University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Midnight, and an apparition,

—Shakspeare.

—Anon.

—Milton.

—Latrobe.

Doctor Cadwallader, whose patient she was, having conducted
Mrs. Williams home, returned to the company, and
found the general bowing, smiling, conversing, or listening,
apparently as much at ease as if nothing had happened in any
way extraordinary. The doctor passed him without speaking,
and assiduously shunned him for the remainder of the evening.

Mrs. Cadwallader took her husband aside, and spoke to him
with warmth in a low tone. His reply was, “Never again!
But where,” added he, “is the young gentleman who fainted
so unaccountably at her appearance?”

“Still with Mr. Littlejohn, in your study.”

She joined a group of ladies, and, at the moment, Littlejohn
and Spiffard entered, the latter intending to make his apologies,

and retire; but his intentions were prevented by the doctor,
who immediately addressed him with inquiries, and cheerful
assurances.

“It is strange, Mr. Spiffard, that the entrance of Mrs. Williams
should have such an effect upon you. Gentlemen of
your profession see such a variety of character, that one might
expect you to be proof against any exhibition. I am sorry
that my house should have been the theatre where such a
scene occurred.”

“My apology must be, sir, that I saw or fancied a resemblance
to a person in whom I was formerly much interested.
The sudden recurrence of images exceedingly painful—threw
me off my guard and overpowered mind and body. I hope
you will excuse and forget my behaviour. I wish to apologize
to Mrs. Cadwallader and then steal away, unnoticed. I have
caused a great confusion where only pleasure ought to reign.”

“No, no. You were not the cause. Why should you think
more of the affair when you see how coolly the general takes
it. He is a better actor than you are.”

“That may well be, sir.”

“At least” said Littlejohn, “on the great stage, where all
are `merely players.' Williams, like the old greek actors,
plays in a mask. If I am not mistaken in Mr. Spiffard he is
only an actor in the mimic world, and has no disguises for the
great masquerade of real life. My young friend will excuse
me, I hope, for saying, that, my attachment to him, recent as
our acquaintance is, proceeds principally from a conviction
that in private life he is no actor. He appears to me to be a
creature without disguise himself, and without suspicion of disguise
in others.”

Spiffard looked serious, paused a moment, then replied, “As
I feel the necessity of speaking of myself, permit me to say,
that, at my first entrance into life as a man, I found the common
opinion in respect to players was, that they were more
artificial in their intercourse with the world than other men;
and having from my earliest infancy a most devout love of
truth, I determined that my love of the drama should not interfere
with what I considered the very essence of moral worth.
I have been and I trust I shall always remain, rather one that
`wears his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck at,' than a
hypocrite or an actor in my intercourse with society; perhaps
these feelings may render my manners less acceptable, but I
would rather be esteemed unpolished by others, than know
myself, false.”

The doctor shook the young man by the hand cordially, and
after a little more conversation, persuaded him to remain, for
at least a part of the evening. Cooke, who had been engaged
in chat with Governor Tompkins and knew nothing of what had
befallen Spiffard, advanced from the inner apartment with his
companion. Littlejohn introduced the two last mentioned, and
the conversation that the Governor and the tragedian had been
engaged in, which was theatrical, was continued; until Williams,
with his courtly smiles approached and joined them.
Cadwallader walked away. Doctors Hosack, McLean, and
Francis advanced, and the first accosted Tompkins with a
question relative to the western part of the state. Spiffard
shrunk from the courteous general's approach, and appeared to
place Littlejohn between him and the man of bows, as a safeguard.
No introduction took place. The frank and urbane
manners of the governor led to ease and cheerful chat, as was
customary wherever he came; and a colloquy ensued, of which
we will endeavour to give the reader a part, at the risk of holding
him too long from the stirring incidents of our story.

Doctor Hosack's inquiries led to the first subject of discussion.

“Before I was married,” observed Littlejohn, “I indulged
my propensity to travel, which has always been very great.”

“I thought, sir, you had never been in Europe,” said Williams.

“Never, sir, nor in Asia or Africa. My first wish was to
gain a knowledge of my native land; hoping afterwards to see
others, when qualified to make comparisons. My most ardent
desire at that time, governor, was to pry into the manners,
and study the character of the aborigines.”

“The opportunities for that study are much greater now,”
said Tompkins. “I have, probably, while travelling the circuit
when I was a judge, passed over more Indian ground than you
could penetrate through in your early days, by any effort that
a white man might then be able to make.”

