University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

Things as they were thirty years ago.

—Shakspeare.

—Scott.

—Shakspeare.

—Goethe.

—Shakspeare.

I HAVE pledged myself to give some account of the handsome
and courteous General Williams, and to explain his
connection with the fate and story of Zebediah Spiffard.

William Williams, (who had contrived to assume, with some
plausibility, the title of general, in consequence of a short period
of enrolment in the French republican army, at the commencement
of their struggles for liberty,) was one of those unprincipled
speculators, who have, in the minds of the superficial,
left a stain on the American character in Europe. He was a
Pennsylvanian by birth, and descended from one of the companions

of William Penn; but had very early in life, thrown off
both the principles and garb of the primitively apostolic society,
of which his ancestor had been a member and leader.

By the death of his parents, he was left in possession of
some property, which he dissipated even before he “was read
out of meeting.” After sponging upon such of his countrymen
as his exterior and professions could deceive, (and he had “a
tongue could wheedle with the devil,”) he sought a wider field
for the display of his abilities in Europe. He did not go empty-handed
to Paris; and arriving at a time when his professions
of zeal in the cause of liberty, as well as his being an American,
were recommendations, he entered the army under the
auspices of the good LaFayette; but found means to retire,
before seeing any active service, with the rank of major, which
was easily advanced to that of general, after going to London.

The vicissitudes occasioned by the many revolutions of
France, enabled him to gamble, or speculate, to advantage in
Paris: he, however, found it convenient to cross the channel,
and he arrived at the metropolis of Great Britain with a full
purse, splendid appointments, and an honourable military title.
All this was not sufficient to gain him an introduction to the
higher classes of that great city. He imitated their vices and
extravagance; but his schemes upon their gold and bank notes,
though backed by skill, failed, at the outposts of nobility, the
gaming tables, to which he had gained admittance. Many
other schemes failed, although some succeeded, and he was
nearly at the bottom, where ebbing fortune threatened to leave
him, when, at a public place, he met the attractive Sophia
Atherton.

The outward marks of wealth had not been stripped from the
general, and he succeeded in gaining an introduction to, and attracting
the attention of this fallen, and now neglected, victim of
seduction. Though much her senior, he was younger, handsomer,
and more attentive than her noble seducer; and found
no difficulty in commencing a suit which ended in a very different
manner from his first intentions.

Williams, who was in all things as great a libertine as the
hereditary lawgiver of Great Britain, with whom Miss Atherton
lived, met her at one of those ball-rooms, where persons
who had fallen, like her, but were yet of the first class of the
degraded, (and who resorted to this place by permission, and
under certain restrictions, appearing in splendor, attended by
the carriages and servants of their illegitimate lords,) were accustomed
to assemble; and where a show of decorum was preserved.

He gained the information he wished from the proprietors
of this dancing assembly; and with the cunning of the
unwise, conceived a plan for restoring his shattered fortunes,
and escaping that royal seat, called the King's Bench.

He was informed that my lord was about to marry, and
would willingly make pecuniary sacrifices to get rid of the
beautiful frail-one in question. My lord was extremely rich—
a legitimate heir to his estates and titles was his object—and
the general's informant hinted that his lordship would probably
pay well to be relieved from the presence of the lady who had
been exhibited in triumph, but was now tolerated as a burthen,
which he wished to remove without resorting to harsh, or what
might be considered, dishonourable measures.

The unhappy Sophia, disappointed in her hopes of continued
attachment from the man who had gained her heart, (we do not
say her love; heart may mean wishes, desires, hopes, whether
of admiration, or riches, or splendor;) disappointed in all her
vain expectations, tormented by conscience, cut off from such
society as she could esteem, and made daily more sensible of
her deplorable fall, was pleased by the particular attentions of
the handsome general; who appeared as a man of fashion, distinction,
and wealth. They met frequently at the before-mentioned
dancing assembly, and after, by appointment, at other
places; she guardedly preserving with fidelity, that treaty with
my lord, by the terms of which she enjoyed the liberty she exercised;
and always accompanied by his lordship's servants, in
attendance, or by some person appointed by him. Of course,
he was apprised of Williams's attentions to his protegee, and she
knew that he had such information. After a time, my lord told
her that if the gentleman would marry her, he would yield his
consent, however unwillingly, and would settle a handsome
annuity upon her for life.

