University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

In an apartment in the third story of the fashionable
hotel in Broadway, known as the Astor House,
reclined on a sofa of the most costly description the
form of Julius Ellingbourne. It was late in the
afternoon of a beautiful day in early autumn, and
as the rich light of two splendid astral lamps mingled
with the dying beams of the departing day,
they produced that mellow radiance which lends
heightened charms to beauty, and steeps the everyday
objects of common life in all the witcheries of
poetry and romance.

The arrangement of the furniture, no less than
its elegance, attested the fine taste of the owner;
while over the tout ensemble there reigned that apparent

absence of all effort at display which forms
the ne plus ultra of household adornment.

In the centre of the room stood a circular table
of superb workmanship and material, on which
were negligently scattered a number of choice engravings
from the burins of celebrated artists, together
with a few richly-bound volumes, comprising
the more recent productions of the popular
authors of the day.

On a mahogany side-table lay a flute, in harmonious
proximity to a pair of small swords, which,
together with two setts of boxing-gloves, were perhaps
the only objects that appeared rather out of
place in the otherwise well-ordered apartment.

If to the above-mentioned articles we add a
bookcase, a pier-glass extending from floor to ceiling,
window-curtains of the most beautiful texture
and finish, Brussels carpet, and a set of mahogany
chairs with ottomans to match, we shall have conveyed
a sufficient idea of the appearance of the
room.

A bachelor, young, spirited, and accomplished,
Ellingbourne's talents would, if properly directed,
have ensured for their possessor the attainment of
an enviable rank among the magnates of the land.
That reflections of this character would at times obtrude
themselves upon him, is not to be denied; but
the energy of will for which he was distinguished
enabled him to banish unwelcome thoughts; and
haughtily drawing up his form to its full height, he
would shield his deviation from the path of honour

and rectitude behind that last refuge of the unworthy,
the decision that all mankind were innately
equally criminal with himself.

“In what particular,” would he ask himself,
“am I different from the multitude who push their
fortunes around me? If, the better to fleece my
victims at the gaming-table, I play the hypocrite
sufficiently to decoy them into my meshes, I but
pursue the like methods with the merchant, the
lawyer, or the physician. Nay, for that matter,
the ministers of religion, the high-priests of science,
and the pretenders to exclusive patriotism, all travel
the turnpike of popularity and success by the
same description of conveyance that I employ;
and if I choose to mount my private vehicle and
travel by an obscure by-path instead of thrusting
myself in their company, it only exhibits the originality
of my views, and should not subject me to
the censure of my amiable contemporaries.”

Musing somewhat after this sort on the present
occasion, he was resting his head on his hand, when
a tap at the door served to suspend his reflections.

Bidding the visiter enter, the door was opened,
and Edward de Lyle appeared, apologizing for the
early hour he had selected, by stating that he desired
a private conference, and feared that a later period
would have found Mr. Ellingbourne otherwise engaged.

“My dear fellow, make no apologies,” said the
latter, in the tone of superiority with which he

usually addressed De Lyle; “you know you are
always welcome.”

The truth is, that Ellingbourne only tolerated
De Lyle from motives of policy, as he could occasionally
replenish his exhausted treasury from the
funds raised by the latter in his dealings with usurers;
while a full knowledge of his meanness and
petty duplicity engendered sentiments of contempt,
which Ellingbourne would at times exhibit, notwithstanding
his desire to keep on fair terms with
so convenient an attaché.

A little embarrassed at introducing so awkward
a subject, De Lyle at length found words to convey
his wish that Ellingbourne should form an acquaintance
with Sydney Clifton, for the laudable purpose,
not only of fleecing him of his hard earnings, but of
accomplishing his final ruin by blasting his character,
and thus blighting his fair prospects for life.

