University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

We continued our conversation.

You go to church twice a day now.

Now! I have done so for a whole year.

Ever since your pulpit was furnished with a tall,
handsome, unmarried man, of high family.

Absurd!

So pious too—so severe of speech and so very
devout, always in the way of a prayer-meeting, or a
lecture, now.

Why to tell you the truth, I have no great aversion
to these matters now; we see very good society at
church—

The truth will out! You have no dislike to the
church, nor to the pious, nor to praying a little yourself
in a private way—when there are no cards out,
nor much risk of your being caught by the ungodly;
nor would you refuse to appear at a public conference,
or at a chapel I dare say—if you were supported in
the measure by the presence of good-society. You
are perfectly satisfied with yourself, you care not
whither you go, nor what you do—so long as you are
in good-society. You have two daughters to bring
up, and being yourself neither very old nor very
ugly, you would endure any thing to preserve their
place and yours in good-society—

You are very severe—

Then what I say must be very true. Would you
not—I ask you as I would have you ask me—wo would

you not wear a mob-cap, or say thee and thou, if it
were the fashion?

To be sure I would—why not? I see no harm in
a mob-cap, nor in saying thee and thou, if other
people do.

Other people of high fashion. You would undergo
a sociable private awakening I dare say, or a snug
revival at your own house, if it were required of you?

To be sure I would—

Ay, or sing through the nose

with every other tune of the conventicle, to the
guitar, the harp, or the piano, if you were kept in
countenance by what you call good-society? You
go to the house of the Lord every sabbath-day, as
you call it, Mrs. Amory, not because you care a fig
for what is done there, but because, now that the
British are nigh, you are pretty sure of meeting with
good-society there; and you go to the table of your
Saviour (provided there be no other engagement,)
because there, even there, good-society may sometimes
be met with—

Heigho.

At this very time, that no part of your superfluous
piety may run to waste, you are a member of two or
three little evangelical associations, got up for the
encouragement of the poor and the base, for the promotion
of tittle-tattle and the scriptures; and you are
secretary to a sort of club, where, at so many coppers
a week (filched out of your servants or your milk-woman)
every member is entitled to a cup of tea and
a vote in the election of her favorites to power in this

world and the next; where you intermeddle with
mysteries and work-bags at the same time; where
you rummage among the stars and the cherubim with
as familiar an air, as other bonnetted things do among
paste jewelry, Brazil diamonds, or changeable silk in
a retail shop; where you prattle about heaven and—
the other place, very much as you do about your
puddings and pies; and select places for good-society,
in the sky, and for unbelievers—not in the sky; as if
each of you had a map of our Father's house—that
house with many mansions—with a plan of the pit
and boxes.

Well—

You are a member, to my knowledge, of a tract-society,
and a part of your pastime is a sort of wholesale
piracy; you learn to make books, not by combining
letters and syllables, but paragraphs and periods;
by pasting together bits of newspapers, of little
greasy story books, of superannuated almanacks, of
worn-out ballads; producing therefrom, by slight
changes of titles, names, dates and facts, or by transposing
an occasional period, the most affecting and
well-authenticated narratives, either of surprising
conversions to your creed, or of terrible judgments
on the misbeliever, with certificates in blank for all
who are pious enough to vouch for their truth—

You are in a sweet humor, to be sure; we lay no
claim to the authorship of the works we put forth
we merely abridge them for the poor.

So! abridgement with you, means the tearing a
book to pieces and putting a few of the leaves together
again?

She made no reply.

It is further lawful I hear, when you have no tracts
before the board, for the members to sigh in rotation
over the particular depravity of such or such a person,
who, to prove your impartiality, or your superiority
to the prejudices of the world, is either a relation, a
friend, or a neigh bor.

But we always give our authority for what we say.

So as to prevent the possibility of its being attributed
to envy, or malice, or tea-gossip.

Why, what would you have!

I hear too, that she who has the readiest tongue,
the shrillest voice, and the greatest variety of anecdotes
not generally known, of domestic infidelities
and squabbles in our city, is made chair-woman—over
sea they would call her a char-woman.

Lady president if you please.

Well, who is your lady president now, pray?

The lady of Mr. B—

The lady! pshaw—

Of Mr. B— the rich banker.

The rich banker! fiddle de dee, Mrs. A— we have
no bankers here.

And a very pious lady she is too, and very charitable.

How dare you say so! She is a woman of no true
piety, of no fixed religious faith, and you know it; a
mere gossip and the worst of all gossips, a gossip in
creeds, without knowledge, and without a spark of
true charity, if you mean the charity that seeth no
evil—hopeth no evil.

