University of Virginia Library

4. BOOK IV.

1. CHAP. I.

THE insuing day, the Captain arrived
in a certain city, and put up at the
sign of the Indian Queen. Taking a day
or two to refresh himself, and get a new
pair of breeches made, and his coat mended,
which was a little worn at the elbows,
he went to look about the city. The
fourth day, when he had proposed to set
out to perambulate this modern Babylon,
and called for Teague to bring him his
boots, there was no Teague there. The
hostler being called, with whom he used
to sleep, informed, that he had disappeared
the day before. The Captain was alarmed;
and, from the recollection of former
incidents, began to enquire if there were any
elections going on at that time. As it

so happened, there was one that very day.
Thinking it probable the bog-trotter, having
still a hankering after an appointment
might offer himself on that occasion, he set
out to the place where the people were
convened, to see if he could discover
Teague amongst the candidates. He could
see nothing of him; and though he made
enquiry, he could hear no account. But
the circumstance of the election drawing
his attention for some time, he forgot
Teague.

The candidates were all remarkably
pot-bellied; and waddled in their gait.
The Captain enquiring what were the pretensions
of these men to be elected; he was
told, that they had all stock in the funds,
and lived in large brick buildings; and
some of them entertained fifty people at a
time, and eat and drank abundantly; and,
living an easy life, and pampering their appetites,
they had swollen to this size.

It is a strange thing, said the Captain, that
in the country, in my route, they would elect
no one but a weaver, or a whisky distiller;
and here none but fat swabs, that guzzle
wine, and smoke segars. It was not so in
Greece, where Phocion came with his plain
coat, from his humble dwelling, and directed

the counsels of the people; or in Rome,
where Cincinnatus was made dictator from
the plough. Something must be wrong,
where the inflate, and pompous are the objects
of choice. Though there is one good arising
from it, that there is no danger of my
Teague here. He could not afford to give
a dinner; and as to funds, he has not a single
shilling in them. They will make him
neither mayor nor legislator in this city.

Na faith, said Mr. M`Donald, the Scotch
gentleman who had been present at the embarrassment
of the Captain, on the occasion
of the former election; and having, a few
days before, come to the city, and observing
the Captain in the crowd, had come
up to accost him, just as he was uttering
these last words to himself: Na faith, said
he, there is na danger of Teague here,
unless he had his scores o' shares in the
bank; and was in league with the brokers,
and had a brick house at his hurdies, or
a ship or twa on the stocks. A great deal
used to be done, by employing advocates
with the tradesmen, to listen to the
news, and tell them fair stories; but all
is now lost in substantial interest, and the
funds command every thing. Besides, this
city is swarming with Teagues, and O'Regans,

and O'Brians, and O'Murphys, and
O'Farrels; I see, that they cannot be at
a loss without your bog trotter.

The Captain having his fears eased, in
this particular, returned home, greatly
troubled, nevertheless, that he could not
come up with the Irishman.

2. CHAP. II.

REFLECTING with himself, that
Teague was inclined to women, and
that he might have gone to some of those
houses, which are not in the best repute
with the religious part of the community,
the Captain thought it might not be amiss
to make enquiry. Being informed by the
waiter, that he had overheard gentlemen,
at the house, in their cups, speak of a certain
Mrs. Robeson, who kept a house of
that kind; and, as far as he could understand,
it was in such a part of the city, a
few doors from such a street.

The Captain having set out, coming
into the neighbourhood, and making inquiry,
was directed to the house. Knocking,
and, on a servant coming to the door,
enquiring for Mrs. Robeson; he was shewn
into a parlour, and in a little time the old
lady entered. Being seated, he took the
liberty of addressing her: Madam, said he,
I am not unacquainted with the stile and designation

of your house. Why, as to that,
said she, we do the best we can; but the
times are hard, and it is a very difficult
thing to pick up a good looking healthy
girl, now a days. So many young women,
since the war is over, having taken
to virtuous ways, and got married, has
almost broke us up. But I have been fortunate
enough to light upon one, yesterday,
that is a rare piece, just from the
country; and I am sure —

It is not in the way that you mean, madam,
said the Captain, that I take the liberty
to call upon you. I have a servant
man, of the name of Teague O'Regan,
that is inclined to women, and has been
absent some days; and it has occurred to
me, that he may have come to your house,
or some other of the like kind; and may
be skulking, to avoid my service. As he
has little or no money, it is impossible he
can be much in your way; and I could
make it better worth your while to inform
on him, and surrender him up.

