University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

On an evening subsequent to that of the supper-party,
Clifton was reclining on a sofa in the sitting-room
of his boarding-house, musing on his visit to
Boston, and reverting, with mingled sensations of

hope and fear, to the image of the fair girl who, to
him, in comparison with all other earthly objects,
was “Hyperion to a Satyr.”

Since his eyes had rejoiced in the light of that
lovely countenance, he had passed his leisure hours
in dreamy abstraction, now revelling in the delights
of hope, and again sinking to the depths of despair.

His reflections were interrupted by the entrance
of a servant, who handed him a note, which he
opened, and, to his surprise, read the following:

“Mr. Edward de Lyle intending to visit the theatre
on Tuesday evening next, the 10th instant, on
the occasion of Mr. D—'s complimentary benefit,
respectfully solicits Mr. Clifton's company. Mr. D.
L. will call at Mr. C.'s room at 7 o'clock on that
evening, if convenient for him to attend.

“No. — St. Mark's Place, Saturday, Oct. 7.”

Of the hatred that De Lyle nourished for our hero
he was indeed unaware; but their habits, pursuits,
and inclinations were natural barriers to an intimacy
which it appeared heretofore to have been the
policy of both to shun; and this apparently voluntary
good-will offering from the son of his friend and
patron was to Clifton's mind in the highest degree
grateful. Harbouring in his own breast no sinister
designs, he was the less inclined to suspect them in
another, and therefore, in the morning, despatched
a reply, declaring his gratification at the reception
of Mr. de Lyle's note, and the pleasure he enjoyed
in accepting his invitation.

“Fool,” said De Lyle, as he eagerly opened the
billet, “he swallows the naked hook. By Heaven,
the happy scheme is already half accomplished.”

Punctual to the hour, the splendid carriage of Mr.
de Lyle was drawn up at the door of Mr. Clifton's
boarding-house, and the two young gentlemen were
soon on their way to enjoy the evening's amusement.
As they approached the theatre, a large number of
hacks and private coaches, crowded with gay and
joyous beings, thronged the street for a great distance;
and as the published regulations rendered it
incumbent on the driver of each carriage to deliver
his company in turn, nearly half an hour had elapsed
from their falling in line before their entrance to
Mr. de Lyle's private box. Shortly after they were
seated Mr. Ellingbourne entered, and was introduced
to Mr. Clifton. In pursuance of their previously arranged
scheme, the introduction of our hero to the
gambler was by no means marked, for it was deemed
most advisable to depend on Ellingbourne's skill
and tact, rather than trust to any impression his victim
might form through the apparent partiality of
De Lyle.

An entrance had on this occasion been opened
through the centre of the dress circle to the Pit;
and that arena, on which critical gladiators had so
often blighted the high hopes of dramatic aspirants,
was converted into a field on which was marshalled
the flashing artillery of ladies' glances.

A more select audience had never before graced
the interior of an American theatre: and as the

fashionable travelling season was drawing to a
close, the dark-eyed daughter of the sunny South,
the fair-haired sylph whose home was among the
snow-wreathed mountains of the North, and the
light-hearted beauty from the flower-clad banks of
the “Father of Rivers,” were mingled with the
lovely forms that permanently threw their witchery
around metropolitan society.

“By-the-by, Mr. de Lyle,” said Ellingbourne,
“who are those tall and graceful girls occupying
the front seat of the opposite box? The one on
the right, who appears to be the younger, has a
splendid dark eye. See with what eager solicitude
she watches the development of the plot. Her
whole soul appears absorbed in the interest attached
to the performance; and I question if she is conscious
of the existence of the brilliant circle of
which she forms a part. Oh! what would I not
give to divine her thoughts! Innocent and pure
they are, I'll be sworn, and, as yet, unclouded by
the shadows which even successful love casts over
the heart of its victims.”

“They are the daughters of Colonel B—, and
certainly very fine girls,” replied De Lyle, who excused
himself for a brief period, saying that he saw a gentleman in another part of the house with
whom he desired a few moments' conversation.

“I don't know, Mr. Clifton,” resumed Ellingbourne,
“what your sentiments may be, but to me
there appears nothing on earth so charming as a
young and virtuous female, in whose breast neither

guilty passion, nor envy, nor malice, nor uncharitableness,
has found entrance. If idolatry were
not forbidden, I feel as if I could fall down and
worship her.”

