University of Virginia Library

SAME TO SAME.

I wrote to you, yesterday. I shall be detained, I fear,
for a whole week. The thought is painful to me; and I
have half a mind, to jump into the stage at once; gallop
on to you, and shake hands all round; and—then come
back again, with my teeth chattering. But I cannot—
this business must be done now, or never. I can give
you some idea of it; but you will keep it close from every
body, and particularly from Sarah—nay, you may as
well tell it to Juliet—Mrs. Grenville, I mean—it may
make her happier, a few hours in advance of the rest;
and who could forbear such a temptation?—that—that—
faith, I hardly know where I am; but the amount of it
is, that Sarah is a fortune. after all. But what is to
become of her? Will she do for you, John? What a pity
that so much wealth, and spirit, and beauty, (she may
happen to see this letter, you know, John, one day or other,)

should go out of the family. I can't bear to think
of it; particularly, after all the trouble that I have had;
as all the four winds of heaven can testify. You see that
my old nature has returned to me. How could it be
otherwise, John? Nature will not be changed; and,
though she may get, now and then, confoundedly frightened;
and become serious and good, in consequence, yet
she will laugh, at last; and sin anew, after the cloud
hath gone over. By the way, that reminds me of Molton.
Where is he now? What is he? I shall ask you
a good many questions, now, though you will have no
opportunity to answer them; and I know that—merely
to kill time—just as people laugh out, when they are
just ready to cry—or whistle, for want of thought—or
sing when they are frightened—or—But let us return
to Molton. I heard a pleasant thing of him the other
day. He has made poetry, I am told; and he affects to
resemble Byron. Yes, it is very true!---and he really
has the vanity to imagine, that he has a Greek face!---
Can you imagine anything more ridiculous? He had
been confoundedly frightened by a sudden illness. A lady
that I know, was speaking to him of it. “Yes,” said
he, “I began to think of a reformation---and, had the fit
continued, there is no knowing how good I might have
been.” “That would have destroyed your resemblance
to Byron,” said she. Was'nt it severe, brother?—home,
home, was'nt it? But he never suspected the sarcasm.
He took it for a compliment, and bowed. What a fool!
Yet he has a strange influence over me. At the very
sound of his name, my veins beat and swell; and I feel a
sense of suffocation and tightness about the heart, quite
distressing to a heretick.

O, you have heard of the Delphian Club. I was
there, last night—it was a sort of gala with them; and
never was it my misfortune, to see such a heap of intellectual
rubbish and glitter, in all my life. There were
ten or a dozen of them; and the chief entertainment of
the society—nay, their chief wit, appeared to consist in
calling each other by hard names. I can remember some
of them, I believe; for I whipped out my memorandum
book, and wrote a few of them down, slily—but they are

partly defaced now. There was a Mr. Opechanganough
Oligostikiss; Precipitate Parquin; Bocgin Jokcullus;
Hebti Glott; Pertinax Foncrambogroff, the president,
and—O, it is impossible—I cannot make out their
names; but I can give you some notion of their characters,
and the spirituality of their entertainment. There
are about a dozen of them, though their number is limited
to nine. They call themselves the he-muses. And
each one has a companion allotted him, from among the
nine she-ones. Each man has a “clubicular” name, as
they call it. The members read essays; chase puns,
through fire and smoke, so long as they can perceive a
scintilla juris; wrangle vehemently, and noisily, about
nothing; talk all together; and eat, when they do eat,
which, I should judge, could not be oftener than once a
week, with inconceivable effect; and drink after the
same manner.

First, there was an essay read, by one of the members;
a very substantial, good thing; over which, the best natured
gentleman that ever I clapped eyes on, went fairly
to sleep, with the happiest countenance in the world. I
set him down for a stupid fellow, at once; but I was bitterly
mistaken. He was really witty and prompt; he
did'nt say much—and, what he did say, was in epigram;
one, out of three, that he gave that evening, and they all
arose from events that occurred in the room, while we
were talking, was about as neat and piquant a thing,
as can be found in our language. Then a light haired
fellow—a light headed one, I should say—by heaven, his
voice is ringing in my ears yet—the noisiest, most vociferous
devil, that ever I met with—told a story—for
which he was fined;—this produced a quarrel—some ribaldry—some
debating---a reference to the records---the
constitution---and a motion to clear the galleries;---that
is, as I took it, to throw the visiters out of the window.
The hot little fellow was, at length, appeased. Some
poetry was offered---pretty good, I thought---then there
was a dash at politicks—a knock from the president's
hammer—when the theme was changed, with a laugh,
to religion—a louder knock—and a general uproar, as
if it was grog-time with the builders of Babel—then,

some indications of boxing. It was proposed to fight a
duel. Done, said one. I accept—choose my weapons.—
Very well—what are they? Two fore pounders, he replied,
showing his two pounders.

