 | BILL FRAZIER—THE FUR-TRADER. The Down-easters, &c. &c.
&c. |  |
24. BILL FRAZIER—THE FUR-TRADER.
Yes—you shall have the story you mention, and
that within the number of pages prescribed; though
it would be a three-volume-affair at least in the mother
country, if I had leisure and heart for the undertaking,
or a disposition for what is called embellishment.
You shall have it too in his own language—almost
word for word—but you must allow me to make it
intelligible by what in common cases would be thought
a lengthy preface. All I hope for is, that you may
feel a portion of the interest I felt when I was the
original auditor—the first and the last witness of the
transformation I am about to record. If you do not,
the fault must be mine; for neither the language nor
the countenance—though the former was brimful of
passionate and exalted poetry, and the latter, that of
a youth grown suddenly awfully wise under the
heavy dispensation of our Father above; no—nor the
straight-forward apostolic simplicity, or the thrilling
earnestness of the narrator—though they wore the
simplicity and earnestness of a young man, about to
disappear instantly and forever, in the mist and
shadow of another world, could ever have been the
cause of what I felt when he sat face to face with me
full fifteen years ago, in the dead of night, with rigid
lips and motionless eyes, discoursing by the hour of
Death and Judgement. But to the story—for nothing
that I could ever say would prepare you for the truth
of what I saw; for the unadulterated strength of a
had undergone a change so complete, so extraordinary
and so alarming indeed, as to resemble a transfiguration
of body and soul together—a complete and
overpowering apotheosis; every peculiar and every
distinguishing property of youth having entirely disappeared
and given place to others of a grandeur and
vastness that appalled me—me! who had been his
familiar friend—me! who had walked with him so
long, as an elder with a younger brother, delighted
with his cheerful temper, and sorry only that I wanted
the power to lift him up to seriousness and give him
a steadfast hold on the higher place that I then occupied
and believed I should continue to occupy forever.—Would
you believe it! Even now, after
the lapse of so many years, though seated by my own
fire-side with a young wife at my elbow, a generous
warmth filling our dear little room, as with the afternoon
atmosphere of a summer-day, and a large lamp
throwing its pale shadowy moonlight over all the
furniture, so that were I ever so much addicted to
nervousness or a troubled imagination, there would be
no opportunity for either;—Even now, in preparing
to describe, not so much what I have done, or felt or
suffered, as what I have heard another acknowledge
for a part and a part only of his own strange life—
affected by the remembrance of his look, which has
haunted me at intervals from that day to this—I have
only to shut my eyes and I can see him now—and by
the thrilling solemnity of his voice—I have but to
stop my ears and I can hear it now—I breathe
hurriedly, my hand shakes, my heart heaves, my
color comes and goes so that my wife observes it—
begin. Every sound disturbs me. But a few minutes
ago, I was flurried by the stirring of a poor little
pigeon, that I found to day half-buried in the snow, as
he lay pecking at the rug in a corner of the fireplace—and
a moment or two afterwards by the
rattling of a stiff glossy cambric on which my wife
was employed, unfashionably enough to be sure—as it
rustled and snapped with every touch—sounding at
long intervals in the perfect stillness of the room,
like a discharge of petty fire-works afar off, or an
egg-shell unexpectedly crushed in your ear.—Getting
nervous decidedly! and therefore the sooner we go
to work, the better. Our pleasant fire-sides and our
faithful homes!—Why should they be troubled with
apparitions?
Thus far by way of preparation—for I wanted
courage to face the subject—when having copied it
off in a fair hand, my autograph in the heat and hurry
of composition being none of the best, I flung the
original into the fire. O! give me that! cried my
dear little wife, dropping her work and speaking with
great earnestness. Flattered with the idea that notwithstanding
our relationship—and our children—she
was romantic enough to desire even the first rough
sketch of a story by her husband, to support her in
after life, or to weep over in the sorrow and gloom of
survivorship, I looked at the paper as it lay fluttering
and changing color on the hot hearth—untouched by
the blaze and still within my reach—line after line
wasting away in letters of fire—thought after thought
vanishing in diamond sparks—burning for a moment
on the eye then stealing slowly over the page and
pursued them—the shadow of the Destroyer!—and I
asked her why? Her answer put a stop to my
nervousness, apparitions and all, in a jiffey. One
side is clean, said she—and it will do for lamplighters!
To my work therefore without further
delay.
It was in the fall of 1814 that I first encountered
the individual whose story I am about to give. I
happened to be in New-York with a quantity of
smuggled goods, which in the interval of higher
occupations, believed by others to be of a dangerous
political nature, I found my advantage in disposing of
confidentially at something more than treble their
value—just to gratify the love of adventure and mystery
which had already begun to characterize the
New-Yorkers. It required of course more time and
more management to do this, than to get rid of them
in the usual way—at auction or otherwise; and I
had therefore a deal of unappropriated leisure—more
than I well knew what to do with. All I did for a
month might have been done in a day; but then, like
the apothecary's boy, not knowing when my customers
would show themselves, I was obliged to be a month
about it; and having no better amusement within my
reach, I betook myself to novel-reading—sifting library
after library for such books as Caroline of Litchfield,
the Mysterious Beauty, Corinna and the Scottish
Chiefs. One day—I remember it as if it were
yesterday, and I dwell upon it as the foundation of
my story—nay of more—of much that I have done,
felt, suffered and thought since, in the more elevated
workings of what others have regarded as no better
happening to be in the shop of Mr. G— who kept
a large circulating library at the corner of Broadway
and — street, I stumbled upon a book which I had
never met with before, though I had frequently enquired
for it in the largest libraries of our largest
towns. It was the memoirs of Marie Antoinette,
and purported to be a faithful history of the intrigues
of that extraordinary woman, which the author maintained
with a very plausible and circumstantial air, to
have been the true cause of the French Revolution.
Struck with the idea, which he enforced with singular
ability and research, fortifying every step of the
narrative with generally credited historical facts, I
stole away into a far corner of the shop, seated myself
on a box, and staid there I know not how long—
two or three hours at least however—without lifting
my eyes from the page, or moving, till I was completely
chilled through. At length, on hearing a
slight noise near me I looked up and lo! there was
another person oppose te me and only a few feet off, a
stranger—with his back toward me, sitting on another
box, and occupied in the same way, as with a duplicate
of the very same book! Though I had not seen him
enter, nor heard him breathe before, and was not a
little startled to find him so near me, and looking so
like somebody I had seen before, I could not for the
life of me tell where—silent as death and moving
only when I moved, and as I moved, and so intently
occupied withall, that to this day I should not believe
that he saw me, or any thing else indeed but the book
before him, had I not been satisfied of the contrary a
long time afterwards; and thought I felt a sensation
arteries; yet as I knew nothing of German literature
then, and should only have laughed at the best of it
perhaps, if I had, I soon forgot to observe the stranger,
returned to my book, and thought no more of him, 'till
I heard a smart rapping on the counter of the front
shop, followed after a short pause by an impatient and
heavy stamping on the floor. The stranger got up,
and as he went by me, I had a full view of his face.
Judge of my astonishment!—He was the live counterpart
of myself—so exceedingly, so wonderfully like
me, that if I had seen the face in a mirror, I should
have taken it for my own. Yet, I remember well I
was not satisfied with it—nor with the person—he
was younger and smaller than I, and more impudent
looking, and if I may be allowed to speak plainly,
not altogether so handsome. I perfectly remember
too that I was rather struck with the general expression
of the countenance, though for my life I
cannot remember why. Perhaps, however, if I should
say that he had a youthful, spirited, independant,
familiar and somewhat imposing air, with exceedingly
pleasant eyes and a generous mouth, it would give
the reader some idea of the surprise I felt on finding
that he resembled me. No sooner had he passed
round the low partition that divided the front from
the back shop, than I heard two voices in a brief
dialogue which diverted my attention from the book.
One was putting questions, and the other answering
them. It appeared that Mr. G— had gone out,
leaving us to take care of the shop; that somebody,
a servant, judging by his manner, had returned some
books and wanted a parcel he had left, and supposing
rigmarole about some paper and things he wanted,
and the privilege of a yearly subscriber to take out
more volumes whenever they were to go into the
country; all which the other cut short, by telling him
to go to a slate which lay upon the counter, and write
down the names and prices from his dictation. The
servant did so, and when he had finished writing,
cried out—Why Lord bless you! you haint gut morin
half on 'em here?—jest half, as I'm alive! There's
twelve books in the bundle and you have made me
write down six; and the paper was four shillins an'
you've made me charge two; for my own part I don't
exactly understand what you're at, and so—
Go then and do likewise! replied the stranger.
The other looked puzzled for a moment, and then
burst out a laughing.
There was a bit of paper attached to the bundle,
which proved to be a memorandum of the articles it
contained, by Mr. G. himself.
What is the amount? continued the stranger.
Six dollars and forty-two cent, replied the servant.
Take the pencil and write down three dollars and
twenty-one cents—put an s. to it—and tell me where
you live.
The other obeyed, and after standing a few minutes,
first on one leg and then on the other, looking about
him with an air of pitiable irresolution and perplexity,
left the shop.
As for myself, I regarded the whole affair as a
frolic; and seeing the stranger take up a port-folio
and march off with it, I concluded that he was a neighbor,
who perhaps thought Mr. G. deserved to be made
care of itself. I returned to my reading therefore
and continued 'till the sudden flash of a street lamp
athwart the page, informed me that I had spent a
whole afternoon without leave in a bookseller's shop.