Teague O'Regan, said the old lady!
snuffing; Teague O'Regan! I would have
you know, sir, that no Teague O'Regans
come here; we keep a house for the first
gentlemen; not for waiters, or understrappers,

or any of the common sorts.
There is no half-crown, or five shilling
pieces here. Teague O'Regan indeed!
there is no Teague O'Regan at this house.
We have meat for his master. I was saying
there was a young woman just now
from the country, that looks more like a
woman of family, than a country girl;
but is so melancholy and mopish, that she
scarcely speaks; and stands in need of
some one to talk to her, and keep her in
spirits. She is fit for any gentleman.
Teague O'Regan! Humph! There is no
Teague O'Regan puts his foot into my
door.

The Captain assured her, that he by no
means meant to give offence. That tho'
the bog-trotter could not have access to
her first rooms; yet he did not know but
he might have got in with some of her
under maids, and be about the kitchen.

The lady, being now appeased on the
score of Teague, was in a good humour,
and renewed her hints to the Captain, with
respect to the young woman. She is, said
she, as good looking a girl as ever came
to my house; and has not seen a single
person but yourself, whom she has not yet
seen; but may see, if you chuse; and

a very pretty girl she is; but keeps mopish
and melancholy, as if she was crossed
in love, and had come to town for
fear of her relations, and wishes to keep
out of sight of every body.

The Captain being no stranger to the art
these matrons use, in their addresses, to
enhance the value of their wares, was but
little moved with the recommendation she
had given. But as there were some circumstances
in the account of the young
woman, that were a little striking, his curiosity
was excited to let her be called in,
and present herself. Accordingly, the old
lady stepping out, a young woman made
her appearance, of considerable beauty;
but in her countenance expressions of woe.
Her blue eye seemed involved in mist;
for she shed no tears; her sorrow was
beyond that.

Young woman, said the Captain, it is
easy to perceive that you have not been
in this way of life long; and that you have
been brought to it, perhaps, by some uncommon
circumstances. My humanity is
interested; and it occurs to me to ask, by
what means it has come to pass. The part
which he seemed to take in her distress,
inspiring her with confidence; and being

requested by him to relate her story frankly,
she began as follows:

My father, said she, lives at the distance
of about twenty miles from this city, and
is a man of good estate. I have two brothers,
but no sisters. My mother dying
when I was at the age of fourteen, I became
house-keeper for the family.

There was a young man that used to
come to the same church to which we went.
He was of the very lowest class, mean in
his appearance, of homely features, and
a dimunitive person. Yet he had the assurance
to put himself in my way on every
occasion; endeavouring to catch my eye;
for he did not dare to speak to me. But
I hated him, and was almost resolved to
stay at home on Sundays, to avoid him;
for he began to be very troublesome. His
attentions to me were taken notice of by
my brothers. They were confident that I
must give him some encouragement, or he
would not make such advances. My father
was of the same opinion. I assured
them I had never given him any encouragement,
and I never would; that I was
as much averse to him as possible.

I shunned him and hated him. He persisted
a long time, almost two years, and

seemed to become melancholy, and at last
went away from the neighbourhood; and,
as I heard afterwards, to sea. I began
now to reflect upon his assiduity, and endeavours
to engage my affections. I recollected
every circumstance of his conduct
towards me, since the first time I was obliged
to take notice of him. I reasoned
with myself, that it was no fault of his, if
his family was low; and if he himself had
not all that comeliness of person which I
wished in a husband; yet he was sufficiently
punished in his presumption in thinking
of me, by what he must have suffered,
and by his going to sea, which he did to
get out of my sight, finding his attempts
to gain my affections, hopeless. I dreamed
of him; and scarcely a moment of the
day passed, but my thoughts were running
on the danger to which he was exposed.
It seemed to me that if he came back, I
should be more kind to him. I might at
least shew him, that I was not insensible
of his attachment.

