University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XXI.

I could bear this no longer; pray sir, said I, addressing
myself to Mr. Barry who appeared to be enjoying the joke
as if he knew that every part and parcel of it was intended
for me—pray sir, allow me to put a question to you, which
you will please to recollect, I put half an hour ago, but which
you have not answered—

With all my heart sir—

I beg you to be serious.

Well—there!—biting his lips and bracing his feet.

Are you an author?

Why—after a little hesitation—why, to tell you the truth
—yes.

Bravo, Barry, bravo! bravo! cried three or four of the
company, gathering about the table, and preparing to take
their places for play, at the same time.

Have a care, said somebody at my elbow; you are a
stranger. It was the man I saw at the cottage, with a head
so like that of Napoleon Bonaparte when he was first Consul
—I judge by the busts.—We had not interchanged a word for
several hours; but I had observed his gentlemanly air, and
remembering what Edwards's wife had said of him, I thought
better of the whole company for his being there. But for
Edwards and him, and the tall stranger with a scar on his
cheek, I should have had no doubt of the profession of the
crew, notwithstanding all their talk about authorship, which I
begun to believe was intended as a trap for me. But if
so, Edwards had betrayed me—and for what purpose?
not surely to injure me, for he had put me upon my guard:

perhaps to give me an opportunity of seeing how they wheedle
their prey into the snare. Be it so, said I to myself—
be it so—I shall drink no more champaign; I shall avoid
play—I wouldn't play for straws with such men; I'll take
no bets, however advantageous they may appear; in short,
I'll run no risk—I'll trust nobody.

Come come, said Sir George, come come, Barry, you are
in for it now; and you will try to speak the truth—for once—
I hope—

I will, Sir George,—I will—

Very well said I, as you have sworn to try—to speak the
truth—for once—will you say whether you have published
any thing?

Published—why, to tell you the truth, if you mean by
publishing, what authors mean who live by publishing books,
I can't say I have—but if you mean—

Stop sir; excuse me, I should like to know where I am—

Why you are at Crockford's.

Pho—look me in the face.

Well—there!

Indeed—is that what you call looking a man in the face?

To be sure—

Well now, upon your oath, have you ever written any
thing—

To be sure I have.

That's a plumper faith! cried one of the party—

Mind though; I don't say I've actually finished any thing
for the press—

Finished—have you ever begun any thing for the press.

That's a very pretty seal o'yours—give me leave—

Answer me, I beg of you; have you ever begun any thing
for the press—

For the press—I am afraid I have, said he—glancing
at the major with a piteous look, and with a significance of
manner which set every body about us in a roar of laughter—
afraid I have begun rather a tragical story for the press. I
did not see the joke, but I laughed as heartily as the rest.

Allow me, said Sir George, before the laugh had subsided,
allow me sir, attempting to fill my glass, which I withdrew,
while another of the party pushed a pack of cards up to my
elbow, praying me with a very careless air, to cut for the
deal—

Excuse me, said I—

Ah—you don't play?

No sir, I'd rather not.

Well well, said Sir George; do as you like about play;
but being here, you'll not refuse to tap another bottle of
champaign for us, I hope?

Indeed Sir George, I had rather not, I assure you. The
glass you gave me is very deep and large, and after the madeira
we have drunk, the best madeira I ever saw in my life,
by the way—

Tut man, tut! our madeira is not to be compared with
your Boston madeira. Every body knows that—

Why to be sure, I have heard the Boston madeira praised
by two or three of the best judges of wine that I ever met
with in this country—

Are you a judge of wine—?

I—no indeed; I hardly know madeira from sherry; and
when I praised the wine we had to day, I praised it for madeira,
because to tell you the truth I saw that name on the
collar of a large decanter that stood near me before the
cloth was removed—I tasted no other; and for all that I
know, it may have been sherry or any other white wine.

Sir George bit his lip, one of the party cried bravo! bravo!

and interchanged a look with Edwards who colored to
the eyes, and for a minute or two appeared to be heartily
ashamed of me; but the tall grave stranger with the scar in
his cheek, thought otherwise of my behaviour.

Young man, said he, it requires no little courage to tell the
truth in your case.

I thought so, for the words were hardly out of my mouth
before I begun to feel as if I had betrayed myself in a very
foolish way.

Very true, said Sir George, very true—I do not know another
man, who would dare to say that he does not know
madeira from sherry; I would rather acknowledge of the
two, that I do not love music.

