University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Conversation and coffee—Politeness and harmony.

—Shakspeare.

The company removed early from the dinner-table and the
wine, exchanging the fumes of the cigar for those of the fragrant
berry, the exhilarations of the decanter and the song for
those of the tea-pot and the music of female conversation.

The handsome general left the dining-room before the company
broke up, and was not found in the drawing room. This
gentleman had not been introduced to Spiffard; and although
he most courteously addressed the young man with smiles and
a manner intended to be condescendingly encouraging, the
water-drinker shrunk from him with a sensation approaching

to something between dread and loathing. He answered his
questions politely, but with great brevity, and withdrew his
eyes from the fine features and mild glances as soon as his
unwilling reply to the superficial remark would in decency
permit. Yet, by a strange anomaly of feeling, he looked for
this man in the drawing-room, and seemed to be relieved when
he discovered his absence. Cooke was here really the lion of
the evening. He was fully alive to the pleasures of society,
and in that happy state of confidence and self-possession, which
prompted to eccentric sallies, and enabled him to meet on
equal ground the opposition of those who did not choose to submit
to his occasional dogmatism. The water-drinker was always
the same, when not assailed on his weak side: and he
was at this time in unusual spirits. His musical powers and his
conversation had produced their full effect, and he was pleased
to see that the man, in whom he took so great interest, had
escaped unscathed from the dangers of his recent situation.

Doctor Cadwallader, one of the oldest and most popular
physicians of the city, well known and highly esteemed in every
literary as well as fashionable circle, had issued invitations
very generally for this evening, and Mrs. Cadwallader had
done the same; consequently the suite of apartments were filled
by the young of both sexes, companions or admirers of the
young ladies, and with professional men of every description,
some of whom were expressly invited for the purpose of meeting
the famous tragedian: the females of the doctor's family
alone formed a brilliant circle; but, in addition, the rooms were
almost crowded by belles and their mamas, who wished to see
Richard and Sir Pertinax surrounded by a dramatis personæ of
every-day life.

Cooke went through the forms of introduction with all the
easy ceremony of the old school, and by the suavity of his
manners, softness of his voice, good humoured smiles, and
occasional archness, won the hearts of the old ladies, and the
admiration of the young.

“I never will believe,” whispered Mrs. Temple in the ear
of Mrs. Cadwallader, “I never will believe that such a pleasant
old gentleman can be guilty of the acts which have been
attributed to him.”

“My dear,” said the elegant Mrs. Cadwallader, “these
men are strange deceitful creatures. Even our husbands are
not always the same amiable pieces of perfection they once
were, or as we wish them to be.”

Mrs. Temple's husband seldom came home sober, and

never in tolerable humour unless fortune had favoured him at
the pharoah or brag table.

Cooke was at this moment examining a miniature picture (by
the accomplished and amiable Malbone) that Miss Cadwallader
had asked his opinion of. He immediately saw that it
was the portrait of the lovely girl herself.

“My dear young lady, I can only say that it is extremely
beautiful and extremely like. I must confess my ignorance
of all that relates to this delightful art. Likeness I can see.
I peer at those soft eyes and almost imagine that through the
long lashes they are peeping at me—I look at these swelling
ruby lips and think they are breathing odours, and just opening
to accost me—but when I turn to the original, I spy a thousand
faults in the copy.”

“What are they, Mr. Cooke?”

“I cannot perceive the laugh that lurks between the eyelids,
and about the dimpling cheeks or curling lips—there
now—it is less and less like. I cannot find the rows of pearl
that should be here—or the blush that spreads and deepens
every moment—truly the artist's colours have no life in them!
What do you think, madam?” addressing Mrs. Cadwallader,
who then joined them.

“You do the artist injustice, and flatter Louisa at his expense.”

“Nay, mama, I think Mr. Cooke is a very good judge of
painting,” said the laughing Louisa.

“If my friend Pope were here,” said Cooke, “he could
talk learnedly on painting, as he is not only actor but painter,
and in this same style. He would point out the merits and
demerits of this very beautiful portrait—for such I can see
that it is—although I can see that nature possesses many more
beauties than art has portrayed. He could descant on colour
and keeping, on tint and touch, and tell you why this eye does
not sparkle like that,” and he archly turned his own up to the
laughing eyes of the lovely girl—“but I have no skill in these
things—I can paint no face but my own, and burnt cork and
brick-dust are the principal colours I require.”