De Lyle could not disguise to himself the probability
that, if some scheme was not devised to prevent
it, Clifton would soon be offered an interest in
the firm of which he was a partner; which would
not only thwart his longing for revenge, but, in consequence
of Clifton's shrewdness and attention to
the minutia of business, would be attended with the
more serious consequence of bringing to light the
large sums he had clandestinely borrowed to support
his extravagance. Placing before Ellingbourne
the disastrous results that would follow Clifton's
success, and sketching the outline of his character
in no attractive colours, he added the promise of a

large sum of money if the scheme succeeded to the
extent of his wishes.

Like a skilful angler did Ellingbourne manage
his associate; now assuming an air of nonchalance,
and again appearing to feel a growing interest in his
proposal, until, having wrought De Lyle up to the
proper state of alarm and excitement, he demanded
a most exorbitant reward for his services, which
was acceded to, and the matter thus satisfactorily
arranged. A theatrical entertainment possessing
unusual attraction having been announced for representation
within a few nights following that on
which this compact was formed, it was selected as
an appropriate opportunity to introduce Clifton to
the acquaintance of Ellingbourne. Within a few
moments after the conclusion of an alliance between
these virtuous citizens, Shafton and Matthison were
announced, when a game of whist was proposed,
and a side-table cleared for action. On drawing for
partners, Shafton became associated with Ellingbourne,
while De Lyle and Matthison were necessarily
their antagonists. When the rubber was nearly
concluded, Ellingbourne broke the silence by inquiring
languidly,

“Pray, Shafton, what are trumps? I'm really
too stupid to play to-night. I've somewhat of a
headache, and can't, for the soul of me, keep the
run of the cards.”

“A proof of my theory,” remarked Matthison.
“Your stomach is disordered; the head sympathizes,
the brain works erratically, and,” throwing

down the leading card, which commanded the trick
and thereby won the game, “you are minus the
rhino. The fact is evident, and the conclusion irresistible.”

“Well,” said De Lyle, laughingly, “for once I'm
a convert to Matthison's theory. Nothing can be
more satisfactory.”

The cards temporarily abandoned, two other visiters
were introduced by Ellingbourne as Mr. Sipkin
and Mr. Thompson, two gentlemen from the
country, for whom he entertained the most unbounded
regard. The trio were, of course, most happy to
be acquainted with Mr. Ellingbourne's particular
friends, and made unusual exertions to entertain them.

Ellingbourne especially appeared perfectly au fait
in every department of agriculture, and not only delighted,
but astonished his country visiters by the
skill with which he unfolded the mysteries of planting,
sowing, and reaping; the most approved method
of cultivating turnips, cabbages, and parsnips;
to which he added a practical dissertation on the
comparative nutritious qualities of the various descriptions
of food usually furnished horses, cows,
hogs, and other quadrupeds.

“My conscience,” whispered Shafton, apart to
Matthison, “who'd have thought the fellow had it in
him? He is giving those calves the teat to some
purpose. They'll bleed beautifully under his regimen;
but I'm mistaken if, in the end, they do not find
that fair words butter no parsnips.”

“His stomach has recovered its tone,” answered
Matthison, with the same caution, “and his tongue,
unlike his cards, follows suit.”

To this Shafton offered a sportive reply, when the
by-play came to a pause.

Shafton, unlike De Lyle, was not possessed by
the Demon of Gaming. Having a handsome income,
which he expended solely in the pursuit
of pleasure, he occasionally permitted Ellingbourne
and Matthison to relieve him of a moderate portion
of his spare funds, but rarely hazarded any wager
on the result of a game. Perfectly aware of the
disreputable means by which this adroit couple
gained their living, his moral feelings presented no
obstacle to an intimacy so long as they continued to
be countenanced by the members of “good society;”
but a withdrawal of that passport to his regard would
at once have ensured their exclusion from his list
of associates.

As the perfection of Ellingbourne's policy consisted
in supporting the character of a gentleman of
easy fortune, it formed no part of his system to rifle
the pockets of his victims at his own rooms. Indeed,
he rarely took more than the initiatory steps
in their undoing, assigning the final measures to
other and less skilful hands; and if, as was frequently
the case, the plundered party sought redress,
no one was apparently more active in effecting the
object than Ellingbourne; so that, while originating
the scheme by which the victim was fleeced, he
still maintained the character of a faithful friend.