Then there was an essay read upon some Babylonish
bricks—then a story about Dr. Mitchell; which, I am
sure, is true—and it is really too good a thing to be lost.
Remember—it is a literary club; and they affect to
make such men as Alexander, and Napoleon, and Julius
Cæsar, honorary members!—and have actually sent diplomas
to some of the throned banditti of Europe.

Another of their regulations, that pleased me not a
little, was this. When a member rose to speak, the president
pulled out his watch, and limited the time, at
which he must stop—and to which he must go, under a
penalty. The effect was irresistibly ludicrous. One fine
fellow, full of fire and heart—with a good deal of the
devil in him, I should think—(an eminent advocate
here)—was the first victim. His eyes were on the watch[1]
---and his sentences were so pleasantly tagged together---
spun out—repeated, and dove-tailed—till the three minutes
were out, that---that—no matter. Then we had
some poetry---one stanza of which, I remember. It was
deliberately recited, as Pindarick, by the Secretary; a
Dutchman, that wears spectacles; talks through his nose;
but writes better blackguard, in reality, than Coleman
himself. Judge of the effect from a solemn annunciation of
such stuff as this!

Brief let me be;
For brev—i—ty
Is the
Soul of—
W—i—t—.

And then there followed a story. Stay---I'd like to
have forgotten Dr. Mitchell. There was a boy here,
about twelve or fourteen years old, the son of the fat
sleepy gentleman, before mentioned; or, of the president,
as I was told; who, of his own head, wrote a letter to
Dr. Mitchell, last summer, announcing that a society

was just established in Baltimore, called the Newtonian
Society; and that they had, unanimously, elected him
an honorary member; and added, that any communication,
from him, would be acceptable to the society, &c.
It was signed by some outlandish name, as secretary.
The boy forgot the name; and did not know for whom
to inquire; until he saw the letter advertised. It was from
the credulous old gentleman. I saw it. It was in his
own hand-writing; and was, really, a speculation on matters
and things, in general—alluvion; organick remains;
and secondary formations, etc. etc.; with the Doctor's
compliments to the Newtonian Society; and information
that he was going, that very night, to a confederacy of
a like character, in New-York—to which he should communicate
the rapturous intelligence, &c. &c.

But the best of the joke was to come. This piece of
childish pleasantry, soon took a new shape. It was only
known to the boy, (for he was afraid to tell his father;)
to the light headed man; and to Dr. Mitchell. The first
kept it a secret, for his own sake; the second, out of
compassion to Dr. Mitchell. But lo! the Doctor was not
so discreet—for it was soon after announced, in the
Washington Gazette, that Dr. M. was appointed honorary
member of the Newtonian Society of Baltimore!
And this very evening, a book is abroad, containing the
remarkable events in Dr. M's. life, under his own hand;
in which, the hoax, date and all, are distinctly recorded.
Upon my word, it is a shame.

To this, then succeeded a story, that—though you never
smiled before, John, I am sure you will smile at, if you
have never heard it. It is about the neatest thing that I remember;
and it cost the teller twenty-five cents for telling
it—it having been seen in print, by some other member.
A Frenchman was travelling, on a close sultry
day, with a newly married lady. The curtains were
down. She complained of the heat. The curtains were
raised. Some passenger spoke to her; and warned her
against the sun, that was beating down upon her head.
“O, I suppose,” said the Frenchman, “dat de ladi would
radder ave a leetel son, as no heir at all!” Did you ever
see more effectual punning upon the words air and sun?
I ask this question, you know, to avoid the mortification

of explaining the joke. It will make you look at it,
again.

To this succeeded some tolerable punning, for which,
to my notion, the whole company deserved to be intolerably—ahem!—I
dont say what, but I was provoked to
see such men so employed.

Then there was a dispute about poetry, and wit;—and a
furious altercation followed, in which the president swore
positively, that, he'd be damned, if there were a man
in all Philadelphia, that knew the difference between the
sound of the w and v!—nay, that, when the people heard
it there, they could not distinguish the difference. It was
said very seriously. Another gave some illustrations,
that amused me, from the Spanish, in their confusion of
the b and v: d and t; and also in the German. But a
tall man, in black, took it up; and, quoting chapter and
verse at him, amused me a good deal, with his soberness
and phlegm, and closeness.

Then there was another squabble, in another quarter,
into which I popped my head.

Stop John, let me look at my watch—half past ten
—yes,—I'll finish with the Delphians.

That was about some new poem—a law book—a popular
preacher—and the pronunciation of in in the
French words inutile, intrigue. The president, off hand,
decided that it was sounded alike;—and, I confess, that
his arguments were unanswerable. But the practice is
settled. I am sorry for it—for it is a mighty pity where
one is very positive, to have the fact contradicting him
flatly. But then—“so much the worse for the fact,”
you know.