“But, Mr. Cooke,” said Mrs. Temple, “is not every actor
necessarily a painter? Is he not obliged to conceive an image
of the figure, costume, expression, of the character he wishes
to represent, and to make his own appearance conform
thereto?”

“He ought to do all this, madam, and he ought to understand
grouping, that himself and those acting with him may

present true and graceful pictures to the spectators; but he is
generally content to leave the first to the wardrobe-keeper or
tailor, and the last to the stage-manager or prompter.”

“I feel confident,” said Dr. Hosack, who with Cadwallader
joined the group, “that you, and your friends Cooper and
Kemble, do not trust for stage grouping, or dressing, to the
prompter or the tailor.”

“Why Tom and black Jack are generalissimoes: they command
by virtue of proprietorship.”

“And you,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, “by talent. When
you call up the image of Richard, Iago, Falstaff, or Sir Pertinax,
you see in imagination a countenance and costume conforming
to the character, in the same manner that the painter
who wishes to represent on his canvass a madonna or a saint.”

“I understand you, madam; so far the actor is a painter.
Both must be imaginative; or steal, as both do, from those
who went before them. But the actor must paint, as the savage
does, on his proper person.”

“Or as we do,” said Louisa, “when preparing for a party
or ball.”

“No, no: your care is, only, that grace and beauty may
have fair play; and nature appear in her true loveliness, accompanied
by art, not disguised by it. But the actor must
be himself the mere board on which to daub the character he
is to exhibit—a walking piece of paste-board or bundle of
rags. He bears his own work about with him on his own
person, and is exposed, with it, to be hissed, or hooted, or pelted,
by the congregated mob of a playhouse.”

“Or to see the effects of his skill,” said Cadwallader, “reflected
in the eyes of beauty, and hear the enthusiastic plaudits
of the thousands attracted by his celebrity.”

Spiffard was in another part of the room with Littlejohn;
well pleased that his aged friend could give him the characters
of the various individuals who were grouped in the apartments
or occasionally entering. Mr. Littlejohn did not appear averse
to playing the part of Asmodeus for the gratification of his
young acquaintance.

“Who is that tall and heavy moulded stupid looking man,
who is gazing around him with an inquiring and sinister eye,
and an air of vulgar confidence?”

“Bless me,” said Asmodeus, “what brings him here? He
has mistaken the doctor's house for a political tavern-hall, or
this congregated assembly for a ward meeting. He is out of
place here.”

“Nature has been bountiful to him in bulk.”

“And extremely parsimonious in every intellectual quality,
except cunning; but the deficiency is supplied by dollars and
cents;—brawn, cunning, and impudence, qualify him as a
brawler at an election, or an intriguer in the lobbies of the legislature;
consequently he is a man of no small influence. Aha!
I see now what has brought him here. He has found the governor
and has taken him aside.”

“Has he influence with him?”

“Yes. Because he can serve him: and our democratic
governor knows, that in our democratic government the work
of the ruler must be performed by tools of forms as various as
their worth.”

“Do you not apply the term democracy and democratic
government incorrectly?”

“In my opinion,” said the merchant, “a democratic government
is one in which the people rule, whether by elected
representatives or in their own persons. In the latter case it
may be, and has been, an odious tyranny; in the former it is
the perfection of government by law. Both are, in my acceptation
of the term, democracies; because the people govern,
and there are no hereditary rulers, and no privileged class.
When I speak of democrat, I mean one who opposes all
usurpations upon the people's rights, and submits himself to
the laws.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Spiffard, “there is our friend the manager.
Who is that with him?”

“That,” said Littlejohn, “is, in my opinion, the best painter
in the United States.”

“You forget Stuart, sir,”

“Every man has his taste: I like that young man's pictures
better than Stuart's.”

“You do not tell us his name.”

“Sully. Did you never hear Mr. Cooper, your manager,
speak of him.”

“Not that I remember. They appear intimate.”

“Did the manager never mention any particulars of the
painter's life?”

“No, sir.”

“That is because he must have been the hero of his own
tale. Sir, one of the first acts of his management was to exert
his influence and advance funds to bring forward the young
painter by an opportunity of exerting his talents.

“Bravo! But, sir, when you speak of our best painters,
you forget that we have West, Copley, Trumbull.”