“True, sir, but not find so many Indians.”

“They have been sadly abused and cheated,” said Williams.

The merchant continued. “My first journey was made under
the wing of your predecessor, Governor George Clinton,
when he made our treaty with the six nations, which opened
the way for that immense display of the arts of civilization,
now rendering the then wilderness, from the Mohawk to Lake
Erie and from the St. Lawrence to the Alleghanies, a land
flowing with milk and honey; teeming with beings united as

brethren and cultivating science while they cultivate the soil.
I then saw enough of the red men to excite my curiosity intensely;
and I prevailed upon one of the interpreters, (a white
man who, when a child had been carried off and adopted by
those who murdered his parents,) to be my guide into that
country of the west, which although now smiling with orchards,
gardens, meadows and corn-fields; studded with villages,
towns and cities; was then an almost impenetrable thicket,
forbidden to the white man unless he passed over it with fire
and sword. With this guide, and after the treaty which opened
my path, I commenced my journey; and I look back upon
it as the most delightful portion of my life; probably because
the most teeming with novelty, at an age when all is new.”

“But,” said Williams, “I should think it very monotonous;
and peculiarly unprofitable, unless it led to a speculation in
furs.”

“My speculations, although a merchant, have been aimed
to penetrate beyond the skin, or any other covering, whether
in the desert or the drawing-room. The speculations I then
made, and the knowledge I obtained of facts, traditions, customs,
manners, religion, superstition, impostures, (for there
are impostors even among uncivilized men,) most unblushing
and steady-faced imposters, wearing masks more impenetrable
than any I have met with in refined society:—fellows who,
though never trusted as leaders, have an influence in savage
life, as great as their brethren exercise over the ignorant in
polite society.”

“The result of your inquiries would be very acceptable,”
said the governor.

“The result of my inquiries, at that time, and some little
since, compared with what I can gather from books, has produced
such opinions respecting the character of our Indians as
differ from those of most men.”

“And they are—”

“First,” said Hosack, “let me help you to a glass of this
Madeira.”

“And I will,” said Tompkins, “with his permission, fill a
glass for Mr. Cooke. Cadwallader keeps the best madeira in
the state. What do you think of that colour, Mr. Cooke?”

“It is brighter than that of an Indian painted for a war-dance
or scalp-hunt.”

“As deceitful and as deadly.”

“O, no! Mr. Spiffard, when not abused, it is as hospitable
and as generous,” was the apology for the bright liquor
made by doctor McLean.

At this moment two black waiters bowed before them,
dressed with as much attention to the fashion of the day, as
any person in the room, not even excepting the handsome
general, and with all the tact of European footmen they presented
the splendid salvers, bountifully laden, the one with
porter, wines and cordials, the other with cakes, fruits, and
sandwiches.

Character is shown in trifles. Cooke threw down a bumper
at one toss of the glass. Tompkins and Hosack held up
the wine and looked through it at the brilliant chandelier above
them, seeming to enjoy the flavour through the eye by anticipation.
McLean and Francis touched glasses, and made less
of the imaginary but quite as much of the real taste of the liquor.
Littlejohn touched his lip to the glass, filled for him by
doctor Hosack, and put it away. Williams took a plate and
filled it with eatables after tossing off a tumbler of foaming
brown-stout; and Spiffard gently declined the proffered temptations
by an inclination of the head.

“And now, my dear sir, your opinion of our red-skins.”
said Tompkins.

“Or rather,” said Cooke, “the red-skins of the forest. We
do not ask our own characters.”

“Our Indians appear to me so essentially different from all
the other races of men,” said the merchant, “that the more I
have examined the subject, the more wonderful it has appeared
to me. The wide difference between the savage and civilized
man is obvious, and easily explained. But the very nature
of the American savage, is the opposite in many respects
to the savage of any other part of the globe. We have just
seen two negroes, whose ancestors were brought hither as
slaves, by the ships of speculating christian merchants, freemen
of England or her colonies—these were savages in the
literal acceptation of the word—I meant the African negroes,
not the Enropean merchants—”

“Thank you, sir, for the commentary,” said Spiffard,
smiling.

“Whatever lexicographers may say, I never could confound
the words savage and barbarian. The first may be innocent,
the last must be cruel.”

“A nice distinction, Mr. Cooke.”