During the evening, therefore, after the arrival
of two additional guests—one of whom, named
Dr. Crabbe, was a permanent boarder, and the second,
a Mr. Tilford, a transient visiter to the same
hotel in which the parties met—cards were indeed
introduced at Matthison's especial request; but
that worthy and Ellingbourne were so unfortunate
as to lose a considerable sum, and the latter sportively
remarked, that, since he was a loser, it was
no small gratification to have his money won by
two such particular friends as Mr. Sipkin and Mr.
Thompson.

The pair of green horns were delighted at their
good luck and their host's liberality, and felicitated
themselves not a little on making so valuable an
acquaintance. The cards relinquished, supper was
introduced, and the whole party proceeded to enjoy
the pleasures of the table.

Toasts and sentiments being called for, Ellingbourne
arose with great gravity, and stated his
desire to propose a sentiment, to which he did not
doubt all the company would most cordially respond.
“I intend,” said he, “to propose the health
of a gentleman who has risen by his own merits
to an honourable and dignified station in the
wealthy and patriotic town in which he resides.
Gentlemen, I allude to our worthy guest, Tobias
Sipkin, Esq., of Sipkinville, in the County of
Connestagona. The confidence reposed in him by
the friends of his youth—those who are best acquainted
with his merits—attests his talents, virtue,

and integrity. Although yet a young man, he possesses
the judgment and political acumen of more
mature years, with that enthusiastic attachment to
the great principles of civil and religious liberty
which distinguishes the American people from all
others. I will give, gentlemen, the health of To-bias
Sipkin, Esquire.”

The toast was drank in a bumper, followed by
three hearty cheers.

The tall, robust, but awkward form of Mr. Sipkin
was seen slowly arising at the conclusion of
the cheering; and, when finally on his legs, he displayed
as grotesque a figure as the most humorous
caricaturist could have desired to illustrate. The
appearance of his face, in particular, was to the last
degree unique. His cheeks were puffed out; his
eyes, whose diminutive size contrasted strangely
with the stupendous nasal organ over which they
peered, were dancing under the influence of the
wine he had so liberally swallowed; and his bushy
hair, which had long since cut the acquaintance of
the scissors, fell like a mop about his ears, the whole
forming a combination of features such as it rarely
falls to the lot of mortal to possess.

As he rose he spread his huge hands on the table,
not a little resembling a pair of turtles stripped of
their shells; while the uneasy and shuffling movement
with which his body swayed to and fro reminded
one of an overgrown schoolboy awkwardly
delivering a recitation before a large audience.

“Mr. President,” he began, “for you're the

president of the party, I take it—I rise to answer—”
Here he poured out a glass of Champagne and
swallowed it hastily. “I say, Mr. President, that
I'm much obliged—Mr. President, for your good
wishes. I, sir, have a considerable quantity of a
sort of kind of popperlaritee in Simp-kin-wille—”
Here he filled and emptied another bumper. “Mr.
Pres—President, I reckon I beat old Pee—Peter—
Pee—e—ter—son — hiccough—sev—seven votes
for supe—super—super—wise—ur—hiccough. If
that ain't pop—pop—popper—lar—ee—tee, then I
don't know what pop—pop—popper—lar—ee—
tee is—hiccough. Mr. Elsinscorn, I'll drink your
go—good health—hiccough.”

“If the booby is up a tree,” said Shafton, “it's a
pop'lar tree, any how.”

The toast of the country dignitary was, as may
be supposed, enthusiastically received, and was followed
by one in honour of Mr. Thompson, who
wisely returned the compliment by offering “the
health of the company.” Doctor Crabbe was then
called on for a toast, and, as in duty bound, soon
assumed a perpendicular position.