Williams found the charms of the beautiful Sophia, (who
communicated the munificent intentions of my lord,) increase
as his funds and credit diminished—and became more pressing,
in proportion to the pressing calls of his creditors. The dread
of that resting place, before named—a place not unknown to
several of our republicans who have made their visits too long
to the land of their fathers—increased. This uneasy bench
began to appear in his dreams; the fear of it made him more
fervent in protestations, and more assiduous in attentions.

The lady, on her part, became, in some measure, attached to
her professed admirer. Her hopes rested on him. To become
a wife, was, of itself, a circumstance ardently to be desired.

She hoped that she might again be received as a child at the
paternal hearth. She saw, or imagined, a way opened by which
she might escape the tortures of an upbraiding conscience; for
conscience, though lulled by the opiates of dissipation, would
awake, and the voice was louder at every awakening. She
hoped yet for the blessing of her father, and to have the stains
of sin washed from her by the tears of repentance and forgiveness,
shed and mingled on the bosom of her mother; for yet
she knew not that she was the murderer of that too fond and
indulgent parent. She encouraged the adventurer's addresses,
in the delusive hope of retrieving character, and finding happiness;
for “hope is swift, and flies with swallows' wings.” Williams
pursued her to avoid a prison, satisfy his creditors, and
secure the means of living, if not in splendour, at least in sensual
indulgence. Her beauty, for yet her brilliant complexion,
(aided by the arts of the milliner, mantua-maker, and other
coadjutors of the toilet,) lent to Sophia Atherton no small portion
of attraction for such a man as William Williams.

The other party to this bargain, the noble peer, who could
trace his blood to one of the robbers attending upon the Norman
conqueror; (and who had, as we have seen, watched the
progress of the intrigue,) chose his opportunity to bring it to a
close. One morning, (that is, a little before sun-set in June,)
when he, by appointment, met Sophia, he, assuming an air of
badinage, and exercising a degree of frankness, not often put
in requisition, told his victim that he thought “the Yankee gentleman”
would “serve her turn,” and advised her to secure
him. His frankness, however, did not extend so far as to make
known to her that the general was no general; and that the
splendid equipage, furniture, and other indications of wealth,
were unpaid for.

“I will do my endeavour to arrange matters in such a manner
that you shall have no just cause to complain of my want
of liberality. The general will make you what is called `an
honest woman;' and if he takes you to Yankee-land, you will
shine as a brilliant star among the pine-knots of New-England,
or a sun, illuminating with your splendour, the fashion-aping
coteries of Boston or Washington.”

We will not record the answer of the humbled and penitent
Sophia. The interview ended in an understanding that Williams
should be invited by her to see my lord's collection of pictures,
statues, medals, and other evidences of his virtu; and
a concerted-accidental meeting should take place between the
noble peer and the ignoble general.

This happened as was arranged. Let it be observed that
the female partner in the transaction was the only one who did
not attempt to deceive. The general imposed upon her, and
wished to impose himself upon the noble, as a man of honour
and wealth. The noble had obtained a knowledge of the worthlessness
of the impostor upon whom he intended to place the
ostensible responsibility for the future welfare of the woman he
had ruined; but was satisfied that he acted as a man of honour,
in providing her with a husband, and securing her from a
want of the luxuries she had been accustomed to. Sophia imparted
to the man on whom her hopes now rested, all her former
aberrations and future aspirations. She was again deceived!

The two gentlemen—alas! that the term should be so prostituted—the
nobleman and general—(these words must pass
for designations of the individuals who met to complete the
bargain and sale,) concurred in deceiving the object of the
traffic. The general, accompanied by his intended wife, admired
the works of art he ostensibly came to see. My lord
dropped in by chance, was introduced; and the negotiators, at
a signal given by the master of the mansion, were left tete-a-tete,
by the withdrawing of the lady—the property to be bought
and sold.

My lord told Williams that he was aware of his pursuit of
Miss Atherton, and added:

“She is a lovely woman, sir, a treasure, of which, I am conscious
that I am unworthy. My age is unsuited to her youth
and beauty. She has confessed that you have engaged her
affections. Family reasons render it proper that I should
marry, and my union with a lady of rank is arranged—the time
fixed. Now, sir, you are a man of honour—a general in the
American service—”

“No, my lord—I have been in the French army.”

