 | CHAPTER I. Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
1. A scene in the Park, and a walk on the Battery.
“After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report
while you live.”
“They'll take suggestions as a cat laps milk.”
—Shakspeare.
“Nor numbers, nor example, with him wrought
To swerve from truth.”
—Milton.
Whoever has been in the city of New-York, the great
centre of the commerce of the western world, must remember
the marble front of the hall of justice, or City Hall.
Standing on the highest ground which the democratic system
of filling up hollows by levelling hills, or lifting the low by removing
the superfluity of the high, has left to the great commercial
metropolis. Lifting its stainless face in the midst of
catalpas and elms, poplars and sycamores, the pride of our
forests, this structure, towers,—like the protecting genius of the
land, inviting strangers to take shelter under the guardianship of
law, and promising protection to the oppressed of all nations.
It was on a fine day in the October of 1811, about the hour
of noon, when the sun was shining bright and giving a dazzling
lustre to the front of this building, that two gentlemen came
from within, and descending the flight of stairs with the gay,
elastic and careless step of youth, bent their way down the
centre avenue of the enclosure, in eager conversation: only
interrupted by occasional bursts of laughter. It was plain that
they were not of the tribe to which this building seems principally
consigned—the men of the law—there was not the hurried
step, nor the thought-pressed brow; neither were they of the
class of jurors dragged reluctantly from their own immediate
affairs to pass upon the interests, or the lives, or liberties of
others: nor were they litigious clients, filled with doubts and fears
and joyous as the day, (and what American knows not the
beauty of an October day,) and appeared to defy or be unconscious
of the existence of laws, judges, or jurors, except as their
protectors from wrong. They were tastefully and fashionably
dressed, and the shortest, who was not quite six feet in height,
was a model of manly beauty; his companion was of the
square herculean form, full six feet high, with the nose of a
Roman Cæsar, the eye of a Spanish contrabandista, and the
complexion of a Circassian belle.
The trees of the Park, for so the enclosure is called, were
yet loaded with foliage, which the early frosts had changed from
the uniform verdant livery of summer, to the motley brilliancy
which distinguishes our autummal scenery, presenting every tint
from gaudy yellow to deep purple, through the intermediate
shades of orange and scarlet; from the brightest golden hue,
through various grades to the dusky brown, which denotes the
speedy separation of the leaves from their parent stock, and return
to that state in which they become its food.
To such of the busy citizens as, in crossing this triangular
pleasure-ground, find leisure to think of nature, this imperfect
glimpse of the beauties of American landscape might recall
other more variegated pictures; the scenery of our mountains,
forests, and prairies: but these young men were not, at the
moment our story begins, thinking of woods and wilds—the
beauties of nature occupied their thoughts, but they were beauties
of a higher order, though as fleeting as the changing foliage
under which they loitered, laughed and lounged. They walked
half-way down the centre avenue and stopped, as if without
sufficient motive either to proceed or return; meanwhile the
more Apollo-like gallant sported with a terrier dog that followed
him, and who was addressed by the familiar appellation of
“Billy.” After a few minutes of this wanton idling they, dog
and all, bent their way again towards the hall of justice; appearing
to look for some one to join them from thence, and
they had nearly reached the portico when two very dissimilar
figures came out of the front door of the theatre apparently
from the box-office, and within view of the first-mentioned pair.
The Park theatre, as we all know, being in its position opposite,
or nearly so, to the hall of justice.
The walk to and from the hall took some minutes, notwithstanding
that John Duncan, a Scotch traveller and A.B., says
the enclosure we have praised only contains half an acre. If
ever our North-British friend should be condemned for his sins
shoes lined with peas, we doubt not that he will be happy to
take a him from a brother pilgrim and penitent, of former days,
and be especially careful to have them well boiled.
A long loud laugh on the part of one of the first mentioned
gentlemen was followed by, “He cannot certainly think of marrying
her. Her personal attractions are not great, although her
professional skill and talents may be deemed so; besides, she's
a foot taller than little Spiff. They might play the giantess and
Tom Thumb. And her mysterious conduct in regard to
Trowbridge, both before and after his death, is too notorious to
allow of such an alliance with a man of Spiffards correct way
of thinking.”
“But,” said the other, who was no less a personage than
Thomas Apthorpe Cooper, the justly celebrated histrion;
“She bears the name of a man high in his profession as a tragedian,
and Spiff may know nothing of her story, as he came
to New-York after Trowbridge's death, and long subsequent to
the affair to which you allude.”