Thinketh, if you please—

A woman who believes that they who are not of
her church must be—I will not say what now; and

that your good-for-nothing moral people, who do
their duty on earth for the sake of what may be had
on earth, and belong to no church at all, are hardly
worth praying for; a woman of no worth, of no
character—

Of no character!

Of no principle; very like the majority of women
though, educated as they now are, not so positively
bad, as negatively good. She charitable! God forgive
you! Her charity is confined to those who go
to her church, or visit where she visits, or to people
whom she knows, loves, or shares in the reputation of,
whatever it may be; or it is that kind of give-and
take-charity which induces her to excuse every thing
in every body, partly that she may appear amiable,
and partly in the hope that one day or other, we may
be ready to excuse every thing in her. It is not the
charity that engirdles the earth, embracing every
creature alive, our enemies—the whole human family,
pressing them together on every side as with a sort
of moral atmosphere, by which, and through which
the pulsation of a heart here may sound through all
the hearts of Europe, and the throb of a heart there,
sound through every other quarter of the globe.

Ah, but how humble she is, and how meek!

Very! humble enough to go in the attire of a
princess to beg for the poor; humble enough to wash
the clean feet of the youthful and the healthy,—if
she had a crown upon her head, or if a whole nation
were looking at her; humble enough I dare say,
when the sea roars, when the sky thunders, or the
earth shakes—to hide herself in holes and corners
with abject humility.

Lord, how you talk!

She is not of them that are able to stand upright in
the earth-quake, yet fear to blaspheme their Maker,
by calling any work of his hands, least of all that
which he has made in his own image, utterly vile and
worthless.

If you go on so, I must leave you!

Thus much to give the reader an idea of Mrs. A's
character, and that of her conversation. It may be
that he has heard a beautiful widow reason before—if
not, he will be gratified with what I affirm to be a
true report of the discourse that she indulged me
with: let me add here that Mrs. Amory was precisely
of that age, whatever that may be, when a woman is
most to be feared by a full grown man. Young
women, and beautiful children of that age that all
women wish to be, “Sweet sixteen,” seldom or never
succeed in snaring a full-grown man; or if they do,
they are never able to keep him. The proud, the
wise, and the mature of the male sex are not much
given (whatever the poets may say, and whatever the
fair may suppose) to doating upon women while they
doat upon green-apples and confectionary, chalk or
charcoal, or bread-and-butter, and skip the rope, hour
after hour, with what is called a sincere and innocent
joy; they cannot abide the unfledged nestling—they
seek a braver appetite, a heavier plumage and a
louder note in the bird that is to sing them to sleep
in the pride of their strength—birds that are met
with only in the far-quiet and shadowey places of our
earth, or along the sea-shore—the solitary spirits of
the solitude.

You are to be with us on Friday week, I hope,

said Mrs. Amory, laying her hand with a sweet careless
air upon my shoulder, in the midst of my revery.

On Friday week! I hope not.

Very civil, to be sure—

If the ship does not arrive soon—Good God! it is
impossible for me to stay here; I am wasting my life
away, fretting myself to death.

Poor man—perhaps you are in love.

God forbid—ah; a knock—I must be off.

Off now! off in such a hurry! no, no, my dear sir,
that will never do. If you must leave me, wait till
you see who it is—Ah—I know that step!—dont
escape now the moment the door is opened, I beseech
you—Ah, my dear Mr. G. how d'ye do; where's your
Georgia friend?

Here to-morrow, said the new comer. It was
Atherton Gage himself, but so altered, so pale and so
haggard, I scarcely knew him.

Will he indeed!

I thought you were determined never to admit the
handsome profligate, as I have heard you call him,
into your house again, said Gage.

Ah, but he is not so bad now, I hope?

Worse than ever.

What can I do?

Do!—pshaw—

I beg your pardon! Mr. G. Mr. F.; Mr. F. Mr. G.
Ha, ha, ha!

Happy to see you, Mr. F.

How d'ye do, Mr. G? And we both laughed at the
oddity of the introduction.

Well, said Mrs. A.; hereafter you shall be Mr. F.
and you Mr. G. You shall go by no other names.

It was indeed the very Gage I saw on board the
steam-boat; we recognized each other immediately,
and having laughed heartily together at our absurd
introduction by Mrs. Amory, we were on a very
familiar footing before we parted.

Ah, you appear to know each other! cried she.