“True, I recollect—for to be frank, I have not been so inattentive
to Miss Atherton's future prospects, as not to make
certain inquiries. You live in style, keep your carriage, and
all that—but, to be plain, I understand that your circumstances
are not such as appearances indicate, or, as Miss Atherton
thinks them.”

The peer paused. The general determined to throw off a
mask which he found was no longer a disguise. He confessed,
that he was a bankrupt; but he was too much under the influence
of habit not to begin some smooth sentences respecting
remittances and expectations, which the hereditary lawmaker
interrupted by proceeding thus.

“Sir, I believe we understand each other, and may as well

come to the point. We are both men of the world, but I am
the greater favourite of fortune, and you the happier as un
homme a bonnes fortunes. In plain English, I am rich and you
are poor.”

The countenance of the peer was as he spoke the last lines,
very like that which Moritz Retzch has given to Mephistophiles
in his sketches from Faust. The general kept his own countenance—bowed
and smiled. The rich man proceeded.

“I will come down handsomely if you will publicly marry
Miss Atherton.”

“Publicly?”

“Publicly. That is, in the presence of undeniable witnesses.—You
hesitate. Your friends, you know, need not be
made acquainted with any particulars of the lady's former history.
Your honourable character must be her passport in either
hemisphere.” Mephistophiles again.

“Certainly, Sir.”

“I will settle upon her for her life, one thousand pounds—of
course sterling—per annum.”

“For her life.”

“Her life. She is still young—true, the young die—well,
then, if you survive, five hundred a year for your life—you
shall be a general on half pay.” Mephistophiles again.

“But my present debts?”

“What! must I wipe off all old scores?—well, well, so be
it. We will make a clear field.”

Such was the bargain and sale. It is sufficient for us to
know that it was fulfilled honourably. The general introduced
his beautiful wife to his friends, who, being principally
Pennsylvanians of a respectable class, were less liable to know
the history of Miss Atherton, whose name alone, was made
known to them by the husband, with the addition, that her family
resided in Lincolnshire; and the bride and bridegroom left
London for the country seat. That she was an heiress was
very clear, to the general's creditors.

Sophia had stipulated that she should visit her parents and
sister. Her mother was dead. Her father refused to see her,
or forgive her. The knowledge that her mother died in consequence
of her flight and infamy, was a sore blow, awakening
anew her lulled conscience. Her hopes of reconciliation were
blasted. Her sister Eliza saw her privately and wept over her.
She remembered what had passed in the days of early youth,
“school-days friendship—childhood innocence,” for though un
like and differently treated by their parents, there still were “many
hours that they had spent together,” when they “had chid the

hasty-footed time for parting them.” Besides, religion had
taught Eliza forgiveness; she practised its precepts. To “do
as she would be done by,” and “to render good for evil,” were
laws her pure heart never rebelled against. She endeavoured
to be a mediator between the father and repentant daughter;
but even her influence—the influence of wisdom, purity and
love, could not bend the obstinacy of a weak-minded man,
whose hopes had been blasted where he placed his fondest
expectations.

The wretched Sophia was doomed to further disappointments
on her return to London: trifling in comparison with those she
had last experienced, but they were additions; and when the
cup is full, a drop causes overflowing. Riches command outward
tokens of respect; but the heart requires more; and
neither Williams nor his wife found it. The reception Mrs.
Williams met with from those to whom her husband introduced
her was cool. There was some mystery identified with
her and her marriage, and mystery begets suspicion.

Shortly some good natured friend, with the best intentions in
the world, informed her that it was said, and positively asserted,
notwithstanding that she had contradicted it, that, Mrs.
Williams had been divorced from a former husband in consequence
of certain indiscretions: “only think how ridiculous,
my dear,” and another had said that a certain peer had been
noticed (while looking at her through his glass, at the operahouse,)
giving intimations of former intimacy; and then whispering
to some of his companions: and it was reported that
the peer—a newly married, though an old man, had been a particular
friend of Mrs. Williams. Other reports said that she had
been separated from her husband and a flock of fine children,
by a private compromise between general Williams and the
injured party. In short the unhappy woman found that the
past was incessantly intruding upon the present, not only by
the busy suggestions of memory, but by circumstances which
to the sound would have caused no pain. She saw that there
was no rest for her in her native land.