It was then maintained, that the neatest repartee in
our language;—and the truest specimen of wit, on account
of its simplicity, and its capability of being rendered
into all languages, was this. A gentleman encountered
a blackguard fellow. The latter took the wall,
saying, as he did so, “I don't permit every d—d scoundrel
to take the wall o' me!

“But I do!” said the gentleman, and gave it to him.

Here was a general hourra Joe! Joe! Joe! They all
shouted at once—fine him! fine him! fine him! Another

debate followed; more argument; some wit; some pleasantry—and
a great deal of noise and nonsense—and
then, there was a volunteer essay from the white headed
man, in which he took up Mr. Taylor's “unanswerable
demonstration,” and proved, from the author's own showing—that
Sir Philip Frances could not have been Junius.
I was amazed at the effect produced by his arrangement
of the same facts. The club—all shook their heads, but
whether in contradiction—or drowsiness, I wont say.[2]

And so passed the evening. We had a good supper,
and some rational conversation—but God preserve me,
dear John, from the company of professed wits—and
anybody, and everybody, indeed, where people meet together
to say smart things.

Do you remember Harriet?—I saw her last evening.
Poor creature! my heart bled for her. I knew that she
was here; but there was much difficulty in seeing her.—
She was ashamed and afraid to meet me; and, when she
came to me, she fell upon my bosom and sobbed, as if her
heart would break. Is there any way to save her? Let
us think of it. I had a long conversation with her—but
I dared not remind her of our childhood. It would have
broken her heart. She is very beautiful; more so, than
ever, I think; but perhaps her shame, and her streaming
eyes---can it be, John, that such a woman—O, heaven
and earth!—a woman that might have been my wife
---I wept with her. Yes, John, we must save her. Do you
know how she was corrupted?

It is a strange tale—her visit was one of piety—mistaken
to be sure, but the holiest and purest in nature.—
She was one of a religious society, who had been put up
to a most perilous charity, no less than that of penetrating
into the haunts of profligacy, lewdness and death, and
purifying them. Gracious God! that the young and innocent
should venture amid the pestilence. Would they
hope to reanimate, and cleanse them that are sore all over
with disease and rottenness; by putting their own naked
hearts to them? Yet that were as rational. Would they
reach out a hand, where their own footing was slippery—or

less steadfast than the everlasting oak, to preserve, one
who was heavier than themselves?—unaided and alone?
—Would they take into their innocent companionship,
one that carried a mortal contagion in her breath---nay,
in the very sound of her voice, and the movement of her
eyes and limbs---in the hope of purging it away, and diluting
the poison, by their tears, when the atmosphere of
heaven, itself---had only quickened it?

The effect was natural. She was pursued---watched
---and fell. How could it be otherwise? That woman
is in peril, who looks upon a picture that is lewd, even
when alone; but her peril is inconceivably heightened, if
a man know that she is looking upon it; and if she
know that he knows it. But she is lost---for ever and
ever, if they look upon it, together. And what picture
would so madden and drug the heart, as the living creatures
that—no matter---she fell.

We walked together. Such an evening! It was just
about sunset---and there was a surging lustre about all
the horizon, as if all the riches of heaven had been washed
up against it. It reminded me of our childhood---
of that evening—but no, I must forget all my past
life---all—ah John! John!—

By the way: I am somewhat anxious about Sarah.---
Are there any suitors?—She must have some. You
may as well answer me; for, who knows but I may be
here long enough to get your letter; and it will be such
a comfort to me---beside if I go away, it will follow me
---and I may get it in Philadelphia. Do write; will you?

And Juliet too---faith John, I can trifle no longer---
how is she?—ha!---a drop of blood falls upon the paper!
But so, it has always been, ever since we parted. At
first, I had spasms of the heart, whenever I thought of
her; but that is past. Now my nostrils only drop
with blood—How is she? Does she ever speak of me?
Is she happy?—any family?—remember me to her;---I
revere that woman, brother---would that—but no
matter; I shall soon see her, and be happy. What prevented
her from going with Mr. Grenville? Her situation,
I suppose.

There is another thing. What has become of the old

house? Is it yours? And what is that foolish story about
its being abandoned, seriously, because it is haunted?

By Jupiter! I should like to sleep in it, awhile. They
tell some pleasant stories, about ghosts that fight there,
after a terrible fashion. I have one, at only the third
hand; but, it is said and believed, that, two or three winters
ago, when the house had been shut up, for a long
time; there was a confounded noise of fire and smoke—
and wind and thunder;---and that the flames roared, and
the walls shook---and—oh, curse such nonsense. Yet
it makes an impression upon the people here. Why is it
not inhabited now? I have half a mind to ride out, and
blow it up—if it be only to keep the chambers of my boyhood,
free from the pollution of Molton's foot.