“He was then, and for some years before, in England,” said
the other.
“Hilson knew him there,” said the tragedian, “See, he is
coming out of the theatre with his friend Tam.”
As we mention the names of two well-known personages,
and shall hereafter in the course of our narrative frequently
introduce more of the same description, let us pause for explanation.
When we call a character by the name of a real person,
dead or alive, still the actions of such character, as connected
with this tale, are in general purely imaginary; and the deeds,
thoughts and words imputed to him or her, mere inventions of
the author's brain, meant to give point to the moral of his story,
or add to the amusement of his readers. As Walter Scott
makes use of the names of Cromwell, Charles Stuart, Ireton,
Claverhouse, Montrose and others to decorate his characters
withal, so we in our humble history of domestic life, take
those of Cooke, Cooper, Hilson and other mimic heroes and
and mimic villains, for our purposes, as well as some well
known names of politicians and professional men of that time.
If the action or incident attributed to the person is real, the
reader may look for a note indicating it to be so. But we
will not, if we have any skill in our vocation, appropriate actions
to any one, bearing the name of a real personage, which shall
be at variance with the general character of the person from
whom the name is borrowed; although we might plead in excuse
in England play the part of commander of a sergeant's guard,
or a bailiff with a search warrant, when he (Oliver Cromwell)
was in possession of supreme power. Once for all, we protest
that this real history is an unreal mockery as it respects characters
and events: all is a fabricated tissue wrought by the brain,
or the imagination, from the materials collected during a long
and variegated life. But as all images must have had existence
from previous impressions made by realities, the fantastic
combination, which we intend to present, may leave a lesson
of profit on the memory, for the reader's conduct in real life.
For we do believe that our book contains true pictures of
human nature, and that the actions therein described are the
actions of men and women, appropriate to real men and women
in similar circumstances, and that the consequences we attribute
to the actions of our imaginary characters are the result of
such actions, and will ever result from them. Therefore is our
book, although a novel and a fiction, a book of truth; calculated
to amend the heart, while it enlists the imagination under the
colours of fancy.
But to proceed.—The tragedian and his companion, having
again turned, had reached one of the avenues of the Park
on the east side, and were in full view of the theatre.
The herculean gentleman took a quizzing glass from his
pocket and applying it to one eye, said, “It is Spiff and Tam,
sure enough. Suppose you introduce the subject of the lady,
and the world's babble about her, to show Spiff that we have
heard something, if he has not.”
“Agreed,” said the tragedian. “We shall have some sport
at any rate. It will be nuts for Tam.” The two gentlemen
from the theatre had now advanced to the gate of the park opposite
Beekman-street, and were entering the enclosure.
As one of the new-comers is the principal actor in our
Drama, and as both once were the very soul of hilarity—the
delight of the laughter-loving throngs who crowd play-houses
to see the creatures of Shakspeare and Sheridan, Coleman and
O'Keefe—to gaze at scenes of imaginary magnificence, and
forget the poverty they have left at home; as both are important
to the readers of this work, and one the very pivot on which
all our machinery turns, we will introduce them by a graphic
description of their persons.
Zebediah Spiffard, or as his companions familiarly called
him, “Zeb. Spiff.” was in height rather less than five feet five
inches. He was remarkably square and muscular, at the
those unctuous particles which give plumpness and swelling
contour to persons who like him are possessed of youth, and
endowed with health, strength and activity. There was no
rounding of feature or limb; all was angular and sharp.
His head was large and thickly covered with coarse sandy hair,
(or rather a bright orange red,) and his face was long enough
for a man of six feet. This face was in every feature, and in
the physiognomical combination (if we may be allowed the expression)
truly remarkable. The forehead was low, the eyebrows
bushy, strongly marked, and almost meeting; they were
attached to powerful muscles, and could be moved in various
directions: his eyes were large and prominent, the colour of the
iris hazle, naturally bright, but so covered by the upper lid, as,
when not animated by passion, or excited by mirth, to appear
sleepy and lifeless; yet occasionally full of fire; and capable,
in concert with the flexible brows, of great comic expression, as
well as strong and concentrated marks of emotion. The nose
belonging to this extraordinary face was thin, high, and extremely
hooked; with wide, ever-moving nostrils. The cheeks
hollow, freckled, and pale; the mouth wide, lips thin, and
bloodless; teeth long, regular and white; the chin square, yet
sharp, having an edge though no point: in short, such a combination
of feature and limb in face and person, was never seen
before nor since. Spitfard's gait was as singular as his physiognomy.
