University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

There was a great bustle at the Half-way House;
the stage-coach had arrived, and was in readiness
to start again. The inside passengers, as usual,
were all impatience. Heads of various qualities of
beauty, were continuously popping in and out, as
though they were machines worked by so many
wires. One fat old lady concluded at first that it
was not worth while to get out of the coach, but
when it was about to start, she thought she would
get out; but just then the horses started a few paces
on, and the good lady was jolted back into a very
nervous old gentleman's lap; the old lady muttered
something about some people occupying all the
seat; and did wish that somebody would see to her
bandbox, for she was sure it had dropt off, ever so
many miles back on the road; she did wish that the
driver would look after it, he could n't help knowing
it, for it was tied up with a blue checkered
handkerchief, and contained her best bonnet, beside

a bundle of water-crackers, and a half pound of
good home-made cheese. But it was n't any use
of talking, she knew that, and always knew it!
Paul Redding had engaged a place on the outside
of the coach by the driver, and when he was about
mounting into his seat, Mynheer Speckuncrout
very slyly slipped something into the young man's
pocket, and, shaking him heartily by the hand, wished
him success. The ruddy-cheeked coachman
cracked his whip, and the horses started briskly off.

“Remember,” cried the good-natured host,
pointing to the sign, “when you come this way,
remember der Half-way House!” The young
man nodded his head, and would have replied
verbally, but they were already far down the road.
By five o'clock they were at the “Spread Eagle,”
by eight, they were crossing the Schuylkill bridge,
and by nine, Paul was traversing the very regular
streets of the Quaker city. He walked down
Market street and up Chestnut, gazing, as all
strangers are wont to do, at the curiosities in the
shop-windows. At one time he stood before a
jeweller's store, where were displayed more silver
plate, gold watches, and queer, fantastic clocks, than
he had ever dreamed of. Farther along was a
bookstore, where were emblazoned immense placards,
announcing the last new novel by Mr. Somebody,
Esq.; Madame What's-her-name's works on
political economy; Man as he is; Medicine in
general and anatomy in particular. Mr. What-do-ye-call-him's

advice to the young; advice to married
ladies, and directions for the nursery. Here
was spread, to a crowd of ragged admiring urchins,
the last great works of the renowned Christopher
Scrapp, Esq.! “Here,” thought Paul, “is to be
seen one of those revolutions which that quaint old
gentleman, Time, brings about. While Madame
What's-her-name's works on political economy, &c.,
are emblazoned forth, old Adam Smith lies neglected
on the shelves, enveloped in dust. Now Mr.
What-do-ye-call-him has dropped the badges of
manhood, turned the women out of the nursery, and
dandles the children on his knee to the tune of
`high diddle diddle!”' “Well,” continued Paul,
“if this state of things prevails in the city, I shall
fain wish myself back in the quiet simple country
again, where at least the women nurse their own
children, and the farmers pursue their occupation
without female direction.” The thought of the
country suggested again to the young man the consciousness
of his abject situation. “Here,” said
he, “I am in this large city, without friends and
without money! Here industry and knavery
flourish cheek by jowl. The frivolous and thoughtful,
rich and poor, honest and dishonest, hurry along
in one promiscuous crowd, all, perhaps, more comfortable
than I. The most abandoned wretch may
have one friend to speak kindly to him, and shield
him for the night; the most ragged urchin in the
street may have a kind-hearted mother who rejoices
at the return of her son, although he may come to
eat the only remaining crust! Heaven! gracious
heaven! why am I an orphan? I am here walled
in with houses, I pass an almost interminable row
of doors, yet all are closed to me; and many a bed
to-night will remain untouched, while I—but no
more of that; what right have I to expect any thing
of strangers? they know not me nor I them. If I
sleep in the street, the watchmen will surely not
murder me; if I am robbed, the thief will not be
much enriched nor I much impoverished.” Thus
ruminated Paul, as he stepped into a small restaurateur.
Among the promiscuous assemblage of
persons regaling themselves on various articles of
food and liquor, two persons in particular attracted
his attention. One was a little shrivelled-up Quaker;
and the other was a short, robust, ill-looking
individual, with very jagged features; an iron hook,
that was appended to his elbow, did service in the
place of his right hand; and with that he toyed
carelessly with the different articles before him, on
the table, the use of the hook seeming to have become
a second nature. Paul gazed at the man a
moment, and a shudder ran over him, for he felt
that he had seen that ugly countenance before; but
where, he could not at that moment recollect.
When a plate of oysters was set before the two
men, the little Quaker rolled his eyes up to the
ceiling and looked very devout, then turning them
down again, he gazed around on the company, as
if to take them to witness that he was a pious man
and thankful for the smallest favors!