“Sirr, the merchants who fit out slave-ships are barbarians.
They send forth their hell-hounds to hunt men for the torture of
the sugar mill, as the pious cavallieros of Spain halloo'd on
their blood-hounds in chase of Indians for the living-death of

their gold-mines. A savage may be a barbarian—a slave-dealer
must be one.”

The general had finished one plate-full—taken a glass of
champagne, and was helping himself to another supply of
jelly, when he observed, “the African is benefited by the
change, in my opinion—as for slavery—all are slaves but those
who command by virtue of knowledge or riches.”

The merchant proceeded, “The fathers of these two cringing
waiters were savages, whose black skins have been ornamented
with lines, circles, and crescents, scored by a flint-knife
or sharp-edged shell, and whose intellectual attainments
might be estimated by the insuperable difficulty of teaching
them to count ten. Now, see their sons, as courteously servile
as the descendants of the European kidnappers who enslaved
their fathers; and probably as well versed in vice.
They imitate the white in every species of foppery, folly, absurdity
and crime. They imitate him as tyrants and as slaves.
Not so the Indian. The conformation of his head shows his
great superiority to the imitative negro and he feels in his
woods and prairies superior to the encroaching white-man.
The vices of civilization brought in contact, undermine him
and he perishes; but he never bows. He is eloquent and
polite—never cringing. Two young Osages or Iroquois could
never be induced to carry the delicacies of a drawing-room
around, like those blacks, and bow, and cringe, and fly, at the
nod of the white man, although they see the white man do it.”

“They are not too proud to serve us as warriors, hunters, or
voyageurs.” remarked the governor.

“True: but without servility. They are at home in the fight
the chase and the canoe. They adopt our weapons and excel
in their use. They serve us in the forest or on the rivers and
lakes, and are proud to show their superiority to us. You
could not by the training of centuries bring the descendant of
an Indian to bear himself like yon black.”

“Or like yon white,” said Cooke.

“Yet, they are great beaux,” said the governor.

“True, sir, no beau in this assembly, and I can see a great
many perfect coxcombs, is more attentive to ornamenting his
person than a young Indian brave. Both their men and women
are as fond of show, and as much tickled with tinsel, as we
are; but the Indian would not, like the black, or the white,
dress himself like a chief and conduct himself like a slave.”

“This may be all true,” observed Dr. McLean, “but is it
not his pride that makes him suppress any token of admiration

at the inventions and improvements of the white man, although
he wishes to imitate them?”

“He values his independence too highly to pay the price.”

“He is revengeful.”

“As a white.”

“Deceitful.”

“To destroy his enemy. It is the theory and practice of
European warfare.”

“He is a drunkard,” said Spiffard, “and to obtain the
means of excitement, will degrade himself to become a liar
and a thief.”

“In this, I acknowledge that he imitates his white neighbours.
This is one feature which puzzles me in the character
of this proud people. Their religion, their liability
to be deceived by false prophets and conjurers, and some other
points may be accounted for; but their obstinate rejection of the
truths of christianity, or, if apparently received, its utter inefficacy,
is, to use the same word, another puzzle. The present
race of Europe is a mixture of the three divisions of the old
world. All nations, while in a savage, or semi-savage state,
have bowed the head to the law of the gospel. At first to the
outward forms, and by degrees to the spirit, more or less, according
to circumstances. If a king, chief, or leader, was induced
to receive the sign of the cross, all his nation, people,
or followers, professed themselves christians. But the aborigine
of America either rejects peremptorily, or acquiesces
from politeness. He will hear sermon, kneel at mass, hang a
cross among his ornaments, but he remains ever ready for the
chace of beast or man, ever delighting in blood and torture.”

The success of some missionaries, particularly the Moravians,
may be objected, but their great and exemplary efforts
produced but transient and partial effect. Individuals doubtless
became christians, (at least I am willing to believe so) but
never did an Indian profess christianity because a king or chief
called himself by that name.”

“Is it not because they will not submit to law,” inquired
Spiffard.

“They have an inexplicable moral law, to which they submit
more willingly than civilized men submit to any legal restraint,
however trifling, which interferes with their passions
or interests. If an Indian has, in the opinion of his tribe, incurred
the penalty of death, and is by the council adjudged to
die, although he may be far from home, and beyond all control
by coercion, if notified of the doom pronounced, he returns and

offers his life to expiate his fault. If he is in debt to any one,
he asks time, and life, for a hunt; brings home the product,
settles his pecuniary account, and then meets the final settlement
of the death-blow, without any apparent reluctance.”