His step was long, slow, and slouching; and although
he bore his head erect (as most short people do) he walked with
his body bent a little forward at every stride. His voice was
strong and clear; usually pitched high, but of great compass;
and his enunciation was deliberate and distinct in conversation,
but on the stage, in such characters as required the effort, it was
uncommonly rapid, without losing force or distinctness. Such
was Zebediah Spiffard, a Yankee by birth, and a water-drinker
in practice.
Spiffard's companion at this time was Thomas Hilson; who,
in appearance was a contrast to the Yankee water-drinker,
though in height and breadth nearly the same, probably an inch
or two taller. His frame well proportioned to his head. His
muscles full and round. All his form indicating power without
the hardness of his companion's. His dark hair curled naturally
and gracefully. His forehead was high and white. His eyes
small, black, and laughing. His nose far from prominent, and
partaking of the rubies of his cheeks and mouth, which both
glowed with the richest natural carmine that health could bestow;
His whole physiognomy marked by youth, fun, frolic, and
intelligence.
Hilson's gait was erect, firm, and elastic. His voice deep and
powerful. His enunciation always rapid, and accompanied by
a slight lisp. Such were the two dissimilar persons who now
joined the tragedian and his companion within the precincts of
the Park.
“Well Tam” said Cooper, accosting Hilson familiarly,
“what is doing on the stage?”
“Strange doings are going forward,” was the reply. “Old
Cooke is rehearsing a love scene with Mrs. Trowbridge: that's
strange, because she generally chooses younger lovers—but
what is not strange—he is under the influence of last night's
jollification: rather blind.”
“And how does Mrs. Trowbridge take blind love?” asked
the tragedian, chuckling to find Hilson stumbling at the first
step on the subject he wished.
“Very kindly,” replied the ruddy comedian: “as ladies
should take love. The blind are entitled to pity, and pity leads
the soul to love.”
“A man must be blind in some way or other who could make
love to Mrs. Trowbridge,” said Allen—for such was the name of
the tragedian's herculean companion,—the man with the imperial
nose, towering height, and circassian skin.
The four young men appeared to be well acquainted with
each other—indeed on terms of intimacy—and when this chat
first began, Allen had saluted Spiffard with the air of every-day
familiarity. The latter had not yet spoken; but with a constrained
smile and half closed eyes appeared not to notice the
words of his companions.
“What do you mean?” said the laughing tragedian, addressing
the last speaker, “sure you would not disparage her charms?
They are undeniably great. I think, Allen, she would overtop
you. And for weight—your scale would kick the beam if we
gave you half a hundred as a make-weight.”
“Heaven forbid,” replied Allen, “that I should be weighed in
the same scales with a lady of such ponderous person and gossimer
reputation. Besides, I hope never to come so near her high
weightiness as only to be divided from her by the length of a
scale-beam.”
Spiffard affected to laugh. His face was convulsed. A slight
flush passed over his pallid cheek. His under mandible was
projected, and his thin lips quivered. He at length with a ghastly
and no doubt very witty.”
“Does she not—?” asked Allen, sinking the last word in Hilson's
ear.
“It is more than suspected” said Hilson—“and as to the
mother—” here was another mysterious whisper, and Spiffard
made another convulsive and abortive attempt at a laugh.
“I do not believe it of the daughter,” said the tragedian.
“By the by, Spiff,” said Hilson, “they begin to talk of you
and the lady; and it has been currently reported that you have
made proposals—and further they do say that she does not look
down upon, but condescendingly stoops to meet your lofty pretensions.
If it should be so—all I say is—such a pair is the
long and the short of matrimonial felicity.”
“Ha ha ha! well said Tam!—but will the water-drinker,
the man whose cold cup never coddles his calculation, the philosopher
whose transparent draught never discolours the object
he contemplates—will he, take such a leap in the dark!
The cold-blooded sage whose cup can never excuse a desperate
act! Why if common fame says true—”
The tragedian was fortunately interrupted. Spiffard cut short
the intended portentous on dit by exclaiming, “You are very
facetious gentlemen! But I must stop the current of your
mirth even at the risk that its overflow may blast some unprolected
name. I now inform you that your merriment is misdirected,
as the person of whom you speak is my wife. Mrs.