I had nearly finished the volume to be sure, and if I
had not been disturbed, I should have done so before
I stirred from the box; but feeling that I had no
business there, and that if I should finish it so, it
would be rather shabbily of me, I made a deposit of
three dollars with Mr. G. who had returned as secretly
as he went, gave my name (as the devil would have
it, one of the five-and-forty fictitious names I make
use of in travelling or writing) and returned to my
lodgings. That very night, before my head touched
the pillow I finished the book, and left it on my
bureau, where it lay week after week 'till the servant
in dusting my room thought proper to slip it into a
table-drawer, which I had never opened in my life to
my knowledge; and there it might have remained to
this day but for the merest accident in the world—an
accident which enabled me to clear up one of the
most painful and perplexing mysteries of a life
abounding with adventure and perplexity. Day after
day passed over, and I had entirely forgotten the
book in the pressure of my habitual occupation, and
having deposited more than the volume, I never
should have thought of it again I dare say, but for
the circumstance above referred to. It so happened
that I never went near that library afterwards; having
found another kept by a poor widow—and her charming
daughter—and being obliged by the nature of my
business to hold myself ready for departure at five
rather late, as I happened to go to the old theatre, I
saw a large crowd assembled in the street; and being
informed it was the first appearance of a youthful
candidate for the stage, I stopped and tried to make
my way in with the rest. While so engaged, the
multitude swaying this way and that with a continual
roar, so as to lift me off my feet and overpower all
sense of individuality, a vulgar, savage, looking fellow
near me, trod upon my toes. Instead of serving him
with notice to quit, in the usual way, I begged him to
be more careful. Seeing that my arms were pinioned
to my side, he answered by putting forth a huge open
hand so slowly that every body could see his intention,
and my utter helplessness, and lying it on the
top of my hat, with a laugh, he deliberately crowded
it down over my whole face—eyes nose and mouth—
even to my shoulders! For a minute or more, while
I was gasping for breath and trying to liberate my
arms, I could hear nothing but peals of laughter on
all sides of me, with cries of bravo! bravo! handsomely
done! handsomely bonnetted, by the Lord
Harry! accompanied by the trampling of ten thousand
feet hurrying to and fro and a terrible ringing in
the air. I continued my efforts in silence—holding
my breath, and caring less for life itself than for an
opportunity of punishing the ruffian as publicly as he
had affronted me. At last I succeeded. I tore off my
hat, and looking about me, sprang up the steps,
where pausing for a moment I caught a glimpse of
him just as he was entering the pit-door. My first
impulse was to spring at his throat, as he stood there—
helpless and motionless like myself a minute before—
I verily believe. My next was to follow him and
bonnet him before the eyes of the very multitude that
were now lifting him along as in triumph. But no—
no—neither of these would be worthy of me, said I
to myself, and as I thought of another plan and followed
in his wake, never pausing nor flinching nor losing
sight of my adversary 'till we were both near the
center of the pit, and I within arm's length of him,
waiting only for elbow-room, as the crowd gradually
settled into their places and left me standing up—me
alone—of all that vast and noisy multitude. I waited
and waited for the house to become still—still as the
grave, husbanding my wrath for what I intended to
be a signal retribution. At last, I caught his eye,
and I saw that he recollected me, though he betrayed
little or no emotion. Hats off! hats off! cried the
people about me. Hats off! hats off! sit down sir—
sit down! I refused to sit down, and every eye was
upon me. For a moment, there was a perfect and a
most alarming stillness over the whole house. I took
advantage of the opportunity, and speaking with a
voice that every creature within the four walls could
hear, though it was neither loud nor threatening, I
told him to stand up, or I would strike him where he
sat for his insolence. He sprang to his feet—a bustle
ensued—the women screamed—and the constables
were shouted for from every part of the house; but
before a soul could interfere, the wretch received a
blow, and fell backward his whole length as if he
had been shot in the head. A brief but tremendous
uproar ensued. I attempted to explain; for I was
already ashamed of my behavior; but I was prevented
of a few that began to recognize me and repeat
the story, every man for himself. Two or three
constables now tried to make their way up to me;
but they were prevented by the people, who began
to enjoy the story as it circulated with ten thousand
embellishments, from mouth to mouth and
from box to box all over the house. But the
curtains drew up, and things went on smoothly
enough for about half an hour, when somebody at my
elbow cried out as if he had been stabbed, that he
had just been robbed of his watch. Another outcry
followed—another general uproar—another rush of
constables—a scream or two; and all at once I found
myself standing up alone—`all all alone'—with every
eye upon me once more, and a stillness like that of
the blue sea on a summer afternoon, overspreading
the whole house. But ah!—how different was the
expression—how different the meaning of what I now
saw! Vexed at the change, yet incapable of out-facing
it; ashamed of being for one moment an object
of suspicion even to strangers, I gradually sunk down
into a vacant place near me, and took the earliest
opportunity of escaping—though not until I found
myself watched by no less than three different persons
who appeared to have nothing else to do, and among
others by my friend Mr. G.—the circulating-library
man. I did not immediately recollect him—I knew
that I had seen the face before; but I could not for
some time recollect where—and when I did, I rather
think I changed color a little. We had come into the
house together, I had seen him below me on the
steps; and now, on recollecting all the circumstances,
he entered. More than once during the play I had
seen him in conversation with people, who kept looking
toward me, and talking with great earnestness.
I felt vexed and annoyed without knowing why; for
it was natural enough that a man who had been publicly
bonnetted and who had as publicly avenged the
affront should be stared after; and not very strange
that a man who dealt largely and openly in smuggled
goods, British-government-bills and specie, at a time
when the very banks of the middle and southern
cities hadn't a silver shilling to bless themselves with,
should make a pretty con-siderable stir. All this
passed swiftly and repeatedly through my mind; but
still I was not satisfied, and so, as I have said before,
I took the earliest opportunity of stealing away. On
arriving at No. — in Wall-street, where I then boarded,
I took a lamp and marched off to bed, three hours
at least before my usual time—with no supper, no
book, no newspaper—nothing upon the face of the
earth to hinder me from going directly to bed. But
some how or other—I know not how—a whole hour
went by and I found myself sitting before the fire,
with my feet over the mantle-piece—my chair tilted
back—and my fingers playing with a razor—think of
that! one of the ne plus ultra razors!—But then
that's my way in cold weather, if my chamber is
comfortable; And the old fashioned box at my elbow
frothing over upon the table would explain the mystery.
Wanting a bit of paper, I pulled open the
table drawer which happened to be at my elbow, and
the first thing I saw was the very book I had borrowed
so long before of Mr. G—. The truth flashed
negligence, and believing that to be the cause of all
the watching I had suffered from, I determined to go
immediately to the shop—shave or no shave—and
offer a handsome apology.
No sooner said than done. I started for the shop—
arrived—and in reply to my first question, was informed
of what I already knew; namely, that Mr. G.
was not there; and in addition, that he wouldn't be
there till the morrow. Not knowing what else to
say now, I began to talk about the weather, and soon
contrived to mention that I had just seen Mr. G. and
of course, to show that I knew very well when I
enquired after him at the shop, that he was not there.
No sooner were the words out of my mouth, than I
perceived in the countenance of the tart-looking
little old gentleman behind the counter, a stare of
innocent surprise, which at any other time would
have diverted me exceedingly.
And pray, sir, where did you see him?
At the play, said I.
Where! exclaimed the old gentleman, pulling out a
pair of enormous green spectacles, with trembling
hands, and fidgetting about them a minute or two,
before he had got them fairly wiped and adjusted to
his liking—Where!
At the play, sir—stretching myself up to my full
stature, and speaking with great deliberation.
Um—um—ah! said the old gentleman, looking
over his spectacles with compressed lips and puckered
eyebrows, and stretching out his hand for the book I
had under my arm, with the library marks upon the
cover, as if he intended to finish the unprofitable conersation
dropped from him, as the lawyers would say, and
something in the shape of a query, about whether I
was, or was not a subscriber, fell upon my ear.
No, sir—I answered, and I will thank you for my
deposit money.
Certainly, sir, certainly—beginning to feel that he
had gone too far perhaps—What name, sir? And
saying this, he opened the book. Zounds! what a
change of countenance followed, as he ran his eye
over the title page!
Pray, sir, said he—a—a—turning a little sideways
and shutting the volume with a clap that made me
jump, and eying me over his double-barrelled spectacles,
and speaking with a wariness that alarmed me,
in spite of my preparation—Pray sir, how long—a—
a—may you have had—a—a—this volume—a—a—
in your possession?
About a month, I believe—or perhaps it may be
two months.
About a month, hey? going to a table and snatching
up the slate and scribbling away with great eagerness
and trepidation, muttering to himself all the while. About
a month, hey, or perhaps two—can't tell which, I dare
say—very odd, hey, and what a body might call singular,
very singular, very—quite providential—quite
—(I thought he was saying over his multiplication
table)—about a month, hey? and what name did you
give? turning to me, with his head over one shoulder,
and his eye on the door.
Astonished at the form of the enquiry, though nothing
could be more natural; and brought instantly
to my recollection of the fictitious name I had left—
began to feel rather foolish. Instead of replying
therefore, I grew very inattentive and passionately
fond of execrable prints and wretched binding,
a quantity of which lay strewed over an oil cloth
counter, pretty much of a piece with it for beauty of
workmanship; throwing out incidentally, as it were,
that my deposit money was three dollars—I believed—
would thank him to refer to the charge—Memoirs of
Marie Antoinette, Queen of France—about a month
ago, or say two months—(talking very fast, and with
a mighty indifferent air)—very cold weather—English
binding, hey?—raised bands altogether more
beautiful—any thing, and every thing, indeed, but the
name he was waiting for. That I kept to myself.
Um—um—ah! repeated the old gentleman, slyly
touching what I took for a bell-rope; and the next
moment, somebody appeared, coming head-first
through the little dark entry behind him—whist!
whist! cried the old gentleman, with his fore-finger
lifted portentously at the intruder; then stepping forward,
after whispering in his ear, with his eye upon
me all the while, he added as if the other had only
slipped in to ask about the weather—What name did
you say sir?
No matter for the name, said I, beginning to feel
chafed. There is your book, sir—one I shall send
for the deposite money to-morrow.