Paul took a seat and looked over the morning
news. His eye met the lists of “wants,” and feeling
in his pocket for a scrap of paper to note down the
number of two or three of what seemed to be
desirable places, he found a queer wad stowed
away in one corner, and carefully opening it, discovered,
much to his astonishment, the self-same
money that he had paid to the host of the Half-way
House. Paul was at first delighted, and then
mortified, that he had been an object of charity;
yet he was grateful, for he felt how disinterested
were the motives of the benevolent giver. “This,”
thought Paul, “this, will I remember, that the most
needy stand not always with open mouths. The
ice-bound stream is noiseless; but the greedy
brooks, the more they are filled the more they cry
aloud.” Our hero was about rising from his seat,
when a gentleman, who was handling pencil and
paper on the opposite side of the room, begged him
to sit still, if it was but for a moment. “I have
something of interest to communicate to you presently,”
said the stranger, and in a few moments he
seated himself beside the astonished youth. “I
have been making a sketch of you. I hope you will
take no offence, none intended, I assure you; but as
you sat here with that bundle, your appearance struck
me as exceedingly picturesque. Here is the sketch,
very hastily done, yet there 's character in it, eh?”

Paul was evidently not pleased at first, but when he
examined the picture he saw nothing there that
might not have been drawn from any one else in
the establishment, and feeling assured that no one
could ever imagine him as the original, he replied
that he was quite happy if he had been of any
service to the artist. “Of service!” reiterated the
stranger, talking through his nose. “You have
been of vast service. I have been for the last fortnight
on the lookout for you; yes, sir, for you; I
saw you in my mind's eye. A place like this is
the best in the world for characters. I visit here
nightly, not to eat or drink, as my enemies have
insinuated, but to make sketches. Hogarth was in
the habit of doing the same; he used to draw
figures upon his thumb-nail. The smallness of the
space must have cramped his genius. I have tried
it, but I make so many drawings in an evening that
I found it impossible to follow the example of that
great man. This sketch, I will tell you in perfect
confidence, is to illustrate a book: yes, sir, a book.
You have heard of Inkleton, the poet? never heard
of Ichabod Inkleton, the poet! You amaze me!
Well, you see he is now engaged on a great work;
he undertook it by my advice; and that great work
I am illustrating. It will make a tremendous sensation,
you may depend. The book will be in six
volumes, entitled `A travesty on John Bunyan's
Pilgrim's Progress, by Ichabod Inkleton, with illustrations
by Christopher Scrapp, Esq.' Now, sir,
you will understand why I drew this figure. Do
you observe that short, fat gentleman sitting at yonder
table?” “The one with the very red nose?”
said Paul. “Well, yes, his nose is rather red; you
understand who I mean — that interesting-looking
individual, with the broad collar thrown open.”
“Oh yes, I see,” replied Paul, “the man with sore
eyes who is stirring his liquor with his finger.”
“I say, my boy, pass my friend Inkleton a spoon.
Well, my young friend, that gentleman as you
understand, is the poet; yes, sir, the first poet of our
country. I shall do you the honor of an introduction.
You will find his conversation not only instructive
but amusing. His thoughts are always
beautiful, and his language is always poetry. He
frequently couches his observations in verse; you
would be delighted to hear him at such times. I
thought that there was something of the vein about
him this evening; you may be fortunate enough to
hear him. Mr. Inkleton is always delighted to
make the acquaintance of any one whom I recommend
to him, because he feels and knows that he
owes much, if not all of his great popularity, to my
influence. Come, we will approach him. Inky,
my friend, here is a young man, the original of this
sketch; permit him to linger in the same air which
your greatness breathes.” “My dear Scrapp, let
me embrace you,” said Mr. Inkleton, attempting to
rise, which act Mr. S. prevented, and embraced
him where he sat. “My dear Scrapp,” continued
the poet — and he shook hands with Paul over the
artist's back — “my dear Scrapp, 't is thus I fain
would clasp your friend, your wife, or daughter;
hand me a glass, my boy, of gin, without the water.
Forgive me, Scrapp, you know my love is quite
Platonic. But let that pass, and take a glass of
inspiration, called Byronic. Join us, young man,
and — and —” “I never drink,” answered Paul.
“He is modest,” said Mr. Scrapp, “and never
drinks, I presume, unless he is permitted to call on
the liquor himself.” “I drink nothing intoxicating,
sir, under any circumstances,” replied the young
man, coloring. “I wish to know, Mr. Scrapp, if I
understood you rightly; you introduced this young
man as a friend of yours?” “No, sir, not as friend,
but as the original of this sketch.” “Ah, yes, that
explains it; otherwise, young man, that last observation
of yours would have been mysterious — fact; I
assure you, I am serious.” “The evening is far
advanced,” said Paul. “Accept my thanks for
your attentions; good night, gentlemen.” “Good
night,” said Inkleton, “we 'll excuse you, nor lose
much neither when we lose you.” Our hero took
lodging for the night at the sign of the “Bull's
Head,” a quiet inn, situated in Strawberry alley.
He had there, he thought, a bed very much more
agreeable than he could possibly bring himself to
think could be found in the softest stall in the whole
market-house.