Trowbridge that was, is now Mrs. Spiffard.” While the three
stood aghast—after a pause, he added, “I am her protector—
and that gentlemen, is the, long and the short, of it.”
Great as we are at descriptions of the human countenance
divine, we will not attempt to portray the faces of either the
face-making tragedian or comedian, on hearing this speech from
Spiffard. The curtain no longer half hid the sleepy eye. It
turned flashing from one to the other, while the flushed cheek
and bent brow spoke displeasure. Allen, a mere tyro in the art
of face-making, was motionless and dumb. He looked any
where but at Spiffard. The tragedian and comedian (Cooper
and Hilson) exchanged glances; and the latter, with a tone in
which good sense and good nature combined said, “Pooh, pooh,
we have carried the joke too far—Beg your pardon, Spiff. We
knew it. Wish you joy with all my heart---but you deserve all
the hoax for stealing a march on us. A married man should
never attempt to pass for a bachelor. We shall insist on a treat
though you don't. Ha!---what say you?---Wish you joy!” and
so saying he took the manager's arm and they moved off across
the Park to Broadway. Allen was left with the Benedict, and
not having the facilities of the theatre, he very awkwardly iterated
“wish you joy---Mr. Spiffard!” Then turned and followed
the heroes of the sock and buskin.
Poor Zeb---our hero--for he is the hero of this true history,
however defective he may appear, and shorn of the usual qualifications,
stood as fixed as an antique statue, although in contour
or attitude nothing like; his feet were thrown out like the picture
(in that book of wonders, called “the nine wonders of the
world”) of the Colossus of Rhodes---and bending his head forward
in the direction of his late tormentors, he ejaculated, “Joy!
The joy ye wish me go with ye. Confound ye all!---what have I
to do with such jesters?” Then turning towards the gate by
which he had entered, he strided slowly back from whence be
came, not knowing exactly what he aimed at or whither he was
going.
After a few long strides, which denoted rather the presence of
muscular power than presence of mind, he began to soliloquize
aloud. Was it a trick theatrical? Was it a habit derived from
the stage? Or is it natural and common to most men? We
are inclined to the latter opinion. We cannot recollect the time
when we did not think aloud, especially when under the influence
of extraordinary excitement. Theatrical?---There are
many things and actions, which in vulgar parlance are called
theatrical, meaning thereby unnatural. Trust us, ladies, the
truly theatrical, is the truly just imitation of nature. The writings
of Shakspeare are theatrical---the gesticulations of Cooke
and Garrick, of Kean and Kemble were theatrical; those of
Mr. — on the stage, or Mr. — in the pulpit, are neither
theatrical, nor natural. But—whether you trust us or not—Zeb
began very naturally and audibly, thus: “What do those fellows
mean?” He then took three strides. “They are eminent
at a quiz—notorious. But then it is plain that they did not know
that I was married; and they might have meant”—
Thus speaking, he opened the same gate at which he had entered
in perfect tranquillity a few minutes before. This gate, as
mutable as his happiness, has long passed away—thrown by—
split up to kindle some kitchen-wench's kettle-boiling fire--it
was unlike the iron enclosure of the present day, but was
a ricketty wooden pale-gate drawn back by a chain and bullet.
“From my soul I hope---” “You are very rude, Sir!” squeak'd
pressed against a girl, who supposing he opened the
gate to let her pass, was entering the park---“I hope it is all a
quiz,” said Zeb, looking her full in the face without seeing her.
“No quizzing matter, you ugly, impudent fellow.” She passed
on, adjusting her bonnet. He went on talking. “My mind
misgives me—I now remember circumstances—I now remember—I—have
been precipitate—perhaps”—He walked faster,
and his strides became even longer. “To marry on so short
an acquaintance”—
“How do you do, my boy!” cried a cheerful but harsh
voice; and looking up he saw George Frederick Cooke descending
the stairs in front of the theatre.
The appearance of the veteran denoted that at least fifty-five
winters had passed over his head. His once athletic frame
had lost the rounded outline of youth, and assumed the hard
inflexible contours of age: yet his port was erect, and his step
though stiff was firm; especially when he was under the influence,
as at present, of the poison which was destroying him.