“That such an object of adoration is more dignified
than those of the ancient heathens, is most
certain,” replied Clifton. “The image of the deity
is at least impressed on the brow of the former.”

“You are right, you are undoubtedly right, Mr.
Clifton,” said Ellingbourne, with a look of deep
abstraction, which, for the time, was unfeigned;
for his spirit, that once glowed with aspirations as
pure as those which now kindled in the bosom of
his auditor, winged its flight to the hour when a
mother's love, a sister's kiss, a fair girl's virgin
heart, were treasures of his own possession; and
a deep sigh attested that “such things were, and
were most dear!” The fowler was momentarily
ensnared in his own net. The purity of Clifton's
feelings had mingled with the turbid current of his;
and it was not without an effort that he resumed
his confidence and composure.

For him, indeed, who debases the unclouded intellect,
the eagle spirit, the lofty soul, there is little
rest; for the ghosts of his early virtues will for ever
haunt him with their spectral images, like that of
Banquo, arousing him from the gayety of the banquet,
and dashing the jest and the wine-cup together
from his lips!

The performances of the evening consisted of a
mélange of great variety and attraction, being a

choice selection from sterling plays, in which the
powers of nearly all the most distinguished actors
of the day were exhibited to the utmost advantage.
Now Melpomene, with stately form and moistened
lids, reigned queen of the hour; anon Thalia, with
wreathed smiles, usurped the throne, until Momus,
a broad grin for his sceptre, supplanted the rival
sovereigns in the affections of the audience.

As Forrest was displaying his admirable delineation
of the jealous Moor, one of the principal actors
was at fault, and obliged to resort to the prompter.

“How provoking,” said Ellingbourne, “while
one is dwelling in mute rapture on the honeyed
words of Shakspeare, to have the illusion dissipated
in the midst of the most absorbing scene, because
some lazy varlet has omitted to study his part. If
I were manager, such fellows should be put in Coventry.”

“'Tis indeed vexatious,” replied Clifton; “the
golden thread that links in sweet communion the
thoughts of such a mind as Shakspeare's should not
be rudely severed. I frequently repose on my
couch after attending the representation of his
dramas, and wonder whether, if his equal were to
arise in our day, his genius would be appreciated.
How often has the lot of those, whose works from
age to age have stood like beacons on the watch-towers
of literature, illumining the horizon of intellect
with their steady effulgence, been cast in poverty
and obscurity.”

“'Tis too often the fate of genius,” replied Ellingbourne.

The first part of the performances being closed,
Ellingbourne and Clifton adjourned to the saloon
to partake of refreshments. The former, indeed,
felt the necessity of some stimulant to relieve his
mind from the melancholy which had for the moment
enshrouded it. In the saloon they met De
Lyle, who introduced Clifton to Dr. Crabbe, Matthison,
and Mr. Melville, an English gentleman of
fortune who had but recently visited the country.

After indulging in due libations to the rosy god,
the whole party adjourned to De Lyle's box, where
they enjoyed the performance of a lively farce called
“Paris and London,” in which Placide enacted
the character of Jean Jaques François, giving the
portraiture of the volatile Frenchman to the life.

“In my opinion,” said Clifton, “Henry Placide
is the most natural and impressive performer that the
American public have ever known. In quiet, genuine
humour, he is unrivalled, and I shall continue
to believe that no living actor of any land can, in
his line of characters, surpass him.”

“Having been in Europe but a few years since,
and seen the principal comic performers in London
and Paris, I most decidedly concur with you in
opinion,” said Ellingbourne.

“If,” replied Mr. Melville, “he should visit
London, I think I can assure him a most flattering
reception. The theatrical audiences of the great
metropolis are generally candid critics, and national

prejudices will not interfere to prevent a proper appreciation
of your able countryman's merits.”

“Perceiving,” said Matthison, addressing Mr. Melville,
“that you are a gentleman of intelligence, I
will take the liberty of handing you my card. My
room, sir, is No. — Astor House. I am now procuring
information of the peculiar habits, diseases, and
pursuits of the men of genius of the present age, and
intend, by the result, to test a theory which embraces
principles that, sir, I take the liberty of asserting,
will at no distant day work a mighty revolution
in the Philosophy of Mind and Metaphysics.
Sir, here, here,” striking his fore-finger against the
pit of his stomach, “is the seat of the emotions, the
mainspring of human action, the key that winds up
the mental clock, the pendulum, the wheels, the pulleys,
the axis; nay, for that matter, even the bell and
the hammer. Sir, if you're all right here, go to sleep
contented, sir; you're a made man.”