“West and Copley have abandoned us, and Trumbull has
been many years a resident of London. If I had thought of
the beautiful pictures painted by him, which I saw in this city
ten or twelve years ago, representing, in small historical painting,
some scenes of our revolution, I should not have placed
any one before him.”

“There is another American,” said Spiffard, “now painting
in London, that, I think, excels them all.”

“Indeed! Who?”

“Allston.”

“And when I visited Philadelphia, I saw the works of a
boy—I think his name was Leslie—who, in scenes of delicate
humour, promises to stand unrivalled.”

This conversation was interrupted, very much to Spiffard's
surprise, by the approach of Mrs. Cadwallader, Mrs. Temple,
and four or five young ladies, with as many laughing girls,
whose sparkling eyes were fixed on the comedian.

“Mr. Spiffard,” said the matron, “your friend Cooke has
assured these girls, and given us all assurance, (for we are
equally interested,) that you will favour us with a specimen of
your skill on the harpsichord, and some of your songs. I have
been appointed to make the request.”

“What he has promised, I will endeavour to perform,
madam. His assurance of my will is correct, and of that he is
a judge; of my skill, I disclaim his judgment. He cannot tell
the difference between a street-ballad-bawler and a Billington
or Mara. You shall judge of the worth of his commendation,
by the precipitate retreat he will make as soon as he hears the
sound of the instrument.”

So saying, the young actor, attended by the group of females,
and by his friend Littlejohn, moved towards the harpsichord.
Cooke walked into the adjoining apartment, which was farthest
from the common door of entrance for the company. The instrument
at which Spiffard prepared to place himself, was opposite
to this door, and his back, of course, turned to it; but
unfortunately, he cast his eyes upon a mirror, suspended over
the harpsichord, and saw an apparition which deprived him of
the power of motion, as though he had been transformed to a
statue of marble. The chord was struck which shook his reason.
His eyes were fixed ou the mirror; his face was colourless;
his hands fell upon the keys of the instrument, which
emitted a discordant sound, and his pale lips were opened as

he gasped for breath. The gay party who surrounded him,
stood a moment, as if petrified: their eyes followed his to the
mirror, and they instantly turned them to the door; there the
cause of his strange conduct was in some measure accounted
for, by what they saw.

The remarkably tall, well dressed, and handsome gentleman,
who had been placed opposite Spiffard at the dinner-table, and
who had been addressed as general, but whose name he had
not heard, entered the room with a female hanging on his arm,
whose rich and splendid attire, tall, slender figure, as well as
the wild expression of her countenance, were sufficient to
attract a stranger's attention, but not to account for the young
man's extraordinary emotion.

The general advanced, bowing courteously, with the same
unchangeable face, that seemed, at table, to defy scrutiny, and
only express a desire to please. His companion saluted Mrs.
Cadwallader, who received her as if taken by surprise. The
younger ladies withdrew, and the general's consort, quitting his
arm, followed them.

The attention of those who were near the musician was again
attracted to him by the exclamation of “My mother!” and by
his falling senseless on the floor.

Here was “confusion worse confounded.” Doctor Cadwallader,
who was advancing to meet the newly arrived guests,
had his attention called to Spiffard, and, with Mr. Littlejohn,
ran to his assistance. Cooke, as we have seen, had retired to
the next room.

Spiffard having recovered sufficiently, was led by the gentlemen
into a private apartment; but the doctor was called away
by a messenger from his wife, and left the young man with the
merchant.

After a few words interchanged between Mrs. Cadwallader
and her husband, he sought the lady whose appearance had
produced this strange effect on Spiffard. He found her seated
on a sofa with three of his daughters, and apparently reproving
them. The girls willingly gave place to their father, who,
after a few minutes, left her, proceeded to the general, and appeared
to speak to him very earnestly.

“I wish, doctor, you would persuade her to return home;
she is very nervous. The coach is still at the door. You have
great influence over her.” And he turned to a gentleman near
him with exquisite nonchalance, and continued a conversation
he had been previously engaged in, respecting the want of refinement
in American society.

The doctor cast a scornful glance at him—seemed to hesitate,
as if debating internally how to proceed—then returned to
the lady, and a few minutes after, they were seen leaving the
room together.

The general had continued to address his neighbour, without
appearing to notice the conduct or departure of Cadwallader.