One moment, sir—my good sir—one moment, if
you please (coaxingly)—if you please! The old
wretch—I saw instantly as he hobbled away toward
the front of the shop and placed himself between me
and the door, that he was trying to wheedle me; and
believe I should have knocked him over, slammed the
door in his face, and run for my life.
Oh—ah—um! continued he, planting himself on
the very threshold, with a day-book in his hand, under
pretence of reading by the window lamp—Oh—
ah—um—here it is! October the—you are right sir
—the fourteenth, one thousand eight hundred—listening
at intervals, and glancing up and down the
street with a look of growing peevishness, which diverted,
while it annoyed me—one thousand eight
hundred and fourteen—take a chair, sir—please to
take a chair—Memoirs of Marie Antoinette, one
volume du-o-de-ci-mo (reading very slowly)—deposite
three dollars—right sir! right to a hair—three dollars,
I think you said sir?
I felt angry. Your book will inform you sir.
Mr. Stewart Bray—Stewart Bray, it is here—is
that your name sir?
Yes, sir. And you will oblige me by handing over
the deposite money without further gossip.
Certainly, sir—certainly—beg pardon, sir, listening
with visible perturbation—quite sure about the
name sir?
The devil take your impertinence, thought I, but I
did'nt say so; for I began to feel the awkwardness
of my situation. And so I merely added with one of
my sweetest smiles—I am weary of this delay, old
gentleman, please to hand over the money instantly,
or I leave your shop.
Indeed!—in-deed!—answered the old man of the
mountain—I'd swear it was he—the very man that
so worried poor Sinbad the Sailor—In-deed! and
folded to the shape of his pocket, and proceeded to
count over a quantity of shilling and sixpenny bank
notes, the common currency of the day, in the middle
and southern states at the period of my story; and
having finished, he handed me over a fist-full, saying
with a bow and smile quite a match for my own—I
never shall forget either, I hope—There sir, there's
your money; greatly obliged sir—greatly—still standing
in the door-way—hope for a continuance of your
custom sir—hadn't you better run it over, before you
go—we never allow for mistakes—any thing else sir?
Run it over! cried I—my very heart running over
at the bare suggestion of counting out three dollars
worth of ragged York sixpences, and cramming the
whole together into my coat-pocket—I'd sooner be
run over myself by a earriage and six horses; and
then turning to go, in some little trepidation I confess,
I found the old gentleman had planted himself directly
before me, I turned—he turned—I stepped on one
side with a low bow; he stepped before me with
another and a lower bow, and coughed!—The house
door instantly sprung open, and forth issued Mr.
G. accompanied by two other persons, one of whom
I knew for a city-constable, and the other for a man
I had seen watching me at the play and whispering
with Mr. G.
Happy to see you again, said Mr. G. with that
cursed twang o' the nose which everybody that knew
him will remember, and which by the way was never
half so perceptible to me before—I am out of all
patience with myself to this day whenever I happen
to think of it—the canting rascal! Why didn't I
knock him down!
Aware that something was to pay, and that if we
had any altercation out of doors we should soon have
a mob about us, I stepped back into the shop, flung to
the door, beckoned them to follow and demanded an
immediate explanation.
Mr. G. stared, and for a moment seemed a little
disconcerted; but the city-constable, a stout resolute
fellow, appeared to take all I said as a matter of
course—a something which I must be allowed to go
through with before he could officially interfere; and
so after I had finished and got my breath, he made
me as pretty a bow as heart could desire, observing
in a smooth pleasant voice, that it had become his
painful duty, under all the circumstances of the case,
to arrest me—
Me! arrest me!—and for what pray?
That I should know at the proper time said the
city-constable.
I drew myself up once more—At the proper time
hey?—Where is your warrant sir?
That I should see at the proper place, continued
the city-constable, with another and yet more gracious
inclination of the whole body, and a voice yet softer
and more deferential, as much as to say—It grieves
me to the soul, as you see, to interfere with any
gentleman's private business—but—and here I interrupted
him.
At the proper place hey? putting my hands into
my trowser's pockets where I had long carried a pair
of trusty friends. Now sir—I take this to be the
proper time and the proper place; and that we may
start fair, I beg you to understand, bowing in my
turn, that I am not to be taken alive, without a view
back the guard from the pistol in my right hand,
without being observed: but he must have heard the
snap, for he started and thrust his arm into his bosom,
saying—with a steady look as he did so. I hope you
are not serious, my good sir?
Serious!—try me! Lay but a finger on me, either
of you, and see if I do not prove to you that I am
serious! Lay but a finger on me if you dare!
Mr. G. you had better stand back—said the city-constable,
my friends, you may withdraw. This job
is for me, I perceive.—A moment more and Mr. G.
and the shopman were tumbling over one another to
get out of our way, the sheriff's follower had set his
back to the door, and the city-constable and myself
stood eying one another at the distance of not more
than five feet, with our pistols levelled and our feet
planted for the issue.
One moment if you please! cried the city-constable,
as if suddenly recollecting himself, one moment
Mr. G.! And then they held a short consultation
together, in a low earnest whisper, which ended in a
parley, and a large book was held up to me and I
was asked if I had ever seen it before.
I took it and opened it and examined it. Outwardly
it had the appearance of a huge port-folio; inwardly
it proved to be a collection of beautiful engravings,
landscapes and flowers, many of which were proof
impressions of rare and valuable works, the masterpieces
of agone-by age wafered upon folio-post. I
ran it hastily over and flung it down, saying with all
the indignation I could express—no, never!
The little old gentleman looked at Mr. G.—and
they all shook their heads, and Mr. G. rolled up
the white of his eyes and groaned aloud, just as
the little old gentleman peeped round the corner
and whispered something in his ear about the name
—the name.
And then the day-book was lugged forth, solemnly
opened before me and spread out on the counter, and
I was pointed to a place where the name of Stewart
Bray was underscored five or six times with red and
black ink, and asked with a pistol at my head if that
was my real name.
That said I—is none of your business.
Oh—ah—um—I thought so! cried spindle-shanks,
rubbing his hands in a sort of extacy and capering
about, like one of the grandfather-long-legs that
children are so delighted with. None of our business,
hey? well, well, we shall see, we shall see. And
then they held another consultation, looking dreadfully
grave. Nevertheless, I was not much frightened
—not much—and stood prepared to secure my retreat
by the best means in my power.
By this time my patience was exhausted. I have
asked for an explanation, said I, moving toward the
door. And now gentlemen—
Better explain, whispered the city constable—
there'll be warm work if you don't; he's not so
easily frightened as most folks, you may depend on't
—taint the first time, I'll warrant you, that he has
had a pistol at his head.
Not exactly relishing the style of these remarks,
nor the significant looks they were illustrated with, I
had begun to walk toward the door, when Mr. G.
required.
Judge of my amazement! I found myself suspected
—nay more than suspected—almost proved—I might
go further, and say absolutely proved by evidence
that would have convicted a stranger in a court of
justice of having stolen that very port-folio, from that
very shop! But if I was amazed at the charge itself,
I was terrified—thunderstruck—utterly overwhelmed
—by the array of circumstantial and other proof that
accompanied this charge. It appeared that only a
few days after I had spent the afternoon in Mr. G's
shop, he had been offered a collection of engravings
which he instantly recognized. On referring to the
drawer where he kept his port-folio, and there he still
supposed it to be, his suspicions became certainty.
An examination of the books and slate followed,
when it suddenly flashed upon his mind that he had
never seen it since the very day when I—a perfect
stranger—had been left in the shop for a considerable
time without his knowledge. This went far to clear
up another mystery. After I had gone, he had missed
a bundle which had been put up for a customer and
left for him to call; and on referring to the slate he
had found a singular error in the sum total, written by
another hand, which had induced him to drop a note
to the gentleman, whose servant, tired of waiting
perhaps, had made the entry. An explanation had
followed, but the story of the servant appeared so
strange that Mr. G. paid no attention to it, merely
correcting the charge and leaving the man's master to
find out his roguery in some other way. But on
following up the enquiry about the port-folio, other
corroborate the story of the poor fellow. The book
itself had been left in a confectioner's shop on pledge,
by a youth, who being ferretted out and questioned,
described a person who had given him the book to
dispose of, and who agreed so exactly with the individual
described by the servant, and so exactly in
every thing but the dress with my unfortunate self,
that Mr. G. could no longer doubt of my being the
thief.
Yet more—I had been followed and watched for
two or three weeks. The youth had seen me—the
old gentleman of the shop had seen me, and Mr. G.
himself had seen me, but never at the same time.
And at last, had I not been personally engaged in a
disgraceful affair at the theatre where a man had his
pocket picked? And had I not called at the shop this
very evening to ask for Mr. G. when by my own
confession it appeared that I knew he was not there?
To all this, what could I say? Nothing. But when
they added, as they soon did—each helping the other
till they had the whole story before me,—that I was in
the habit of changing my name and my dress, two or
three times a day, from head to foot; that I had no
less than three lodging-houses, and so many names
that no body pretended to know which was the right
one—that I frequented at the same time, and frequently
in the course of the same evening the highest
and the lowest, the best and the worst company to be
found, that the Mayor had given orders to every leading
constable of the city to have his eyes upon such and
such person—describing me the very day before I
dined with the Mayor himself, in another dress,
justice were all at fault, believing me now to be a
personage of considerable importance, and now a
pick-pocket or a gambler; one day the largest dealer
of the time in British-gold, and government-securities,
and another, before they had time to report progress
to the Mayor, a smuggler and a spy.—When they
added all these particulars, which they set forth yet
more circumstantially than I do, I burst out a-laughing
in their faces—I could not help it—nor did I,
though they assured me with an oath that they were
up to all my tricks, and that, contrive as I would, it
was no such easy matter to prove an alibi when a
fellow came to the pinch, though to confess the truth
I had been seen at different places at pretty nearly
the same time—
What could I say more? Nothing. And therefore,
though never less in the humor of laughing, on some
account, I laughed heartily. It was in vain that I
protested my innocence—they were up to all my
tricks. It was in vain that I told the truth about
having mislaid the book I borrowed—why had I given
a fictitious name? Why had I not called for the
surplus of the deposit-money? Oh—ah—um?
