-drinker. Every one repeated the toast literally, except
Cooke, who added the name of “Bacchus,” as the inventor of
the liquor he loved.

“Another bumper for Mr. Cooke, as a punishment for altering
the toast,” cried out one of the company who had not been
so cautious in his libations during the feast.

“I submit to the punishment. I have generally found it
easier to receive than to pay. I am bound to take what my
physician prescribes.” And having drank a second bumper,
he added, “This is better than any prescription I have swallowed
of your ordering of late, my dear doctor. Call you this
punishment?”

“I think, sir,” said Spiffard, addressing Cadwallader, “that
Mr. Cooke ought to be enjoined to take a tumbler of the medicine
Doctor Davenport prescribed when called in at the late
consultation.”

“That would be punishment.”

“And you deserve it for robbing the inventor of wine of his
due, and giving it to another.”

“What, sirr, what! Would you transfer the worship from
Bacchus to any other hero or divinity? Who, sirr, who?
Who but the jolly god invented this heart-cheerer?”

“Cassio says, the devil.”

“False reading; he called the invisible spirit of wine by
that name—not this visible and beautiful creature, nor its creator.
Besides, sirr, that was when his head ached.”

“But, sir, I appeal to Doctor Cadwallader. Who did you
mean, sir, by the first cultivator of the vine and inventor of the
wine-press?”

“Noah, to be sure.”

“What, old Captain Noah?” said Cooke.

“Surely.”

“Then, Mr. Cooke,” said the governor, “I fill your glass
again, and drink with you to Captain Noah.”

“With all my heart. I will do him all the justice in my
power, and endeavour to make up for my unintentional disrespect.”

“`O, thou invisible spirit of wine!”' slyly whispered Spiffard.

“I do not wonder,” Cooke continued, “that the old gentleman
exerted his wits to invent wine after being so long water-drenched.
A good rule should work both ways. `Mix water

with your wine,' says the philosopher; if the rule is good, then
it is good to mix wine with your water.”

“Good, good!”

“Most assuredly I am not an admirer of that word `mix;'
but these grave and learned doctors, who are `my very worthy
and approved good masters,' say (and I doubt them not, though
I cannot account for the fact) that I have too much water in
my system. What, then, is the remedy? Captain Noah's, to
be sure. Wine! generous wine!”

The visible wine and the invisible spirit of wine, had produced
very visible effect; and but for the interference of the
young Mentor at his elbow, the convalescent tragedian would
have soon shown symptoms of his old complaint. Spiffard,
assisted by one of the physicians, contrived to substitute a decanter
of wine-and-water for that of wine which was at his
side, and by filling for his friend, kept him in that moderate
state of excitement which merely exhibited him to advantage.

A few songs were introduced; and in this part of the entertainment
Spiffard amply contributed; for his knowledge of
music, and stores of the best songs of every description, made
him an invaluable guest at any musical or convivial party, and
rendered it easy for him to prescribe his own course, and persevere
in it, in respect to his water-drinking. `Nor numbers,
nor examples, with him wrought to swerve' from his resolves.

The conversation turned naturally upon actors and acting.
Cooke's remarks on his contemporaries of the stage, were always
liberal—when he was himself. He gave Kemble all the
praise he deserved, although it was evident that he placed him
far below Mrs. Siddons, in the scale of histrionic excellence.
Garrick and Henderson he had only seen, but never played
with. He professed to aim at the one in Richard, and the other
in Falstaff. In Sir Archy and Sir Pertinax, he remembered
their author, old Macklin; but he played them even better.
When descanting on the merits of others, he undesignedly impressed
upon his hearers a conviction of his own pre-eminent
talents in his profession.

Surely actors should avoid the appearance of slighting those
who preceded them. The fame of an actor only lives in the
praise of those who follow him. He leaves no impress of himself,
but as he is imitated by others. We are apt to bestow our
admiration on those who “strut their hour on the stage” before
us, and doubt the testimony of writers who have recorded the
merits of their contemporaries. This was not a failing of
Cooke's. Happily this day was one of his brightest. He exerted
himself to please, and was successful.