As Cooke moved from the group we have been attending
to, he repeated, “there are more things in heaven and earth,
Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“Hypocrisy is carried farther with these savages than with
any other people in the globe,” was the general's remark.

“I love them for their democratic independence,” said
Tompkins.

“Democracy!” said Williams with a sneer. “They certainly
are good democrats in filth, drunkeness, deceit and
violence.”

“I am sorry, General Williams, that your long residence in
Europe has prejudiced you against the institutions of your
country. Democracy, government by the representatives of the
people, natives of the soil, is the palladium of America. You
resided in Paris during the reign of terror, and, excuse me,
your prejudices may be derived from what you saw of mobs.”

“No, sir, I was then a pure democrat, but I have since had
experience of the vast superiority of European society, and my
judgment of the government necessary to produce this superiority,
is founded upon long observation. Every thing in this
country appears little and mean, with great ostentation and unbounded
pretension.”

“Humph! pretension,” said Littlejohn.

“Your countrymen,” said Tompkins smiling, “are much
obliged to you.”

“Nay—you must not misunderstand me. I love my country
sincerely. But you will allow that the vulgar herd think of
nothing but levelling. I remember in this city of New-York,
and its environs, beautiful and commanding hills, from whose
summits we might contemplate the neighbouring islands, with
the plains and mountains of New-Jersey, the majestic rivers
and bay, and even look to the Atlantic ocean. Then, when
entering the superb harbour from the sea, the city appeared to
rise from the waters, hill above hill; now, a foreigner in approaching,
cries how flat the land is upon which that town is
built. He sees nothing but marks of mediocrity and tokens
of trade.”

“And you may remember, as I do, between these towering
hills, enveloped in mists, like many a haughty European head,
deep ponds of stagnant water, the receptacles of filth and

sources of pestilence; low and wide spread marshes, where
the bittern fished for the frog, and the snipe hid his long bill
in the mud. Where are they now? It is true we have a level;
but it is a wholesome level. The materials of superfluous
heights have been made useful. The lowly morass has been
lifted to the level of the adjacent plain, and is covered with
the neat abodes of thousands—the fountains of disease are
converted into the habitations of health. Thus it is that democracy
would and will, by degrees, leave no head so high as
to be lifted to the clouds and see mankind through a mist, and
will raise from the pestilential miasmata of vice and ignorance
those who had been doomed by the aristocracy of former days
to the slough of despond or the stagnant pool of corruption.”

“All a dream, sir, a dream!”

“A glorious reality! Our institutions are raising millions
to the level, and above the level of European society. Our
schools daily increase. Millions are imbued with the love of
their country; become familiar with her institutions; obedient
to her laws; and rich in her literature, and that of their fatherland.”

“Bravo, governor! Democracy has a worthy champion in
the West-Chester farmer's son.”

“Give me your hand, my old friend, and the friend of my
father. You are not afraid of that system which would lift
the poor and the ignorant to the level of good citizenship, and
reduce the usurper of power to a state wherein he may be useful
instead of prejudicial.”

“All this is very pretty, gentlemen, and very specious.
But you are teaching the ignorant and vulgar, who must ever
be the mass of society, that they ought to be the rulers of the
well born and well educated. Mere number, that is, brute
force, will govern. The consequence is, that if I, or any
other gentleman, come in contact with one of the very lowest
of the people, provided the individual does not wish any favour,
or has no design upon my purse, his language or behaviour
will be insolent or brutal. Go into a mechanic's workshop
and ask an apprentice for his master: the answer is, I
have no master—that is, you get no answer. One of the
journeymen, if an European, may, perhaps, say, `the boss is
not here.' The meaner officials of the country, from the same
cause, assume a tone of familiarity that calls for correction, but
which their suporiors in office dare not attempt. I have seen
a constable in this city put his thumb and finger into the
mayor's snuff-box, when offered to a distinguished guest of

the corporation, and take his pinch with the sangfroid of perfect
equality.”

“I am an old man, Mr. Williams—I beg pardon—general
I should have said,” and Littlejohn fixed his eyes on the person
he addressed with an expression that might have made
the blood mount to the forehead of any other man. “I have
lived many years, and never found that my countrymen were
deficient in civility, unless provoked by the assumption of superiority.”

“I think the action I have mentioned was neither civil nor
proper.”