The stranger withdrew his quiet stern eye from Edwards,
and looked at Sir George without speaking a word; but I
observed that Sir George grew uneasy—more uneasy than
he had been while the bets were at issue, and that he took
an early opportunity of whispering to Edwards, after which
a sort of combined attack was made on the stranger, evidently
with a view to overcome his reserve.

Very true, as you say sir, very true, continued Sir
George thrusting a handful of bank-notes into his pocket, and
preparing to deal as if nothing had happened—very true—
So with music, so with wine, so with a multitude of things
which to be ignorant of or not to like, is to be a—I beg your
pardon sir; I have heard Charley-over-the-water called for
by twenty voices at a time, years and years ago, when I was
a young fellow; and I have been told, on asking the reason,
that a particular lady present was particularly remarkable for
that particular song; so I have gone up to the lady, whom I
happened to know, and pursuaded her to sing The moonlight
on the tufted bank, or some other pitiful affair which is never
heard of now—and the whole company have been delighted

with it—some declaring they were very fond of Charley-overthe-water—and
others that they had never heard it half so
well sung before.

I laughed heartily, and so did the major; but Edwards appeared
to be lost in thought, and the stranger sat with his eye
on the door, as if he expected somebody else to join the party.
Meanwhile the bank-notes covered the table, and heaps of
gold were passing from hand to hand with a rapidity that I
never saw equalled, and with a sort of high-bred indifference
which gave me the head-ache.

But speaking of your Boston madeira, said Sir George,
addressing himself to me. That reminds me of a circumstance
which occurred full three-and-thirty, four-and-thirty,
five-and-thirty years ago, at a table in Boston. That's your
sort major—pam be civil!—

Very true sir, what you said—very true—addressing the
stranger—dare say you have seen a bottle of wine produced at
a table sir, covered with cobwebs, decanted as if it was the
elixir of life, into little glass acorn-cups, and swallowed with
affected enthusiasm by grown men, who if they could have
had their own way, would rather have swallowed so much
cider, if not so much physic.

The stranger knitted his brow, and I began to feel rather
uncomfortable for Sir George; but he proceeded with his play
and his story at the same time, as if he neither knew nor cared
to know what the stranger thought of him.

While I was there said he, a young chap from the city
arrived with a cargo of Manchester goods to a merchant of
Boston. I was invited to meet my countryman, who probably
did not know that he was going to dine with perhaps the
most extraordinary humorist of the age, a man of great
wealth, who was a prodigal and a miser at the same time.
It appeared—ah you are in luck my dear Barry, I thought my

hand a sure one a minute ago—the youth had been laughing
at your Yankee wines, I heard; they were not strong enough,
they lacked body—they hadn't so much flavor as the Thames
water, which you know is remarkable for a sort of champaign
spirit, peculiar to itself—our sailors, God bless 'em!
when they talk of the briskness of our Thames water have
no idea of the cause of that briskness—

No, faith!—you may swear to that Sir George.

Well, there were six or eight of us. Now said Mr. G.
—our worthy host—we had been sipping a variety of liquors
and four or five sorts of wine, which I thought very well
of, though my countryman looked as if he had never tasted
such wine before—

He never had, I dare say—

—Now gentlemen said our host, I am going to fetch you
a drop or two a little out of the common way; you are to be the
judges—I say nothing. He left us, and there was a deal of
whispering and chuckling and rubbing of hands till he came
back; for he was reckoned the best judge of wines, and by
far the most liberal provider of the day in America, never
permitting a bottle of port—which by the way was not much
drunk with you, when I was there—

—No—nor is it now—we prefer madeira; and white wines
are preferred all over the country.

—To stand up or to be decanted, nor a guest to take hold
of a bottle under any pretence, otherwise than by the neck—
ah my dear Barry you are playing a desperate game.

Curse the cards!

Pho pho—never curse the cards; play off and fight shy,
if they don't run as you wish; you are up like a bottle of soda-water
just now—well sir, he came back with a set of
clean glasses which he wouldn't suffer the help to carry.

We never say help Sir George, in the cities of America,
nor in the large towns, nor any where indeed except in a small
part of the back country.