Weary of their impertinence, indignant at their
want of faith in whatever I choose to say, and if I
must own it, a leetle frightened withal, I determined
immediately to subject myself to no further suspicion
—for who would believe my story?—the simple truth
was incredible—but to bring about a compromise for
the present on the best terms I could, and leave the
final question to be provided for at a future day.
I drew out my watch. There! said I—I saw the
me, if I looked as I felt, I don't wonder they believed
me guilty—There! And then I hesitated and my
hand was already upon my pocket-book, for the purpose
of betraying my credentials—my true name—
and the real object of my negotiations between the
British Provinces and the discontented part of the Confederacy.
Already were my lips parted, and in the
name of the President of the United States, James
Madison, I was about to bid them do their worst—to
stop me if they had the courage—or to breathe a
syllable to another of what they had ventured to say
to me, if they durst. But, thank God! my hesitation
was soon over, and the course I took worthy of the
great business intrusted to me, and—I may as well
say it as think it—and altogether worthy of myself.
The tendency of their behavior was to exasperate
instead of soothing me; and therefore holding out
my watch, I said to them—
There's my security! I shall give no other, and as
I have told you before, I will not be taken alive.
That watch was made for me by the first manufacturer
of London—she cost me forty-five guineas; and for
reasons I do not choose to communicate, money would
not purchase her of me. Take it and give me a
receipt for it, as a pledge for my appearance to abide
a trial on the charge you have preferred, within the
next twelve month. I have no money to spare just
now, or I should prefer leaving five hundred dollars
with you—Mr. G. looked at the city-constable and
the city-constable bit his lip—Take it—if I fail to
appear, the watch is forfeited. I saw by the looks of
both that while one was ready to jump at the proposal,
He began to whisper with Mr. G—shaking his head,
with unspeakable solemnity and using abundance of
persuasive gesticulation, while the words danger,
liar, theft-bote, and composition of a felony, dropped
one after another from his placid mouth.—I began to
lose all patience. What say you, I demanded—yes
or no?
Why, on the whole, said Mr. G. as our object is
only to secure ourselves—and then he winked at the
city-constable—we should be very sorry to injure a
backsliding brother thus—and then the city-constable
winked at him—and therefore, to oblige you sir, as
you appear to have been led astray by—by—by
temptation—and for no other purpose I assure you—
reaching forth his hand as he spoke, while the city-constable
and his follower suddenly turned their
faces another way—and were very busy all at once—
Come, come, said I, none of your blarney—yes
or no.
Well then—yes.
The affair completed, I took a receipt signed by
Mr. G. and witnessed by the city-constable and the
shopman—all three having the greatest difficulty in
the world, I saw, to keep their countenances—and the
shopman squeaking after me as I left the door—Good
evening to you Mr. Stewart Bray!—and then their
long suppressed merriment broke forth in a roar of
ungovernable laughter, which made me stop and look
in at the window, where I could see the proprietor
overhauling and examining the watch inside and out;
and I asked myself whether in point of fact I had
not been most gloriously humbugged as well as most
me were—Oh—ah—um don't forget the shop!—The
blood flashed through my arteries like a train of
powder, and at any other time, or under any other
circumstances, I should have gone back merely for
the pleasure of taunting them as they deserved; for
they were in my power and I knew it, and I was
determined to bring them before a court of justice,
whatever was the consequence to myself and though
it cost me every farthing I was worth. One of
two things must be true—I was either innocent or
guilty. If innocent, I could punish them for a conspiracy.
If guilty, for compounding a felony.
But I had no time now—not a day, nor an hour
that I could call my own. I was too much in a hurry
even for threats. All my faculties were on the stretch
to discover the individual who had been first and foremost,
employed I began to believe now by Mr. G., in
the scheme of depredation. I went straightway home
to my lodgings, and up to my chamber; and when I
saw the razor lying on the table where I had left it,
I felt as if the question about to be decided before I
slept, was a matter of life and death to me. I felt the
edge and went to bed—but not to sleep. And it was
not until I had arrayed another plan, founded upon
the hypothesis that the stranger who took away the
port-folio from the shop was not an accomplice, and
that therefore I might perhaps prevail on him to
appear and help me punish the conspirators, that I
was able even to close my eyes. And then!—was
there ever such unpardonable stupidity!—I happened
to recollect that I had never obtained the address of
the boy, the servant or the confectioner. Out of bed
Mr. G.—requesting their names and places of residence,
and giving my own at full length, in the
plainest hand I ever wrote in my life, and dating it
No. — Wall street; after this I prepared an advertisement,
offering a handsome reward for the information
I needed, but in such a way that none but
those who were interested and familiar with the
circumstances could understand me, and signed it
with my true initials. It appeared first in Mr. Coleman's
paper but was copied into several others—I
have the advertisement now before me. Having done
this, I returned to bed—I hardly knew why—for I
knew that sleep was entirely out of the question.
And I found it so. Never before had I passed such a
night—never so longed for day. If I shut my eyes
for a single moment, hoping to forget myself, it was
only to see conjured up on every side of me, the
embodied representations of every frightful story I
had ever heard or read of, where the innocent had
been sacrificed to the law by villany, prejudice or
mistake—property swept away—life and reputation
destroyed forever, by the accidental combination of
circumstances: Must I own it?—my heart died within
me. I thought in the fever that followed, and I
almost hoped to find it so—that the night had been
of extraordinary length, and that peradventure some
irregularity had occurred in the heavenly bodies—and
I lay hour after hour in a whirl of contending hopes
and fears, now with my face buried in the bed-clothes,
and almost weeping with terror and vexation, and
now half naked, my pulse throbbing violently, my
mouth parched, and the wintry night-air blowing
of drift-snow—and all the time without cooling me
or soothing my fever. But oh! how shall I describe
the “rapture of repose” that followed when daylight
broke over me like a returning tide to a half
stranded ship—lifting me at once from earth to
heaven. I started broad awake as it were with a spring
from the grave. I felt as if I had escaped—I knew
not how—from some hiden calamity—I knew not
what. My pulses rang cheerfully again—my heart
heaved as of yore—and I was brimful of hope and
courage, and holy confidence in the Maker of men.
That very day as I was making a large deposit in
the Union Bank, the teller called my attention to a
person who stood by the door, apparently waiting
for me. I turned—gracious heaven! If I should
live a thousand years, I do not believe the recollection
of that moment, and of the joy, the unspeakable
joy I felt, would ever be effaced from my memory.
It was the stranger himself!—the very stranger, who
had carried off the port-folio, when I was reading in
Mr. G's back shop. Yes—it was himself! and I
was at his side in a moment; leaving the money in
piles upon the counter, gasping for breath, and trembling
so I couldn't speak for my life.
I was looking for you, said the stranger, with a
pleasant voice and without any visible emotion.—
When shall you be at leisure?—
At leisure, cried I—catching him by the arm—now,
Sir, now! never more in my life. On saying this,
he moved away, and I moved after him—he began
to walk faster and faster—and I holding on by his
arm, forgetful of the money I had left behind me, and
teller, who ran to the door and bawled after me—but
all to no purpose—continued to keep step with him,
'till we both had to stop and take breath. In five
minutes more we understood each other perfectly—
he had laughed in my face, and I had threatened to
shoot him. We were seated together at a table,
with glasses and a decanter before us, the door locked
and my gentleman as perfectly at his ease—with
one leg over the back of a tall mahogany chair, as
if we had been acquainted from our childhood, though
a pair of loaded pistols lay on my bed in the little
room adjoining, and he had seen me take them up
as I tried the door, preparatory to my solemn assurance,
that he never should leave me 'till the mystery
was explained.
In five minutes more, I had told my story, and he
had laughed at my tragedy airs 'till he made me
heartily ashamed of them, and at the account I gave
him of my suffering, embarrassment and humiliation,
'till the tears ran out of his eyes. And yet, I couldn't
be angry with him for my life: and I never tried
harder, or to so little purpose.
When I had got through, he pulled out a cigar—
lighted it—took down his leg—threw off a glass of
old madeira—and then giving the cigar a puff or two
and rapping it over the edge of the glass, like one
who meant to make an afternoon of it, he vouchsafed
to reply.
My dear Sir, said he, make yourself easy. You've
got an excellent case,—an excellent case.
I stared, and he continued,—I am a bit of lawyer
myself—don't be alarmed—and we must contrive
felony before witnesses—mark me—before witnesses.
But look ye—we must'nt be seen together.
Why not?
Simply my dear Sir, fetching a puff like a minute
gun, with his clear eye fixed upon the ceiling, because
I am a sad fellow, and my acquaintance would
be no credit to you—a man of your grave looks and
sober habits—down went another glass of madeira.
To tell you the truth, we are already confounded
together in judgment of law, and I have been mistaken
for you more than once—and—now don't be
offended my dear sir—and treated accordingly. And
here he laughed again and so long and so heartily
that I began to feel angry; and I know not what
might have been the consequences, had he not satisfied
me within the next-half-minute, that he was one
of the best fellows on earth, and one of the greatest
rogues; after which he proposed to bring the witnesses
together and then have a formal interview with
Mr. G. and the other conspirators, for so he persisted
in calling them.
I was obliged to let him have his own way at last,
though he would'nt even condescend to explain himself—being
rather diffident he assured me at a first
interview; suffering him to arrange the whole procedure,
so delighted was I with his cheerfulness and
cleverness, and so astonished at his magnanimity—
for nothing appeared to disturb him, not even the
sight of a loaded pistol. But he was no sooner gone,
and I at leisure to reflect on the opportunity I had
lost—perhaps forever—then I had my misgivings—
I cannot deny it. And the more I considered the
but that in appearing to put himself so completely in
my power, he had only been preparing a way for
escape? With his character—his acknowledged
character—was it to be expected that he would step
forward to shield me, a stranger, when he could only
do so by committing himself, and acknowledging that
he took the port-folio?
But he was faithful. And the witnesses were got
together and every thing arranged for the interview
with Mr. G. before the next day was over. The first
I saw, was the man who had fastened the charge upon
me by description. When he saw us both together
he cried out with astonishment—for the stranger,
whose name by the way was William Pope Frazier,
and who went sometimes by one name and sometimes
by the other—sometimes calling himself Pope Frazier
—and sometimes William Pope—sometimes Bill
Frazier and sometimes Bill Pope according to circumstances—had
taken care to dress and look as much
like me as possible. At first, the poor man was
puzzled, but the instant he heard Frazier speak, he
cried out—that's the man! Are you perfectly certain?
said his master.
Perfectly sir—take my oath of it anywhere.
Very well—so far so good, thought I to myself;
but how is my gentleman to get himself out of the
scrape into which he has been led by this very
witness? Glad as I was for my own escape, I could
not help feeling rather anxious about him, though I
saw thas he didn't care a fig for himself.
After him we had the confectioner; and the boy who
had left the port-folio in pledge was confronted with
he did clearly and circumstantially and without flinching
or wavering. But no sooner did Frazier appear
—stepping forth unexpectedly before him—than he
changed color, dropped his eyes and faltered out a
few unintelligible words, which resulted, after a little
further examination, also before witnesses, in a
straight-forward acknowledgement that he had received
the book not from me, but from Frazier, and
from Frazier, not to be sold nor pledged—but to
return to Mr. G., whose name he now declared, with
evident sincerity, he had forgotten by the way; that
passing the confectioner, he bought some of the tarts
and other delicacies and eat them before it occurred
to him to ask if they trusted there; that the confectioner
refused, and grew angry charging him with a
design to bilk the shop; that having no money with
him; he offered to leave the port-folio in pledge 'till
he could go back to his mother and obtain it; that he
went to his mother, who refused him—and that being
unable to redeem it and ashamed to go near the shop
without the money, day after day passed over, 'till at
length in a fit of desperation, he concluded to convert
the pledge into a downright sale, and assure the confectioner
that the port-folio belonged to himself.
And to whom else did it belong?—He had forgotten
the name of the owner, and knew not where to look
for the person who had entrusted him with it.
This uncomfortable part of the mystery explained,
the next thing was to notify Mr. G. the city-constable
and their accomplice, employ a good lawyer, and let
them have it. A legal interview was obtained, the
port-folio itself produced; but the other parties having
they found we were in earnest, and then, seeing at my
elbow the first legal character of the day, with his
hand upon the receipt which they had the impudence
to call upon me to prove, they begun to fight shy.
But Mr. G. happened to have the watch in his pocket
—the very watch!—and when I offered to find my
name at length in a hidden part of the works, he refused
to let me do so. I saw the storm gathering and
prepared for it.
Mr. G—said my lawyer—allow me to see that
port-folio.
Certainly sir, cried Mr. G.—and the others cried
certainly! certainly! all speaking together and all
rushing forward to prove their willingness.
My lawyer took it, and we sat still, waiting in
breathless suspense for the issue. At length, just as
he had finished running it over, and hefted it for the
purpose of laying it on the further side of the table,
a sudden current of air took the leaves—the cover got
deranged—the pictures rattled—and out flew a small
piece of paper which fluttered away toward the open
door.
Holloo! what's that! cried Frazier, springing for
the paper. By the Lord Harry! he added, cutting a
caper in the air three feet high, when he had picked
it up—that's what I call an incident worthy of the
stage! I have heard of such things before—hurra—
hurra!—but I never thought I would be a witness to
one off the stage—hurra!—That paper sir, handing
it to my lawyer, while the others jumped up; and
running to the table stood staring at each other in the
most pitiable perplexity—that little bit of paper, sir
for the benefit of the company! and off he went
again with another flourish in the air, two or three
prodigious leaps, and a something not to be described,
which ended with a position like that of a flying
mercury, “new lighted on a heaven-kissing hill,” his
right arm extended, and his finger pointing at the slip
of paper, which proved to be a note signed William
Frazier, and directed to Mr. G. himself. It was dated
the very day after he had carried off the port-folio—
respectfully assuring Mr. G. that he was an old hypocrite
and richly deserved to see every parable of
Scripture turned against him, like that of the unjust
Steward, which he had turned against the writer's
younger brother, and which he would find beautifully
illustrated in a certain charge of the day before,
and enclosing a paper sixpence for the use of the
port-folio one day, and finishing with a warm injunction
to mind the shop.
On hearing this note read, my lawyer and myself
were all at sea, and the others ditto. We sat staring
at one another in the oddest perplexity you ever
heard of—They saw to be sure that Mr. G. and his
worthy associates, the city-constable and his follower
were in for it, with little or no chance for escape, yet
some how or other they could not understand the
drift of the note, and they said so, begging the writer
to clear up that business.
Oh—ho!—said he, you'd better apply to that man
there; the man that never goes to the theatre—Mr. G.
began to change color—never gambles—Mr. G. grew
deadly pale, and his head sunk upon his palms—never
drinks—never lies—never cheats—
Have a care sir! slander by insinuation!—slander
by inuendo! cried the two lawyers, both speaking
together.
Slander! returned Frazier. Will you explain Mr.
G. or shall I?
But Mr. G. was in no humor for explanation.
There he sat with his face buried in his hands—afraid
to look up—afraid even to meet the eyes of his own
shopman, who fell back three long paces, breathed
out oh-ah-um! and grew paler if possible than Mr.
G. when he heard these charges against that immaculate
man.
Well sir, continued Frazier taking a chair opposite
Mr. G. and seating himself with all the gravity of a
judge,—leave hiding your face man—if you dare
and let us hear what you have to say for yourself.
And then lowering his voice to a whisper, and leaning
forward and touching the elbow of the unhappy man,
who started as if stung to the heart, he added—I know
you—and you know that I know you. Don't provoke
me.
The changes that followed flash after flash, over the
countenance of poor G. who 'till that interview had
always born a high character, and who before a twelvemonth
was over, died in the streets a common drunkard
—universally known and universally detested for a
hypocrite and a knave,—the quivering lip, the agitated
look—the unearthly paleness—and the dry hard
breathing of the man were enough to render credible
the worst that could be said, or insinuated of him.
Frazier continued:
Do you remember the reasons you gave sir, years
ago for turning a youth adrift, parentless, who had
almost at his own expense, believing that when the
day of separation arrived, you would deal righteously
with him?—God be praised that you have some feeling
left. Is it not lawful said you, for me to do what I
will with mine own? As if property so acquired, and
acquired too under the appearance of great sanctity,
belonged only to yourself! And when you was told,
that trusting altogether to you and your high character
in the church, the young man had accepted an offer
from you which you knew, and he might have known
also if he had not put his trust altogether in your
representations, to be hardly a fourth of what he was
entitled to and might have obtained elsewhere—nay,
not one fourth of what you allowed another at the
same time, and would have allowed him if he had
insisted on it. When you were told this, by the poor
boy on the day of his departure, what was your reply?
Friend, I do thee no wrong; did'st thou not agree
with me for so much? And again, when this boy,
who trembled but to hear the scriptures mentioned,
and was willing to receive the parable just as you,
an elder of the church, might think proper to expound
it to a youthful brother, when he reminded you that
you had paid others for a single year more than you
had allowed him for five years, what was your answer?
Is thine eye evil because I am good?
Nay more, when another boy stepped forward—I
am that boy!—look at me!—examine me well—no
wonder you do not remember me; I have almost
forgotten myself!—I am no longer what I was then—
your hypocrisy made a villain of me, and if I should
come to the gallows yet, my death will lie at your door!
We listened with amazement as he proceeded.
What fire in his dark hazle eye! What eloquent
fierceness in the language!
And when I remonstrated with you, saying, if these
parables are to be so construed, if it should be the
practice to pay men who have borne the heat and
burthen of the day, no more than those who have
dropped in at the eleventh hour—who would ever
be found at work before the eleventh hour? you turned
away as from a sayer of blasphemies. And when,
provoked at this, I went further, declaring that expounded
as the parable was by you, and others like
you, it encouraged apathy and sluggishness, and discouraged
activity and enterprise, and taught as plainly
as doctrine could teach, that he who began early was
no better nor wiser than he who began late—but the
contrary; and this even in the Lord's vineyard—
nay, that he who put it off longest made the best bargain
and was best rewarded—when I urged these
things, how did you receive them? Why—as if you
expected the earth to open and swallow me up alive!
More and more astonished at every word, we sat
and listened to him, as to a magistrate clothed with
power, wholly forgetful of his true character and of
the occasion that brought us together, until on looking
up, as he concluded with a voice that went
through and through me, we found every eye in the
room glittering with unfelt moisture, and each half
smiling at the others.
But for YOU sir, continued Frazier, I had lived and
died in the religion of my fathers! But for your
insincerity—you, a professor of religion, I might have
been a good man—a good citizen—a blessing to my
His voice faltered and his hands fell upon the table
as if all strength had departed from him—God forgive
you!—a broken-hearted woman dying with a
prayer upon her lips that I, her first born, might be
gathered to my fathers before I had forfeited all hope
of mercy. And yet, miserable man! I was but a
youth, a mere boy, at the time of her death. But I
was a gambler, a thief, and a robber nevertheless,
and might have been a murderer, but for the fear that,
after all perhaps, and notwithstanding your behaviour,
there might be something in religion, and peradventure
a something hereafter. I have done sir. For a
whole year I have been with you as your shadow—
never losing sight of you a day together—hardly for
an hour! Accident has now led me to do what I
should not have done perhaps 'till another year had
passed over. My plan is now consummated—I have
completely avenged my poor brother and before I
have done—look me in the face if you dare!—I shall
avenge the false judgment of the world with regard
to you. Be patient sir—I have but little more to say;
and if I am not allowed to say it here, I will say it
elsewhere. And now for the explanation I am asked
for. I went to your shop as usual—you start sir—
as usual I say again, for I have been a daily visitor
there in one disguise or another for the last year.
An opportunity occurred for illustrating a parable in
your own way. I took it into my head to imitate
the wisdom as it is called of the unjust Steward; little
thinking that another might be held to answer
before a grand jury for what I had done in a frolic—
pray sir (turning abruptly towards me, with the water
be sure—perfectly sincere—believe me—would'nt be
suspected of flattery for my right hand—where were
you born?—down East I hope?
Very said I—in the lower part of the district of
Maine.
And I in old Massachusetts—has your mother ever
been there?
No, said I, recollecting the anecdote to which he
undoubtedly referred—no, but my father has.
Hum—you've an excellent memory. And away he
went! rattling up hill and down as before, and as
unmindful of the pathetic as anybody I ever saw in
my life.
But enough. This part of my story ends here.
My watch was given up—a handsome apology made
in writing by Mr. G. and the city constable—and witnessed
by all three of the lawyers, who received, some
ten, some twenty dollars a piece, at the charge of the
conspirators. And there the matter was dropped,
greatly to the dissatisfaction of two, out of the three,
each of whom had assured his client that he had a
capital case, and nothing to fear. But a capital case
for whom?—that would be determined perhaps by the
issue. Nothing to fear from whom?—The opposite
party perhaps or the opposite lawyer.
Well—notwithstanding the character of this youth,
we grew intimate—youth I say; for though he was
nearly of my own age, he appeared at times like the
merest boy, having all the skittishness and hilarity of
a boy, with more than the wisdom of a man. Yet we
durst not see one another openly; and as he found
me grateful, he grew more and more circumspect; so
seen here and there and every where at the same
time, it was no longer in such low company, nor
under such circumstances of suspicion as the city
constable had so delicately hinted. Occasionally to
be sure, I heard of a younger brother—he must be my
brother, so every body said—who would be none the
worse for a little of my sobriety; and more than
once I have been accosted by strange looking people
of both sexes, who would steal up behind me and
fetch me a slap on the back, and ask me with an oath
where the devil I kept myself? and what the h—ll I
was doing now? But in other respects I got along
pleasantly enough with my new companion and had
no reason to be sorry for our intimacy. It did not
hurt me; and I do in my very heart believe it was a
help to him—for I was no scoffer, though I dealt
freely with the Priesthood; no enemy of the laws,
though I denounced the great body of the lawyers
with unsparing severity; no disturber of the public
peace, though I laughed at newspaper politics and
hated newspaper politicians.
At first, he would speak with strange levity—exceedingly
strange in a youth—of the scriptures, of our
duties here and of our existence hereafter. And then
he could forget himself, and burst forth into fierce
denunciations of all who had led him astray, and talk
about HEREAFTER as if the everlasting curtains thereof
had been lifted before him. As I reasoned about
smuggling—for I had a touch of the last infirmity of
noble minds—he would reason about every other
transgression of the law, 'till he fairly frightened me
into a review of my longest-loved and most heartily-cherished
because they find it profitable. But if they find it
profitable, the fault is in the law. The penalty should
be encreased, or the duties lowered, and the temptation
thereby diminished.
If men steal, he would argue in reply, it is because
they find it profitable. The fault then is with the law.
The penalty should be encreased or the inducements
lowered, and the temptation thereby diminished. If
I am forbidden to a certain act under a certain penalty;
and if I choose to do the act and pay the penalty,
whose business is it? I have bought the privilege
and paid for it. What more would they have?—Just
as he who can afford to pay two dollars fine, as it is
called, in some parts of New-England, may ride on
the Sabbath-day (meaning a day which is not the
Sabbath,) where it is forbidden by law For my own
part I should be glad to understand the difference
between tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee; between saying
you shall not do so and so, under a penalty of two
dollars; and saying you may do so and so, if you are
willing to pay two dollars for the privilege.
But you do not always pay the penalty, said I.
Till you do that, you have no right to perform the
proscribed act, even by your own showing.
Haven't I though!—I pay the penalty in the risk;
for if the lawgiver has not made the penalty large
enough to include the chances of escape, and thereby
to indemnify the law, he is a blockhead.
Thus much for a sample of the strange young man
I had to deal with. It would require a volume to
give the reader a just idea of his ingenuity and abundant,
inexhaustable resources. Enough to say therefore,
much so that he laid open his whole history before
me and saw me turn pale and shudder as I listened—
very intimate, until I removed to the south, and he
disappeared all of a sudden, nobody knew how nor
where, leaving no trace behind him, though a vague
report reached me about a year afterwards, that he
had come to a violent and miserable death.
Five years passed away—five whole years! and I
had so far forgotten poor Frazier, that save when
some accidental reference to a portion of my past life
brought him before me, like a shadow drifting over
the sea, I never thought of him. But one evening—
it was in the dead of winter—as I sat by a solitary
fire in Baltimore, wondering as the white ashes fell
away by handfulls from the solid burning masses
below, that such destroying brightness and life should
be so effectually hidden by ashes—mere dust and
ashes—and thinking, I remember, of those lines of
Byron, where he says—
Can only o'er the surface close;
The living stream runs quick below,
And flows—and ne'er can cease to flow.
buried in ice, and the burning effulgence before me
buried in white ashes—my rooms were on the ground
floor and consisted of an interior where I sat and of
the outer which opened on the street, with a door
between the two, which, owing to a very unpleasant
intrusion a little time before, I had always kept locked
after night fall—it was in the depth of winter, as I
have said before, and I had been sitting I know not
fire, when something, I know not what caused me to
look up, and lo! somebody was sitting in the opposite
corner, nearly facing me, with his hat off, his hair
falling loosely over his shoulders, his hands resting
on his knees, and his eyes fixed on the fire with a
steadiness like that of my own shadow. I started—
and was about to speak, when something in the attitude—something,
I know not what—reminded me so
forcibly and so convincingly of poor Frazier—of
death and the grave, that I lost all courage and power
and sat for a considerable time as silent and as motionless
as the apparition before me. I looked at the door
hoping to find it ajar. It was shut and so far as I
could see by the reflection of a wavering fire light
upon the bolt, locked. My hands grew damp—my
breath came at long intervals and the substances
before me, trembled like shadows. At this moment
the clock sounded and while I was counting it with a
secret awe which I would not feel again for the wealth
of worlds, a watchman afar off called out—Past
twelve o'clock—and all's well!
Now, others may talk as they please about the hour
of midnight, and laugh when they hear of a man with
about as much courage as most folks for every day
purposes, being frightened by the noise of a clock
sounding the hour of twelve at night, in the solitude
of a large city; but I solemnly declare that I was
more disturbed—more appalled—more completely
overmastered by the sound of that clock and the
watchman's hoarse heavy cry afar off, than by all the
other circumstances I have mentioned, put together—
strange as they were. Such is the simple truth.
I tried to account for what I saw after the manner of
Nicolai, by referring it to poor health, dyspepsia, and
the over-excitement of my occupation;—for I was
engaged night and day on a work which so completely
exhausted me that when I was ready to go to
bed, I wanted the strength of mind, the resolution to
go, and would sit hour after hour trying to warm up
my blood to the proper temperature for such an
enterprize, and get rid of the death like chill that
encompassed me round about and filled me to the
throat as with an atmosphere of invisible snow—I
wish I could describe it better, but I cannot—my
feelings were so strange that the fairest illustration I
could give, would appear wild and extravagant.
At last the figure turned slowly toward me—so
slowly that I could not see it move—and I saw the
face. You may judge of the condition of my pulses,
when I add, that instantly! and before I knew where
I was, I found myself standing up in the middle of
the floor—with my arms lifted and my eyes fixed as
if fascinated upon what for the moment I believed in
my soul to be the countenance of a dead man, of
poor Frazier himself—he setting as before—I gasping
for breath—scream after scream issuing from the
chambers above—and people at the door crying out
in accents of horror—open the door! open the door.
For God's sake what's the matter!—while other voices
were demanding from the street who lives there? and
advising one another to burst into the house.
I did not speak, and to tell the truth I could not;
for, although with the sound of human voices and the
approach of human footsteps my courage had revived,
and not more than half satisfied with the strang lifelessness
of my companion. But others did speak,
and I felt not a little relieved, when I heard the steps
of the people going away one after another from the
door, saying it was very strange—very; that some of
the lodgers had probably cried out in their sleep—in a
word, that nobody knew whence the preternatural
scream had proceeded, which had brought a whole
neighborhood to the windows.
At this moment, while my eyes were fixed upon the
figure before me, I saw the chest heave; and you
may judge how strangely I was possessed with the
notion of its immateriality, when I assure you that
this comforted me—this—even more than the presence
and voices of living men, and that this alone
gave me courage to speak to it. I spoke. A writhing
of the lip followed—a flashing of eyes that I felt
acquainted with, and the shifting of feet that I
wondered to see wrapped in richly embroidered
moccasins.
Pope Frazier! cried I—William Pope Frazier, and
alive! God of heaven and earth!
Young man, said Frazier—It was he, and I knew it,
the instant he opened his mouth—young man!
Young man to be sure, thought I—older than yourself—by
three years though. But he continued in
the same voice.
You are unaltered, I see. So much the more imperious
the duty I have to discharge toward you.
We were intimate a long while ago—ages and ages
ago, if we had a right notion of time. We have been
like brothers, loving with a love that passed the love
of woman.