Hang it, brother—there is a feeling here, just here—as
if there were people playing chess in my head—that infernal
noise last night, that is the cause—so, I won't
make any calls, this morning—I'll spend it in writing to
you. Did you ever observe how much better you remember
anything, that you have heard questioned, than you
do, what you ought, naturally, to know? Thus I remember
more of my mathematicks, where I have been confoundedly
puzzled, and provoked, or flogged—than where
I have gone on smoothly—and thus too, that Molton
haunts me, with a vividness and distraction, at times,
that won't let me sleep.

Is he not a fearful compound? I have thought, sometimes,
that he must have some heroick qualities:—but
your preposterous admiration and enthusiasm; that blind
and drunken infatuation of yours, have always prevented
me from acknowledging it. There is no shadow, without
a correspondent light:—that, of the sun, is of one sort;
of the moon, another---and the shadow that the stars,
from their littleness, throw out, is hardly perceptible.
One substance may throw many shadows, too—if there
be bright virtues behind it? May we not hope, from the
blackness and colossal stature! and depth of the spectre,
that his heart advances—that he must have a great heart;
and a great light behind it? I do. I never confessed it
before; but I have often thought it. I do believe it.

I cannot get that girl out of my head—that evening

too—by heaven, the room is full of suffocating fragrance,
at this moment, just as the garden was, when we met.

I have thought of going, seriously, about a profession.
It is really high time, and your indolence and procrastination
are an admirable lesson for me. What are you doing?—what
shall I do?--- Stop---that won't answer.---
That is not my way. I'll consult nobody. It is
like calling a council of war. If you conquer, every
one remembers, and tells every word, that he used, to
persuade you to the battle; the glory is shared by all.---
But if you are conquered---tush—it is quite another affair,
then. They hold their tongues; and the blame is all
your own.

What think you of death, brother? I have been thinking
a good deal of it, lately. It is no such mighty matter,
after all. The pain is nothing---I am sure of that:
the resuscitation however, is not so pleasant, even in
this world---the air rushes into your lungs, like a storm
of powdered glass. But---is it not wise, brother, to accustom
ourselves, night and day, to the contemplation of
mortality? To die---O, it is a trifle. How quiet and
sweet, the dead sometimes look! I saw a man fall the
other day, on ship-board. A handful of bullets were
thrown into his heart. He never moved again. I wished,
in my soul, that it had been my case. I am not fit
to die, John---I know that, well---but a man that is not
fit to die, is not fit to live. And it is a dull life that I
am looking to---but not a long one, I hope.

I go out, sometimes, in the open air. I did, last evening.
I forgot that Harriet was with me. I felt my
heart at her worship. I looked up---the footsteps of Jehovah
were all along the sky. I wept---I trembled---and,
if I had been alone, I should have knelt. There was a
blue glimmering all above me, like cold water in the star
light---like the shine of blue waves, away off at sea, broken,
shivered, and sparkling, in the wind. It began to
rain and lighten; and we were driven into a house for
shelter. I stood at the window; and it was like a shower
of fire abroad, the big drops of rain, in the lightning.

I felt a gentle pressure upon the arm. I leaned upon
the shoulder of a woman, ere I knew it---heaven! I
might as well have leaned upon hot iron, for all the support

that there was in it. It was not the bosom of innocence
---no---but it was the smoking and blackened, desolate
place; where the natural fire of the hearth had been trodden
out; and the flame of destruction kindled in its place.

I shuddered---Harriet spoke of returning. What was
I to do?---I could not talk now of our carriage; no, I was
heartily sick of that; and have been, ever since I was at
Washington, where all “our carriages” are hacks; and,
where, after listening, for half an hour, to a fine woman, all
her ostentation, results in this—that she has been paying
some visits, and treated herself with a quarter of a dollar's
worth of “our carriage,” in her prodigality. I cannot
go on—my spirits flag. I am perpetually absent—
sighing—thoughtful. These are bad symptoms—and
their stages are these—intense thinking—sighing, of
course, when you draw your breath—irregular pulsation,
and flow of the blood—stagnation—and a broken
heart. I am at the stagnation point just now—I have
been interrupted, too—God bless the man, for it!

What a letter—!—three whole sheets—and such
stuff, too. It puts me in mind of our friend,—R's rambling
style, there—whose habit of lying and frivolity ran out, at
last, in a series of novels—which he called, a reformation.

Farewell—I am a good deal disordered; and I know
not why. It appears to me that the spirits, with which,
I arose this morning, are unnatural, wicked---and, if I
were superstitious, I should apprehend some calamity
---at hand.