I dare say not—with a bow. They were very small glasses,
and richly ornamented. He put them upon the table with
his own hands, wiped off the cobwebs from the bottle, drew
the cork as if he were drawing a tooth, and went around
with it on tip-toe, pouring a little into every glass in succession
without filling any, and then going round again, till he
had divided the contents of the bottle in such a way that no
man appeared to have a single drop more than his neighbour.
There gentlemen said he, when he had finished—there my
young friend! lifting his glass with compressed lips and
watching the look of my countryman—steady—steady!
Full-length, cried one of the party; ay ay, full length! cried
another, and up we all rose to swallow the wine. There,
gentlemen, said Mr. G., I want to know your real opinion of
that 'ere stuff. We looked at each other all round—we sipped
a little of the sunshine, as we called it—we smacked our
lips—and then we replaced our glasses very cautiously, without
venturing to say a word—all eyes were upon my countryman,
whose countenance was particularly solemn and
thoughtful. But he did not appear inclined to speak, any
more than the rest of us; and stood looking sideways at the
glass before him, with a sort of expression which might be
interpreted either way, as the result should require. At last
however he spoke, and vowed to Gad the stuff was pure,
and worthy of a duke's table. We agreed with him,
smacked our lips again, protested he was right, and swore
it was a mouthful worthy of a prince's table—a king's—an
emperor's—liquid amber to say the least of it. And what
may that wine have stood you in? said a rich na-tyve, with a
sober calculating brow. No answer. How long have you

had it by you? said another. We thought of the dust and
cobwebs, and we smacked our lips again more heartily than
before; but our host would not answer the question. It must
have been a great while in the cork, said another: how long
pray; do tell us; we have a curiosity to know. Guess. Did
bottle it yourself? No. Ah ha! so I thought—before your
time I'd swear—putting the glass to his lips with great fervor
—so I thought; heard o' this 'afore: but may be you 'll have
no objection to say how it stood you in by the pipe. By the
pipe! said Mr. G. By the pipe—no by the gallon, said
the other. By the gallon sir! By the dozen I should say—
beg your pardon. By the dozen! said Mr. G.—with a
look which made the other throw up his hands and cry, Good
God! you did not lay it in by the bottle! No—. But
your father before you did; I see how it is, ah ha! Never
mind who laid it in, but say what you think such wine
ought to be worth now in the bottle. Why,—say about—
a—a—very cautiously; eyeing Mr. G. between every two
syllables—a-a-about-twelve-dollars-a-doz-en, hey? What;
interest and all—bottles and all! said Mr. G. Interest!
why to be sure—said the other, why to be sure, that ought
to be considered; no, no—glancing at our host and then at
my countryman, who sat as if he were the foreman of a jury
in a matter of life and death—no, no—I did not mean interest
and all; no no, interest and all indeed! excuse me. I
began to feel a very uncomfortable awe upon me when I
heard this, and saw a merchant of high standing, and upwards
of fifty years of age, gravely calculating the interest on a
small bottle of wine; I felt as if I were doing what was hardly
justifiable, in partaking of so precious a liquor. Say fifteen
dollars a dozen, said another, touching the glass to his
lips—or sixteen, or sixteen-fifty, interest and all, which would
be one twenty-five, one thirty-three-and-a-third a bottle, or
one thirty-seven-and-a-half—sipping a little before every bid—
interest and all. More—more! cried another, who after looking
at our host, threw his head back, and shut his eyes, with
an air of perplexity, and sat with his lips moving as if he
were saying over the multiplication-table to himself. Ah—
but I meant hard money, neighbour; sixteen dollars and fifty
cents hard money; why bless your heart, only consider!
one dollar and thirty-seven-cents-and-a-half—cash—ah, but
you didn't say cash—cash—for a bottle of wine, why it 's out
of all reason! Very true, retorted the other; and so, I say
two dollars a bottle; two-fifty cried another; two-seventy
five, two-eighty! and a full stop. No, said our host, no!
You are wide o' the mark yet; you have no idea of the actual
cost o' that 'ere wine I see; you surely haven't smacked
the flavor; try it again, my lads, try it again; a little o'
that 'll make you fat, as the song says, all round the body O!
Nantucket for ever, cried a sly old codger; what stuff it is
man; say three dollars a bottle! No—said our host very
positively, no! Four?—No! Five—six—seven—eight?—up
went all the glasses together—no—no—no, said our host, and
we felt as if every drop was a jewel. Another dead stop.—
Fluid gold, as I 'm a sinner, cried the youngest man at the
table—eight-fifty, eight seventy-five. But still our host answered
no. The company were all struck dumb. Wine had
been sold—we knew that—for ten dollars a bottle in Boston;
but that was at a time of great political excitement, and under
very particular circumstances. And though the purchaser
bought only five or six dozen, he had a supply years and years
afterward.