“You, Mr. Transcript, not having resided any time abroad,
are not conscious of the infinite distance that the people of this
country are behind those of Europe in all that pertains to politeness,
and, I may say, civilization in general. But as I have
passed most of my life in Paris, I am incessantly shocked; it
plays the devil with my wife's nerves, to find a coarseness of
manners in the best society, and a vulgar imitation of what she
has been used to at home, that is sometimes ridiculous, and
always disgusting.”

The person to whom this was addressed, did not seem to
relish it; and his face not being so well disciplined as the generals,
he coloured, as if offended, and showed other signs of
uneasiness; but as the general was tall and handsome, and
very well dressed, and withal, his senior by many years, he only
remarked, “I think, sir, our countrymen always become ridiculous,
or worse, by imitating Europeans either in manners or
opinions.”

In the meantime, Mr. Littlejohn could not but express his
surprise, when alone with Spiffard, at the sudden and strange
illness that had overcome him; for he had observed the change
in the young man's countenance, before he fell, fainting, from
his seat.

“Why, my young friend, what is the matter? What overcame
you so strangely and suddenly?”

“If I did not know that she died years ago, I should say that
woman is my mother!”

“What woman?”

“She, so richly dressed—so unlike every other person in
the room; she who entered, leaning for support on the man
you called general.”

“O, Mrs. Williams. Were you not introduced to the
general?”

“No! nor wished to be.”

“He is called a very handsome and very polite man. A
traveller, and man of the world.”

“His face appeared to me like a beautiful mask, and I could
not but fancy that it was kept on to hide deformity.”

“You show yourself a physiognomist.”

“It is rather feeling than observation.”

“General Williams and his wife move among our fashionable
people; but they are becoming rather remarkable.”

“They are not Americans?”

“He is. He is one who has been seen by Europeans wandering
abroad, and from his specious appearance and manners,
has been unhappily considered a fair specimen of his country,
although ever villifying her institutions, and belying her character,
in word and deed. `Leaving the fear of heaven on the
left hand,' he has been `fain to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch,'
to keep up false appearances, or minister to depraved appetites.
He married in England, and now lives in a style of splendour
betokening riches, probably derived from his wife. Courteous
behaviour, and costly entertainments, have ranked them with
those who rank themselves highest among us; but those who
look beyond the surface, or see, even there, indications of
something within, not corresponding to the without, are giving
symptoms of shyness. He is noted for imitating the aristocracy
of Europe, in bows, smiles, and sarcasms; and her appearance
is such, not unfrequently, in public, as may be thought
at least equivocal. But why should such an apparition effect
you in this extraordinary manner?”

“The resemblance to my mother both in person, feature,
manner, style of head-dress, and that indescribable expression
of countenance which you have hinted at, took me by surprise.
You are aware of my susceptibility on a subject that has
entwined itself with my very being; and this extraordinary likeness
to one so connected with all my early associations, overpowered
my reason. Features, complexion, eyes, dark glossy
hair; my mother had a sister, but she was no heiress—she
could not—”

“Such resemblances and coincidences frequently occur.”

“I am ashamed that I have caused so much trouble and confusion.”

“You have told me of the misery your father endured, and
have spoken of the cause. He did not brave the opinion of the
world.”

“O no! He bore his sorrow patiently, and endeavoured to
hide its cause.”

“But here is one who looks as if that did not exist, which all
sees, and he ostentatiously exhibits.”

“How can such conduct be accounted for?”

“It would appear at first view unaccountable; but the mind

of man is ever active—and that which is strange, leads to suspicions
and conjectures, all perhaps, unfounded.”

“And you say this man married in England?”

“Yes. But except the fortuitous resemblance you spoke
of, all this does not touch you so nearly as it does those who
have been the intimates of the parties. Come, let us return to
the company.”

“I am sick—sick, sir. I must go home. I will explain to
you another time. But, notwithstanding discrepant circumstances,
I cannot discard a belief that I have seen the sister of
my mother.”

“Discard all unpleasant thoughts; you owe an apology to
our kind hostess; and see, here she appears, anxiously looking
for you.”

Mrs. Cadwallader having ascertained that Spiffard had recovered,
now joined them, and exacted his promise to return to
the drawing-room; and after answering a question of Mr. Littlejohn's,
by telling him that Mrs. Williams had gone home,
left the friends to follow at their leisure.