To add to her misfortunes, she had, when first conscious of
the falling off, and increasing neglect of her seducer, sought in
the wretched resource of the wretched, a temporary relief from
mortification and grief; and now, under the affliction caused by
the failure of her hopes, she again had recourse to the same
aggravating palliative.

Williams found his situation disagreeable, and proposed a
visit to his native country. Sophia, although she had no favouring
recollections of her former residence in America, and

might have objected to Boston, gladly agreed to the proposal
of visiting the relations of her husband in Philadelphia. To
go where she was unknown, seemed desirable; but to seek a
refuge in such obscurity was like the hopeles attempt to fly
from the observation of a Roman tyrant when Rome was the
world, and the only refuge of the guilty was death. A change
of place was, however, a revival of hope.

The soi-disant general had no brothers; and but one sister
living. She had never deviated from the seet of which her
ancestors had been shining lights, and had married, in meeting,
(with all the decent and rational forms of quakerism,) a man
like herself. She was now a widow, residing in Philadelphia,
in circumstances which assure competence to those whose
desires are moderate, and surrounded in her simple dwelling by
four daughters as prudent, neat, and unpretending as she had
been when at the same joyful epocha of life, the age of expectation.
To this sister the general announced his intentions of
visiting his home, and being her guest until he should establish
himself and her new sister, in a suitable dwelling, as her neighbour.

The travellers were anxiously expected by the quaker widow
and her daughters. Their plain domicil was prepared to receive
them, and their hearts were as open as their doors. They
received notice of the arrival of the long expected guests, who
had left the ship and come up to the city in a steamboat. A
trusty porter was in waiting to conduct them to the retired
dwelling of Mrs. Smith, which, surrounded by other quaker
families, stood in a court-like street, a cul de sac, which was
not in existence when her brother left home. The travellers
were espied as they entered the secluded place. Williams
approached the door of his only remaining relative. His sister
and her daughters stood at the entrance to receive him, and
one they were prepared for his sake to love. Mrs. Williams,
who more than divided the attention of the female group, hung
on his arm. They were followed by the black porter with his
wheelbarrow of baggage, two servants, a man and woman;
two dogs, favourites of the master, were close at his heels, and
a third, the pet of the mistress was borne in the arms of the
female servant. The kind faces of the quakers beamed with
pleasure as they saw the near approach of the new sister and
aunt. She had already ascended the first step of the porch,
already the sister had advanced with outstretched hand—when
Fidelle uttered a cry and escaped from the arms of his conveyer.

The lady shrieked, “run Williams! see what's the matter
with Fidelle!”

This want of tact, not to say feeling, can only be accounted
for by what has already been hinted at. I only state the fact.
As to the expecting ladies, I can give no adequate notion of
the change of feeling which took place in them, when they
saw the new-come relatives retire from them in pursuit of a
little yelping cur; and then saw the general, (having captured
the puppy) advancing again—his attentions and caresses hestowed
upon the brute animal, while his wife stretched her
arms to receive Fidelle, and turned her back on her husband's
relations. When they saw this specimen of their guests, the
reader may imagine the shock their affectionate hearts received.
Their countenances I cannot describe, except that of the
youngest girl, who, seeing nothing but the ridiculous in the
scene, stood behind her mother, and showed by her laughing
face that she was only restrained by the matron's presence from
giving audible indications of her delight.

Even the neighbours had been drawn to their windows—
for neighbours love to participate in neighbours' pleasures-and
some of them drew in their heads that an indecorous smile
might not be observed, or laugh heard. And many a heart and
door was shut to the visiters, by this freak of the dog, the
gentleman, and the lady.

Mr. and Mrs. Williams, after a time, commenced housekeeping,
in an expensive style, in Walnut-street. They were
discontented, and passed a winter in Washington. It was
worse there. They removed to Richmond, and finally to New-York.
They lived in splendour—they gave dinners and
parties, and were in return invited and feasted. All looked
beautiful, for a time, without, but the canker-worm feasted
within. In the winter of 1811-12, the once beautiful Sophia
was reduced to the state in which we have seen her at Doctor
Cadwallader's.