His large luminous eyes were now fixed upon mine,
and he went on—and on—and on—talking to me
precisely as I would talk to a younger brother, hour
after hour, in the same rich dreamy far-off breathing
voice—like a statue communing with itself. A part
only of the much that he said, have I room for now.
I shall give it as I have said before, in his own
language, generally in the very words he employed.
They were written down at the time.
Hear me. For five years I have put in practice
deliberately and steadfastly and without flinching all
the maxims you have heard me preach. I have tried
them faithfully—faithfully!—weighed them against
the worth of my immortal soul; and lo! when they
were most wanted, most needed, they failed me!
Ashes—ashes—ashes and death! Paul—nothing
more. I am dying, Paul—dying by inches—dying of
a broken heart and crushed hopes. And I could not
die in peace, I would not, until I had obtained leave,
got by much prayer and long wrestling, from the
Great God of heaven and earth, whose name we have
trifled with so fearfully, to pass backward through the
great wilderness, the valley of the shadow of death—
and appear to you; you the earliest and truest friend
I ever had, except my poor mother, who—changing
his voice instantly to a calm steady whisper—who
hath commanded me to declare to you that your days
are numbered.
I shuddered through all my limbs, and my heart
died away within me; for at this moment I recollected
that once, when we were sitting together face to face
in the dead of winter, we had pledged ourselves, each
to the other, that he who died first should appear to
much as he might of the awful experience he had
obtained by familiarity with the secrets of another
world. His mother too!—I had never seen her to
my knowledge, nor she me. She was dead long
before I knew her boy; and yet I was to believe that
my days were numbered? And they were numbered!
Length of days! continued he in that low dull
whisper which went through and through me. There
is no length of days for such as thou!
I felt the hair of my flesh rise, and yet I had a hope,
almost a belief, that instead of a prophet or a dead
man, I had a live lunatic before me.
At this moment, the large heavy clock sounded
again, more dismally than before—it was like the
tolling of a bell heard through a snow-storm or over
a wide sea quaking with tempestuous brightness. It
sounded one, just like the passing bell of a country
village; and in the death like stillness that followed
the sullen, long protracted vibration, my superstitious
terror was renewed with a tenfold determination of
blood to the brain. All my sonses were preternaturally
excited—my temples throbbed—the solemn
reverberation roaring in my ear a whole minute after
the sound itself had passed away and returned two or
three times.
Hour after hour we sat together. The night wore
away, and the blue haze of a winter morning began
to steal athwart the floor, when we parted—and parted
forever; he telling me what he had gone through, and
cautioning and beseeching me to be wiser than he
had been, less prodigal of health and power, humbler
and more patient, if I hoped to be continued here as
I listening to him as if I had known that he was able
to look into the future and read the stars of my
destiny, until he came to that portion of his life which
I had in view, when I thought first of preparing this
narrative for the public eye. Ah! if I had foreseen
the trouble I have had—the suffering that has followed
a review of my past life, I never should have undertaken
the story—never!—But now! having undertaken
it and for a good purpose, I will neither be
diverted nor driven from my past purpose. I would
have abridged it; for I did not intend to make it of
more than half this length—I would even abridge it
now—if I had the time; or the heart. But I have
neither. And so well do I know myself that I am
sure it would grow into a book were I even to copy
it off, nor upon further consideration do I see much
that could be left out with advantage to the story—
hardly anything indeed; for what would be the
value of the catastrophe without a knowledge of the
man himself—the sufferer—and the martyr?
And now for his very words—the very words that
fell from his mouth. I may venture to say all this,
for in ordinary cases I have a remarkable memory,
and in this—I cannot be mistaken—for never words
made such a distinct and lasting impression upon
me—never.
Long before I left New-York, said he, I had grown
tired and sick of life, and of all society—of yours
more than that of any body else I knew. We had
been deceiving ourselves and others: and I only had
found it out. We were both worse than we appeared
even to ourselves, for while we knew our own vices
than you, for I deceived you continually, without
excuse or provocation. I panted for a new field of
enterprise—it mattered little what—good or bad—at
sea or ashore—so that I found exhileration; so that
I could trample more conspicuously and more fiercely
upon the reptiles that covered the whole face of this
fair earth. You have not forgotten my notions of
women—You have heard me 'till you had lost all
patience with me, time and again. O, Paul! Paul!
that we should ever be so blind to the divinity, the
only visible divinity that now walks the earth! dishonoring
our mothers and our sisters, by the ribald
companionship of our thoughts—and literally stifling
the first-born of our purest and loveliest hopes—
Never shall I forget his look, when he uttered this
apostrophe! It would have broken the heart of a
loving and faithful woman.
And so, continued he, being weary of the world, I
betook myself to the wilderness; journeying away to
the north, and never turning to the right hand nor to
the left 'till I had crossed the track of the fur-traders.
I had resolved in my own heart to see woman as she
is by nature, the Woman of the Woods, the exalted
creature that issues uncorrupted, untouched from the
hands of her Almighty Father! Eves of the great
wilderness! Angels of the solitude!
Well; and so I went and journied and journied,
and strove to be satisfied. But no. Every where—
every where upon the face of the earth I found
woman to be nothing more nor better than the slave
of man; avowedly so among the savages, and really
so among the civilized, where they call her their
friend! Their companion!—with such equality of
companionship, that for doing no more than a man
may do with impunity, she becomes an outcast and a
reproach. Their mistress!—with so much power
and no more as her subject chooses to concede to
her—having no share in representation or government,
though she pay taxes to the utmost! and this in a
country, a fundamental principal of whose government
it is, that taxation and representation go together!
Their friend—wife—pleasant counsellor—yet told
and told seriously, 'till not only they but she is made
to believe it, that women are virtually represented
by their fathers and brothers and husbands and sons!
Why not say to me that they are virtually represented
by others? Told too that her interest is identical
with ours—Fools!—fools!—when they are directly
opposed to ours: it being our interest to keep woman
wholly dependent upon us—their's to be dependent
upon themselves. Friends—equals—companions—
pleasant counsellor indeed!
Well—I journied and journied, growing none the
better and but little the wiser; being so girded about
with prejudice, and so filled to the brim with the
opinions of society and of books, that when Truth
herself passed before me naked and beautiful as
Nature from her holiest and purest abiding-place,
with the eternal woods above me and about me and
Earth, Sea and Air holding counsel together for my
instruction—yet would I not see her, nor acknowledge
her; and therefore am I now sent to you, a
broken-hearted man, resting for a little hour on my
way to the household of death. At last, wandering
Indian girl and I loved her—no matter why; loved
her as I had never thought it possible for a human
creature to love any thing on earth or heaven, I
bought her of her father and determined to make of
her—What?—a wife think ye? No, a mistress?
—no. A friend?—no. No—no—nothing more nor
less than my slave, as the white women are to the
men that buy them in marraige. But hear me
through—He had grown hoarse with emotion, and his
countenance changed frightfully as he breathed out
the word slave—hear me through; and then say
whether I do not richly deserve the fate I have
experienced. I would describe her to you, but I
cannot. Her eyes were like stars in the lighted sea—
her presence warmth—her touch delirium—about her
was an atmosphere that I could feel. And so—and
so—I grew rich. I became a fur-trader. I might
have returned to our largest cities and have had my
choice of the fairest and proudest—for have I not said
that I was rich? And had I not youth and experience
and a foreign-look, half savage and half civilized?
Who could resist me, educated as our women are
now in the proud cities of America?
But I lifted my hope higher. I had a giant-like
ambition—a thought worthy of Lucifer in the day of
his exceeding strength. I resolved to create a
woman for myself. I would have no creature sleeping
in my bosom, that the growth of whose thought I
had never been able to watch over. The fruitage that
I cared for could only be known by the flower. And
so, I withdrew, not into the solitude where the overhanging
trees drop darkness and silence upon the
woods are all alive with tremendous apparitions, and
the roar of midnight is like the roar of the troubled sea
—but into the very neighborhood of the white people
—carrying my poor Indian-girl with me—where she
might learn all they could teach, enjoying all their
comforts, and yet be secure from their unhallowed
influences.
People wondered at me that I kept no servants,
that I saw no visiters, that I passed all my time within
the four walls of a cottage, surrounded on every side
by the stragglers of the retreating forest, and buried
in blossoming trees for a goodly portion of the year.
They called me a misanthrope, and I bore it with a
smile; indolent—though I was employed night and
day in acquiring and communicating truth, knowledge,
the sublimest principles of wisdom and virtue. I had
begun to love man; and to feel toward woman what
Jehovah meant we should feel, by establishing a
mutual dependence and a holy relationship forever
and ever between us. And so I became her preceptor—father—brother—lover—every
thing but a husband.
O! how the poor creature did love me! how
she would sit by me hour after hour, and fall asleep
with her head upon my bosom or my lap, and never
dream that she had betrayed herself or the deep
yearning of her heart, in her child-like simplicity.
Her color would come and go, and her mouth would
tremble, and her heart would heave, her voice change,
and her large eyes fill with unspeakable tenderness;
and yet she would sidle up to me and discourse in the
language of perfect innocence and truth, all that
others who are educated in society are accustomed to
woman's nature—the end and object of her whole
existence on earth were to be concealed with tears
and blushes, or stifled in its birth! Need I say to
you that when her young heart lay before me like a
map—her two hands fluttering in mine like live birds
—and her warm breath stirring over my neck as she
sat by me and whispered of things that were true, in
the very language of truth—need I say that I was
transported into another and a better age? that a
purifying hope took possession of me, and that I
grew ashamed of my greater knowledge? And yet,
all this time, day after day, and month after month, I
never forgot myself—I never forgot her—for a single
moment; nor that she was to be my companion for
life. All that I knew, she knew—and more. All
that I learned of others chiefly for the pleasure of
communicating it to her, she seized with the quickness
of intuition. But for her manners, which God be
thanked! were not the manners of society, she would
have passed for a highly accomplished woman before
I—I—before—His voice faltered, and for a single
moment he appeared to have lost all command of
himself—before she left me.
Years had gone by and we had been always together,
she putting questions to me and I answering
them to the best of my power, now with the help of
books and maps and drawings, and now by long-continued,
earnest enquiry of others; whole years!
and yet she continued to have questions for me,
whenever we were together; questions about herself,
and me and others; about Here and Hereafter;
questions that nobody on earth could solve and that
itself about. Sir—look at me—I meant to deal fairly
with that young woman. But I did not. I deceived her.
I deceived myself. I persuaded myself that I was weary
of my kind, ashamed of the opinions, and altogether
above the prejudices of the world.—At last—Father of
love! do thou uphold me and strengthen me yet a
little longer!
I believed the poor fellow's heart was breaking when
he uttered this cry—I believe so now—the tone of
his voice brought the tears into my eyes.
At last, continued he, at last! I saw the bursting
forth of all that I most yearned to see in heaven or
earth—a human heart in full flower! And that, a
female heart, innocent as Truth and faithful as Hope,
which never deserts, however frequently it may
betray us. And so I determined to be happy; for
some how or other I felt as if I had begun to deserve
it. The fair creatures I had wronged in my youth,
visiting all and spoiling all that came in my way, no
longer beset me, as they had for years, in every
solitary, every silent place, beautiful shadows, having
eyes that were dark with unutterable wo, and
burning with prophecy, or peradventure with dishevelled
hair and the sweeping habiliments of death.
I was no longer afraid to be alone. I heard no more
`sweet melancholy music,' no more unearthly voices,
and my sleep had begun to refresh me. But whither
should I go?—to the North or to the South?—
over the blue deep and to the pleasant isles of the
sea; or back into the society of them that had
driven me away, an outcast and a beggar, to perish
in the wilderness? Would they know me? And if
to fear?
It was time for us to understand one another. But
how?—how could I venture to translate into cold
human language the sweet mystery that thrilled the
blood of this innocent creature, who had never seen
the face of a woman but afar off since her childhood,
nor heard the voice of any man but her father and
myself, since we had been together. And yet she
was happy—so happy!—that when I talked of leading
her into the society of such people as she had read of
in the books and languished to see, she would tremble
and cling to me like a child when it thunders. At
last I began afar off to sound the depths of her
untroubled heart. I tried to explain the growth of
attachment between creatures of a different sex, the
sweet influences and the agitating hopes that were
intended to issue in the perpetual generation of
creatures like ourselves, immortal creatures, multiplied
into one another forever and ever. But all in
vain. Up to the last, she was unprepared for the
truth. Even while she hung about my neck showering
tears into my bosom and kissing my face with lips
that trembled and burned as with inward fire—nay,
even while she repeated my very language after me
word for word—language that I durst not use, in the
world, where a thousandth part as much would have
been sufficient to enlighten a child—she did not and
she could not understand me.
So—after many a sleepless night, having weighed
all the consequences at my leisure, I determined to
deal more plainly with her. I put the question thus
—Could you be happy with me dear, under all
shall I forget the look of innocent surprise with which
she answered—as if it were the strangest thing in
the world for me to put such a question. I felt
abashed; for notwithstanding all my love, there were
circumstances in my life which she was not, and
never would be acquainted with; I had always
intended to tell her the truth and the whole truth
before I took her altogether to myself—yet now—
now that her mind was illuminated—and she had
built up exalted opinions of what man should be and
of what I was, I had no longer the courage to tell
her—it would have broken her heart, although it
would not have changed her love. And then she
kissed me, and I looked into the very depth of her
heart as into a lighted mirror and saw every thought
and every hope there. And I knew instantly that her
whole happiness depended on me—that Here and
Hereafter (and she knew all that I knew of both) she
had no wish but to be with me, no hope unconnected
with me. And we were happy.
Six months after this, as we were sitting together
under the green trees with a broad clear river as blue
as a summer sky, sweeping away from underneath
our very feet, and all the woods about us were bursting
into flavor with the suddenness that follows a
severe northern winter—a drop of rain fell upon my
hand. I looked up in amazement, and lo! instead of
a sky overcast with shadow, the sun was all abroad in
brightness and warmth. It was no drop of rain
therefore—and then for the first time I saw in the
eyes of her whom I loved more than my own life, a
tinge of melancholy.
William, said she, I have been reading a book that
I am sorry for.
Ah—
It has made me unhappy.
How so, pray?—
William—dear William—I am not your wife.
I was grieved to the heart, and though I kissed and
talked to her with an air of pleasantry for awhile,
yet I knew by her voice—her sweet plaintive voice!
that she had taken her discovery to heart; and I knew
not what to say, nor which way to look.
Not my wife! said I at last, feeling some how as if
I had been unfaithful to her, and repeating the words,
the miserable words wherewith I had deceived her,
and not only her but myself before we were happy—
In the sight of Heaven you are my wife; In the sight
of Heaven, we are married.
But her eyes grew more and more melancholy and
her voice more plaintive.
Troubled, I knew not why, and very anxious to
turn away her thoughts from a subject which I saw
was painful to her, I began to talk of our departure,
but she said nothing, and I felt her warm tears dropping
faster and faster upon my hands, in which hers
lay more passively than I had ever known them before;
and so I returned to the subject and grew serious
with her and talked of marriage, and overthrew
every thing that stood in my way; the sum and substance
of my whole argument (he said this with great
bitterness) being to this effect. If a man loves a
woman, he wants no law to bind him to her. If he
does not love her, no law can bind him to her. And
if it could, what should we think of that woman's delicacy
husband's affections. At length, after a silence which
continued so long as to alarm me, she said—You
know dear that I care nothing for the name. But
you did—and if you did, why should not I? Oh
William! would you not make me your wife whom
you had built up and fashioned for that companionship—(her
voice faltered and she grew pale as death)
—of which she is dying—dying, William: after this
she grew melancholy and though I did not observe it
at the time, I recollected it well afterwards.
Merciful heaven cried I, terrified at his language
and looks—and did she die?
About a month after this, while we were sitting
together in the self same spot, she threw her arms
about my neck, and hid her face in my bosom and
began to sob like a child, saying that she shouldn't
live long, she was sure of it—hoping that I would be
happy, and if—and if—and here she clung yet more
closely to me and sobbed more violently than ever—
I knew what she was thinking of—and I tried to
divert her attention from the subject. Her attention!
—fool that I was!—William she whispered—I am not
your wife; your love is not my love.
Be patient—one day—I had been gone all day
long—my preparations were all made, my determination
fixed to repair the wrong I had done her, and
I returned with my heart brimful of joy. As my foot
sounded on the door step, I recollected that I had
seen no light. This and the extraordinary stillness
damped my joy for a moment, and my hand shook I
remember as I laid it upon the latch. I knocked—
and listened—knocked again until I could bear the
rushed into our chamber and there!—there! (gasping
for breath as if the horrid objects were now before
him) and there she lay! she and the dear babe—both
dead—dead—dead! I shrew myself upon my knees
before her and prayed our Almighty Father to take
me to himself. But he would not—thick flashes of
light filled the whole room in reply to my impious
prayer—and then I kissed her pale lips, and shrieked
to them to move once more—and they did move! they
did—and what do ye think they whispered to me?
(starting up and stealing toward me a tip-toe and grasping
my shoulder)—they whispered as plain as mortal
lips ever spoke on earth—I am not your wife.
And so I came away. And now, continued he, I
am an altered man. I have come by the command of
my poor old mother to sacrifice myself here. I have
been a voluptuary with my own child—my dear,
adopted and beloved child—a libertine with my own
wife—rifling and casting away forever the blossoms
of hope and love. And therefore do I warn you!—
rising and standing up before me, and uttering his
words like prophecy, with a gesture and look of
awful denunciation. I warn you! as you hope to
appear one day before the Judge of the quick and the
dead, with no sign of death blowing upon your
forehead, I warn you to repentance! As for me, I am
going to the grave. My heart is broken—I deserved
all—but I could not die in peace, without saying all
this to you—His eyes brightened and he almost
smiled—I shall be buried to-morrow afternoon, said
he—will you come to my funeral?
With pleasure, I was about to say; but his look of
turned away and when I looked up again he was
gone.
After this I slept, and waking some time after my
usual hour, hurried off to my breakfast at Barnum's.
On opening my door, I found a paper lying on the
steps; and taking it up to lay it on my table, my
attention was attracted by a paragraph relating to the
sudden death of a stranger yesterday at the Indian
Queen. Yesterday! said I to myself, as I walked
away, half determined to enquire a little into the
matter: but something happened to prevent me; I
rode out of town, a few miles, and the next day about
three o'clock was returning, when I met a funeral.
I stopped and seeing a friend on the side walk,
enquired into the cause of something unusual which
struck me in the appearance of the persons about the
body. They wore no mourning, and appeared to be
all of one family, as it were. The truth fell upon
me like a thunderbolt! It was the funeral of poor
Frazier. But when I add—which is the simple truth
that after attending the body to the grave as I had
promised, and after calling at the house, where I
learned from a boarder who was with the stranger
at the time of his death that he died Wednesday
night—when it was Thursday morning that he
appeared to me—when I added, that I was afraid to
enquire further, there are some perhaps who may
understand me and believe me—others who may
pity me.
Nine years after this, a thought struck me one day
in relation to the time of night when this extraordinary
event occurred, and I wrote to Baltimore to
assured me that Frazier died Wednesday, when I
could swear that I saw him on Thursday. His
answer I give below.
Dear Sir—The stranger you refer to died late
Wednesday night—I think about four in the morning.
| BILL FRAZIER—THE FUR-TRADER. The Down-easters, &c. &c.
&c. | |