It might be said of him in Shakspeare's words,
“He is in his fit now; and does not talk after the wisest.”
power—they could give form to the poet's airy creations, and
were capable of expressing the widest range of passion. His
forehead was broad, high, and prominent. His eyes of a
dark grey, the upper eye-lids projecting and filling the space
between the brows and the coloured portion of the organ.
When the pupil of the eye expanded, it gave to the whole iris the
appearance of brilliant hazle, almost black. The space between
his brows was remarkably wide. His nose was aquiline
and broad, without deserving the epithet “Roman.” The
whole physiognomy denoted something uncommon, and by
nature, commanding. His grey hair was neatly dressed, powdered,
and (behind) gathered into a short queue, which, with his
suit of grey broad-cloth, gave him an old-school air, very prepossessing,
and “every inch” a gentleman.
Spiffard would willingly, at this time, have avoided him; but
the gay tragedian, (who was at the second day's progress in
one of those careers of folly which it is well known ended in
prostration of strength and intellect, and finally in death) had
taken enough of the stimulating poison to render him talkative,
and unceremonious; and had already seized the melancholy
comedian by the arm. The deference due to age, and to
the Drama's hero, rendered the miserable husband passive,
attending, and oftener thinking of home, and the scenes of domestic
discord which his fears told him were preparing for
him, led the garrulous veteran down Broadway towards the
Battery.
“We have got through rehearsal,” said the tragedian, “Not
very clear. It is sometime since I played Penruddock.
John's the best Penruddock. Black Jack,” such was his
familiar appellation for his great rival, Kemble. “I must read
the part before night. I should have stuck but for Mrs. Trowbridge.
She is a fine spirited widow; flesh enough about her,
and, flesh is frailty; a little haughty in the toss of her head, but
that commanding brow of hers suits tragedy. They say she
is not always on stilts—who is? I knew nothing of Trowbridge;
they say he played tragedy well, he was a Yankee I
believe; a Yankee tragedian! A Yankee king! King of
the Yankee-doodles! He was a favourite with the ladies I am
told, ladies of free and dashing demeanour; and Mrs. Trowbridge—”
Zeb. tried to change the too evident current of his thoughts
by asking, “Do you think, sir, that she resembles Mrs. Siddons?”
“What! Sarah? No, sirr! Sarah is the Queen of Tragedy
as well as the Tragic Queen. The Tragic Muse herself!
John is great, Black Jack, as we call him, but he is nothing to
Sarah. I wonder, sir, that any one who has seen the Siddons
should make the comparison. Compare Mrs. Trowbridge to
the Siddons! Blasphemy! that is, stage blasphemy! She
may pass though for a Yankee Siddons. Sarah is tall, but this
woman is a grenadier in petticoats. A good eye, though—and
a wicked. A fine black brow, but she's nothing to the Siddons!
They are a very extraordinary family. Charles is a good lad.
Often has Charles sat up to see me home, good fellow, when
John and I, Heaven bless us, were both past seeing. But
Sarah's the pride of the flock. John is a poet; and can take
the inspiring draught too, like other poets. There is Byron—
My dear boy, of all vices that is the most detestable! the most
destructive! the most insidious!---it undermines the constitution
of the strongest, and levels the loftiest talent with the
meanest. You are young, Mr. Spiffard, and comparatively have
seen little of either the real or the mimic world. I can tell
you from observation, sir,” and lowering his head, and then
looking up, askance, over his shoulder as if addressing a third
person, and at the same time changing the tone of his voice,
high harsh tone and imperative manner, “sirr, it is the bane of
both health and talent, it is `the accursed thing,' sir, as much as
that spoken of in holy writ.” Then with another sudden change
of voice accompanied by a corresponding expression of his
changeful eye, he added, “I see, you laugh, sirr; yet the Devil
can quote scripture for his purposes; but he never does so for
the purpose of warning from evil as I do now.” Then with
a firm and dignified air he continued. “Sirr, it is the besetting
sin of our profession---the efforts we make exhaust us, and
we fly to stimulants for relief or support in those exertions we
have yet to make. At midnight we go from the theatre to
the tavern, or the hospitable board of an admirer, and we further
exhaust, instead of repairing exhausted nature. This, sirr,
becomes habit, and we become drunkards---drunkards, sirr!