We have met before, said I.

Under very peculiar circumstances, added Mr. G.;
this gentleman saw the whole of that unhappy affair,
which led to the overthrow of our plans for the
South.

Indeed! How wonderful that I should never have
heard either of you speak of the other! Pray, Mr.
Fox—turning to me.

We did not know each other madam; said I.

But you shall know each other now—the two best
friends I have on earth.

Gage smiled, I bowed, the widow returned my bow,
and I was the happiest man alive.

We passed the evening together, and a part of the
next day, and the whole of the next, and before the
week was over, we were on the best terms in the
world, with the widow, with ourselves, and with each
other. But one thing puzzled me—I was anxious to
hear about Elizabeth Hale, the fair Quakeress—but
whenever I alluded to her, he would contrive to
change the subject, so that up to the last hour of my
being with him, I was never able to learn whether she
was dead or alive; and yet some how or other, I had
a suspicion that he knew, and was determined not to
gratify me.

On Friday you are to go with me to Mrs. A's great
annual party—we shall take no excuse; I want you

to see Middleton, said Gage, one evening as we sat
lounging together at the play; I want you to see that
fellow in his glory—surrounded by all the finest
women of New-York, though they know and everybody
else knows here, that he is a very sad fellow
among the women—a-sheer profligate.

Are you serious?

Quite. You will hear him declared to be so by all
the mothers, and all the daughters of the city.

Who avoid him of course.

Avoid him! pho—if he should be there on Friday
evening, I would have you watch their behaviour
toward him; it will show you the true character of
many—of our beautiful widow among the rest.

Of our beautiful widow—I began to feel a misgiving.

Why sir, you must know that from my boyhood
up, I have been reckoned a very exemplary sort of a
somebody—having the reputation of great wealth
(undeservedly I confess) yet being no way remarkable
for the vices of the age. Mr. Amory gave one
of her large parties a month or two ago—perhaps
you were there?

No; I had gone up the North-River.

Well, I was invited, was unfashionable enough to
go before day-break, and received, so long as there
was no other young man in the room of more wealth
or of a worse character, a deal of attention—To say
all in a word, Atherton, dear Atherton was particularly
distinguished by every body. So then, said I, interrupting
him, your name is Atherton Gage after all,
and not Nehemiah?

Yes—But let me finish. Now I know of nothing so

awful, as being formally introduced to a jury of
mothers, who have heard a deal of you, who have
been expecting you for a whole hour, and who have,
God knows how many daughters on their hands
undisposed of—such daughters being seated in a row,
all about the room, every two flanking a mother, all
with their eyes fixed on the floor, and all, you would
suppose holding their breath, as you enter the room.
To see the looks that are interchanged as you draw
near! Round you go—round the whole room after
the man of the house, repeating the names that you
hear, but always repeating them so that nobody
knows what you say; bowing always to the wrong
person, to Miss Amory, when you are introduced to
the mother of ten boys, whom you are desirous of
complimenting on her family, or to the mother of ten
boys when you are presented to Miss Emily Bibb
Tucker.

A real name, I'd swear—

A real name, you may swear, and then the triumph
of the daughters, when the virtuous monster appears,
about whom they have heard so much, and the
sheepish look of the mothers, who begin to see they
have a little overshot the mark, the compassionate
drowsy expression of their virtuous eyes, the solemn
elevation of their virtuous noses; for my own part
sir, I do not wonder at all that modest men grow desperate,
after having been once in company with libertines
before modest women. Why sir, on the night I
speak of, Middleton did not appear till it was time
for the better sort of people to go; but from the
instant he did appear—bless you—We modest well-behaved

young fellows, might as well have been at
the bottom of the red-sea. Nobody saw us—nobody
heard us—nobody cared for us. We were not treated
with common decency by the virtuous women; we
might have starved, but for the humanity of the waiters,
or commissaries rather, whose instinct seems to lead
them on such occasions to those who are particularly
virtuous or particularly modest; to all who, if they
were to pop off on the spot with an apoplexy, would
never be missed by the people about them, before
they saw the name in the next morning's paper; to
every body male or female who never speaks a loud
word in company, nor ever at all, but when spoken
to, nor ever then, without laying just three fingers of
the left hand flat upon the mouth and fetching a sort
of a-hem! thus—a—a—a-hem! You smile sir, but
what I say is very true; Mrs. Amory had just put
a question to me for the fifth time, which question I
had answered four times, and was about to answer a
fifth time in precisely the same words, when Gerard
Middleton entered the room—the most notorious
profligate of New-York—Mrs. Amory never heard a
syllable of my fifth answer.