“Where,” asked Governor Tompkins, “where was the offence
if a constable put his finger and thumb into a mayor's
snuff-box? They are both servants of the same sovereign—the
sovereign people; and both part and parcel of sovereignty.
I am an officer of higher grade than the mayor, and I have
taken my pinch from the box of Jacob Hays, and Jacob has
had thumb and finger in mine many a time.”

“Ah, there it is—you all look forward to the time of
election.”

“Ha, ha, ha! May be so! But my snuff received no injury
except from diminution; for Jacob has a broad thumb and
finger, and makes a grasping pinch, as many a greater sufferer
than my snuff-box can testify.”

“Say what you will, governor, I wish to find respect paid to
my—my—” he was going to say rank, but his eye met Littlejohn's,
and he changed his word to “appearance.”

“It is a trite saying, that appearances are deceitful,” observed
the last mentioned interlocutor.

“If I go into an inn,” said Williams, “I may stand in the
common bar-room for minutes before I can be told whether I
may have shelter or refreshment. Whereas, in England, the
moment I appear, I am saluted with proper respect, and ushered
into an apartment fit to receive a gentleman.”

“By an obsequious cringing menial, who, not being paid by
the keeper of the inn, anticipates, in you, the bearer of his
wages,” said Littlejohn.

“Jemmy Bryden, of the Tontine, tells a story of himself when
he kept the Fountain inn at Baltimore, perhaps apropos to appearances,”
said Tomkins. “Notice had been given to the
landlord that President Jefferson would, on a certain day, honour
the Fountain inn with his presence, and pass the night.
Greatly pleased was Jemmy Bryden. He boo'd in anticipation,
and much he talked of the expected honour. Every preparation

was made, and the landlord stood ready on the appointed day to
receive the president of the United States with every attention
due to his rank. At this crisis a stage-coach drove up to the door,
and a tall traveller stept out, with saddle-bags on arm, and
was stalking through the hall to the interior of the Fountain
inn. `Ye canno go in there,' said Jemmy, `sit ye doon, mon,
in the bar-room.' The tall man did as he was desired—threw
his saddle-bags on one chair and himself on another, with perfect
nonchalance; took out his snuff-box, and after helping
himself, offered it, open, to Jemmy, who was in the act of
popping in thumb and finger, when a well dressed gentleman
approached, and asked, of the tall man, (with the saddle-bags)
`when will your excellency have a carriage ordered?' at the
same time demanding of the astonished landlord `why he had
not shown the president to the apartments ordered for him?' ”

Spiffard seized the opportunity offered by Mrs. Cadwallader's
approach to propose the amende honourable, by taking a place at
the harpsichord; and, with her, left the group of gentlemen who
had been attracted to listen to the amiable governor.

Again Spiffard approached the harpsichord, which, as we
have seen, was opposite the door of the outward apartment:
again he was seated opposite the fatal mirror. Again the ladies
surrounded him at the call of Cadwallader. And this time he
was permitted to show his skill both as a vocal and instrumental
musician. He sung a plaintive ballad—it was thought
he had composed it himself—and his auditors were melted to
tears. He changed suddenly to a strain of mock bravura,
and gave a comic song with characteristic expression. The
effect his efforts had produced—the attentions of the elegant
Mrs. Cadwallader—the inspiring looks, and half suppressed
sounds of delight, escaping from the lovely girls around him—
all tended to encourage the young comedian, and his animal
spirits were exalted to their highest pitch, when other sounds,
most discordant and shrill were heard, and the company turned
to the door from whence they proceeded.

The first words were indistinct, although screamed by a
voice scarcely human. Then was heard, “stand out of the
way, fellow! I will go in!”

The hand of the musician was arrested—his voice faltered—
he lifted his eyes to the mirror, and again saw the dreaded vision
which had before deprived him of self-government and
stopped the beating of his heart.

Mrs. Williams burst into the apartment a perfect image of
raging insanity. The elegant dress with which she had previously

appeared, when she entered hanging upon the general's
arm, and was still, in part upon her, but in utter disorder;
appearing as if the act of disrobing had commenced before the
impulse of madness had seized and hurried her from her chamber
to this second humiliating exhibition. No cloak, shawl,
or hat, served to hide the ravages made in her habiliments, or
veil her distorted maniacal countenance. Her first appearance
had been, in part, maudlin; the second was that of furious
passion and raving insanity commingled. Every feature was
distorted, and although inexpressibly wild, yet the open mouth
and muscles reluctantly obeying the confused intellect, dimmed
that brightness which flashes from uncontrolled passion, when
its madness is not under the influence of poison.