Sirr, the mind and body of the drunkard becomes enfeebled
until he appears only to live when under the influence of the
poison which is consuming him. When in possession of his
reason he feels his lost condition---he loathes existence, yet he
dreads its termination---as reason torments him, he seeks madness,
and the desire of life hurries him on to death, here and
hereafter.” Spiffard gazed upon the speaker intensely. The
meaning of the excessive interest he displayed may be hereafter
explained.
As Cooke ended they found themselves opposite to the City
Hotel, and the moralizer suddenly exclaimed, “My dear boy, step
in here with me. Let us look over the files of English papers. It
is so refreshing to read an English paper. The Yankee journals
are as flat as the whole surface of society in this country---a dead
level---we look in vain for the splendid column with its Corinthian
capital---the princely inheritor of millions who diffuses
splendour on all around him and attracts the gaze of every eye.”
“True,” said Spiffard, “and we cannot find thousands who
are prostrate in the dust; or the kneeling supporters of the one
princely column.”
The tragedian did not appear to notice this Yankee observation;
but saying, in a hurried manner, “I have an ugly pain,”
he hastened into the bar-room of the hotel, and his companion
followed.
Spiffard sat down and took up a newspaper. Cooke went to
the bar, and gave a practical illustration of his discourse on
the evils of ebriety, by adding more fire to the consuming
flame within---by seeking in madness a refuge from reason and
conscience.
The unhappy bridegroom looked on the newspaper, but it
was a blank to his eyes; his mind was far away. He ruminated
upon what he had heard in the Park; he endeavoured to determine
upon the manner in which he should conduct himself at
his next meeting with his wife. The first thing to be done was
to announce his marriage to the public, and have Mrs. Spiffard's
name put in the play-bills. This being resolved as a first
step, then came thronging on his mind, doubts, resolutions,
objections, recollections, jealousies, and dire misgivings, which
made his heart sink at one moment, and at the next seem to rise
and swell almost to suffocation. He forgot all present objects.
He struck his fist upon the table at which he sat, and exclaimed,
“I will have some——”
The sentence was left unfinished, for the sound of his voice
brought to his mind the place in which he was about to soliloquize,
and to his eyes the surrounding objects; and this awakening
of his faculties was aided by an audible exclamation and
start on the part of a gentleman who sat nearly opposite to
him, absorbed in the price of stocks as reported in the Daily
Advertiser. Among the surrounding objects stood a waiter.
“Some what sir? What will you please to have?”
“Come, my boy!” said Cooke. “Let us be moving. I
feel better. Let us be going. Exercise is the parent of
health.”
“Yes sir,” said the comedian, rising, “and temperance,
the preserver.”
They left the tavern, and Cooke, yet more garrulous, proceeded
with additional powers of voice and energy of emphasis,
“Let us continue our ramble. Exercise gives health of body
and mind: promotes cheerfulness, dispels the thick-coming
fancies of the brain, which late revels, and slothful morning
indulgences (two familiar sins of our profession) bring upon us.
Spiffard had willingly obeyed the summons, glad to be relieved,
in some degree, from his own thoughts by change of place;
and the veteran, leaning on his arm, continued to pour forth
his remarks and moralizings with renewed energy, but with
increasing abruptness.
As they passed in front of Trinity church, Cooke, (to use the
phraseology of his profession) took his cue from the object
before him, and forcing his companion's distracted attention by
making a stop and pointing to the door of the building, he commenced
one of those rhapsodies which his unfortunate habits
and peculiar mind made so strikingly his own. “What a mass
of deformity in architecture these Yankees have made of this
I remember it, when proudly it towered a monument of the
taste of Englishmen, and the liberality of the church and government
of England. A pure specimen of the rich and awe-inspiring
gothic without, and decorated within by the sculptures
and paintings of the most eminent artists of Britain. What is
it now? A Yankee specimen of republican economy! They
had better have left it a noble ruin as they made it when they
fled from their gracious monarch's armies, sent in mercy to teach
them their true interests. I remember, sirr—”
“You! Mr. Cooke!”
“Yes, sirr! I, George Frederick Cooke! I remember
Trinity church in its pride, and I remember it in its ruins, even
then infinitely more beautiful than in its present state. During
the rebellion, sirr, when we occupied this city by right of conquest,
the public mall, the favourite walk, was in front of the
ruins of that proud building which even then from its dilapidated
turrets spoke in praise of monarchy and prelacy---of church
and state---and frowned on democracy and rebellion. Then,
sirr, every evening in summer, we had our military bands of
regimental musicians playing loyal airs in the church yard, while
we promenaded with the wives and daughters of the refugees
and loyalists, and confirmed them in the love of old England.