Mr. Melville, evidently in doubt of the theorist's
sanity, made some unmeaning reply, when Doctor
Crabbe observed, “Stuff, stuff, Matthison; take my
advice; go home, soak your feet, put a blister on
the back of your neck, deplete powerfully, take ten
grains of calomel, and in the morning a Seidlitz
powder, and I'll warrant a cure of your unhappy
monomania, which is very annnoying to your
friends.”

Mr. Matthison, in great irritation, flew into the
lobby, when the company indulged in a hearty
laugh.

“Doctor,” said De Lyle, “you have offended
Matthison highly.”

“Why, then, does he continue to bore me with
his confounded theory?”

At this moment a brilliant burst of patriotism was
heard from the lips of one of the actors, when Ellingbourne
observed, “In what glowing colours
does that master of the human heart depict the true
patriot. By heavens, it makes the blood tingle in
the veins to listen to the soul-stirring appeal.”

“'Tis noble,” replied Doctor Crabbe, “but should
have been recited in the days of the Revolution.
The audience would then have been worthy of the
theme. But to hear it wasted on the degenerate
sons of patriotic sires is mockery. Sir, I tell you
patriotism is extinct; corruption is at work in the
very vitals of the community: we have, sir, a weak
and imbecile government, a venal press, a dissipated
populace; while in high life there is nothing but
deception, and in low nothing but vulgarity.”

“Doctor,” said Mr. Melville, who saw at a
glance the speaker's true character, “may we not
attribute this universal depravity to the operation
of your system of government?”

“Umph,” replied the doctor, “I don't know that
I said we were universally depraved.”

“National corruption, individual venality, and
the absence of all patriotism conveyed that impression
to my mind.”

“Damn it, sir,” cried the doctor, in great indignation,
“bad as we are, England is the last country

to which I would go for improvement. Sir,
you place an imbecile old ignoramus on a gilded
chair, which you dignify with the name of a throne,
and dub him a king, and all of your great men—
yes, sir, your most distinguished noblemen, fall
down on your knees before him. I'd rather starve, sir, in America, than fare sumptuously in Great
Britain, or, sir, in any kingdom of Europe. Sir,
kings, lords, commons, princes, and beggars are all
going to the devil together.”

A quiet smile passed over the countenance of
Mr. Melville, who would cheerfully have drawn
out a little more of the doctor's extravagance if he
had not observed that it interfered with the company's
attention to the performance.

“But,” said the doctor, who by this time had
become mollified, “yonder is my revolutionary
friend, General M—n. Although fifteen years
my senior, he continues to enjoy high health.”

“He deserves every blessing,” replied Clifton;
“there is, I believe, not one individual in the city
who would not mourn his loss as a public calamity.”

“Always excepting,” said Ellingbourne, sneeringly,
“the officers of his division, who are praying
day and night for his removal from their path
to promotion.”

“Mr. Ellingbourne,” replied Clifton, gravely,
“I regret to hear such words from your lips. Although
aware that they are in jest, yet surely patriotism

and purity should be exempted from the
shafts of satire.”

The gambler, who saw he had made a false
move, replied with a frankness of bearing that none
could more naturally assume.

“I stand corrected, Mr. Clifton. The remark
was indeed made in badinage; but the subject is
of too elevated a character for jest. When you
know me better, I fear many as grave an error of
omission or commission will claim the exercise of
your lenity.”

At the close of the entertainment, as Clifton was
leaving the theatre in company with Ellingbourne,
the name of Miss Borrowdale was pronounced near
him, which for a moment fixed him to the spot
on which he stood. Recovering himself, he eagerly
pushed his way through the crowd, when his
eye caught the form of his beloved Julia as she was
escorted to her coach in company with a young
gentleman and a second lady. The carriage was
entered, the door closed, and the fair object of his
thoughts rapidly whirled away, before he could
succeed in extricating himself from the crowd of
beaux and belles that thronged the passages to the
theatre. Hastily bidding his party “good-night,”
he returned to his boarding-house, and for hours
contined to dwell on the charms of Julia; jealousy
now suggesting that the male companion was
a rival suiter, and hope anon whispering words of
comfort and consolation.