In about a year he returned, and the
moment I saw him, I loved him. He did
not dare to come to my father's house. But
I could not help giving him encouragement,
by my countenance, when I met

him in public. Emboldened by this, he
at last ventured to speak to me; and I agreed
that he might come to a peach orchard,
at some distance from my father's
house, and that I would give him an interview.
There he came often; and with
a most lowly, and humble behaviour, fixed
my regard for him. Not doubting the
violence of his love for me, and my ascendency
over him, I at last put myself
in his power. Becoming pregnant, I hinted
marriage; but what was my astonishment
to find, that, on various pretences,
he evaded it; and as I became more fond,
he became more cold; which had no other
effect, than to make me more ardent than
before. It had been usual, for many
months, to meet me every evening at this
place; but now I had gone often, and did
not find him there. At last he withdrew
altogether, and I heard he had left the settlement.
Worthless and base, as I now
knew him to be; and, though my reason
told me, that in person he was still as
homely as I first thought him, yet I continued
to love him to distraction.

What was my distress, when my father,
and my brothers, found that I was with
child? They charged me, though unjustly,

of having deceived them with respect
to my attachment to this low creature,
from the first: In fine, my father dismissed
me from the house: My brothers, no
less relenting than him, in their resentment
against me, upbraided me with the offers
I had refused, and the treatment I had given
several gentlemen, in their advances to
me. For, indeed, during the absence of
this worthless man, I had been addressed
by several; but my pity and compassion
for the wretch, had so wrought upon
me, that I could not think of any, or
scarcely bear them to speak to me.

Dismissed from my father's house, even
my younger brother, who was most soft and
yielding in his nature, seeming to approve
of it, I went to the habitation of a tenant
of my father; there remained some time,
and endeavoured to make compensation,
by the labour of my hands, for the trouble
I was giving them. But these poor
people, thinking my father would relent,
had informed him where I was, and of
the care they had taken of me. The consequence
was, that, at the end of three
months, he sent for the child, of which I
had been brought to bed some weeks before;
but ordered them instantly to dismiss

me, that I might never more offend
his hearing with my name.

I wandered to this city, and the first
night lay in the market house, upon a
bench. The next morning mixed with
the women that came to market, and enquired
for work of any kind. I could find
none; but at last meeting with a young
woman who felt for my distress, she told
me, that she had a small room in this city,
where she had lived some time with an
aunt that was lately dead; and that now
she supported herself by doing a little in
the millinery way; that if I would come
and take breakfast with her, and see where
she lived, I was welcome. Going with
the poor girl, I found her lonely and distressed
enough. Nevertheless I continued
with her several months. But the work
was small that we got to do, and times
becoming still worse, I was obliged to
sell the cloths that I brought with me, to
the last petticoat and short gown, to support
ourselves and pay rent. To bring
me to the last stage of misery, the poor
girl who was more expert than I was, in
making any little provision that could be
made, fell sick and in short time died. I
could bear to stay no longer in the room,

and coming out to wander in the streets,
like a forlorn wretch indeed, and sobbing
sorely by myself, when I thought no one
heard me, I was observed by this woman,
at whose house you now are, and pressed
by her to go home. I soon found what
sort of a house it was, and had I not been
watched, when I talked of going away,
and threatened to be sent to jail, for what,
it is pretended I owe since I came to the
house, I should not have been here longer
than the first day.

The Captain feeling with great sensibility
the circumstances of her story, made
reply: Said he, Young woman, I greatly
commiserate your history and situation,
and feel myself impelled to revenge your
wrong. But the villain which has thus injured
you, is out of my reach, in two respects;
first, by distance; and second, being
too contemptible and base to be pursued
by my resentment even on your account.
But revenge is not your object, but support
and restoration to your friends, and
the good opinion of the world. As to
money, it is not in my power to advance
you any great sum; but as far as words
can go, I could wish to serve you: not
words to yourself only; but to others, in

your behalf. It is evident to me, that
you have suffered by your own too great
sensibility. It was humanity and generosity,
that engaged you in his favour.
It was your imagination, that gave those
attractions to his vile and uncomely person,
by which you was seduced. You have
been a victim to your own goodness, and
not to his merit. The warmth of your
heart has overcome the strength of your
judgment; and your prudence has been
subdued by your passion: or, rather, indeed,
confiding in a man whom you had
saved from all the pains, and heart-felt
miseries of unsuccessful love, you have become
a sacrifice to your compassion and
tenderness. The best advice I can give
you, is, to compose yourself for this night.
Preserve your virtue; for I do not consider
you as having lost it: your mind has
not been in fault, or contaminated. I
will endeavour to find out some person,
who may be disposed to assist you; and,
though it may be difficult for you yet to
establish lost fame, it is not impossible. So
saying, he left the room; but the young
woman, impressed with these last words
especially, viz. the diffculty, if not impossibility,
of regaining reputation, sunk
down upon her chair, and could not pay
him the compliment of thanks, at his departure.