In the morning, sirr, it was the parade ground, from which the
guards were detailed, and marched with drum, fife, trumpet,
bugle, and bagpipe, to their stations. The main guard was
down there, in Wall-street, where the Custom House now
stands. There stood the old City Hall and Court House, projecting
into the street. Sirr, you stare at my knowledge of
this place, and its history—come on, sirr!” By this time some
other auditors were collecting, and he moved on, but soon resumed
his rhodomontade. “The night after we crossed from
Brooklyn, all this part of the city, including old Trinity, was one
sheet of flame—all was burnt by the rebel incendiaries. All
on fire from Trinity downwards, and then across to the east,
leaving Kennedy's and a few houses towards Fort George,
and the Battery. Here stood an old Sectarian meeting house
which the flames had spared, and we made a military store
house of it. The Yankee shopkeepers have built what they
think an elegant church on the site and called it “Grace,”
there is grace in making it episcopal. Heaven grant them grace
to improve their taste in architecture! It looks more like a
storehouse still than a temple.”
Thus the excited old man poured forth his recollections from
America at the time he spoke of, mingled with his imaginings,
as the objects they passed suggested images of things partly
remembered and partly created. Thus with rapid strides and
occasional pauses, he proceeded on his way, every word and
every action marking that state of increasing excitement, which
added an unnatural power to his colloquial faculties. His
young companion, glad to escape from his own thoughts, gave
way to the interest created by the remarks of his leader, and
hung, wondering, upon his copious, singular, and wild eloquence.
They arrived at the Bowling-green. “There, sirr,” continued
Cooke. “There stood the equestrian statue of his
sacred Majesty George the Third, my royal master!—
There, sirr, within that circular enclosure. It was of
lead, gilt over.” Then with a sudden change of voice and
countenance, looking over his shoulder as if speaking to some
one behind him, in an under tone he added, “Gilded lead, said
by the vile Jacobites, to be an apt emblem of the house of
Hanover.” Again resuming his former tone and manner, he
proceeded, “Before we landed, the rebels had melted the
Lord's anointed, and cast the heavy material into bullets—musket
balls to murder his loyal subjects—thus adding sacrilege to
parricide, rebellion, murder and treason. Yes, sirr, his leaden
majesty was dethroned before we gained the town—but I remember
Pitt's statue in Wall street, the rebels left him standing
because he was the leader of the opposition in parliament—and
because they could not make bullets of the marble: but some
of our wild boys took his head off one night—by way of hint
to those who encourage rebellion. Ha! this, sirr, is Kennedy's
house, the head quarters of Sir William, Sir Henry, and Sir
Guy, his majesty's commanders-in-chief, now rebuilt and enlarged
to receive a Yankee broker! Yes, sirr, this corner
house was the British head quarters, and opposite rose majestically
Fort George, surmounted with the floating banner of
England, surrounded by her invincible fleets and armies, over-looking
land and water—the town, the battery and the bay—but
the democrats have levelled it—the hill is removed by the faithless,
and the natural defence of the city prostrated by the
foolish.”
“Perhaps they think its defence is in its men.”
“And now, sirr, they are building yon stone Frenchified
things! castles! things that one of our seventy-fours would
batter down in an hour.”
“Provided no guns were mounted on, or fired from them.”
“Guns or no guns, sirr! Guns or no guns!”
They had now entered within the fence (then of wooden
pales) which separated our magnificent public walk, still called
the Battery, from the street which occupies part of the former
site of Fort George, and is called State-street; and now the
view of the spacious bay, with its islands, the rich and beautiful
shores of the neighbouring state of New Jersey, the hills of
Staten Island, and the meadows and groves of that part of
Long Island which with the sister isle forms the outlet to the
Atlantic and the inlet to all the commerce of the world, burst
upon the view.
The hero of the mimic scene, looked around him on the
realities of the present, and was for a moment silent: but soon
he began again, taking a new hint from the prospect which
opened upon him, and seeming to inhale additional animation
from the pure sea breezes which swept over the waters, pouring
health upon the busy multitudes he had left behind him.