No one dared to guess again. There was a deep dead
silence—dead as that of a New-England meeting-house in the
middle of a warm summer-afternoon. We looked at each other
—at the wine—at our host—and then we dropped our eyes

one after another, as if we had been guilty of some unpardonble
sin. What had we to do with the precious ointment;
what right had we to be drinking wine more costly than that
in which Cleopatra dissolved the pearl—

That was vinegar, Sir George.

—And how could we drink it off with so little emotion. It
was a thing never to be forgotten or forgiven. Why sir, to
tell you the truth, even I—I cannot deny it—even I had begun
to look upon the rich Mr. G. with singular veneration;
to wonder now that he had been so prodigal, with his one
little parsimonious, niggardly bottle—bottle, it was n't a
bottle! it was nothing more than a large phial; I began to
reproach him for having dealt out the sunshine—the fluid
gold—the liquid amber—so munificently, in the vast acorncups.
Our glasses were nearly or quite empty; mine had
been so for some time—there was only a lurking drop
at the bottom, the usual thumb-nail offering, which had been
concocted from the rich exhalation of the glass, while we
were engaged in estimating the total value of the treasure.
I lifted the glass. I turned it up and held the edge upon the
tip of my tongue, till that one thick drop had slowly trickled
out—O, the flavor and fragrance of that one drop! I had
never tasted the virtue of the liquid before; and while I looked
about me upon the more experienced wine-bibbers, and
saw their glasses not more than half exhausted, I felt ashamed
of my unskilful voracity. They were voluptuaries—I a sensualist.
But I was younger than they; and there was still
hope for me I thought, if I should ever fall in the way of
such another drop of wine while I breathed—

Here the stranger drew forth his watch, and keeping his
eye upon the door, appeared to be getting very impatient.
I observed him, but I did not believe that any body else did,
so engaged were the whole party between the play, and the
story of Sir George, who continued as follows.

I was the first to speak after the last no of Mr. G. had
been articulated—the first to get my breath I believe. Now
pray sir, said I, pray do tell us—I stopped, I began to fear
that I was going too far, and the company sat with their heads
advanced and their mouths all open, as if they were so
many purchasers in a lottery, the high-prize of which would
appear at the first word spoken by Mr. G.—how much
did that wine cost you, interest and all, as near as you can
tell? Why, said he, after a long pause,—it would be very difficult,
perhaps impossible to say exactly—time—interest—
compound-interest, labor, storage, leakage, breakage, agency,
&c, &c, &c, but—but—as near as I am able to say—we all
pressed forward, and my poor countryman gasped for breath
—and I have taken some pains I promise you to arrive at
the truth, knowing what sort of men were to drink it—we all
bowed, my countryman lower than any body else—to arrive
at the truth, and as near as I am able to say—another pause
and another long breath from the whole company—and I assure
you that I made the calculation myself not three hours
ago, it cannot be far from twelve-and-a-half, or perhaps twelve
and three-quarters—Why how you talk, Mr. G., twelve
dollars and three quarters for a bottle of wine! why you ought
to be, what they say you are, the richest man in America.—
No sir, said Mr. G.; No sir, you are rather too lively.
I did not say, nor mean to say, twelve and three-quarter dollars—but
twelve and three-quarter cents.

Bravo! Sir George, bravo! bravo! cried the major, just
as the door opened, and a short, square-shouldered, vulgarlooking
man stepped into the room and took a remote position
which allowed him to reconnoitre the whole company. The
moment the tall stranger saw him, his eye lighted up, and
fell upon Edwards with a look which made me shiver—it
was but a momentary glance, but coupling it with what followed,

I am sure I never shall forget the expression, till my
dying day.

Well, how do you think we behaved, how do you think
we felt, continued Sir George. Mr. G. had told us nothing
but the truth. It was a wine that he had picked up for little
or nothing, nobody knows where, and bottled off in old
weather-worn, crooked bottles, covered with dust and cobwebs.
It was a good lesson to me sir—beginning to shuffle
the cards, for a new deal—I have never forgotten it—I never
shall forget it—there is not a day, nor an hour, in which the
moral of that lesson may not be applied, one—two—three,
to the every-day transactions of life, one—two—three—No
sir! the value of every thing now is to be estimated by the
cost in—

Here the fellow who had just entered the room drew nearer
to the party, and appeared anxious to catch the eye of some
one at the table—