I laughed heartily at the air with which this was
said—it was so natural, so true.

I did not much like this, you may be sure, continued
Gage; for I knew that I was generally spoken
of as amiable, sweet tempered and wholesome; so
very sensible for my age, that it was quite a comfort
sometimes to hear me talk, and fitted of course to
make any woman happy. But will Gerard Middleton,
now, luddy tuddy! it was directly the reverse. But
while everybody said so of me, nobody seemed to

believe it, even among the fair who said so to my
teeth—every one appeared disposed to except herself—so
much for my virtue—I might make any
woman happy and welcome—if she would let me; all
appeared to believe this, and there the matter ended
for any advantage my virtuous character was to me.
To be sure, they stuffed me with cake till I could not
speak so as to be understood, and scalded me with hot-water
till I could hardly see out of my eyes; and
then if I made up to a fine woman, however remarkable
she might be, I found that she only lifted her head
for a moment—and after seeing who it was, went back
to her sweetmeats, or cake or ice-cream, as if she had
done all that could reasonably be expected of a virtuous
woman toward a virtuous man. Flesh and blood!
I have seen such things! Why sir, the women go
before such as me in their dishabille, without a touch
of remorse, or a throb of self reproach—the dishabille
of their minds I mean. But I am all out of breath—
after a short pause, he returned to the subject.

I felt rather curious to see how they would bear
with Middleton, on the night I alluded to; and the
more, as I myself had heard our dear delightful
widow say that he was a young fellow, without either
religion or manners, or piety or good-breeding; I
preserve her climax, for I remember it well; she was
puffing me to my face, her dear friend Atherton, for
being so superior to most people of my age.—But
you dont appear to relish what I am saying of the
widow.

Not much to be sure, but still—I—I—should like to
know the truth.

Should you? Well, I admire your courage.

Go on, if you please—

Well, I have heard her wonder what other women
could find in him so attractive—a mere boy—

Ah, but boys are the devil with women of a certain
age.

For her own part, he was the last person in the
world whom she would permit a child of hers to
associate with, and so—and so—she associated with
him herself.

Of me, Mrs. Amory had always spoken in the
highest terms, praising me to the skies before Kate
and Phœbe, (the first of whom I was dead in love
with); and yet when I came to see her and them
together, I was received with only that kind of attention
which everybody pays to the feeble and innofensive,
to the helpless and the contemptible. Once,
to be sure, when there were to be only a few maiden
ladies of no particular age with her, some of the
Bible-Society, who wanted a secretary, and a few
teachers of the Sunday-school who were on the look
out for help, I had a regular invite for the season,
with the run of the parlor and as much cake and tea
as I could manage; but then, whether we met once a
week, or once a month, I always had to work hard for
my tea, was regarded as the least unfashionable of
the set, and generally passed my time at the board,
jammed in between two pair of bony hips that never
stirred without stirring me. But then to give the—
glorious widow—her due, if she accedentally ran her
head against me at church, I was pretty sure to be
seen by her; and some times would be favored with
a question or two on the way home, if she walked,
while I was trotting at her elbow and carrying my

umbrella so as to protect her and expose myself; but
then she never heard my reply—never—I will say
that for the widow—never in all her life, or else, if
she did, she certainly had the most unlucky memory;
for at the very next breath, if she spoke at all, it
would be to repeat the very same question, probably
in the very same words, looking at her tidy feet, or
dallying with her own pretty fingers the while—

Ah, what a long breath you drew just then!

Did I! sorry for it.

Well, everybody spoke of me in the same way, and
treated me in the same way; everybody praised my
virtues, and everybody neglected me. I passed for a
young man, God forgive them, wholly superior to the
vanities of the day, the world, the flesh and the
devil; wherefore the ladies of a certain age were in the
habit of speaking and acting before me, very much
as if I were a lady of a certain age myself; and
the girls, dear creatures,—why, they were as careless
and slovenly (I can't bear the word sluttish) in my
presence—heigho—as if I were a wooden youth, or
a great lubberly younger brother of their own. After
a while, however, a sad story got abroad concerning
myself and one of my mother's chamber-maids—there
was not a word of truth in it, I confess, but so long
as it was believed, I did not lack for invitations—of
that you may be sure; and if I appeared in company
the girls either opened their eyes at me, or made
mouths, or pulled up their slippers, or hid their feet,
or would not see me till after they had washed their
faces and combed their hair.