During the night, through the whole
of which he lay awake, at the public house,
he ruminated on the extraordinary nature
of this incident, and the means which he
would adopt to recover this woman from
her unfortunate situation.

Thought he, I am in a city where there
are a great body of the people called Quakers.
This society, above all others, is remarkable
for humanity, and charitable actions.
There is a female preacher, of whom I
have heard; a Lydia Wilson: I will inform
this good woman of the circumstance;
and, if ge gives me leave, I will bring
this stray sheep to her; she may have it
in her power to introduce her to some
place, where, by needle work, and industry,
she might live, until it may be in
my power, taking a journey to her father,
and stating the case, and giving my sentiments,
to restore her to her family.

Early next morning, as soon as it could
be presumed, the Quaker lady had set her
house in order; that is, after the family
might be supposed to have breakfasted,
which was about nine o'clock, the

Captain set out; and being admitted, stated
to Mrs. Wilson, the exact circumstances
as before related. The pious woman readily
undertook every office in her power.
Accordingly, taking leave, the Captain
set out for the house of Mrs. Robeson.

At the door, he met a number of men
coming out, and, on inquiry, he found a coroner's
inquest had just sat on the body of a
young woman of the house, who had the
preceding evening, suspended herself from
the bed post with her garter. He was
struck, suspecting it must be the young
woman whom he had so much in his
thoughts. Going in, and enquiring, he
found it to be the case; and that they proposed
to bury as soon as the few boards of
a coffin could be got ready. As a man of
humanity, he could not but shed tears;
and blame himself that he had not given
her stronger assurance of his interposition
before he left her, that she might not have
fallen into despair, and taken away her
life.

The coffin being now ready, the funeral
set out, not for the burying ground of
a church yard; but for a place without
the city, called the Potter's-field: For suicide
forfeits Christian burial: Her obsequies

attended, not by a clergyman in
front, nor by scarfed mourners, holding
up the pall; nor was she borne on a bier,
but drawn on a cart; and the company
that followed her uncovered herse, were
not decent matrons, nor venerable men,
but old bauds, and strumpets, and cullies,
half drunk, making merry as they went along.

Being interred, they returned home; but
the Captain remaining some time, contemplating
the grave, thus spoke:

Earth, thou coverest the body of a lovely
woman, and with a mind not less lovely;
yet doomed in her burial, to the same
ground with negroes, and malefactors;
not that I think the circumstance makes any
difference; but it shews the opinion
of the world with respect to thy personal
demerit. Nor do I call in question the
justness of this opinion; having such circumstances
whereon to found it. But I
reflect with myself how much opinion, operating
like a general law, may do injustice.
It remains only with heaven's chancery to
reach the equity of the case, and absolve
her from a crime; or at least qualify that
which was the excess of virtue. If the fair
elements that composed her frame, shall

ever again unite, and rise to life, and as
the divines suppose, her form receive its
shape, and complexion from her mental
qualities, and conduct on earth, she will
lose nothing of her beauty; for her daring
disdain of herself and fate, was a mark of
repentance,—stronger than all tears. Yet,
had she acted the nobler part of holding
herself in life, preserving her mind and
body chaste until famine had taken her away,
or the hand of heaven moved for
her relief, she had shone, at the last rising,
with superior brightness; been ranked amongst
the first beauties of heaven, and
walked distinguished in the paradise of
God. Doubtless the Almighty must blame,
and chide her for this premature and rash
step. Fallen to the last point of depression,
he was about to relieve her, and the sequel
of her days might have been happy
and serene. It was a distrust of his providence.
She heard my words, though
she did not know my heart. And surely
it was my intention to relieve her. But
she erred against my thoughts; she eluded
the grasp of my humanity. For this she
will be reprimanded by the Most High;
and fail of that supereminent glory which
awaits heroic minds. Yet, O world, thou
dost her wrong, in sentencing her to so low
a bed. Shall the wealthy, but dishonest
men; matrons chaste, but cold and cruel
in their feelings; shall these have a
stone built over them, and occupy a consecrated
spot; whilst thou, unworthy, art
thrown amongst the rubbish of carcases,
swept from jails; or of emigrants, unknown
as to their origin and place.

Farewel, lovely form, whom late I
knew; and let the grass grow green upon
thy grave. Thy sorrows are expunged;
but mine are awake; and will be so, until
I also come to the shades invisible, and
have the same apathy of heart with thee.