“Mr. President,” said the doctor, a fussy little
personage of some fifty or sixty years of age,
as he contracted his wrinkled brow and drew up
his nether lip, which formed two deep canals at
the corners of his mouth, “in the present unhappy
state of the country, when national and individual
ruin stares us in the face, and when the crash that
I have for the last thirty years predicted is at our

doors, the voice of mirth, I must say, under such
circumstances, is most unseemly. Sir, soon, alas!
too soon, the wheels of commerce will pause on
their axes; the mercantile community and the moneyed
institutions will become bankrupt; those of
us who do not enter the almshouse will be miserable
beggars; and our children—I mean those of us
who have children—I, thank Providence, have not
yet had the folly to commit matrimony—our children,
I say, will starve before our eyes. In view,
sir, of the coming calamity, I give as a toast, `Our
wretched land: the curses that fell on ancient
Egypt are not a tithe of those we are doomed to
suffer.' ”

“A bumper, a bumper,” said Ellingbourne, “to
the doctor's toast, which, I may be permitted to
say, is deeply imbued with the spirit of prophecy.”

“Doctor,” said Matthison, in a whisper, “are
you troubled with the dyspepsy or a sour stomach?
I feel interested in knowing.”

“Not I; nothing troubles me but the asthma,
which clipped the better half of my remarks.”

“The Lord be praised!” ejaculated Shafton, in
Matthison's ear.

“Amen!” said the theorist.

De Lyle was now called on for a song, but attempted
to excuse himself, when the company
shouted unanimously for “a song from Mr. de
Lyle.”

“Well,” said De Lyle, “afford me time to remember
something appropriate, and I will sing. I

can't at this moment recall anything but sentimental
ditties, which would be as out of place as a dance
in a churchyard.”

“While De Lyle is rummaging over the store-house
of his memory, Shafton, do you relieve the
tedium by a pun. Let it be a home thrust,” said
Ellingbourne.

“If I did as you desire,” replied the punster, “I
should transport your better half, which is your
body, to that bourne from whence there is no retrograde
trav-elling. But the De'il oil me, and put a
lighted match to my toes, if I pun any more.”

A loud laugh succeeded, and a bumper was
swallowed in honour of Shafton's witticism.

“Mr. de Lyle,” gruffly remarked Dr. Crabbe,
“I trust you will not give us any of the modern
songs, which (with all due deference) remind me
of the catterwaulings of some forlorn grimalkin.
Something rough and homespun is to my taste.”

De Lyle replied that he would give them a pair
of bacchanalian stanzas, and accordingly sang the
following

The song was duly cheered, and was succeeded
by toasts, songs, and jests until past midnight, when
Thompson trundled Sipkin into a coach and conveyed
him to his lodgings.

After all the company except Shafton, Matthison,
and himself had left, De Lyle insisted on indulging
in one rubber of whist, which was assented
to, and Shafton was selected as his partner.

The game was for a trifling sum, but De Lyle
hazarded a wager of a hundred dollars each with
Ellingbourne and Matthison on the result. The
latter parties were successful, and De Lyle, who
was considerably heated with wine, charged the
winners with foul play. Ellingbourne instantly,
with the greatest coolness, stepped to the door,
locked it, and placed the key in his pocket.

“Sir,” he said, addressing De Lyle, “you have
grossly insulted me in my own person, as well as
that of my friend Mr. Matthison, and, by the Heaven
above me, you do not leave this room until I have
redress. In yonder closet are a pair of duelling-pistols
now loaded, and on the side-table are two
small-swords. Select your weapon, if the charge

you have made is intended for me: if for Matthison,
I presume he is capable of defending his own honour.”

“If,” said Matthison, sternly, “De Lyle has drank
too much wine, and thereby deranged the organs of
the stomach, the first act was voluntary, and he is
liable for the consequences. If he insinuates that I
played foul, either he or myself will be left in this
room until taken forth—a corpse.”

De Lyle, alarmed into sobriety, declared that he
only spoke in jest, and, apologizing satisfactorily,
the difficulty ended without bloodshed, and the company
withdrew.