University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XV.

Ah my dear fellow, said he, how happy I am to see you!
Where the devil do you hide yourself now—come come, in
with you; no time to be lost now; you are the very man I'm
in search of. Why didn't you stop when I called you?

When?

Just now; we have been rattling after you this half hour.

Upon my word, I am very glad to see you—but—but—
I'm engaged.

Nonsense—fiddle-de-dee; in with you. Mary is dying
to see you.

Mary—I beg your pardon; I really am engaged—I cannot
go with you to-day.

Pho pho, come along; I 've so much to tell you—and she
has so much to tell you—and we 'll send an excuse for you,
and—and—in short, you must go; if I do not secure you
now, you may slip through my fingers. There there, in with
you. I want you to see two or three of the finest fellows in
the world—they are to be with me to-day, and if you miss
each other now, you may never have another opportunity
while you live.

Ah—why so?

For several reasons. They may be ordered off; they are
only abroad for a week now, and are liable to a very short
notice.

Oh—military men hey?

No—not exactly. But never mind who they are; they
are men of the world—just now---and I am anxious to have
them see you, before their holiday is over.

In the navy perhaps?

No no—but you shall see them, and judge for yourself;
they are such men as you never met with before, and either
of them would make a capital hero for Lord Byron or Sir
Walter Scott.

Indeed---are they lawyers?

They know something of the law to be sure; about as
much as they have occasion for, being well-bred men.

But you know that some knowledge of the law is absolutely
required to finish the education of a well-bred man.

Very true—very true—my friends are pretty much of that
opinion; they regard a knowledge of the law as you do, and
as Blackstone did, as the true finish for a gentleman's education.
But as for a—so so! here we are.

Of what profession are they—do tell me.

Of no profession at all—zounds, what a knock—to the
footman—are you afraid of being heard by the neighbours,
you great booby? Go it again Sir! rattle away as if you
had some life in you! What are you afraid of! There,
there! that 'll do!

Oh I understand you now, said I, as the huge door swung
open, and another powdered footman stood ready to receive
us. They are men of fortune?

Men of fortune a—a—Precisely.

If so, my dear Sir—if so, I assure you I would rather
keep out of their way; I am too poor for such company—

Too poor! poh poh—follow me. Too poor! the very
thing for you—follow me, my boy; and I'll make your fortune
for you.

I followed him without another word, into a large handsomely-furnished
room, where I met his wife who having
heard our voices, had jumped up from a sofa to receive
me.

Oh I am so glad to see you! said she; and as she
spoke, her voice faltered and the tears came into her eyes.

From that moment I saw that I had no business there.
And she saw it too—for I could not speak to her without betraying
a depth of emotion—a fear—a bashfulness that I
could not for my life get over. I saw my course—and I
determined to pursue it. I could not help seeing her now,
but I determined while we were talking together—each
without hearing a syllable the other said, never to see her
again. But before I could speak to her, and say that which
would appear plausible enough to justify me in her opinion,
if I should go away at once and never see her again,---to justify
me and satisfy her without alarming her pride, or the
secret sure instinct of the woman, so as to make her see my
true motive, a servant appeared with the lamp which he put
upon the work-table near the sofa, so that I could see her
face though she could not see mine. How altered it was!
and altered too, not from sorrow to cheerfulness, not from a
look of deep inbred habitual anxiety, to one of renewed
youth and hope and joy, like that of her husband, but altered
so, that if I had passed her in the highway without knowing
her, I should have been half ready to go up to her and say—
Madam dear madam, forgive me. But is there any thing
on earth I can do for you! She was pale as death—it is no
figure of speech---I never saw any body half so pale before;
and yet as pale women are to those who feel as I do, she was
more beautiful than ever to me—so beautiful—so spiritually
touchingly beautiful, with her jet-black hair, and features of
living marble, and with that stamp of sorrow about her awful
forehead, and about her pale sweet mouth, and so dignified
withal, that if she had not been the wife of another man, I
would have dropped upon my knees before her—a thing I
never did before a mortal woman yet---and asked leave to

gaze upon her proud beauty as I have an idea I should gaze
upon that of the mother that bore me, if her angel were to
appear to me in my sleep, or stand before me in the great
woods of North-America—saying that she had offered herself
up in her youth to preserve me, or that she died in giving
me birth.

I could not speak, nor could she for a long while; and
when she did, it was only to say with a voice and a look that
made a child of me—I am sory to see you here—

Sorry!

Very sorry---for I did hope—

True true, thought I; poor soul! she begins to perceive
that she would not be safe with me.

—I did hope never to see you again. I did hope that
by avoiding you—nay nay, do not look as if you misunderstood
me; you know very well what I mean—

Perhaps I do—farewell.

No no—now that you have come, you had better stay,
for your going would only appear strange; but oh, I beseech
you, let nothing on earth ever persuade you to come here
again—

I rose to go, with a feeling which it would be no easy
matter for me to describe. I was grieved and sore---and I
hardly knew why. I had come to give her up; and yet I
could not bear to see that she was able to give me up. I
understood her well, and yet I appeared to misunderstand
her, that I might have something to reproach her with, now
that I saw her preparing to do in a quiet grave way, what I
had come prepared to do with a show of heroic self-denial.

No no; let me persuade you to stay, now you are with
us. Were you to go before dinner, it would appear strange,
it would look as if you had gone away---not as I hope to
have you go away.

I began to feel happy again. I saw that she could not
bear the idea of parting with me; I saw that she would be
miserable after I had gone whatever she might say, and so,
much as I loved her, I was all the happier for it. Strange!
I would have died for that woman—I would, upon my life---
and yet I could not bear the idea of being forgotten by her,
though I knew that if she remembered me, it would make her
life a burthen to her. Such is love—such the very nature of
man! Love as we may, we never love another so much
as we do ourselves, even though we destroy ourselves to
make that other happy—it would kill us to know that
one we care for could be happy without our help.

Now that you are here, stay; and behave I entreat
you, just as you would if you were still at our cottage.

I will—

But oh—Sir! give me your word---she lowered her
voice here and laid both her hands before me on the table,
in such an impressive way that I never shall forget a word
of her speech nor a tone of her voice---give me your word,
I beseech you, that you will avoid us hereafter—

I will, said I—I will madam.

God bless you—

And what is more, I will not even beg to know why it is
that you desire me to avoid you; as if there were something
perilous to you in my society—

No no—it is for your sake, for yours alone that I pray
you to avoid our society—

You are very good—

There now---you are piqued—

No madam, no; not piqued, although I perceive that since
we parted, a wonderful change has occurred in your circumstances.
You keep a carriage now; and you have a house
here worthy of all admiration—a superb house with superb

furniture, and who shall say that a change has not occurred
in you like that which we see in your circumstances?

The house that we occupy is not ours—and if it were, I do
not believe that you would be so unkind as to utter a syllable
of what you have now said, if you knew how that wealth was
obtained, which we now appear to enjoy.—To enjoy! oh
Sir—Sir!—

Good God, madam, what is the matter! what have I
said! Surely the signs that I see here—they are not signs
of mere luck at the gaming-table—

She shook her head.

But rather I should hope of inherited wealth, or of wealth
obtained by worthier means. O that you had more faith in
me—

Faith in you! Sir, I have such faith in you, that I could
go to sleep on that sofa, and sleep as quietly, with you sitting
at my head—as quietly as if I knew that my own dear father
was watching over me.

Your father---said I. Have I that look of old age then?

Oh no—but what I mean is, that I could speak to you
and deal with you as if you were one that had a title to be
trusted with whatever concerned me---if it did not concern
others. I should be glad of an opportunity to prove
what I say—It is proper that you should know whether I
have so much faith in you, or not, and whether—stay! I
shall see you a few minutes before you go?

If you desire it madam; but really—

I do desire it! give me your word—promise to speak
with me before you go. I shall not see you again I fear—
I hope—and hereafter the recollection of my words may be a
pleasure to you, when you come to know the whole of my
history. And that you will know it before long—I have a
sure presentiment—I foresee the issue now—every step of

the way, even to the epitaph which it will be for you to
write for me—there there! give me your word; say you
will see me before you go—why do you hesitate?

Will your husband be with you?

No—but he will know that you are with me.

Very well. I am satisfied—

You are satisfied! Really Sir, you deserve a—but no,
—no—I have no time now, no heart for dealing with you
as I should, at a less trying hour, if I saw you so careful of
what I hope never to think lightly of—appearances.

Here we were interrupted, and I was called away to
another room, where I met with four individuals who, with a
look of high fashion, appeared to belong to a class of society,
with which I had never had any intercourse. They were
bold and free of speech, and three out of the four talked
well upon a variety of subjects. Among them was a man
who could not have been less than seventy years of age; and
yet he had all the briskness and vivacity of youth, added to
that which we never see in youth, however well-bred a man
may be, the cool smooth self-possession of an adroit chess-player.
He did nothing in a hurry, he said nothing in a hurry;
and yet, every thing he did or said appeared to be
prompted by the occasion. A brotherhood of gamblers,
thought I—I am not sorry now that I have come. It will
give me what I have long desired to have—an opportunity of
studying these people off guard.

I have seen a good deal of your country, said the man I
speak of, with a bow which it was impossible for me not to
return with a feeling of pride, for with that bow, he said more
in praise of America than most others would have said in a
long speech.

And how were you pleased with it, Sir George? said one
of the company, with a look which must have been thought

very droll, for it set every body a-laughing.—Delighted, I
dare say?

Transported Sir.

Another laugh, in which I could not help joining with a
remark which they appeared to enjoy exceedingly—

—Transported Sir; and so was every body else that I
saw in America—from this country.

Really thought I, we have a very facetious gentleman
here; he does not scruple to joke with me about a story,
which if true, is not more creditable to his country than
to mine. What if people were transported to America;
they were but few, and were able to thrive there without
stealing.

After a good deal of other conversation about America,
some parts of which he was well acquainted with, he proceeded
to give us two or three negro stories, in a strain of
pleasantry that I never shall forget. He was remarkably
happy too in his imitation of the negro speech, and must
have had at a very early age, a keen sense of the ridiculous,
and a quick perception of oddity in character. His portraits
were truth itself—no part was overcharged; and his very
caricatures were the caricatures of a gentleman. I heard
him with great pleasure, till we were called away to the dinner-table,
and so gratified was I with what he said of my
dear native land, that I contrived to place my chair just opposite
him at the table, so that I could hear every word he
spoke, and watch the play of his fine expressive old-fashioned
face, without being observed. He saw my object, and
willing to gratify me, he addressed the chief part of his talk
either to me or to those who sat near me, and gave sketch
after sketch of American character, which appeared to me,
after I had got half a bottle of wine aboard, quite superior
to any thing of the sort I had ever met with, for happy

graceful humor, for truth, and for ease of touch. It would
be impossible for me to give you an idea of his look, or of his
manner—you should see the man, you should hear him, to
enjoy the grave humor of what he said, but still I may give
you an idea of one or two sketches that I happen to recollect,
so far as the words go.

They had been talking of authorship—I thought for a
while to gratify me—as if the shop were a theme to trouble
a man with, whatever Lord Chesterfield may say; as if it
were not a sign rather of ill-breeding, than of a knowledge of
the world, for a man who meets another, to fall upon
him about his trade or profession. What is it but to
say—I talk to you Sir about your trade because I perceive
that you cannot talk about any thing else. I bore you about
the shop, my dear friend, because I perceive that you are
not well-bred enough to know that well-bred men are never
guilty of an allusion to their peculiar trade or pursuit in company,
if it can be avoided. Thus you will see a shopkeeper
parading about with mustaches; a soldier prattling to a girl
about ribbons and gew-gaws; a man of great science, who
never knew how to make a tolerable bow, tripping up a room
as if he were employed to walk a minuet, while a dancing-master
of the upper class would play the lounger by
trade; here a cast-iron political economist trying to remember
a line of poetry, or to introduce a bit of a metaphor—a
bad one too—where ever so good a one would be out of
place; and there a poet losing himself utterly on the subject
of free-trade; here a man of wit playing the fine-gentleman,
there the fine-gentleman crowding himself into a group
of authors, and affecting to deal in repartee—here a sketchpainter
who would be a critic, there a critic who would be a
a painter; here a fellow with a—but enough. At first, I say,
I thought Sir George was talking about authorship to gratify

me, and I remember that I touched a gentleman at my side
who had just been giving us a good story of his own about the
tricks of the trade, and asked him if Sir George had not
been a little in the way of authorship for himself—he appeared
to know so much of what an author has to endure.

Of authorship—said he—why, what say you Sir George?
You have dabbled in authorship a few, have you not?

Yes—yes—to be sure I have—

Ah—really, said I, perhaps you would have no objection
to let me see, or to let me know what you have thought
proper to oblige the world with?

Oh but I should though. I never speak of my obligations to
others; and why should I speak of theirs to me! A laugh.

Ah—you are of the new school I see—

The new school—how?

You never acknowledge your works.

Never—to tell you the truth Sir, I never wrote any thing
in my life that I should be willing to acknowledge now, except
a few trifles that I threw off when I was a boy.

Modesty, Sir George—ha ha ha!

True Edwards, true—we love to blush—unseen.

Ha ha ha!

Do good by stealth—and blush to find it fame.

Capital, Sir George—capital, ha ha ha!

But after all though, said I, if you are not sworn to secrecy,
I should like to see something of yours. I have an idea
that I should know your style—

Indeed—

Yes; and that after to-day I shall be able to recognise
you wherever I see you, and whatever may be your disguise—I
thought one of the company looked disturbed at this.

Well well, if you can, you may—I give you leave to
catch me, if you can.

Very fair; I'll begin the search to-morrow, provided you'll
answer me one question.

Well—what is it?

Have you not tried your hand at genteel-comedy?

At genteel comedy!

To be sure you have Sir George! cried my left-hand
neighbour with a laugh, which was followed by another from
every body at the table. For my own part I could not see
the joke.

Very true—very true Sir, as you say; but then, as the
devil would have it, when these genteel comedies of mine got
abroad, they were mistaken by people for tragedies.

Were they ever played?

Played—yes—

Ha ha ha! Sir George!

But in a very serious way though, I can tell you.

Ha ha ha, said my neighbour. And you got nothing by
them I believe, Sir George?—

No, not a guinea—

Written for pleasure? said I—

Yes—for pleasure.

I feel for you. To live by the pen Sir George, is a hard
life.

To die by the pen is harder though; yet cases frequently
occur—

Indeed!

Yes, every year it falls in my way to know that some young
author of our creed has literally died by the pen.

Starved to death, I suppose; or dead of a broken heart?

No, by the rope—

By the rope!—O, I understand you—suicide?

True true, by suicide. By the by though, that reminds
me of a Yankee author I once met with; a very odd fellow

he was too; I never could make out whether he was laughing
at me, or I at him.

You have hit the true Yankee character to the life, by
that one observation, said I. If a real na-tyve should happen
to make a very foolish mistake or to say a very foolish thing
before you, he would escape in the way you speak of;
he would contrive to say something or do something yet more
foolish before you, in such a manner that you would be unable
to say whether he was laughing at you or you at him.

By the by, said our host, who appeared to enjoy the joke as
much as I did. By the by—addressing himself to me—you
have had no little experience here in the trade of authorship,
and when you hear that we are all authors—all!—every one
of us—deny it if you can—his eyes flashed fire as he said this,
and he grew very pale—disappointed authors too—you will
not refuse I hope, to give us a little account of what you
have had to endure.

With all my heart, said I—it may do you good.—But
before I could finish the sentence a footman appeared with a
message for Edwards, who sent me a blank card on which
he had written with a pencil. `My wife wants to see you—
go to her without any apology. Don't be away long—I wish
you to see what authors are capable of.'

I followed the servant, who led me to a room where I
saw—no no—I never will name her name again while I
breathe—where I saw the proud beautiful woman of sorrow
for the last time.