—By the cost in pounds, shillings, and pence—a laugh,
and he continued with a burlesque air of gravity—In a word
sir, the prodigal and the spendthrift are followed, and the
worthy are despised now—

Here the square-built stranger held up his fore-finger to
Edwards, who did not perceive him, so diverted was he by
the drollery of Sir George, and so deeply occupied with the
game. He had been very successful it appeared, for the gold
and the bank notes lay in a pile at his elbow, and he was
more cheerful than I had ever seen him—

Parade imposes upon every body. Champaign would pass
for perry at a farmer's table; perry for champaign at a lord's
—well sir! who are you! He had caught the eye of the
stranger—what is your business here!

He grew very pale and the cards dropped out of his hand,
as he spoke.

Every eye followed his—and every lip quivered; for there
stood a man, who was not of their party, nor of their knowledge,—a
man they had never seen before, and his hand was
up, and his finger bent, and he was beckoning to one of the
party to get up and follow him, as if he knew that no one
there would have courage to disobey the signal.

Never—never shall I forget the scene that followed. Every
body silent as death, every body speechless, and yet every
body aware of the truth, before half a minute was over.

Edwards got up, for he saw and they saw that the signal
was for him and for nobody else; and when they were satisfied
of that, they grew cheerful, and crowded about him,
and whispered with him, and told him to be of good courage;
but he shook them off one after another as if he could not
bear the sympathy of such men, stood up with a brave desperate
air, and was about to speak to the stranger who had
betrayed him, as if he were the only creature to be trusted,
at such a time. I could not bear this—I stepped forward—
What can I do for you! said I. He seized my hand which
he wrung with all his might—he would have spoken I dare
say, but he could not. Beware of that stranger, said I in a
low voice. If you are betrayed now, he has betrayed you.
Impossible—you do not know him; he is the truest friend I
have on earth. However that may be, said I, I tell you again
that he has betrayed you—ask him; he will not deny it.
Ah! what say you Mr. O.? Good God! not the Mr.
O. whom your wife was acquainted with years and years
ago. The same. I have nothing more to say! And you,
I believe sir, have nothing more to hope—I should say
to you now, if you were my own brother—I do say to you,
after what I have seen of his behaviour to-night—be prepared
for the worst—you do not hear me—for the worst
whatever it may be.

I will—I am.—Stay, Mr. O., stay! a word with you,
before we part. I have regarded you as a—

Here Mr. O., who had been watching us, got up, and
walked away as if he had never seen Edwards before.

Enough—enough—I am satisfied now. Fellow—this
way—

Fellow! said the man, with a look which made my very
blood run cold. It was the brutal impudent leer of a low nature
invested with extraordinary power. Why there 's no great
hurry d 'ye see; the gemmen better finish the game; we likes
to show fair play to them as is gemman—

My dear Holmes, continued the prisoner—I knew he was
a prisoner, and I could have sworn that he was in great peril
by the very tone of his voice—my dear Holmes, I have no
other friend left—no other hope—take this ring—it was my
wedding-ring—take it to my wife—

And what shall I say to her—

Nothing—nothing—

What! have you nothing to say; no message to send to
her! not a word—

Poor Mary! The ring will be message enough to satisfy
her. She will understand it—farewell—

No no—what more can I do for you? where shall I find
you to-morrow—

To-morrow!—with a bitter smile—God only knows; but
I pray you to leave me now, and go straightway to Mary with
that ring; do that my dear sir—I was deeply affected by his
manner—do that, and you will have done for me all that it is
now possible for man to do—

Edwards! what do you mean—

I mean what I say. There is no hope for me—

No hope! -

Now sir, he added, before I could finish what I had to
say, turning toward the messenger who had several banknotes
in his hand which he had picked up, without being observed,
and which had been carried away, by the draft from
the open door, while we were engaged in the fearful inquiry
that his appearance had provoked—Now sir, I am ready
for you: Good night all—good night!

Good night! Good night! said every body in the room;
and almost every body with a voice of deep-seated emotion.
They were scattered about, some sitting—some standing—as
if a thunderbolt had fallen through the roof.

He passed out, and I was going to follow, when I was stopped
by two strangers, while the man that I saw at the cottage
—Fontleroy—stepped forward with a cheerful air and begged
to know if bail would be received.

Bail—No—said a gruff voice, and we parted; he
for a lock-up house I thought; and I to deliver a message
to a woman that I had vowed never again to see.