Her dark hair hung in disorder, made more conspicuous by
the previous care which had been taken in its arrangement,
and the remains of ornaments which had been lavished upon
the now straggling tresses. In this plight she had walked, or
glided, a hideous spectre, through the streets, from the splendid
mansion of the general to that of Doctor Cadwallader.

“Williams! Williams!” she shouted, as she entered, in a
tone high, hoarse, discordant. “Williams! I will bear it no
longer! Why am I to be left alone? Why am I to be abandoned?
I am betrayed! deceived! I will expose the hypocrite.
I will let the world know—”

While uttering these ravings, which seemed to threaten some
disclosure, as a punishment to be inflicted upon the courteous
general, she had advanced, and the receding company gave
her ample space to exhibit the wildest contortions of body and
limbs.

The cry of “Spiffard—Mr. Spiffard?” was heard, and he
was seen by those near the harpsichord, pale, and sinking from
the music-stool. Again he might have fallen to the floor, but
for the aid of Doctor Cadwallader, and an exertion of mind made
by himself, when he found that he was a second time causing
a confusion, which to the company must appear inexplicable or
ridiculous.

The unhappy woman ceased her call upon her husband, as
soon as the name of Spiffard struck her ear. She stood still a
moment. “Who says Spiffard? Where is he? Where's the
Yankee farmer? Where's my sister? Let me see Spiffard!
Let me see my sister! My father! My mother! O, my
mother!”

Williams, who had been seated on an ottoman, making himself
agreeable to a lady, at the time his wife entered, was, for

once, taken by surprise. He at first strove to appear unconcerned;
but when certain words reached his ear, he started
from his seat, and hurrying through the retreating crowd that
had made a circle round his wife, arrived in time to prevent her
falling on the floor, as she called upon her father and mother,
in a tone that indicated exhaustion and returning reason, accompanied
by deep, heart-breaking sorrow.

The physicians hastened to her assistance, and the unhappy
woman was conveyed home; this time, accompanied by the
general, who had murmured something, in broken sentences, of
“delicate health—unhappy disease—nervous affection,” to
those who assisted and rode with him to his door, in a coach
offered by one of the company.

Spiffard was surrounded by friends, among whom was Littlejohn,
all interested in his apparent suffering, and all very much
at a loss to account for the extraordinary incidents of the evening.
He soon took leave of his kind hostess, and retired.
After much whispering, tale-telling, and many grave looks, and
foreboding shakes of the head, the various groups dispersed,
and left the doctor and his lady to form plans for their future
conduct towards those of their guests who had been most conspicuous
in the scenes of pain and pleasure, on which we now
drop the curtain.

Before we proceed with our hero's story, which is becoming
more interesting as it approaches the catastrophe, it is necessary
to go back, and see how, and by what means, General
Williams, the handsome American, and his English wife, had
become connected with the fate of the Yankee water-drinker.

We are not practised in the delightful art of story-telling,
whether true or false, real or imaginary; but we find that others
who have practised the art with success, have thought it not
inconsistent with that interest which they wish to excite in their
readers, to skip backwards and forwards in their narrations;
now dropping the chain of events (as a housewife drops a
stitch in her knitting work;) now taking it up again, and filling
the void skilfully, (like the aforesaid industrious dame;) so that
their work (like the glove or stocking,) may be made to suit
those it is intended for. This being the established mode, we
shall in all humility follow it.

The reader has seen that our lover of truth and water found
his maternal grandfather, Mr. Atherton, when he visited him in
Lincolnshire, reduced to poverty; that he had lost his wife; and
that he was dependent upon the exertions of his only remaining
daughter for subsistence. This daughter, once thought little of

in comparison with her beautiful sisters, had proved the only
solace of his age. This neglected one was not adorned by
polished skin, or Grecian feature, but she possessed the lasting
beauties of the mind. Cheerful, pious, dutiful, and industrious;
she was the prop of the paternal tree, that had not afforded
her a due portion of its protecting influence, when its stem was
vigorous, and its branches flourishing.

The neglect which Sophia Atherton had experienced from
her father and mother, taught her to rely upon another parent;
and caused her to seek instruction from the sources which that
parent had placed within her reach.

We have seen that our hero did his duty, in placing his
grandfather and aunt beyond the reach of want. We will go
still further back, take up another stitch, and bring up another
thread of our knitting work, in another chapter.