“My young friend” said he, “I never walk here, and look on
these rivers, this bay and those shores, but I think over the days
of my youth. I traverse again in triumph those heights.” And
he pointed to Long Island. “I marched proudly, driving
before me the rebels with their Washington and their Lord Sterling
(not a sterling Lord) until the night saved them from utter
annihilation. It was the twenty-fifth of August when they fled
before us to their lines in Brooklyn. I must give Washington
credit for bringing them off that night. Yes, he made a skillful
retreat, and did all that man—a Yankee man—could do with
such troops. These Yankees, with all their self-conceit, are a
poor race, sirr, a degenerate race in every thing.”
“I think, Mr. Cooke” said Spiffard with an affected simplicity,
“that it was on the twenty-fifth of August you said, seventeen
hundred and seventy-six, that Washington fled with his
army of raggamuffins before the disciplined veterans of
Britain?”
“Aye, sirr! the twenty-fifth! the twenty-fifth!”
“And on the twenty-fifth—” “Spiffard was interrupted by
the exulting repetition of the words, “Ay, sirr! the twenty-fifth!”
But the Yankee proceeded deliberately, “the twenty-fifth
of November, seventeen hundred and eighty-three, these
same Yankees, led by this same Washington, marched into this
same city not leading a rabble of raggamuffins but a few regiments
of well dressed, well equipped, well disciplined Yankee
soldiers; and was welcomed by the grateful inhabitants as their
men-of-war, transports and all, were seen from this same spot,
wafting his crest-fallen warriors back to their native shores.”
“My dear fellow,” said Cooke, with one of his arch looks,
“we will say nothing of that.”
This day, ever to be commemorated not only by New-York,
but by America, as the last day their soil was polluted by an
enemy during the war of the revolution; this memorable twenty-fifth
of November, 1783, was witnessed as a scene of triumph
by the writer of these memoirs; and the words put into the mouth
of Spiffard, supposed to be spoken by him as the result of tradition,
may be received by the reader as the testimony of an eyewitness.
After a pause Cooke added, “You spoke the latter part of
that last sentence, in a tone that would almost induce me to
think you an American, but that you are too short and too clever
for a Yankee. It is odd, sirr, that they have never produced
one good actor. How long is it since you came to this country?”
“Five and twenty years.”
“Then you must have come when you were six months old
or less.”
“Less, sir. Not an hour old. I am guilty of being born in
Yankee land.”
“So, so, so! and I have been be-rating the country, and the
people, to a—a—”
“A Yankee actor,” said Spiffard laughing.
“A sterling actor,” said the veteran in his best manner,
“come you when or whence you will.” The chain of romance
and rhodomontade seemed broken, and with a pleasant smile
the old man said, “I have been fairly caught, I must confess.
But I like you none the worse for being a native of the land of
pumpkins and puritans. You must let me have my fling at you,
especially as you know, let who will laugh, or who will rail,
you Yankees have won the game.”
Thus chatting, and somewhat recovered from the effects of
reading the English newspapers with the bar-keeper of the
tavern, the veteran was accompanied by the young comedian to
his lodgings, who with difficulty excused himself from entering
to share in the rich profusion of Jemmy Bryden's board at the
Tontine Coffee House.
When alone, Spiffard again fell into mournful ruminations on
his rueful condition. “If the suspicions which my volatile
companions have raised should prove to be founded on fact.” At
one moment he strove against the thought that tortured him,
me. They are always at their hoaxing sport—sport to
them!—but then how should they know that I am married to
her? I boarded in the house before. It is but two weeks—and
no one in the house knows it but Mrs. Epsom, not even her
cousin Emma—no, no, there is a foundation for this insinuation.
I remember now a thousand circumstances in confirmation.
But then she has a mind so far above the ordinary class of
women. Her sentiments are elevated. The whole tenor of
her reading and conversation is masculine and philosophic.
True, her passions are remarkably strong, and she may have
followed the example of her former husband whom she loved
to excess—she may have—but that she now loves me I cannot
doubt, and with her good qualities and superior mind what have
I to fear?”
So soliloquizing our hero strode up Wall-street to Broadway,
and on to the house of Mrs. Epsom, his mother-in-law, having
in a good degree tranquilized his mind, and being determined
neither to do nor say any thing which might interrupt his domestic
felicity; unless it should be disturbed by the public
avowal of his change of state, and the annunciation in papers
and bills of his wife's change of name, which had become necessary
after the scene in the Park.
| CHAPTER I. Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker | |