Sheppard Lee, Written by Himself. Vol. 2 (of 2)
by Robert Montgomery Bird · English · Gutenberg #46622 · 407,110 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Sheppard Lee, Written by Himself. Vol. 2 (of 2)
Author: Robert Montgomery Bird
Release date: August 19, 2014 [eBook #46622]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/46622
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHEPPARD LEE, WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. VOL. 2 (OF 2) ***
SHEPPARD LEE
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
"Let those shine now that never shone before,
And those that always shone now shine the more."
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, CLIFF-ST.
1836.
CONTENTS
BOOK IV. [continued]
CHAPTER IV.
The miser's children.
CHAPTER V.
The miser's children.
CHAPTER VI
The fate of the firstborn.
CHAPTER VII.
The catastrophe of a tragedy often performed on
the great stage of life.
CHAPTER VIII.
In which it is shown that a man may be more
useful after death than while living.
CHAPTER IX.
Sheppard Lee's search for a body.--An uncommon
incident.
CHAPTER X.
In which the Author makes the acquaintance of a
philanthropist.
CHAPTER XI.
Containing an affecting adventure with a victim
of the law.
CHAPTER XII.
In which the plot thickens, and the tragedy
grows deepe The fate of the firstborn.
CHAPTER XIII.
The catastrophe of a tragedy often performed on
the great stage of life.
CHAPTER XIV.
In which it is shown that a man may be more
useful after death than while living.
CHAPTER XV.
Sheppard Lee's search for a body.--An uncommon
incident.
CHAPTER XVI.
In which the Author makes the acquaintance of a
philanthropist.
CHAPTER XVII.
Containing an affecting adventure with a victim
of the law.
CHAPTER XVIII.
In which the plot thickens, and the tragedy
grows deepe.
BOOK V.
CONTAINING THE ADVENTURES OF A GOOD SAMARITAN.
CHAPTER I.
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE WORTHY ABEL SNIPE.
CHAPTER III.
In which the young man Jonathan argues several
cases of conscience, which are recommended to
be brought before Yearly Meeting.
CHAPTER IV.
Containing little or nothing save apostrophes,
exhortations, and quarrels.
CHAPTER V.
Which is short and moral, and can therefore be
skipped.
CHAPTER VI.
An inconvenience of being in another man's
body, when called upon to give evidence as to
one's own exit.
CHAPTER VII.
The sorrows of a philanthropist.
CHAPTER VIII.
The same subject continued.
CHAPTER IX.
Containing a difficulty.
CHAPTER X.
In what manner Mr. Zachariah Longstraw
determined to improve his fortune.
CHAPTER XI.
In which a catastrophe begins both parties.
CHAPTER XII.
An uncommon adventure that befell the Author.
CHAPTER XIII.
In which Sheppard Lee takes a journey, and
discovers the secret object of his captors.
CHAPTER XIV.
Containing other secrets, but not so important
CHAPTER XV.
In which the Author approaches a climax in his
adventures
CHAPTER XVI.
Containing a specimen of eloquence, with some
account of the dangers of Lynchdom.
CHAPTER XVII.
In which Sheppard Lee reaches the darkest
period of his existence.
CHAPTER XVIII.
In which the catastrophe is continued.
CHAPTER XIX.
The dénouement of the drama.
CHAPTER XX.
A remark, in which the Author appears as a
politician, and abuses both parties.
CHAPTER XXI.
An uncommon adventure that befell the Author.
CHAPTER XXII.
In which Sheppard Lee takes a journey, and
discovers the secret object of his captors.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Containing other secrets, but not so important.
CHAPTER XXIV.
In which the Author approaches a climax in his
adventures.
CHAPTER XXV.
Containing a specimen of eloquence, with some
account of the dangers of Lynchdom.
CHAPTER XXVI.
In which Sheppard Lee reaches the darkest
period of his existence.
BOOK VI.
CONTAINING A HISTORY AND A MORAL.
CHAPTER I.
In which Sheppard Lee finds every thing black
about him.
CHAPTER II.
In which Sheppard Lee is introduced to his
master.
CHAPTER III.
An old woman's cure for a disease extremely
prevalent both in the coloured and uncoloured
creation.
CHAPTER IV.
Some account of Ridgewood Hill, and the
Author's occupations
CHAPTER V.
In which the Author further describes his
situation, and philosophizes on the state of
slavery.
CHAPTER VI.
Recollections of slavery.
CHAPTER VII.
A scene on the banks of the Potomac, with the
humours of an African improvisatore.
CHAPTER VIII.
The Author descends among the slaves, and
suddenly becomes a man of figure, and an
interpreter of new doctrines.
CHAPTER IX.
What it was the negroes had discovered among
the scantling.
CHAPTER X.
The effect of the pamphlet on its reader and
hearers.
CHAPTER XI.
The hatching of a conspiracy.
CHAPTER XII.
How the spoils of victory were intended to be
divided.
CHAPTER XIII.
The attack of the insurgents upon the mansion
at Ridgewood Hill.
CHAPTER XIV.
The tragical occurrences that followed.
CHAPTER XV.
The results of the insurrection, with a truly
strange and fatal catastrophe that befell the
Author.
CHAPTER XVI.
In which it is related what became of the Author
after being hanged.
BOOK VII.
WHICH IS INTENDED AS A PENDANT TO BOOK I., AND
CONTAINS THE HISTORY OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF
FORTUNE.
CHAPTER I.
Containing an inkling of the life and habits of
Mr. Arthur Megrim.
CHAPTER II.
The happy condition in which Sheppard Lee is at
last placed.
CHAPTER III.
The employments of a young gentleman of fortune.
CHAPTER IV.
Some account of the inconveniences of having a
digestive apparatus.
CHAPTER V.
The same subject continued, with an account of
several surprising transformations.
CHAPTER VI.
An account of the woes of an Emperor of France,
which have never before appeared in history.
CHAPTER VII.
In which Sheppard Lee is convinced that all is
not gold which glistens.
CHAPTER VIII.
In which the Author stumbles upon an old
acquaintance.
BOOK VIII.
CONTAINING THE CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY.
CHAPTER I.
Sheppard Lee flies from the German doctor, and
finds himself again in New-Jersey.
CHAPTER II.
What had happened at Watermelon Hill during the
Author's absence.
CHAPTER III.
Containing the substance of a singular debate
betwixt the Author and his brother, with a
philosophic defence of the Author's credibility.
CHAPTER IV.
Being the last chapter of all.
4. CHAPTER IV.
THE MISER'S CHILDREN.
It will scarcely be supposed that, with the passion of covetousness
gnawing at my heart, I had space or convenience for any other feeling.
But Abram Skinner had loved his children; and to this passion I was
introduced, as well as to the other. At first I was surprised that I
should bestow the least regard upon them, seeing that they were no
children of mine. I endeavoured to shake off the feeling of attachment,
as an absurdity, but could not; in spite of myself, I found my spirit
yearning towards them; and by-and-by, having lost my identity entirely,
I could scarcely, even when I made the effort, recall the consciousness
that I was _not_ their parent in reality.
Indeed, the transformation that had now occurred to my spirit was more
thorough than it had been in either previous instance; I could scarce
convince myself I had not been born the being I represented; my past
existence began to appear to my reflections only as some idle dream,
that the fever of sickness had brought upon my mind; and I forgot that
I was, or had been, Sheppard Lee.
Yes, reader, I was now Abram Skinner in all respects, and I loved his
children, as he had done before me. In entering his body, I became, as
I have mentioned repeatedly before, the subject of every peculiarity of
being that marked the original possessor: without which, indeed, the
great experiment my destiny permitted me to make of the comparative
good and evil of different spheres of existence, must have been made
in vain. What my prototype hated I was enforced to hate; what he loved
I found myself compelled in like manner to love. While moving in the
bodies of John H. Higginson and I. D. Dawkins, I do not remember that
I experienced any affection for anybody; which happened, doubtless,
because these individuals confined their affections to their own
persons. Abram Skinner, on the contrary, loved his children; which I
suppose was owing to their being the worst children that ever tormented
a parent. He loved them, and so did I; he pondered with bitterness over
the ingratitude of their tempers, and the profligacy of their lives,
and I--despite all my attempts to the contrary--did the same. I forgot,
at last, that I was not their parent, and my feelings showed me that I
was; and I found in the anguish that attacked my spirit, when I thought
of them, one of the modes in which Heaven visits with retribution the
worshipper of the false god of the country. When the votary of Mammon
has propitiated his deity, let him count the children he has sacrificed
upon his altar. Avarice, as well as wrath, sows the storm only to reap
the whirlwind.
I am growing serious upon this subject, but I cannot help it. This
portion of my history dwells on my remembrance with gloom; it keeps me
moralizing over the career of my neighbours. When I see or hear of a
man who is bending all his energies to the acquisition of a fortune,
and is already the master of his thousands, I ask, "What has become of
his sons?" or, "What _will_ become of them?"
With the affection for the children of Abram Skinner that took
possession of my mind, came also a persuasion, exceedingly painful,
that they were a triad of graceless, ungrateful reprobates; and, what
was worse, there was something whispered within me that much, if not
all, the evil of their lives and natures, was owing to the neglect in
which their parent, while engrossed with the high thought of heaping up
money, had allowed them to grow up. The consequences of this neglect I
felt as if it had been my own act.
The first pang was inflicted by the girl Alicia, and I felt it
keenly--not, indeed, that I had any particular parental affection
for her, as doubtless I should have had, had she not run away so
opportunely. On the contrary, a vague recollection of my amour, and
the inconstancy of her temper, caused my feelings in relation to her
to assume a very peculiar hue; so that I regarded her with sentiments
due as much to the jilted lover as the injured father. But what
chiefly afflicted me was the hint she had given in the postscript of
her letter, warning me of the fatal call to be made upon me, within
two months' space, to render up an account of my guardianship, and
surrender into the hands of that detestable Sammy Wilkins, my late
cousin, the rich legacy of her aunt Sally, which, being chiefly in real
estate, I--or rather my prototype before me--had, without anticipating
such a catastrophe, managed so prudently that it was now worth more
than double its original value. The thought filled me with such rage
and phrensy, that, had she been twice my daughter, I should have
rewarded her with execrations.
My quondam uncle, Mr. Samuel Wilkins of Wilkinsbury Hall, who, it
seems, received the girl as well as he afterward did his daughter's
husband, thought fit to pay me a visit, a week after my transformation,
to confer with me on the subject; and receiving no satisfaction, for I
was in a rage and refused to see him, sent me divers notes, proposing a
reconciliation betwixt myself and his daughter-in-law; and these being
cast into the fire, I received, in course of time, a letter from his
lawyer, or his son Sammy's, in which I was politely asked what were my
intentions in relation to settlement, and so forth, and so forth.
I received letters from the damsel also, but they went into the fire
like the others; and my rage waxing higher and higher as the time of
settlement drew nigh, I set myself to work to frame such a guardian's
account as would materially lessen the amount of my losses.
But all was in vain; the married Alicia was at last of age, and all I
could do was to fling the matter into the lawyers' hands, so as to keep
the money, the dear money, in my own as long as possible.
My reader may think this was not a very handsome or reputable way of
treating a daughter; but he must recollect I was in Abram Skinner's
body. The matter was still in suit when I departed from my borrowed
flesh; but I have no doubt the execrable Samuel Wilkins, Jr. got
possession of the legacy, as well as ten times as much to the back of
it.
But this, great as was the anguish the evil inflicted, was nothing
to the pangs I suffered on account of the two boys, Ralph and Abbot.
On these I showered--not openly, indeed, for I was crabbed enough of
temper, but in my secret heart--all the affection such a parent could
feel. But I showered it in vain; the seeds of evil example and neglect
had taken root; the prospect of wealth had long since turned brains
untempered by education and moral culture, and the parsimony of their
parent only drove them into profligacy of a more demoralizing species;
they were ruined in morals, in prospects, and in reputation; and while
yet upon the threshold of manhood, they presented upon their brows the
stamp of degradation and the warrant of untimely graves.
The younger, Abbot, had evidently been a favourite from his childhood
up, his temper being fierce and imperious, yet with an occasional dash
of amiableness, that showed what his disposition might have been, if
regulated by a careful and conscientious parent. He possessed a fine
figure, of which he was vain; and being of a gay and convivial turn,
there was the stronger propensity to dissipation, and greater fear of
the consequences. These were now lamentable enough; he was already
beyond redemption--a sot, and almost a madman.
The elder brother was a young man, to all appearance, of a saturnine
mood and staid habits; but this was in appearance only. He was the
associate of the junior in all his scenes of frolic, and an actor in
others of which, perhaps, Abbot never dreamed. A strong head and a
spirit of craft enabled him to conceal the effect of excesses which
sent his brother home reeling and raging with drunkenness. I knew his
habits well; and I knew that, besides being in a fairer way to the
grave--if not to the gallows--he was a hypocrite of the worst order;
his gravity being put on to cover a temper both fiery and malicious,
and his apparent correctness of habits being the mere cover to the most
scandalous irregularities. He was a creature all of duplicity, and wo
to the father who made him such!
The scene in the dying chamber of their father they never forgot,
though, perhaps, I might have done so. It drove the younger from all
attempts at pretended regard or concealment of his profligacy, and
was, I believe, the cause of his final ruin. He absconded, out of mere
shame, for a week, and then returned to put a bold or indifferent
face upon the matter, and to show himself as regardless of respect as
restraint.
The other, after concealing himself in like manner for a few days, came
to me, apparently in great contrition of spirit, and almost persuaded
me that his brutal conduct on that eventful evening arose rather from
grief than joy. He had been so much affected by my death, he assured
me, as scarce to know what he did when swallowing a glass of brandy
his brother gave him; that, he declared with half a dozen tears, had
set him crazy, and he knew not what he had done--only he recollected
something about going to the chamber, where, he believed, he had
behaved very badly; for which he begged my forgiveness, and hoped I
would not think his conduct was owing to any want of affection.
I had proof enough that the villain was telling me falsehoods, and I
knew that if either should, in a moment of soberness and compunction,
breathe a single sigh over my death-bed, he was not the one. In
truth, they were both bad; both, perhaps, irreclaimable; but while
the conduct of Abbot gave me most pain, that of Ralph filled me with
constant terror. Nothing but the daily excitement of speculation and
gain could have made tolerable an existence cursed by incessant griefs
and forebodings. It may be supposed that I frequently took the young
men to task for their excesses. I might as well have scolded the winds
for blowing, or the waters for running. It is true that Ralph heard me
commonly with great patience, and sometimes with apparent contrition;
but at times a scowl came over his dark features that frightened me
into silence; and once, giving way to his fierce temper, he told me
that if there was any thing amiss or disreputable in his conduct, it
was the consequence of mine; that I, instead of granting him the means
for reasonable indulgence, and elevating him to the station among
honourable and worthy men to which my wealth gave him a claim, and
which he had a right to expect of me, had kept him in a state of need
and vassalage intolerable to any one of his age and spirit.
As for Abbot, this kind of recrimination was a daily thing with him.
I scarce ever saw him except when inflamed with drink; and on such
occasions he was wont to demand money, which being denied, he would
give way to passion, and load me with reproaches still more bitter of
spirit and violent of expression than those uttered by Ralph. Nay, upon
my charging him with being an abandoned profligate and ruined man, he
admitted the fact, and swore that I was the author of his destruction;
that my niggardliness had deprived him of the opportunities that gave
other young men professions and independence; that I had brought him up
in idleness and ignorance, and, by still refusing him his rights, was
consigning him to infamy and an early grave.
Such controversies between us were common, and perhaps expedited the
fate that was in store for him, as well as his brother. I thought in my
folly to punish, and at the same time check his excesses, by denying
him all supplies of money, and by refusing to pay a single debt he
contracted. A deep gloom suddenly invested him; he ceased to return
home intoxicated, but stalked into and out of the house like a spectre,
without bestowing any notice upon me. The change frighted me; and, in
alarm lest the difficulties under which he might be placed were driving
him to desperation, I followed him to his chamber, with _almost_ the
resolution to relieve his wants, let them be what they might.
The absence of intoxication for several days in succession had induced
me to hope he had broken through the accursed bondage of drink, were it
only from rage and shame. But I was fatally mistaken. As I entered the
apartment I saw him place upon the table a large case-bottle of brandy,
which he had just taken from a buffet. He looked over his shoulder as
I stepped in, and, without regarding me, proceeded to pour a large
draught into a tumbler. His hand was tremulous, and, indeed, shook so
much, that the liquor was spilt in the operation.
I was shocked at the sight, and struck dumb; seeing which he laughed,
with what seemed to me as much triumph as derision, and said, "You see!
This is the way we go it. Your health, father. Come, help yourself;
don't stand on ceremony."
"_I_, Abbot!" said I, as he swallowed the vile potion; "have you
neither respect nor shame? I never drank such poison in my life!"
"The more is the pity," muttered the young man, but rather as if
speaking to himself than me; "I should have had the sooner and freer
swing of it."
"You mean if it had killed me, as it is killing you," said I, pierced
by the heartlessness of his expression. "Oh, Abbot! a judgment will
come upon you yet!"
He stared me in the face, but without making a reply. Then pushing a
chair towards me, he sat down himself, and deliberately filled his
glass a second time.
"Abbot! for Heaven's sake," said I, wringing my very hands in despair,
"_what_ will tempt you to quit this horrid practice?"
"_Nothing_," said he; "you have asked the question a month too late.
Look," he continued, pointing my attention again to his hand, shaking,
as it held the bottle, as if under the palsy of age; "do you know what
that means?"
"What does it mean?" said I, so confounded by the sight and his stolid
merriment (for he laughed again while exposing the fruit of his
degrading habit) that I scarce knew what I said.
"It means," said he, "that death is coming, to make equitable division
betwixt Ralph and Alicia--unless the devil, after all, should carry
them off before me; in which case you can build an hospital with your
money."
He swallowed the draught, and then, leaning on the table, buried his
face between his hands.
The sarcasm was not lost upon me, and the idea that he was about to
become the victim of a passion from which he might be wrested by a
sacrifice on my part, greatly excited my feelings.
"I will do any thing," said I; "_what_ shall I do to save you? Oh,
Abbot! can you not refrain from this dreadful indulgence? What shall I
do?"
He leaped upon his feet, and eyed me with a look full of wildness.
"Pay my debts," he cried; "pay my debts, and make me independent; and
I--_I'll try_."
"And what," said I, trembling with fear, "what sum will pay your debts?"
"Twenty thousand--_perhaps_," said he.
"Twenty thousand! what! twenty thousand dollars!" cried I, lost in
confusion.
"You won't, then?" said the reprobate.
"Not a cent!" cried I, in a fury. "How came you to owe such a sum? Do
you think I will believe you? How could you incur such a debt? What
have you been doing?"
"Gambling, drinking, and so forth, and so forth, twenty times over."
He snatched up the bottle, and, locking it in the buffet, deposited the
key in his pocket. Then seizing upon his hat, and stepping to where I
stood, transfixed with grief and indignation, he said,--"You won't
take the bargain, then?"
"Not a dollar, not a dime, not a cent!" said I.
"Not even to save my life, father?"
"Not a dollar, not a dime, not a cent!" I reiterated, incapable of
saying another word.
"Farewell then," said he, "and good luck to you! It is a declaration of
war, and now I'll keep no terms with you."
Then giving me a look that froze my blood, it was so furiously hostile
and vindictive, he struck his hands together, rushed from the house,
and I saw him no more for nearly a fortnight. I saw him no more, as I
said; but coming home the following evening from the club, I found my
strong-box broken open and rifled of the money that I left in it.
The sum was indeed but small, but the robbery had been perpetrated by
my own son; and the reader, if he be a father, will judge what effect
this discovery produced upon my mind. In good truth, I felt now that
I was the most wretched of human beings, and was reduced nearly to
distraction.
But this blow was but a buffet with the hand, compared with the
thunder-bolt that fate was preparing to launch against my bosom. I
cursed my miserable lot; yet it wanted one more stroke of misfortune to
sever the chain with which avarice still bound me to my condition.
5. CHAPTER V.
THE FATE OF THE FIRSTBORN.
On the eleventh day after the flight of Abbot, whom all my inquiries
failed to discover, as I was walking towards the exchange, torn by
my domestic woes, and by a threatened convulsion in stocks, which
concerned me very nearly, I met one of my companions of the club, who,
noting my disturbed countenance, drew me aside, and told me he was
sorry I had got my foot into the fire; but the club had last night
taken the matter into consideration, and agreed to stand by me, if it
were possible.
All this was heathen Greek to me; and I told my friend I was in no
trouble I knew of, and wanted no countenance from anybody.
"I am very glad to hear it," said he; "but what are you doing with so
much paper in the market? That's no good sign, you'll allow!"
I started aghast, and he proceeded to inform me that he had himself
seen two of my notes for considerable amounts, and had heard of others;
and, finally, that he had just, parted with the president (an intimate
friend of his) of a bank not a furlong off, who had asked divers
questions as to the state of my affairs, and admitted there was paper
of mine at that moment in the bank.
I was seized with consternation, assured him all such notes must be
forgeries; and running with him to the bank, demanded to see any paper
they had with my name to it. They produced two different notes for
large amounts, which I instantly declared to be counterfeit; and then
ran in search of others.
The hubbub created by this declaration was great, but the tumult in my
mind was greater. A horrid suspicion as to the author of the forgeries
entered my soul, and I became so deadly sick as to be unable to
prosecute the inquisition further. My friend deposited me in a coach,
and I was carried to my home, but in a condition more dead than alive.
My suspicions were in a few hours dreadfully confirmed by my friend,
who returned with the intelligence which he had acquired. The forger
was discovered and arrested--it was the elder brother, Ralph Skinner.
Words cannot paint the agony with which I flew to the magistrate's
office, and beheld the unfortunate youth in the hands of justice;
but what was my horror to discover the extent and multiplicity of
his frauds. The number of forgeries he had committed in his parent's
name was indeed enormous; and it seems he had committed them with the
intention of flying; for many of his guilty gains were found secreted
on his person. But even after so much had been recovered, the residue
to be refunded was appalling. The thought of making restitution drove
me almost to a phrensy, while the idea of seeing him carried to jail,
to meet the doom of a felon, was equally distracting. My misery was
read on my face; and some one present, perhaps with a motive of
humanity, cried out,
"Why persecute the young man? Here is his father, who acknowledges the
notes to be genuine."
"Ah," said the magistrate, "does he so? Why, then we have had much
foolish trouble for nothing."
I looked at the amount of the forgeries, a list of which some one put
into my hands.
"It is false," I cried; "I will not pay a cent!"
I cast my eyes upon Ralph. He reached over a table behind which he
stood, and waved his hand to and fro, as if, had he been nigh enough,
he would have buffeted me on the face. His look was that of a demon,
and he spat the foam from his lips, as if to testify the extremity of
hatred.
"Let him go," I cried; "I will pay it all!"
"You can undoubtedly do so, if you will," said the magistrate, who had
marked the malice that beamed from the visage of the young man; "but do
not dream that that will discharge the prisoner from arrest, or from
the necessity of answering the felony of which he now stands accused,
before a court and jury. The extent of the forgeries, and the temper
displayed by the accused, are such, that he must and shall abide the
fruits of his delinquency. He stands committed--officer, remove him."
I heard no more; my brain spun round and round, and I was again carried
insensible to my miserable dwelling.
6. CHAPTER VI.
THE CATASTROPHE OF A TRAGEDY OFTEN PERFORMED ON THE GREAT STAGE OF LIFE.
It may be supposed that the misery now weighing me to the earth was
as much as could be imposed upon me; but I was destined to find, and
that before the night was over, that misery is only comparative, and
that there is no affliction so positively great that greater may not
be experienced. In the dead of the night, when my woes had at last
been drowned in slumber, I was roused by feeling a hand pressing upon
my bosom; and, starting up, I saw, for there was a taper burning on a
table hard by, a man standing over me, holding a pillow in his hand,
which, the moment I caught sight of him, he thrust into my face, and
there endeavoured to hold it, as if to suffocate me.
The horror of death endowed me with a strength not my own, and the
ruffian held the pillow with a feeble and trembling arm. I dashed it
aside, leaped up in the bed, and beheld in the countenance of the
murderer the features of the long missing and abandoned son, Abbot
Skinner.
His face was white and chalky, with livid stains around the eyes and
mouth, the former of which were staring out of their orbits in a manner
ghastly to behold, while his lips were drawn asunder and away from his
teeth, as in the face of a mummy. He looked as if horror-struck at
the act he was attempting; and yet there was something devilish and
determined in his air, that increased my terror to ecstasy. I sprang
from the bed, threw myself on the floor, and, grasping his knees,
besought him to spare my life. There seemed indeed occasion for all my
supplications: his bloated and altered visage, the neglected appearance
of his garments and person, and a thousand other signs, showed that the
whole period of his absence had been passed in excessive toping, and
the murderous and unnatural act which he meditated manifested to what a
pitch of phrensy he had brought himself by the indulgence. As I grasped
his knees, he put his hand into his bosom, and drew out a poniard, a
weapon I had never before known him to carry; at the sight of which I
considered myself a dead man. But the love of life still prevailing, I
leaped up, and ran to a corner of the room, where I mingled adjurations
and entreaties with loud screams for assistance. He stood as if rooted
to the spot for a moment; then dropping his horrid weapon, he advanced
a few paces, clasped his hands together, fell upon his knees, and burst
into tears, and all the while without having uttered a single word. But
now, my cries still continuing, he exclaimed, but with a most wild and
disturbed look--"Father, I won't hurt you, and pray don't hurt _me_!"
By this time the housekeeper Barbara, having been alarmed by my
outcries, came into the chamber; and her presence relieving me of the
immediate fear of death, I gave vent to the horror that his unnatural
attempt on my life justly excited, and thus made the woman acquainted
with his baseness.
The poor old creature, who had always loved him, was greatly affected,
especially when, in reply to my reproaches, he began to talk
incoherently, admitting the fact, one instant attempting to justify
it by preferring some strange and incoherent complaint, and the next
assuring me, in the most piteous manner, that he would do me no harm.
To Barbara's upbraidings he replied with a like inconsistency; and when
she reproached him for meditating violence at such a moment, while I
was mourning the baseness of his brother, he paid little attention to
what she said, seeming not only ignorant of Ralph's delinquency, but
apparently indifferent to it.
For this reason I began to fear his brain was touched; of which,
indeed, I had soon the most fatal proof; for Barbara, having led him
to his chamber, came back, assuring me that he was going mad, that
his mind was already in a ferment, and, in a word, that that horrible
distraction which sooner or later overtakes the confirmed drinker,
was lighting the torch in his brain that could only go out with life
itself. A physician was sent for: our fears were but too just, and
before dawn the miserable youth was raving distracted.
The day that followed was one of distraction, not only to the wretched
Abbot, but to myself; and I remember it as a confused dream. The
only thing that dwells on my recollection, apart from the outcries
in Abbot's chamber and the tumult in my own heart, is, that some one
who owed me a sum of money, due that day, came and paid it into my
hands with great punctiliousness, and that I received and wrote the
acquittance for it with as much accuracy as if nothing were the matter,
though my thoughts were far from the subject before me.
At eleven o'clock at night a messenger came to me from the prison,
and his news was indeed frightful. The wretched Ralph had just been
discovered with his throat cut from ear to ear, having made way with
himself in despair.
A few moments after I was summoned to the death-bed of his brother.
I shall never forget the horror of that young man's dissolution. He
lay, at times, the picture of terror, gazing upon the walls, along
which, in his imagination, crept myriads of loathsome reptiles, with
now some frightful monster, and now a fire-lipped demon, stealing out
of the shadows and preparing to dart upon him as their prey. Now he
would whine and weep, as if asking forgiveness for some act of wrong
done to the being man is most constant to wrong--the loving, the
feeble, the confiding; and anon, seized by a tempest of passion, the
cause of which could only be imagined, he would start up, fight, foam
at the mouth, and fall back in convulsions. Once he sat up in bed, and,
looking like a corpse, began to sing a bacchanalian song; on another
occasion, after lying for many minutes in apparent stupefaction, he
leaped out of bed before he could be prevented, and, uttering a yell
that was heard in the street, endeavoured to throw himself from the
window.
But the last raving act of all was the most horrid. He rose upon his
knees with a strength that could not be resisted, caught up his pillow,
thrust it down upon the bed with both hands, and there held it, with
a grim countenance and a chuckling laugh. None understood the act but
myself: no other could read the devilish thoughts then at work in his
bosom. It was the scene enacted in the chamber of his parent--he was
repeating the deed of murder--he was exulting, in imagination, over a
successful parricide.
In this thought he expired; for while still pressing upon the pillow
with a giant's strength, he suddenly fell on his face, and when turned
over was a corpse. He gave but a single gasp, and was no more.
The horror of the spectacle drove me from the chamber, and I ran to
my own to fall down and die; when the blessed thought entered my
mind, that the wo on my spirit, the anguish, the distraction, were
but a dream--that my very existence, as the miser and broken-hearted
father, was a phantasm rather than a reality, since it was a borrowed
existence--and that it was in my power to exchange it, as I had done
other modes of being, for a better. I was Sheppard Lee, not Abram
Skinner; and this was but a voluntary episode in my existence, which I
was at liberty to terminate.
The thought was rapture. I resolved to sally out and fasten upon the
first body I could find, being certain I could be in none so miserable
as I had been in that I now inhabited. Nay, the idea was so agreeable,
the execution of it seemed to promise such certain release from a load
of wretchedness, that I resolved to attempt it without even waiting for
morning.
I seized upon my hat and cloak, and, for fear I might stumble into some
poor man's body, as I had done in the case of Dawkins's, I opened my
strong-box, and clapped into my pockets all the money it contained,
designing to take precautionary measures to transfer it along with my
spirit to the new tenement. I seized upon the loaned money that had
been repaid that day, together with a small sum that had been in the
box before; and, had there been a million in the coffer, I should have
nabbed it all, without much question of the right I actually possessed
in it. The whole sum was small, not exceeding four hundred dollars, all
being in bank-bills. I should have been glad of more, but was too eager
to exchange my vile casing, with its miseries, for a better, to think
of waiting till bank-hours next day.
Taking possession, therefore, of this sum, and a dozen silver spoons
that had been left in pledge a few days before, I hastened to put my
plan into execution. I slipped down stairs, let myself out of the door
as softly as if I had been an intruder, and set out, in a night of
February, to search for a new body.
7. CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT A MAN MAY BE MORE USEFUL AFTER DEATH THAN
WHILE LIVING.
The reflection that I possessed the power (already thrice successfully
exercised) to transfer my spirit, whenever I willed it, from one
man's body to another, and so get rid of any afflictions that might
beset me, was highly agreeable, and, under the present circumstances,
consolatory. But there was one drawback to my satisfaction; and that
was a discovery which I now made, that men's bodies were not to be
had every day, at a moment's warning. This was the more provoking,
as I knew there was no lack of them in the world, between eighty and
ninety thousand men, women, and children having given up the ghost in
the natural way that very day, whose corses would be on the morrow
consigned to miserable holes in the earth, where they could and would
be of no service to any person or persons whatever, the young doctors
only excepted.
And here I cannot help observing, that it is an extremely absurd
practice thus to dispose of--to squander and throw away, as I may call
it--the hosts of human bodies that are annually falling dead upon our
hands; whereas, with the least management in the world, they might be
converted into objects of great usefulness and value.
According to the computation of philosophers, the population of the
world may be reckoned in round numbers at just one thousand millions;
of which number the annual mortality, at the low rate of three in
a hundred, is thirty millions--and that without counting the extra
million or two knocked on the head in the wars. Let us see what benefit
might be derived from a judicious disposition of this mountain of
mortality--I say mountain, for it is plain such a number of bodies
heaped together would make a Chimborazo. The great mass of mankind
might be made to subserve the purpose for which nature designed them,
namely--to enrich the soil from which they draw their sustenance.
According to the economical Chinese method, each of these bodies could
be converted into five tons of excellent manure; and the whole number
would therefore produce just one hundred and fifty millions of tons;
of which one hundred and fifty thousand, being their due proportion,
would fall to the share of the United States of America, enabling
our farmers, in the course of ten or twelve years, to double the
value of their lands. This, therefore, would be a highly profitable
way of disposing of the mass of mankind. Such a disposition of their
bodies would prove especially advantageous among American cultivators
in divers districts, as a remedy against bad agriculture, and as
the only means of handing down their fields in good order to their
descendants. Such a disposition of bodies should be made upon every
field of victory, so that dead heroes might be made to repair some
of the mischiefs inflicted by live ones. The English farmers, it is
well known, made good use of the bones left on the field of Waterloo;
and though they would have done much better had they carried off the
flesh with them, they did enough to show that war may be reckoned a
good as well as an evil, and a great battle looked upon as a public
blessing. A similar disposition (to continue the subject) of their
mortal flesh might be, with great propriety, required, in this land,
of all politicians and office-holders, from the vice-president down to
the county collector; who, being all patriots, would doubtless consent
to a measure that would make them of some use to their country. As for
the president, we would have him reserved for a nobler purpose; we
would have him boiled down to soap, according to the plan recommended
by the French chymists, to be used by his successor in scouring the
constitution and the minds of the people.
In this manner, I repeat, the great bulk of human bodies could be
profitably appropriated; but other methods should be taken with
particular classes of men, who might claim a more distinguished and
canonical disposition of their bodies. The rich and tender would esteem
it a cruelty to be disposed of in the same way with the multitude. I
would advise, therefore, that their bodies should be converted into
_adipocire_, or spermaceti, to be made into candles, to be burnt at the
tops of the lamp-posts; whereby those who never shone in life might
scintillate as the lights of the public for a week or two after. Their
bones might be made into rings and whistles, for infant democrats to
cut their teeth on.
The French and Italian philosophers, as I have learned from the
newspapers, have made sundry strange, and, as I think, useful
discoveries, in relation to the practicability of converting the human
body into different mineral substances. One man changes his neighbour's
bones into fine glass; a second turns the blood into iron; while a
third, more successful still, transforms the whole body into stone. If
these things be true, and I have no reason to doubt them, seeing that
I found them, as I said before, in the newspapers, they offer us new
modes of appropriation, applicable to the bodies of other interesting
classes. Lovers might thus be converted into jewels, which, although
false, could be worn with less fear of losing them than happens with
living inamoratos; or, in case of extreme grief on the part of the
survivers, into looking-glasses, where the mourners would find a solace
in the contemplation of their own features. The second process, namely,
the conversion of blood into iron, would be peculiarly applicable in
the case of soldiers too distinguished to be cast into corn-fields;
and, indeed, nothing could be more natural than that those whose blood
we buy with gold, should pay us back our change in iron. The last
discovery could be turned to equal profit, and would do away with the
necessity of employing statuaries in all cases where their services are
now required. But I would confine the process of petrifaction to those
in whom Nature had indicated its propriety by beginning the process
herself. None could with greater justice claim to have their bodies
turned into stone, than those whose hearts were of the same material;
and I should propose, accordingly, that such a transformation of bodies
should be made only in the case of tyrants, heroes, duns, and critics.
But this subject, though often reflected on, I have had no leisure to
digest properly. For which reason, begging the reader's pardon for the
digression, I shall now leave it, and resume my story.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
SHEPPARD LEE'S SEARCH FOR A BODY.--AN UNCOMMON INCIDENT.
I was provoked, I say, to think there were so many millions of dead
bodies thrown away every year, for which I, in the greatest of my
difficulties, should be none the better. Such was the extremity
to which I was reduced, that I should have been content to change
conditions with a beggar.
It was a night in February. The day had been uncommonly fine, with a
soft southern air puffing through the streets; the frost was oozing
from the pavement, and the flags--I beg their pardon, the bricks--were
floating in the yellow mud, so that one walked as if upon a foundation
of puddings. Such had been the state of things in the day; such also as
late as at nine o'clock P. M.
But it was now eleven; the wind had chopped round to the northwest and
northeast, and perhaps some half a dozen other points beside, for it
seemed to blow in all directions, and the thermometer was galloping
downward towards zero. A savage snow-storm had just set in, and with
such sharp and piercing gusts of wind, and such fierce rattling of
hail, that, had not my mind been in a ferment, I should have hesitated
to expose myself to its fury. But I reflected that I was flying from wo
and terror; and the hope of diving into some body that might introduce
me to a life of sunshine, rendered me insensible to the rigours of the
tempest.
Having stumbled about in the snow for a while, I began to inquire of
myself whither I was going; and the answer, or rather the want of an
answer, somewhat confounded me. Where was I to look for a dead body,
at such a time of night? It occurred to me I had better refer to a
newspaper, and see what persons had lately died in town and were yet
unburied. I stepped accordingly into a barber's shop, that happened
to be open, and snatched up an evening paper. The first paragraph I
laid my eyes on contained an account of the forgeries of my son, Ralph
Skinner. It was headed _Unheard-of Depravity_, and it blazoned, in
italics and capitals, the crime, the unnatural crime of committing
frauds in the name of a father.
The shock with which I beheld the fatal publication renewed my horror,
and sharpened my desire to end it. I threw down the paper, without
consulting the column of obituaries, and ran towards the Hospital,
where, it appeared to me, I should certainly find one or more bodies
which the doctors had no longer occasion for. But my visit was at
a highly unseasonable hour, and the porter, being knocked out of a
comfortable nap, got up in an ill humour. "Whose cow's dead _now_?" I
heard him grumble from his lodge--"I wonder people can't break their
necks by daylight!"
But my neck was not broken; and he listened to my eager
inquiry--"whether there were no dead bodies in the house?"--with rage
and indignation.
"I tell you what, mister," said he, "we takes no mad people in here,
except they comes the regular way."
And with that he shut the door in my face, leaving me to wonder at his
want of civility.
But the air was growing more frigid every moment, and the hour was
waxing later and later. I ran to the Alms-house, not doubting, as that
was a more democratic establishment, that I should be there received
with greater respect. But good-breeding is not a whit more native to a
leather shirt than to a silk stocking. My Cerberus here was cut from
the same flint as the other; his civility had been learned in the same
school, and his English studied from the same grammar.
"I tell you what, uncle Barebones," said he, without waiting to be
questioned, "we takes no paupers here, except they comes with an order."
And so saying, he slapped to the door with an energy that dislodged
from the roof of his den a full hundred weight or more of snow, which
fell in my face, and had wellnigh smothered me.
The case began to look desperate; but the difficulty of finding what I
wanted only rendered my wits more active. I resolved to run to one of
the medical schools, make my way into its anatomical repositories, and
help myself to the best body I could find; for, indeed, I was in such a
rage of desire to be released from my present tenement, that I did not
design to stand upon trifles.
I set out accordingly, with this object in view; but fate willed I
should seek my fortune in another quarter.
The storm had by this time begun to rage with uncommon violence;
the winds were blowing like so many buglers and trumpeters on a
militia-day, and the snow that had already fallen was whisked up
every moment from the ground, and driven back again into the air, to
mingle in contention with that which was falling. The atmosphere was
thickened, or rather wholly displaced, by the whirling particles, so
that, in a short time, the wayfarer could neither see nor breathe in
the white chaos around him. It was, in truth, a savage, inclement
night. The watchman betook him to his box, to snooze away the hours in
comfort; the lamps went out, being of a spirit still more economical
than their founders, and thinking, with great justice, that the streets
which could do with them, could do equally well without them; the dogs
were no longer heard yelping at the corners; and the pigs--the only
spectres of Philadelphia--that run squeaking and gibbering up and down
the streets in the night, to vanish at early cock-crowing, provided the
hog-catchers are in commission, were one by one retreating to their
secret strongholds, leaving the street to solitude, the snow-storm, and
me.
I plodded on as well as I could, and with such effect, that, after a
quarter hour's trudging, I knew not well whither, I stopped at last,
I knew as little where. Instead of being in the heart of the city, as
I supposed, I found myself somewhere in the suburbs, wedged fast in a
snow-drift. One single lamp, and one single wick of that single lamp,
had escaped the puffs of the tempest; it shone from aloft, through the
rack of snow, like a fire-fly in a fog, dividing its faint beam betwixt
my frozen visage and a low open shed hard by, the only objects, beside
itself, that were visible.
I perceived that I was lost; and being more than half dead with cold, I
dragged myself into the shed, to shelter me from the fury of the storm,
and lament the ill fate that attended my efforts.
As I stepped into the wretched hole, I stumbled over a man lying coiled
up on the ground, and so exposed to the air that his legs were already
heaped over with snow. There was just light enough to discern a black
jug lying broken at his side, from which arose the odour of corn-juice,
but by no means of the true Monongahela savour.
I was struck by the fellow's appearance; he had evidently been lying
there all the evening; the stumble I had made over him did not disturb
him in the least, and my hand chancing to touch his face, I found it
could as marble. I perceived he was dead; a discovery that filled me
with uncommon joy; for my eagerness to change my condition was such,
that I only saw in him a body to be taken possession of, without
reading in the broken jug, and the miserable corner in which its victim
had breathed his last, the newer wretchedness and degradation upon
which I was rushing. Such is the short-sightedness of discontent; such
the folly of the man who deems himself the unluckiest of his species.
With a trembling hand I thrust into the pockets of the corse the money
and the silver spoons I had brought with me, being so far prudent that
I was resolved not to trust the transfer of such valuables to my new
body to accident. This being accomplished, I uttered the wish that had
thrice served my turn before.
I wished, however, in vain; I muttered the charm a dozen times over,
but with no more effect than if I had pronounced it to the lamp-post.
The body lay unmoved, and I remained unchanged.
I became horribly disconcerted; a fear seized me that my good angel, if
I had ever had one, had deserted me; or that the devil, if it was from
him I derived my power of passing from body to body, had suddenly left
me in the lurch;--in a word, that I had consumed all my privileges of
transformation, and was chained to the body of Abram Skinner for life.
I beat my breast in despair, and then, changing from that to wrath, I
began to belabour the ribs of the dead man with all the strength of my
foot, as if he were answerable for my disappointment. Perhaps, indeed,
the reader will think that he _was_; for at the third kick the corpse
became animated, and to my astonishment rose upon its feet, saying, in
accents tolerably articulate, though somewhat thick and tumultuous,
"I say, Charlie, odd rabbit it, none on your jokes now, and none on
your takin of folks up; 'cause how, folks is not half so drunk as you
suppose. And so good night, and let's have no more words about it, and
I'll consider you werry much of a gentleman."
With these words the corpse picked up that fragment of the jug that had
the handle to it, leaving the others, as well as his hat, behind him;
and staggering out of the shed, he began to walk away. I was petrified;
he was stalking off with my money, and a dozen of Mrs. Smith's silver
spoons!
"You villain!" said I, running after him, "give me back my property."
"I'm a free man," said the sot; "I'm no man's property. And so,
Charlie, don't go for to disturb me, for I knows my way home as well as
anybody."
"But the four hundred dollars and the silver spoons," said I, seizing
him by the shoulders, and endeavouring to empty the pockets I had but a
moment before filled. "If you resist, you rogue, I'll put you in jail."
"I won't go to jail for no Charlie in the liberty," said the man of
the jug, who to the last moment seemed to have no other idea than
that he had fallen into the hands of a guardian of the night, and was
in danger of being introduced to warmer quarters than those he was
leaving. He spoke with the indignation of a freeborn republican, who
felt his rights invaded, and was resolute to defend them; and, lifting
up the fragment of his jug, he suddenly bestowed it upon my head with
such good-will that I was felled to the earth. He took advantage of my
downfall to decamp, carrying with him the treasure with which I had so
bountifully freighted him. I pursued him as well as I could, calling
upon the watch for assistance, and shouting murder and robbery at the
top of my voice. But all was in vain; the watch were asleep, or I had
wandered beyond their jurisdiction; and after a ten minutes' chase I
found myself more bewildered than before, and the robber vanished with
his plunder.
9. CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH THE AUTHOR MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A PHILANTHROPIST.
I should have cursed my simplicity in mistaking a drunkard for a dead
man; but I had other evils to distress me besides chagrin. I was lost
in a snow-storm, fainting with fatigue, shivering with cold, and afar
from assistance, there not being a single house in sight. It was in
vain that I sought to recover my way; I plunged from one snow-bank into
another; and I believe I should have actually perished, had not succour
arrived at a moment when I had given over all hopes of receiving it.
I had just sunk down into a huge drift on the roadside, where I lay
groaning, unable to extricate myself, when a man driving by in a chair,
hearing my lamentations, drew up, and demanded, in a most benevolent
voice, what was the matter.
"Who art thou, friend?" said he, "and what are thy distresses? If thou
art in affliction, peradventure there is one nigh at hand who will
succour thee."
"I am," said I, "the most miserable wretch on the earth."
"Heaven be praised!" said the stranger, with great devoutness of
accent; "for in that case I will give thee help, and the night shall
not pass away in vain. Yea, verily, I will do my best to assist thee;
for it is both good and pleasant, a comeliness to the eye and a
refreshment to the spirit, to do good deeds among those who are truly
wretched."
"And besides," said I, "I am sticking fast in the snow, and am
perishing with cold."
"Be of good heart, and hold still for a moment, and I will come to thy
assistance."
And with that honest Broadbrim (for such I knew by his speech he must
be) descended from the chair, and helped me out of the drift; all which
he accomplished with zeal and alacrity, showing not more humanity, as
I thought, than satisfaction at finding such a legitimate object for
its display. He brushed the snow from my clothes, and perceiving I was
shivering with cold, for I had lost my cloak some minutes before, he
transferred one of his own outer garments, of which, I believe, he had
two or three, to my shoulders, plying me all the time with questions
as to how I came into such a difficulty, and what other griefs I might
have to afflict me, and assuring me I should have his assistance.
"Hast thou no house to cover thy nakedness?" he cried; "verily, I will
find thee a place wherein thou shalt shelter thyself from snow and
from cold. Art thou suffering from lack of food? Verily, there is a
crust of bread and the leg of a chicken yet left in my basket of cold
bits, and thou shalt have them, with something further hereafter. Hast
thou no family or friends? Verily, there are many humane persons of my
acquaintance who will, like myself, consider themselves as thy brothers
and sisters. Art thou oppressed with years as well as poverty? Verily,
then thou hast a stronger claim to pity, and it shall be accorded thee."
He heaped question upon question, and assurance upon assurance, with
such haste and fervour, that it was some minutes before I could speak.
I took advantage of his first pause to detail the latest, and, at that
moment, the most oppressive of my griefs.
"I have been robbed," I cried, "of four hundred dollars, and a dozen
silver spoons, by a rascal I found lying drunk under a shed. But I'll
have the villain, if it costs me the half of his plunder, and--"
"Be not awroth with the poor man," said my deliverer. "It was a
wickedness in him to rob thee; but thou shouldst reflect how wickedness
comes of misery, and how misery of the inclemency of the season. Be
merciful to the wicked man, as well as to the miserable; for thereby
thou showest mercy to him who is doubly miserable. But how didst thou
come by four hundred dollars and a dozen silver spoons? Thou canst not
be so poor as to prove an object of charity?"
"No," said I, "I am no beggar. But I won't be robbed for nothing."
"Verily, I say unto thee again, be not awroth with the poor man. Thou
shouldst reflect, if thou wert robbed, how far thou wast thyself the
cause of the evil; for, having four hundred dollars about thee, thou
mightst have relieved the poor creature's wants; in which case thou
wouldst have prevented both a loss and a crime--the one on thy part,
the other on his. Talk not, therefore, of persecuting the poor man;
hunt him up, if thou canst, administer secretly to his wants, and give
him virtuous counsel; and then, peradventure, he will sin no more."
I was struck by the tone and maxims of my deliverer; they expressed an
ardour of benevolence, an enthusiasm of philanthropy, such as I had
never dreamed of before. I could not see his face, the night being
so thick and tempestuous; but there was a complacency, a bustling
self-satisfaction in his voice, that convinced me he was not only a
good, but a happy man. I regarded him with as much envy as respect;
and a comparison, which I could not avoid mentally making, betwixt his
condition and my own, drew from me a loud groan.
"Art thou hurt?" said the good Samaritan. "I will help thee into my
wheeled convenience here, and take thee to thy home."
"No," said I, "I will never go near that wretched house again."
"What is it that makes it wretched?" said the Quaker.
"You will know, if you are of Philadelphia," I replied, "when I tell
you my name. I am the miserable Abram Skinner."
"What! Abram Skinner, the money-lender?" said my friend, with a severe
voice. "Friend Abram, I have heard of thy domestic calamities, and
verily I have heard of those of many others, who laid them all at
thy doors, as the author and cause thereof. Thou art indeed the most
wretched of men; but if thou thinkest so thyself, then is there a hope
thou mayst be yet restored to happiness. Thou hast made money, but
what good hast thou done with it? thou hast accumulated thy hundreds,
and thy thousands, and thy tens of thousands--but how many of thy
fellow-creatures hast thou given cause to rejoice in thy prosperity?
Truly, I have heard much said of thy wealth, and thy avarice, friend
Abram; but, verily, not a word of thy kind-heartedness and charity: and
know, that goodness and charity are the only securities against the
ills, both sore and manifold, that spring from groaning coffers. I say
to thee, friend Abram, hast thou ever given a dollar in alms to the
poor, or acquitted a single penny of obligation to the hard-run of thy
customers?"
My conscience smote me--not, however, that I felt any great remorse
for not having thrown away my money in the way the Quaker meant: but
his words brought a new idea into my mind. It was misery on the one
hand, and the hope of arriving at happiness on the other, which had
spurred me from transformation to transformation. Each change had,
however, been productive of greater discontent than the other; and the
woes with which I was oppressed in my three borrowed bodies, had been
even greater than those that afflicted me in my own proper original
casing. It was plain that I had not exercised a just discretion in the
selection of bodies, since I had taken those of men whose modes of
existence did not dispose to happiness. What mode of existence then was
most likely to secure the content I sought? Such, I inferred from the
Quaker's discourse, as would call into operation the love of goodness
and of man--such as would cause to be cultivated the kindly virtues
unknown to the selfish--such as would lead to the practice of charity
and general philanthropy. I was grieved, therefore, that I had entered
so many bodies for nothing; my conscience accused me of a blunder; and
I longed to enter upon an existence of virtue; not that I had any great
regard for virtue itself, but because I valued my own happiness. Had my
deliverer chanced to break his neck while discoursing to me, I should
have reanimated his corse, to try my hand at benevolence. As for being
good and charitable in the body I then occupied, I felt that it was
impossible: the impulse pointed to another existence.
The Quaker's indignation soon abated; he looked upon my silence as the
effect of remorse, and the idea of converting me into an alms-giver and
a friend of the poor, like himself, took possession of his imagination,
and warmed his spirit. By such a conversion his philanthropic desires
would be doubly gratified; it would make _me_ happy, and, as I was
a rich man, some hundreds of others also. He helped me into the
chair, and driving slowly towards the city, attempted the good work
by describing the misery so prevalent in the suburbs, and dilating
with uncommon enthusiasm upon the delight with which every act of
benevolence would be recorded in my own bosom.
It seems that he was returning from a mission of charity in one of
the remotest districts, where he had relieved the necessities of
divers unhappy wretches; and, he gave me to understand, it was his
purpose to make one more charitable visitation before returning home,
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour and the fury of the tempest.
And this visit he felt the more urged to make, since it would afford a
practical illustration of his remarks, and show how doubly charity was
blessed, both to the giver and receiver.
"Thou shalt see," said he, "even with thine own eyes, what power he
that hath money hath over the afflictions of his race--what power to
dry the tear of the mourning, and to check the wicked deeds of the
vicious. He that I will now relieve is what thou didst foolishly call
thyself--to wit, the most miserable of men; for he is both a beggar and
a convicted felon, having but a few days since been discharged from the
penitentiary, where he had served out his three years, for, I believe,
the third time in his life."
"Surely," said I, "he is then a reprobate entirely unworthy pity."
"On the contrary," said the philanthropist, "he is for that reason the
more to be pitied, since all regard him with distrust and abhorrence,
and refuse him the relief without which he must again become a
criminal: the very boys say to him, 'Get up, thou old jail-bird;' and
men and women hoot at him in the streets. Poverty made him a criminal,
and scorn has hardened his heart; yet is he a man with a soul; and
verily thou shalt see how that soul can be melted by the breath of
compassion. In this little hovel we shall find him," said the Quaker,
drawing up before a miserable frame building, which was of a most
lonely aspect, and in a terrible state of dilapidation, the windows
being without shutters and glasses, and even the door itself half torn
from its hinges.
"It is a little tenement that belongeth to me," said my friend; "and
here I told him he might shelter him, until I could come in person and
relieve him. A negro-man whom I permitted to live here for a while
did very ungratefully, that is to say, very thoughtlessly--destroy
the window-shutters, and other loose work, for fire-wood, I having
forgotten to supply him with that needful article, and he, poor man,
being too bashful to acquaint me with his wants. Verily I do design to
render it more comfortable; but in these hard times one cannot find
more money than sufficeth to fill the mouths of the hungry. Descend,
friend Abram, and let us enter. I see the poor man hath a fire shining
through the door; this will warm thy frozen limbs, while the sound
of his grateful acknowledgments will do the same good office for thy
spirit."
10. CHAPTER X.
CONTAINING AN AFFECTING ADVENTURE WITH A VICTIM OF THE LAW.
My benevolent friend, leaving his horse standing at the door, led the
way into the hovel, the interior of which was still more ruinous than
the outside. It consisted of but a single room below, with a garret
above. A meager fire, which furnished the only light, was burning on
the hearth, to supply which the planks had been torn from the floor,
leaving the earth below almost bare. There was not a single article
of furniture visible, save an old deal table without leaves, a broken
chair, and a tattered scrap of carpet lying near the fire, which seemed
to have served as both bed and blanket to the wretched tenant.
"How is this?" said the Friend, in surprise. "Verily I did direct my
man Abel to carry divers small comforts hither, which have vanished, as
well as the poor man, John Smith."
John Smith, it seems, was the name of the beneficiary, and that
convinced me he was a rogue. I ventured to hint to our common friend,
that John Smith, having disposed of those "small comforts" he spoke of
to the best advantage, was now engaged seeking others in some of our
neighbours' houses; and that the wisest thing we could do in such a
case would be to take our departure.
"Verily," said my deliverer, with suavity, "it is not possible John can
do the wicked things thou thinkest of; for, first, it is but three days
since he left the penitentiary, and secondly, I sent him by my helper
and friend, Abel Snipe, sufficient eatables to supply him a week; so
that he could have no inducement to do a wicked thing. Still it doth
surprise me that he is absent; nevertheless, we will tarry a little
while, lest peradventure he should return, and be in trouble, with none
to relieve him. It wants yet ten minutes to midnight," continued the
benevolent man, drawing out a handsome gold watch, "and five of these
at least we can devote to the poor creature."
I was about to remonstrate a second time, when a step was heard
approaching at a distance in the street.
"Peradventure it is John himself," said my friend; "and peradventure it
will be better thou shouldst step aside into yonder dark corner for an
instant, that thou mayst witness, without restraining by thy presence,
the feelings of virtue that remain in the spirit, even when tainted and
hardened by depravity."
I crept away, as I was directed, to a corner, where I might easily
remain unobserved, the room being illumined only by the fire, and that
consisting of little besides embers and ashes. From this place I saw
Mr. John Smith as he entered, which he declined doing until after he
had peeped suspiciously into the apartment, and been summoned by the
voice of his benefactor.
He was as ill-looking a dog as I had ever laid eyes on, and his
appearance was in strange contrast with that of his benevolent patron.
The latter was a tall and rawboned man of fifty, with an uncommonly
prepossessing visage; rather lantern-jawed, perhaps, but handsome and
good-natured. The other was a slouch of a fellow, short of stature,
but full of fat and brawn, with bow legs, gibbon arms, and a hang-dog
visage. He sidled up to the fire hesitatingly, and, indeed, with an air
of shame and humility; while the philanthropist, laying his watch upon
the table, extended his hand towards him.
"Be of good heart, friend John," he said; "I come, not to reproach thee
for thy misdeeds, but to counsel thee how thou shalt amend them, and
restore thyself again to the society of the virtuous."
"'Es, sir," grumbled John Smith, dodging his head in humble
acknowledgment, rubbing his hands for warmth over the fire, and
casting a sidelong look at his benefactor. "Werry good of you, sir;
shall ever be beholden. Werry hard times for one what's been in the
penitentiary--takes away all one's repurtation; and, Lord bless us,
sir, a man's but a ruined man when a man hasn't no repurtation."
And with that worthy John drew his sleeve over his nose, which
convinced me he was not so much of a rascal as I thought him.
"John, thou hast been but as a sinner and a foolish man."
"'Es, sir," said John, with another rub of his sleeve at his nose; "but
hard times makes hard work of a poor man. Always hoped to mend and be
wirtuous; but, Lord bless us, Mr. Longstraw (beg pardon--can't think of
making so free to say friend to such a great gentleman), one can't be
wirtuous with nothing to live on."
"Verily, thou speakest, in a measure, the truth," said my friend;
"and I intend thou shalt now be put in some way of earning an honest
livelihood."
"'Es, sir," said John; "and sure I shall be werry much beholden."
But it is not my intention to record the conversation of the worthy
pair. I am writing a history of myself, and not of other people; and
I therefore think it proper to pursue no discourses in which I did
not myself bear a part. It is sufficient to say, that my deliverer
said a thousand excellent things in the way of counsel, which the
other received very well, and many indicative of a disposition to be
charitable, which Mr. John Smith received still better; and in the end,
to relieve the pressing wants of the sufferer, which Mr. John Smith
feelingly represented, drew forth a pocketbook, and took therefrom a
silver dollar; at the sight of which, I thought, Mr. John Smith looked
a little disappointed. Nay, it struck me that the appearance of the
pocketbook, ancient and ill-looking as it was, had captivated his
imagination in a greater degree than the coin. I had before observed
him steal several affectionate looks towards the gold watch lying on
the table, which now, however, the sight of the well-thumbed wallet
seemed to have driven from his thoughts entirely. Nevertheless, he
received the silver dollar with many thanks, and with still more the
assurance that the philanthropist would procure him employment on the
morrow; and Mr. Longstraw's eyes, as he turned to beckon me from the
corner, began to twinkle with the delight of self-approbation.
I was myself beginning to feel a sentiment of pleasure, and to picture
to my mind the unfortunate felon, converted, by a few words of counsel,
and still fewer dollars of charity, into an honest and worthy member of
society, when--oh horror of horrors!--the repenting convict suddenly
snatched up a brand from the fire, and discharged it, with a violence
that would have felled an ox, full upon the head of his patron.
The sparks flew from the brand over the whole room, and my friend
dropped upon the floor on his face, followed by the striker, who,
seizing upon his cravat, twisted it tightly round the unfortunate man's
throat, thus completing by strangulation the murder more than half
accomplished by the below.
The whole affair was the work of an instant; and had I possessed
the will or courage to interfere, I could not have done so in time
to arrest the mischief. But, in truth, I had not the power to stir;
horror and astonishment chained me to the corner, where I stood as if
transformed to stone, unable even to vent my feelings in a cry. I was
seized with a terrible apprehension on my own account; for I could
not doubt that the wretch who would thus murder a benefactor for a
few dollars, would have as little hesitation to despatch me, who had
witnessed the deed. I feared every moment lest the villain should
direct his eye to the corner in which I stood, separated from him only
a few yards; but he was too busy with his horrid work to regard me;
and, terrified as I was, I looked on in safety while my deliverer was
murdered before my eyes.
How long Mr. John Smith was at his dreadful work I cannot say; but I
saw him, after a while, relax his grasp from his victim's throat, and
fall to rummaging his pockets. Then, leaping up, he seized upon the
watch, and clapped it into his bosom, saying, with a most devilish
chuckle and grin,
"Damn them 'ere old fellers what gives a man a dollar, and preaches
about wirtue! I reckon, old Slabsides, there's none on your people will
hang me for the smash. Much beholden to you for leaving the horse and
chair; it makes all safer."
With these words the wretch slipped out of the hovel, and a moment
after I heard the smothered roll of the vehicle as it swept from the
door.
11. CHAPTER XI.
IN WHICH THE PLOT THICKENS, AND THE TRAGEDY GROWS DEEPER.
I supposed that Mr. John Smith had taken himself away with as much
speed as was consistent with the strength of his horse and the safety
of his bones, and I recovered from the fears I had entertained on my
own account. I crept up to the philanthropist to give him assistance,
if such could be now rendered. But it was too late; he was already
dead: Mr. John Smith had not taken his degrees without proper study
in his profession; and I must say that his practice on the present
occasion did not go far to confirm me in the love of benevolence.
Nevertheless, the appearance of the defunct threw my mind into a
ferment. I had been hunting a body, and now I had one before me; I had
come to believe that, if I wished for happiness, I must get possession
of one whose occupant had previously been happy; and I had seen enough
of the deceased to know that he had been an uncommonly comfortable and
contented personage.
The end of all this was a resolution, which I instantly made, to
take advantage of the poor man's misfortune, and convert his body
to my own purposes. I had seen him for the first time that night; I
did not remember ever to have heard his name mentioned before; and I
consequently knew nothing of him beyond what I had just learned. Where
he lived, who were his connexions, what his property, &c. &c., were
all questions to which I was to find answers thereafter. It appeared
to me that a philanthropist of his spirit and age (the latter of which
I judged to be about fifty) could not but be very well known, and that
all I should have to do, after reanimating his body, would be to seek
the assistance of the first person I should find, and so be conducted
at once to the gentleman's house; after which all would go well enough.
But, in truth, I took but little time for reflection; or perhaps I
should not have been in such a hurry to attempt a transformation. A
little prudence might have led me to inquire into the consequences of
the change, inferred from the condition of the body. Suppose his scull
should prove to be broken; who was to stand the woes of trepanning? I
do say, it would have been wiser had I thought of _that_--but unluckily
I did not: I was in too great a hurry to think of any thing save the
transformation itself; and the result was, that I had a lesson on the
demerits of leaping before looking, which I think will be of service to
me for the remainder of my life, as it might be to the reader, could
the reader be brought to believe that that experience is good for any
thing, which costs nothing.
My resolution was quickened by a step which I heard approaching along
the street. "It is a watchman," thought I to myself: "I will jump into
the body and run out for assistance."
I turned to the defunct.
"Friend Longstraw," said I, "or whatever your name is, if you are
really dead, I wish to occupy your body."
That moment I lost all consciousness. The reader may infer the transfer
of spirit was accomplished.
And so it was. I came to my senses a few moments after, just in time
to find myself tumbling into a hole in the earth beneath the floor of
the hovel, with Mr. John Smith hard by, dragging to the same depository
the mortal frame I had just deserted. I perceived at once the horrible
dilemma in which I was placed; I was on the point of being buried, and,
what was worse, of being buried alive!
"I conjure and beseech thee, friend John Smith," I cried--but cried no
more. The villain had just reached the pit, dragging the body of the
late Abram Skinner. He was startled at my voice; but it only quickened
him in his labours. He snatched up the corse and cast it down upon me
as one would a millstone; and the weight, though that was not very
considerable, and the shock together, jarred the life more than half
out of me.
"What! old Slabsides," said he, "ar'n't you past grumbling?"
With that, the bloody-minded miscreant seized upon a fragment of plank,
and began to belabour me with all his strength.
I had entered the philanthropist's body only to be murdered. I uttered
a direful scream; but that was only a waste of the breath which Mr.
John Smith was determined to waste for me. He redoubled his blows with
a vigour that showed he was in earnest; nor did he cease until his work
was completed. In a word, he murdered me, and so effectually, that it
is a wonder I am alive to tell it. He assassinated me, and even began
to bury me, by tumbling earth down from the floor; when, as my good
fate would have it, the scene was brought to a climax by the sudden
entrance of a watchman, who, running up to the villain, served him the
same turn he had served me, by laying a leaded mace over his head, and
so knocking him out of his senses.
It seems (for I scorn to keep the reader in suspense, by indulging in
mystery) that this faithful fellow, having made a shorter nap than
was warranted by the state of the night, had taken a stroll into the
air, to look about him; that he had passed the hovel, and, seeing the
chair standing at the door, had looked through a crack, and perceived
Mr. Longstraw, with whose person and benevolent character he was
acquainted, and myself--that is, my late self--warming ourselves by the
convict's fire; and that, after pursuing his beat for a while, he was
about to return by another way, when, to his surprise, he lighted upon
the vehicle at more than a square's distance from the house; and the
horse being tied to a post, it was evident he had not strayed thither.
This awaking a suspicion that all was not right, he determined to pay
a second visit to the hovel; and was on the way thither when I set up
the scream mentioned before. Then quickening his pace, he arrived in
time to witness the awful spectacle of Mr. John Smith thrusting the two
bodies into the pit; which operation the courageous watchman brought to
a close by knocking the operator on the head, as I have related.
What had brought Mr. John Smith back again, and why he should have
troubled himself to conceal the victim of his murderous cupidity, must
be conjectured, as well as the amazement with which, doubtless, he
found he had _two_ bodies to bury instead of one. He perhaps reflected,
that the visit of his patron was known to other persons; who, upon
finding his body, would readily conjecture who was the murderer; and
therefore judged it proper to conceal the evidence of assassination,
and leave the fate of his benefactor in entire mystery.
As it happened, his return had wellnigh proved fatal to me, and it
was any thing but happy for himself. It caused him to take up his
lodgings for a fourth time in the penitentiary; and there he is sawing
stone, I believe, to this day, unless pardoned out by the Governor of
Pennsylvania, according to the practice among governors in general.
The visitation was, however, thus far advantageous to me, that it
caused me to be conducted to the dwelling of Mr. Longstraw with all
due expedition and care; whereas, had it not happened, I might have
remained lying on the floor of my miserable tenement until frozen to
death; for the night was uncommonly bitter.
As for my late body, it found its way to Abram Skinner's mansion;
whence, having been handsomely coffined, it was carried to the grave,
which, but for me, it would have filled three months before.
BOOK V.
CONTAINING THE ADVENTURES OF A GOOD SAMARITAN.
1. CHAPTER I.
THE PHILANTHROPIST'S FAMILY.
If my first introduction to the life of the philanthropic Zachariah
Longstraw (for that was his name) was attended with circumstances of
fear and danger, I did not thereby escape those other evils, which, as
I hinted before, might have been anticipated, had I reflected a moment
on the situation of his body. It was covered with bruises from head to
foot, and there was scarce a sound bone left in it; so that, as I may
say, I had, in reanimating it, only exchanged anguish of spirit for
anguish of body; and which of these is the more intolerable, I never
could satisfactorily determine. Philosophers, indeed, contend for the
superior poignancy of the former; but I must confess a leaning to the
other side of the question. What is the pain of a broken heart to that
of the toothache? The poets speak of vipers in the bosom; what are
they compared to a bug in the ear? Be this, however, as it may, it is
certain I had a most dreadful time of it in Mr. Longstraw's body; and
it would have been much worse, had not the blows I had received on the
head kept me for a long time in a delirium, and therefore in a measure
unconscious of my sufferings. The truth is, the body which I so rashly
entered was in such a dilapidated condition, so bruised and mangled,
that it was next to an impossibility to restore its vital powers; and
it was more than two weeks, after lying all that time in a state of
insensibility, more dead than alive, before I came to my senses, and
remembered what had befallen me; and it was not until four more had
elapsed that I was finally able to leave my chamber, and snuff the
early breezes of spring.
As soon as I began to take notice of what was passing about me, I
perceived that I lay in a good, though plainly-furnished chamber, and
that, besides the physicians and other persons who occasionally bustled
around me, there were two individuals so constantly in attendance,
and so careful and affectionate in all their deportment, that I did
not doubt they were members of my new family. Indeed, I had no sooner
looked upon their faces, and heard their voices, than I felt a glow of
satisfaction within my spirit; which convinced me they were my very
dear and faithful friends, and that I loved them exceedingly.
They were both young men, the one perhaps of twenty-five, the other
six or seven years older. Both were decked in Quaker garments, the
elder being uncommonly plain in his appearance, wearing smallclothes,
shoe-buckles, and a hat with a brim full five inches wide, which he
seldom laid aside. These gave him a patriarchal appearance, highly
striking in one of his youth, which was much increased by an uncommon
air of gravity and benevolence beaming from his somewhat swarthy and
hollow visage.
The younger had no such sanctimonious appearance. There was a janty
look even in the cut of his straight coat; he had a handsome face, and
seemed conscious of it; he swung about the room at times with a strut
that excited his own admiration; and any three moments out of five he
might be seen before the looking-glass, surveying his teeth, inspecting
the sweep of his shoulders, and brushing up his hair with his fingers.
His plain coat was set at naught by a vest and trousers of the most
fashionable cut and pattern; he had a gold guard-chain, worn abroad,
and his watch, which, in all likelihood, was gold also, was stuck in
his vest-pocket, in the manner approved of by bucks and men of the
world, instead of being deposited, according to the system of the wise,
in a fob over the epigastrium; and, to crown his list of vanities, he
had in his shirt a breastpin, which he took care to keep constantly
visible, containing jewels of seven or eight different colours. It
was manifest the young gentleman, if a Quaker, as his coat showed him
to be, was quite a free one; and, indeed, the first words I heard him
utter (which were also the first that I distinguished after rousing
from my long sleep of insensibility) set the matter beyond question. I
saw him peer into my face very curiously, and directly heard him call
out to his companion--"I say, Snipe, by jingo, uncle Zack's beginning
to look like a man in his senses!"
These words imparted a sensation of pleasure to my breast, but I felt
impelled to censure the young man for the freedom of his expressions.
My tongue, however, seemed to have lost its function; and while I was
vainly attempting to articulate a reprimand, the other rushed up, and,
giving me an earnest stare, seized upon one of my hands, which he fell
to mumbling and munching in a highly enthusiastic manner, crying out,
with inexpressible joy and fervour, "Blessed be the day! and does thee
open thee eyes again? Verily, this shall be a day of rejoicing, and
not to me only, the loving Abel Snipe, but to thousands. Does thee
feel better, Zachariah, my friend and patron? Verily, the poor man
that has mourned for thee shall be now as one that rejoices; for thee
shall again speak to him the words of tenderness, and open the hand of
alms-giving; yea, verily, and the afflicted shall mourn no more!"
These words were even more agreeable than those uttered by the junior;
and I experienced a feeling of displeasure when the latter suddenly
cut them short by exclaiming, "Come, Snipe, none of thee confounded
nonsense. I reckon uncle Zack has had enough philanthropy for the
season; and don't thee go to humbug him into it any more. Thee has made
thee own fortune, and should be content."
"Verily, friend Jonathan," said the fervent Abel Snipe, addressing the
junior, but still tugging at my hand, "thee does not seem to rejoice
at thee uncle's recovery as thee should; but thee jokes and thee jests
sha'n't make my spirit rejoice the less."
"Verily," said Jonathan, "so it seems; but if thee tugs at uncle Zack
in that way, and talks so loud, thee will do his business."
"Verily," said Abel--
"And verily," said Jonathan, interrupting him, "thee will say it is
thee business to do his business; which is very true--but not in
the sense of murder. So let us hold our tongues; and do thou, uncle
Zachariah," he added, addressing me, "keep thyself quiet, and take this
dose of physic."
It was unspeakable how much my spirit was warmed within me by this
friendly contest between the two young men, and by their looks of
affection. I longed to embrace them both, but had not the strength;
and, indeed, it was three or four days more before I felt myself able,
or was allowed by the physicians, to indulge in conversation.
At the expiration of that period I found myself growing stronger; the
twenty thousand different pangs that had besieged my body, from the
crown of my head to the sole of my foot, whenever I attempted to move,
were less racking and poignant; and, waking from a slumber that had
been more agreeable than usual, and finding no one near me save the
ever faithful Abel Snipe, I could no longer resist the impulse to speak
to him.
"Abel Snipe," said I.
"Blessed be thee kind voice, that it speaks again!" said Abel Snipe,
devouring my hand as before, and blubbering as he devoured.
"Thy name is Abel Snipe?" said I.
"Verily and surely, it is Abel Snipe, and no other," said he; "I hope
thee don't forget me?"
"Why, really," said I, "I can't exactly say, friend Abel, seeing that
there has a confusion come over my brain. But art thou certain I am no
longer Abram Skinner?"
At this question Abel Snipe's eyes jumped half out of his head, and
they regarded me with wo and horror. I saw he thought my wits were
unsettled, and I hastened to remove the impression.
"Don't be alarmed, friend Abel; but, of a verity, I think I was killed
and buried."
"Yea," said Abel; "yea, verily, the vile, ungrateful, malicious John
Smith did smite thee over the head with a club, so that the bone was
broken, and thee was as one that was dead; but oh! the villain! we have
him fast in jail; and oh! the unnatural rascal! we'll hang him!"
"Verily," said I, feeling uncommon concern at the idea, "we will do no
such wicked deed; but we will admonish the poor man of the wickedness
of his ways, and, relieving his wants, discharge him from bondage."
"Yea," said Abel Snipe, with an air of contrition; "so will we do, as
becometh the merciful man and Christian. But, verily, the flesh did
quarrel with the spirit, and the old Adam cried out to me, 'Blood for
blood,' and the thing that is flesh said, 'Vengeance on the wicked man
that smote the friend of the afflicted!' But now thy goodness reproves
me, and teaches me better things: wherefore I say, be not hard with the
miserable man, for such is the wicked, and such is John Smith; who is
now mourning over his foolish acts in the county prison. Yea, verily,
we will be exceeding lenient,"--and so forth, and so forth.
I do not think it needful to repeat all the wise and humane things
said by Abel Snipe: they convinced me he was the most benevolent of
beings, and warmed a similar spirit that was now burning in my breast,
and which burnt on until it became at last a general conflagration of
philanthropy. Yea, the transformation was complete; I found within
me, on the sudden, a raging desire to augment the happiness of my
fellow-creatures; and wondered that I had ever experienced any other
passion. The generous Abel discoursed to me of the thousands I--that
is, my prototype, the true Zachariah--had rescued from want and
affliction, and of the thousands whom I was yet to relieve. My brain
took fire at the thought, and I exulted in a sense of my virtue; I
perceived, in imagination, the tear of distress chased away by that
of gratitude; I heard the sob of sorrow succeeded by the sigh of
happiness, and the prayer of beseeching changed to the prayer of praise
and thanksgiving. A gentle warmth flowed from my bosom through the
uttermost bounds of my frame, and I felt that I was a happy man; yea,
reader, yea, and verily, I was at last happy. My only affliction was,
that the battered condition of my body prevented my sallying out at
once, and practising the noble art of charity. The tears sprang into my
eyes when Abel recounted the numbers of the miserable who had besieged
my doors during my two weeks of insensibility, crying for assistance.
"Why didst thou not relieve them, Abel Snipe?" I exclaimed.
"Verily," said Abel, turning his eyes to heaven with a look of fervent
rapture, "I did relieve the sorrowing and destitute even to the
uttermost penny that was in my pocket. Blessed be the deed, for I have
not now a cent that I can call my own. As for thine, Zachariah, it
became me not to dispense it, without thy spoken authority; the more
especially as thy nephew, Jonathan, did hint, and vehemently insist,
that thou hadst bestowed too much already for thy good, and his."
These words filled me with concern and displeasure.
"Surely," said I, "the young man Jonathan is not averse to deeds of
charity?"
"Verily," said Abel, clasping his hands, and looking as if he would
have wept, "the excellent and beloved youth doth value money more than
the good which money may produce; and of that good he esteemeth chiefly
the portion that falleth to his own lot. Of a surety, I do fear he hath
an eagerness and hankering, a fleshly appetite and an exceeding strong
desire, after the things of the world. He delighteth in the vanity of
fine clothes, and his discourse is of women and the charms thereof.
He hath bought the picture of a French dancing-woman, and hung it in
his chamber, swearing (for he hath a contempt for affirmation) that
it is a good likeness of the maiden Ellen Wild; and yesterday I did
perceive him squeaking at a heathenish wind-instrument, called a flute,
and thereupon he did avow an intention to try his hand at that more
paganish thing of strings, called a fiddle; and, oh! what grieved me
above all, and caused the spirit within me to cry 'avaunt! and get thee
away, Jonathan,' he did offer me a ticket, of the cost of one dollar,
to procure me admission into the place of sin and vanity, called the
theatre, swearing 'by jingo' and 'by gemini' there was 'great fun
there,' and offering to lend me a coat, hat, and trousers, so that the
wicked should not know me. Yea, verily, the young man is as a young
lion that roameth up and down--as a sheep that wandereth from the
pinfold into the forbidden meadows--and as for charity, peradventure
thee will not believe me, but he averred, 'the only charity he believed
in was that which began at home.'"
These confessions of the faithful Abel in relation to the young man
Jonathan, caused my spirit to wax sorrowful within me. But it is
fitting, before pursuing such conversations further, that I should
inform the reader _who_ the faithful Abel and the young man Jonathan
were.
The latter, as Abel himself informed me, was my--or, if the reader
will, my prototype's--nephew, the only, and now orphan, son of a
sister, who had married, as the phrase is, "out of meeting," and, dying
destitute, left her boy to the charge of the benevolent Zachariah,
who, being himself childless, adopted him as his son and heir, and had
treated him as such, from his childhood up. The great wish of Zachariah
was to make the adopted son a philanthropist, like himself; in which,
however, he was destined to disappointment; for Jonathan was of a wild
and worldly turn, fond of frolic and amusement, and extremely averse to
squander in works of charity the possessions he designed applying in
future years to his own benefit. Nevertheless, he was greatly beloved
by his uncle; and I, who was imbued with that uncle's spirit, and
destined to love and abhor what he had loved and abhorred, whether I
would or not, soon began to regard him as one of the two apples of my
eyes.
2. CHAPTER II.
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE WORTHY ABEL SNIPE.
The faithful Abel Snipe, it seems (his history was told me by
Jonathan), was a man whom Zachariah, some years before, while playing
the Howard in a neighbouring sovereignty, had found plunged in deep
distress, and making shoes in the penitentiary. To this condition he
had been reduced by sheer goodness; for, being an amateur in that
virtuous art of which Zachariah was a professor, and having no means
of his own to relieve the woes of the wretched, he had borrowed from
the hoards of his employers (the president and directors of a certain
stock-company, in whose office he had a petty appointment), and thus,
perforce, made charitable an institution that was chartered to be
uncharitable. He committed the fault, however, of borrowing without
the previous ceremony of asking--either because he was of so innocent
a temper as to think such a proceeding unnecessary, or because he knew
beforehand that the request would not be granted; and the consequence
was, that the president and directors, as aforesaid, did very
mercilessly hand him over to the prosecuting attorney, the prosecuting
attorney to a grand jury, the grand jury to a petit jury, the petit
jury to a penitentiary, and the penitentiary to the devil--or such,
at least, would have been the ending of the unfortunate amateur, had
not the philanthropist, who always ordered his shoes, for charity's
sake, at the prison, been struck with the uncommon excellence of a pair
constructed by Abel's hands.
He sought out the faithful maker (for sure a man must be faithful to
make a good pair of shoes in a penitentiary), was melted by his tale
of wo, even as the wax through which Abel was then drawing a bunch of
ends was melted by the breath thereof; and shedding tears to find the
poor creature's virtue so shabbily rewarded, ran to the prosecutors
with a petition, which he induced them to sign, transmitted it to the
governor, with a most eloquent essay on the divine character of mercy,
and, in less than a week, walked Abel Snipe out of prison, a pardoned
man.
The charity of the professor did not end with Abel's liberation.
Enraptured with the fervour of his gratitude, touched by the
artlessness of his character, and moved by the destitution to which a
pardon in the winter-time exposed him, he carried him to his own land
and house, fed, clothed, and employed him upon a new pair of shoes;
and, discovering that he had talents for a nobler business, advanced
him in time to the rank of accountant, or secretary, collector of
rents, dispenser of secret charities, and, in general, factotum and
fiduciary at large. Such a servant was needed by the humane Zachariah;
his philanthropy left him no time to attend to his own affairs, and his
nephew Jonathan had fallen in love, and become incompetent to their
management.
Never was experiment more happy for subject and object: Abel Snipe
was made an honest and useful man; and Zachariah Longstraw obtained a
friend and servant without price. The gratitude of Abel was equal to
his ability; humility, fidelity, and religion, were the least of his
virtues--he became a philanthropist, like his master. He managed his
affairs with such skill, that Zachariah had always pennies at hand
for the unfortunate; which, it seems, had not always happened before;
and, what was equally charming, the zealous Abel dived into every
lane, alley, and gutter, to discover new objects of charity for his
patron. To crown all, he felt moved in the spirit to profess the faith
so greatly adorned by his protector; and, after due preparation and
probation, appeared in the garb of peace and humility, and even went so
far as to hold forth once at meeting.
In a word, Abel Snipe was a jewel of the first water, who supplied
the place of the idle Jonathan in all matters of business, and almost
in the affections of his kinsman. If not equally beloved, he was more
highly esteemed; and his shining worth consoled the philanthropist for
many of the derelictions of his nephew. He became the confidant, the
coadjutor, and the adviser of Zachariah; and Zachariah never found
occasion to lament the be nevolence that had redounded so much to his
own advantage.
3. CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH THE YOUNG MAN JONATHAN ARGUES SEVERAL CASES OF CONSCIENCE,
WHICH ARE RECOMMENDED TO BE BROUGHT BEFORE YEARLY MEETING.
My nephew Jonathan had no great love for poor Abel; and he did not tell
me his story without passing sundry sarcasms on him, as well as myself,
for bestowing so much confidence on the poor unfortunate man. I rebuked
the youth for his freedom and uncharitableness, and remembering what
Abel had told me of his own idle and trifling course of life, I felt
impelled by the new spirit of virtue that possessed me to take him
to task; which I did in the following manner; and it is wondrous how
completely and how soon (for I was yet lying on my back, groaning with
my unhealed wounds and bruises) my spirit assumed and acted upon all
that was peculiar in the nature of Zachariah Longstraw.
"Nevvy Jonathan," said I, "the uncharitableness of thy spirit afflicts
me. Trouble not thyself to censure the worthy Abel Snipe; but think
how thou shalt amend thine own crying faults. It has been said to me,
Jonathan, my son, and verily I fear it is true, that thou squeakest
upon flutes, and that thou makest profane noises with fiddles; and,
furthermore, that thou runnest after, and dost buy, the vanity of
pictures, and triest thy hand at painting the same."
"I do," said Jonathan; "and I find nothing against them in the
Scripture."
"Verily," said I, "but dost thou find nothing against them in thine own
spirit?"
"Not a whit," said Jonathan; "my heart says _love them_, and my head
approves the counsel. Where's the harm in these things? I know thee
don't say they are in themselves sinful."
"Verily, no," said I; "but they are indirectly so; for, being wholly
useless, the time bestowed upon them is time lost and wasted; and that,
nevvy Jonathan, I think thee will allow to be sinful."
"Not I," said Jonathan, stoutly; "I don't believe the wasting of time
to be any such heinous matter as thee supposes; had it been so, man
would not have been made to waste a third of his existence in slumber.
But granting this, for the sake of argument, I deny thy premises,
uncle Zachariah. The time bestowed upon these things is not wasted.
Heaven has given to nine men out of ten a capacity to enjoy both music
and painting; it has done more--it has set an example of both before
our eyes, and thus laid the foundation of the divine arts in Nature.
What is the world around us but a great concert-hall, echoing with the
music of bird and beast, of wind, water, and foliage? what but a great
gallery of pictures, painted by the hand of Providence? Nature is a
painter--Nature is a musician; and her sons can do nothing better
than follow her example. But were Nature neither, it is not the less
evident that these arts are lawful and sinless. They can be proved so,
uncle Zachariah, upon thine own system of philanthropy; for they add
to the happiness of our existence, and they do so without corrupting
our morals or injuring our neighbours. I say, uncle," quoth Jonathan,
who had pronounced this defence with much enthusiasm, and now concluded
with a grin of triumph, "I have thee there dead as a herring!"
"Verily," said I, more pleased than offended at the young man's
ingenuity, for my spirit yearned over him the more at every word, "thee
has a talent for argument, which I would thee would cultivate; for then
thee could get into the Assembly, and finally, perhaps, into Congress,
and do much good to thy fellow-men, by reforming divers crying abuses."
"Verily," said he, "the first thing I should reform would be thy
philanthropy."
"Don't be funny, nevvy," said I, "for I have not done with thee. Thee
was dancing last night, in the house of the vain man Ebenezer Wild."
"I was," said Jonathan; "I was shaking my legs; and I can't see the
harm of it, for the flies do the same thing all day long."
"Verily, thee should remember that a reasonable being, that hath a
brain, should rather exercise that than his heels."
"I grant thee," said Jonathan; "but thee knows brains are not so
abundant as heels; and thee should expect the mass of people to conduct
according to their endowments."
"Jonathan," said I, "if thee thinks to make me laugh, thee is mistaken.
Of a verity I will not be rigid with thee; but, verily, I must speak to
thee of what I hold thy faults. Thou hast a vain and eager hankering
after the society of giddy women."
"I have!" said Jonathan, with great fervour. "Heaven made women to be
loved, and I love them--especially Ellen Wild!"
"Sure," said I, "I have heard that name?"
"Sure," said Jonathan, "it would be odd if thee had not; for thee knows
her well--thine old friend Ebenezer's daughter."
"A giddy girl, Jonathan, I fear me; a giddy girl!"
"As giddy as the dev--that is, as giddy as a goose," said Jonathan.
"What!" said I; "thee meant something worse! Verily, I have heard thee
uses bad language, Jonathan."
"By jingo!" said the youth, indignantly, "there is no end to the
slanders people will say of one. _I_ use bad language? By jingo!"
"Why, thee is at it now," said I; "let thy yea be yea, and thy nay nay;
for all beyond is profanity or folly. But thee will allow, Jonathan,
that when thee is among the people of the world, thee uses the language
thereof, forgetting the language of simplicity and sobriety, which
would best become thy lips?"
"Ay; there I plead guilty, and with good reason too," said Jonathan.
"When I was a boy, thee had thoughts of making me a merchant, and thee
compelled me to study French and German. Now, when I meet a Frenchman
or a German unacquainted with the English tongue, in what language does
thee suppose I address him?"
"Why, French or German, to be sure."
"Verily, I do," said the youth; "and when I get among the people of the
world, I speak to them in the language of the world; for, poor ignorant
creatures, they don't understand Quaker. Moreover, uncle, does thee
know Ellen Wild is of opinion we Friends don't speak good grammar? Now
she and I spent a whole hour the other evening, trying to parse '_thee
is_,' '_thee does_,' '_thee loves_,' and so on, and we could not work
them according to Murray. I say, uncle, does thee know of any command
in Scripture to speak bad grammar?"
"No," said I; "but it is not forbidden; and the phrases mentioned, thou
knowest, have crept into our speech as corruptions, and are only used
for conversational purposes."
"Truly," said Jonathan, "and the language of the world is used for
conversational purposes also. I say, uncle Zachariah, _that_ now's a
clincher!"
"I won't quarrel with thee on this account, Jonathan. But how comes it
thou wert seen in that wicked place, the theatre?"
"By jingo!" said he, "Snipe has been blabbing there too!"
"What!" said I, "does thou strive to conceal it?"
"Yea," said Jonathan; "for when we do our good deeds, we should do them
in secret. Uncle Zachariah, I went to the theatre in charity."
"Thee did," said I, charmed more than I can express at the thought of
the young man's virtue.
"Yes, uncle," said the youth; "and great need have the actors of
charity; for a poorer set of fellows I think I never saw got together."
And here the rogue fell a laughing in my face: "And so thee need not
distress thyself; for I sha'n't go there again until they get a better
company. But, uncle Zachariah, thee has exhorted me enough for one
time, and it is my turn now. So do thou be conformable, and answer my
questions; for, I can tell thee, I have a fault to find with thee.
According to thine own system of philanthropy, it is thy duty to make
thy fellow-creatures happy. Now I ask thee whether thou dost not
think it thy duty to make me, thy loving nephew, happy, as well as a
stranger?"
"Verily," said I, "I do."
"Why then," said Jonathan, "there is a short way of doing it. Uncle
Zachariah, I want to be married. Ellen and I have talked the matter
over, and she says she'll have me. Now, uncle, thee did once talk of
giving me a counting-house, and ten or twenty thousand dollars, as the
case might be, to begin a commission business; and Mr. Wild talked
of doing as much in the way of dowry to Ellen. And now I say, uncle
Zachariah, as the shipwrecked sailor did when he prayed among the
breakers, if thee means to help me, now's the time."
"What!" said I, "have I so much property?"
"Thee is joking," said the youth; "thee is a rich man, and thee knows
thee can afford it. But thee must do it soon, or it may be too late;
for, I can tell thee, folks begin to talk of thy philanthropy, and say
thou art flinging away so much money that presently thou wilt have
nothing left to give me. Mr. Wild is of this mind, and he has hinted
some things to me very plainly. In a word, uncle, if thee does not
permit me to marry Ellen soon, he will break the match. And so, if thee
will make me a happy man--"
"I will," said I, with uncommon fervour; "thee shall marry the maiden,
and I will straightway see what I can do for thee. Verily, what is
wealth but the dross of the earth, unless used to purchase happiness
for those that are worthy."
At these words Jonathan leaped for joy, seized my hand and kissed it,
vowed I was "his dear old dad, for all I was only his uncle," and ran
from the room--doubtless to impart the happy tidings to his mistress.
4. CHAPTER IV.
CONTAINING LITTLE OR NOTHING SAVE APOSTROPHES, EXHORTATIONS, AND
QUARRELS.
How happy was I, to think I had conferred happiness upon another! how
agreeable my sensations! how delightful the approbation of my own
heart! How much I rejoiced that my soul had at last found a habitation
equal to its wishes! an abode of peace! a dwelling of content! "If I am
Zachariah Longstraw," said I to myself, "I will show myself worthy of
the name; I will spend his money in the great cause of philanthropy; I
will make the afflicted smile; I will win the blessings of the poor;
I will do more good than even Zachariah Longstraw himself: yea, of a
surety, I will devote myself to a life of virtue!"
While I was making these virtuous resolutions, the faithful Abel Snipe
came to my bedside, and told me there were divers suffering creatures,
widows with nine small children, widowers with fourteen, sick old
women, and starving old men, in great need of relief; and so affecting
was the picture he drew of their griefs, that the tears rolled from my
eyes, and I bade him, if there was any money he could honestly lay his
hands on, carry comfort to them all.
"Verily," said he, "I have just collected the quarter's rent of the
house in Market-street; and it will be enough, and more."
"Relieve the poor afflicted creatures, then.. And hark thee, Abel
Snipe, does thee consider me a rich man? If so, let me know where I
can find twenty thousand dollars to set up the young man Jonathan in
business, and marry him to the maiden Ellen Wild."
"Alas!" said Abel Snipe; "of a verity, the young man is in a hurry; and
alas! for, of a verity, if thee takes away at this time such a great
sum from thee possessions, thee will cut off the right hand of thee
charity."
And thereupon the benevolent creature, after showing me, which it was
easy to do, that, with the mere revenue of the sum demanded, if kept
in our own hands, we could carry smiles and rejoicing into at least a
hundred families every year, exhorted me not to forget that I was the
friend of the afflicted, nor to faint in the good work of philanthropy.
Jonathan was a very young man, he said--only twenty-five--happy in
his youth, happy in his affections, happy in the certain prospect
he enjoyed of sooner or later arriving at the fullest felicity.
Why should he not then consent, like us, to forego for a while his
selfish desires, contribute his portion to the wants of the poor,
and, by labouring a few years in their cause, approve himself worthy
of fortune? How much better that he should endure a fancied ill, than
that a hundred afflicted families should be given up to actual want? He
contended that the young man's request was untimely and selfish, and
that I would only harden his heart, while breaking a thousand others,
if I granted it. In short, he said so many things, and painted so many
affecting pictures of the miseries of my fellow-creatures, and the
beauties of charity, that my mind was quite changed on the subject, and
I perceived it was my duty to resist the young man's wishes.
This change, on the morrow (being the first day that I was able to sit
up), I explained to Jonathan, exhorting him, with a feeling enthusiasm,
to tear all narrow, selfish feelings from his heart, and embark with
me, like a virtuous youth, in the great enterprise of philanthropy.
He fell into a passion, told me my philanthropy was a fudge, and Abel
Snipe a rogue and hypocrite; vowed I had a greater regard for knaves
and paupers than for my own flesh and blood, and was flinging away my
money only to encourage vice and beggary. It was in vain I sought to
pacify the indignant youth. An evil spirit seized upon him. He did
nothing for three days but scold, reproach, and complain. He abused
the faithful Abel to his face, calling him a fox, viper, cormorant,
harpy, and I know not what beside; all which Abel endured with patience
and resignation, for he was of a meek and humble spirit. Nay, not
content with this, he proceeded on the third day to greater lengths,
and did very intemperately fall upon the said Abel Snipe, tweaking
him by the nose and ears, until the poor man yelled with pain--and
even endeavoured to kick him out of the house; after which, being
censured for the same, and I siding with Abel, as justice demanded, in
the controversy, his resentment grew to such a pitch that he left the
house, declaring he would live with me no longer, but leave me to ruin
myself at my leisure.
This was an occurrence that caused me much pain, for verily I had an
exceeding great love for the young man, and I perceived that he was
treating me with ingratitude. I was, however, greatly comforted by the
increased zeal and affection of the ever-faithful Abel; who, coming to
me with tears in his eyes, declared that he could not bear the thought
of being a cause of dissension between me and my nephew, and therefore
besought me that I would discard him from my presence, when I could
again live happily with my Jonathan.
I resisted, while duly appreciating the good man's friendship; and,
fortunately, there needed no such sacrifice on my part; for, on the
eleventh day, Jonathan returned of his own accord, and, confessing his
folly, and entreating Abel's forgiveness, as well as mine, was restored
again to favour. His return itself was grateful to my feelings; but
the reader may judge how great was my rapture, when Jonathan avowed
a change in his sentiments on the subject of philanthropy, and
declared that the spirit at last moved him to think of his suffering
fellow-creatures. He entreated to be conducted to the abodes of
affliction, and there the conversion was completed. He became a changed
man, and in a few days was almost as zealous an alms-giver as myself. I
took him to my arms, and said--
"Now, Jonathan, thee is a man in whom I no longer fear the seductions
of the flesh. Thee shall marry the maid Ellen, and be set up in
business."
"Nay," said Jonathan; "not so. I am yet but as a youth in years, and
the time sufficeth for all things. Let not the whirl of business and
the joy of the honey-moon disturb the virtue that is yet young and
frail in my bosom. Of a verity, Ellen Wild will wait till the fall; and
if she don't, and my heart should be broken, verily I shall then be
better enabled to sympathize with the wretched."
Such was the lofty, though new-born virtue of my Jonathan!
But of that, as well as our works of benevolence, I shall speak in the
following chapters.
5. CHAPTER V.
WHICH IS SHORT AND MORAL, AND CAN THEREFORE BE SKIPPED.
I have already said that the mere presence of the philanthropic
feeling, now infused into my spirit, filled me with happiness, even
while I lay upon my back, aching with wounds and bruises. It may be
inferred, therefore, that my soul was ecstasy itself, when, restored at
last to health and strength, I stalked into the air, dispensing charity
with both hands.
Of a verity, it was--at least, for a time; and I will say, that,
during the first month of my new existence, I experienced a thousand
agreeable sensations, such as had never occurred to me in my whole life
before. And here let me observe, that, if what I have to add shall
show that there are offsets of inconvenience and tribulation even
to the satisfaction of the benevolent, I do not design to throw any
discredit on the virtue of benevolence itself; which I truly regard
as one of the divinest of endowments, angelic in its nature, and
blessed in its effects, when practised with discretion; and amiable,
if not lovely, even in its folly. I believe, indeed, that if Heaven
looks with peculiar indulgence on the errors of any man, it is in
the case of him who has the softest judgment for the errors, and the
readiest reparation for the miseries, of his fellows. What I wish to
be understood is, that man is an unthankful animal, and of such rare
inconsistency of temper, that he seldom foregoes an opportunity to
punish the virtue which he so loudly applauds.
I was now a philanthropist, and I will say (which I think I may do
without shame, the merit being less attributable to me than to that
worthy deceased personage whose body I inhabited), that a truer,
purer, or more zealous one never walked the earth. I should fill a
book as big as a family Bible, were I to record all the good things
I did or attempted, while a tenant in Zachariah Longstraw's body.
All my feelings and desires were swallowed up in one great passion
of philanthropy; universal benevolence was the maxim I engraved upon
my heart; I had no thought but to relieve the distresses, meliorate
the condition, and advance the happiness of my species. My generosity
extended equally to individuals and communities; I toiled alike in the
service of the beggar and the million, putting bread into the mouth of
the one, and infusing moral principles into the breasts of the others.
In a word, I was, as I have called myself already, a philanthropist;
and if my virtue was somewhat excessive in degree, it proceeded from
the sincerest promptings of spirit.
6. CHAPTER VI.
AN INCONVENIENCE OF BEING IN ANOTHER MAN'S BODY, WHEN CALLED UPON TO
GIVE EVIDENCE AS TO ONE'S OWN EXIT.
It may be supposed that the treatment I (for, of a verity, I myself
came in for some share of the hard usage that killed the true
Zachariah) had received from the base and brutal John Smith, must
have cooled my regard for him, if it did not affect my feelings of
philanthropy in general. I confess that I did regard that personage
with sentiments of disgust and indignation; but, nevertheless, I was
very loath to appear against him when summoned (as I was, soon after
leaving my sick-bed) to give evidence on the charges preferred against
him. These were two in number, and afforded matter for as many separate
endictments. In the first--and, verily, I was startled when I heard
it--John Smith was charged with the murder of Abram Skinner; in the
second, with an assault, with intent to kill, upon myself--that is, my
second self, Zachariah Longstraw--and also with robbery.
Now, if the reader will reflect a moment upon the relation in which I
stood to these charges, he will allow that the necessity of testifying
on them reduced me to a quandary. In the first place, I knew very well
that Mr. John Smith, rogue and assassin as he was, had _not_ killed
Abram Skinner, but that I had finished that unhappy gentleman myself;
and I knew also, in the second, that my admitting this fact would,
without doing Mr. John Smith any good, produce a decided inconvenience
to myself:--not that there was any fear I should be arraigned for
murder, but because nobody would believe me. I remembered how my
telling the truth to my friend John Darling, the deputy attorney, in
regard to my first transformation, had caused him to believe me mad;
and I foresaw that telling the truth on the present occasion would
reduce me to the same predicament, and perhaps the Friends' mad-house
into the bargain.
There was the same difficulty in relation to the second charge,
accompanied by another still greater; for, whereas John Smith was
there only accused of assault with intent to kill, he had in reality
committed a murder; which if I had affirmed, as I must have done had I
affirmed any thing at all, I should have been a living contradiction of
my own testimony, and thus considered madder than ever.
The truth is, I was in a dilemma, out of which the truth could not
extract me; and the more I thought the matter over, the greater was
my embarrassment. A feeling of integrity within me (for Zachariah
Longstraw was a man of conscience) urged me to speak the truth; while
common sense showed me how much worse than useless truth would be in
such an extraordinary conjuncture.
I received a visit from the prosecuting attorney, who very naturally
expected a clear and satisfactory account of Mr. John Smith's doings on
the night of the murder; and the difficulty I had with him (that is,
the attorney) gave me a foretaste of what I was to expect when summoned
into the witness's box in court. I remember that the gentleman, after
plying me with many questions, to which he got that sort of replies
invidiously termed "Quaker answers," flew into a huff, and threatened
me with what would be the consequence if I should prove backward in
court. And, sure enough, his prediction was verified; for, not giving a
straight answer to any one question when the trial came on, I received
divers reprimands from the court, and was finally committed for a
contempt to prison; where I lay two or three days, until called into
court again to give evidence on the second endictment, Mr. John Smith
having been found not guilty on the first. This was owing in part,
I presume, to the testimony of several surgeons, who deposed that
there were no marks of violence upon Abram Skinner's body; although
the evidence of the watchman, who had seen him alive through the
window, and afterward found John Smith burying his dead body in the
same hole with myself, went rather hard with him. I say the acquittal
was perhaps owing in part to the testimony of the surgeons; though
much of it might be attributed to the marvellous humanity that reigns
in the criminal courts of the city of Brotherly Love, to the great
benefit and encouragement of that proscribed and injured class of men,
namely--murderers.
I made little better work of the second attempt at witnessing; but,
as I have matters of much greater importance to demand my attention,
and the reader can easily infer what I did and what I did not affirm,
I must beg to despatch the second trial by relating that I was packed
off a second time to prison for contempt, but that the evidence of the
watchman, and my late wounds and bruises, were esteemed sufficient
to secure the prisoner's conviction; and accordingly John Smith was
convicted, and accommodated with lodgings in the penitentiary for the
fourth time.
My own incarceration was of no long duration. My contumacy, as it
was called, was considered extraordinary; but it was generally
thought to be owing to a mistaken humanity, and a perverted, Quixotic
conscientiousness, such as are common enough among persons of the
persuasion I then belonged to. This, and perhaps the circumstance that
I was yet in feeble health (for the trial, as I said, took place soon
after I left my bed), caused me to be treated with lenity; and in a few
days I was liberated.
All this, I beg the reader to understand, happened before the
reconciliation with my nephew Jonathan, and, of course, before I had
well begun my career of philanthropy. Of that career, of some of my
deeds of goodness, and of the consequences they produced, I shall now
speak.
7. CHAPTER VII.
THE SORROWS OF A PHILANTHROPIST.
My benevolence was of a two-fold character, being both theoretic and
practical. In the latter sense, is to be regarded the relief which I
granted with my own hands to such suffering persons as I could lay them
on; and there was no way in which I did not personally relieve some one
wretch or other. By the former, I understand a thousand schemes which
I devised and framed, to enlist the sympathies of communities, and so
relieve the afflicted in a mass; besides a thousand others which were
designed to bestow upon the poor and vicious that virtuous knowledge
and those virtuous principles, which are better than alms of gold and
silver. I instituted some half a dozen charitable societies, to supply
fuel, clothing, food, and employment to the suffering poor; as well as
others to exhort them to economy, industry, prudence, fortitude, and
so forth. I formed societies even among themselves, classing divers
isolated creatures into bands, who wrought in common, and disposed of
their wares, either in a shop kept for the purpose, or at fairs. I
established schools to keep the children of the poor out of mischief,
and one in particular I supported solely from my own, that is to say,
Zachariah Longstraw's pocket.
I bestowed much of my regards upon the poor wretches in prison, doing
all that I was permitted to effect a reformation in their habits and
feelings; and I took uncommon pains to scatter light and sentiments of
a civilized character among the worthy representatives of the Green
Island, who make up so large a portion of our suffering population.
And let it not be supposed that I neglected that other class of poor
creatures, called negroes, whom, although allowed the name, and most
of the privileges of freemen, their white brethren refuse to take to
their bosoms, merely because they have black faces, woolly heads, and
an ill savour of body. For myself, verily, if they were not comely in
my sight, nor agreeable to my nostrils, I said, "Heaven hath made them
so;" and although my nephew Jonathan insisted that Heaven had done the
same thing with other animals, and that, upon my principles, men should
be as affectionate with pigs and badgers as they were with cats and
lap-dogs, I perceived that they were my brethern, and that it became me
to conquer the prejudices lying only in my eyes and nostrils. I girded
my loins to the work, and verily, I prevailed over the weakness of the
old Adam. Of a verity, I was the African's friend.
But, oh! the wickedness of the world, and the ingratitude thereof! The
heart of man is even as the soil of the earth, which, the more it is
stirred up by cultivation, the more barren and worthless it becomes. It
is as the fields of the Ancient Dominion, where, if a man soweth barley
and corn, he shall reap a harvest of Jamestown weed, poke-berries, and
scrub pines. It is as the bulldog that one feedeth with beef and other
wholesome viands, who, the moment he has done his dinner, snaps, for
his dessert, at the feeder's heel. It is as the tender flowers, which,
in the winter-time, a man taketh from the cold, to warm, by night,
in his chamber, and which smother him with foul air before morning.
Verily, it was my lot to find, even as my nephew Jonathan had once
foolishly contended, that even philanthropy is not secure from the
sting of unthankfulness--that benevolence is, in one sense, the great
parent of ingratitude--since it begets it. For a period of full seven
months (for so long did I remain in Zachariah's body, after recoving my
health), I laboured to do good to my fellows, and, verily, I laboured
with might and main. Yet, had I toiled with the same energy to injure
and oppress, I almost doubt whether I should have been rewarded with
more manifold outpourings of wrath and fury. Verily, as I said before,
the world is a wicked world, and I begin to doubt whether man can make
it better.
One of the first mishaps that befell me was of the following nature.
Stepping one morning into the mayor's office, which was a favourite
haunt with me, seeing that misery doth there greatly abound, I fell
upon a man whom the magistrate was about to commit to jail, for being
drunk and beating his wife and children, he being unable to pay the
fine imposed upon him, and to find surety for his future good behaviour.
The spirit stirred within me as I beheld the contrite looks of the
culprit, and I said to myself--"While he lies in jail, his poor wife
and his infants may perish with hunger." I paid the fine, and, though
the mayor did very broadly hint to me that a little punishment would do
the man good, and his wife too, seeing that he was a barbarous fellow,
I offered myself for his security, and thus sent him back to his
rejoicing family. I said to myself--"This very night will I witness
the happiness I have created." I went accordingly to the man's house,
where I found the wicked fellow raving with drink, and beating his
wife as before, his children screaming with terror, and the neighbours
crying out for a constable. I did but say a word of reprehension to
him, when the brutish ingrate, leaving his rib, fell foul of myself,
mauling me cruelly; and I believe he would have beaten me to death, had
I not been rescued by the timely appearance of a constable. "Thee sees
the end of thy humanity!" said the mayor, when I entered his office
the next morning, that my black eye and bruised visage might testify
against the ungrateful man; "thee will not object to my committing the
fellow now?"
"Nay," said I; "it is drunkenness that has made the poor man mad.
Therefore lock him up in prison until his madness hath departed."
"I will," said the mayor; "and thee will have the goodness to pay over
to the clerk the hundred dollars in which thee bound thyself that the
rascal should keep the peace."
"Verily," said I, "it is not just I should pay the money; for the
beating was upon my own body."
"Truly," said the mayor, "and so it was; and therefore it is the harder
that thee should have to pay it. But pay it thee must, the man having
broken the peace as much in beating thee, as if it had been any other
citizen of the commonwealth."
And so much satisfaction I had for befriending the sot; the charity,
which did more harm than good even to the man's poor family, since it
exposed them a second time to his fury, costing me, without counting
the fine paid on the first day, a sore beating and one hundred dollars.
My next misadventure was the being cheated in a very aggravated way by
a poor man to whom I loaned money, without exacting bond or voucher,
the same being loaned to re-establish him in a gainful business, which
had been interrupted by an unfortunate accident. For, having prospered
in his business, and I requiring that he should now repay the money,
that I might devote it to the service of others, he very impudently
averred that he had never had any thing of me, except advice and a good
word of recommendation here and there; swore that he never paid away or
received a cent without giving or taking a receipt; defied me to prove
my claim; and concluded his baseness by threatening to kick me out of
his workshop.
These instances of ingratitude were followed by others of a still
deeper die, and so numerous, that I can mention only a few of them.
Walking one day to that infant school which I had established, to
keep children out of mischief while their hard-working parents were
at their daily labours, I perceived the urchins standing at the door,
pelting the passers-by with mud. Reproving them for this misconduct,
the graceless vagabonds did speedily turn their battery upon myself;
and, not content to plaster and bespatter me with mud-balls from head
to foot, they fell upon me, and, being very numerous, did actually roll
me about in a gutter, where was a deep slough, so that I had nearly
perished with suffocation, being sorely bruised into the bargain. To
crown all, having expelled from my school the ringleaders in this
marvellous outbreaking of precocious ingratitude, I was visited by
their parents, all of them abusing me for my tyrannical usage of their
children (although, of a truth, the tyranny was all on the side of the
juveniles), and impudently demanding that I should pay them for their
boys' time, at the rate of twenty-five cents a week each, for as many
weeks as I had had them at school. Of a surety, some people are very
unreasonable.
It was also my misfortune to offend divers tailors and shopkeepers,
by benevolently taking part in the efforts of their poor unfortunate
needle-women to obtain better wages; and one day, in the streets, these
angry men did hustle me, and tear a tail from my coat. But I consoled
myself for this violence, by thinking of the gratitude of the poor
creatures I was defending; when, making my way, the following evening,
to their place of assembly, I was set upon by the whole crew, for that
I did hint, that, as their difficulties did chiefly proceed from their
numbers, there being more hands at the business of sewing than were
required, they would greatly benefit themselves, and the community
too, by going, two thirds of them at least, into service, there being
ever a great want of domestics in our respectable families. I say, I
did but hint this reasonable and undeniable truth, together with a
friendly remark upon the exposed state of their morals, when there
arose such a storm among them as was never perhaps witnessed by any
other human being. "Hear the old hunks!" said one: "he wants to make
niggur servants of us! _us_, that is freeborn American girls!"--"Yes,
ladies!" said another, "and he is insinivating we are no better nor we
should be!"--"Turn the old rip out!" said a third; and "Turn him out!"
cried the other three hundred and fifty there present. Of a verity,
they did assail me with both tongue and nail, testifying such vigour of
spirit and strength of arm, that, were I a philanthropist now, which
I fortunately am not, and were I moved to consult their interests as
before, I should endeavour to form them into a regiment of soldiers,
not doubting that they would, at any moment, prevail over twice their
numbers of male fighting men. Of a verity, I say, they did violently
pull me about, thrusting me at last from the apartment: and their
ingratitude was a sore wound to my spirit.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.
Another evil that befell me about the same time, was equally
afflicting. A negro-man that had fled from bondage in a neighbouring
state, being sharply hunted, and about to be captured by the person
that called him his property, I carried him to my house, and there
concealed him for three days and mights, until his master had departed;
"For," said I, "of a surety, slavery is a bitter pill, and one that
cures neither the rheumatism nor the ague; and, therefore, why should
my brother Pompey be compelled to swallow it?" My brother Pompey,
having eaten, drunk, and slept at my expense for the three days
mentioned, disappeared on the morning of the fourth before daylight,
carrying with him twenty-seven pounds of silver, in spoons, teapots,
and other vessels, the three watches belonging to myself, my nephew,
and Abel Snipe, as well as Jonathan's best coat and trousers. Verily,
I was confounded at the fellow's ingratitude, and the loss of my
valuables, all of which, however, though broken up, it was my good
fortune to recover, together with the three watches. The thief himself,
being taken, was clapped into jail for a while, and then surrendered
to his master, and carried back to bondage; and this stirring up the
choler of the free Africans in town, they did naught but cry out upon
me as the author of his misfortune, surrounding my house with a mob,
and proceeding to the length of even burning it down. At least, the
house taking fire, and manifestly by the act of an incendiary, it was
charged by my friends upon these raging foolish people, though I was
never able to prove it upon any one in particular. As my good fortune
would have it, Abel Snipe had taken out a policy of ensurance, so that
I recovered the money from the company; but not without going to law,
the company averring that my humanity rendered me careless.
I caused another dwelling to be built; and, in building it, received
another strong and inconvenient proof, not merely of man's ingratitude,
but of his natural hostility to the charity which benefits his
neighbours. I bought my marble out of the prison, in order to encourage
industry among the prisoners, and thus lighten the load of taxation on
the community at large. This being known, the marble-cutters fell into
wrath, denounced me as the friend of villany and the enemy of honest
industry; and being joined by the shoemakers, who had put me down in
their character-book as a patron to none but prison-workmen, and by
divers other mechanics that had some grudge of the same kind, they
seized upon me, as I stood surveying my rising mansion, and bedaubed
me from head to foot with thick whitewash, painting in great black
letters, on the broad of my back, the following words, namely--"THE
ROGUE'S FRIEND;" which caused me, after I had escaped from their hands,
to be hooted at by boys and men along the street, and to be bitten by a
great cur-dog, that was amazed at my appearance.
Another misfortune, still more distressing, befell me one day, as I
walked among the western suburbs, seeking whom I might relieve. I
espied a company of men surrounding a ring, made with stakes and ropes,
in which two wretched creatures were stripping off their garments, with
the intention to do battle upon one another with their fists. These
were gentlemen of the fancy, as it is called; though imagination can
paint nothing of a more grossly animal and brutish character, afar
from all that is fanciful, than that very class that calls itself of
the fancy. I was shocked that the poor creatures should, in their
ignorance, agree to maul and beat one another, for the amusement of
a mob; and I was concerned that a mob, containing so many rational
beings, should be willing to harry on two such silly fellows to harm
each other for their pastime. I stepped among them, therefore, and
addressed them, exhorting them to peace and harmony; and this producing
but little effect on them, I upbraided them with breaking the laws,
both human and divine, and assured them I would go hunt up the police,
to prevent the mischief they meditated. Alas! how ungratefully they
used me! There was a man at a distance who was heating a great pot of
tar, to pay the bottom of a canal-boat; and just a moment before, a
carter had stopped to look on the affray, leaving on the roadside his
cart, on which, among other articles of domestic furniture, was an old
feather-bed, lying on the top of all. The devil had surely brought
these things upon the ground, that his sinful children, the gentlemen
of the fancy, might be at no loss how to testify their hatred of
humanity. The very combatants themselves were the first to seize me,
and cry out, "Tar and feather the old Bother'em! Douse down the bed,
and dab the pot off the fire." And "Daub him well!" they cried, all the
while that their wretched companions, drowning the cries I made for
assistance, with savage yells of rage and merriment, covered me from
head to foot with the nasty pitch, and then, tearing the bed to pieces,
emptied its contents over my reeking body. Then, having feathered me
all over, and so transformed me that I looked more like an ostrich than
a human being, they tied me to a post, where I was forced to remain,
looking upon the fight that immediately ensued between the champions. A
horrid sight it was; but I was so devoured with shame and indignation,
that I should have cared little had they dashed each other's brains
out. So much I endured for exhorting men to live together in peace and
amity.
The very beasts seemed to conspire to treat me with ingratitude.
My first effort in their cause was an attempt I made one day, on
the tow-path near the Water-Works, to protect a poor broken-down
barge-horse, which the driver was cruelly beating. My interference
cost me a dip in the basin, the man, who was both savage and strong,
pitching me in headlong, and (what I deemed still more provoking) a
kick from the horse, who let fly at me with his heels, merely because
mine, as they were tripped into the air, came in contact with his
hind-quarters; so that I was both lamed and half drowned for my charity.
In the same way, I was scratched half to death, and much more savagely
than I had been before by the needle-women, by a cat that I took out
of a dog's mouth,--without counting upon a nip that I had from the cur
also. And, to end this small catalogue of animal ingratitude, I may
say, that, within a fortnight after, I was served in the same way by a
rat that I strove to liberate from the fangs of my own gray tabby; for,
while Tabby was clawing at my fingers, the rat took me by the thumb;
and between them I was near perishing with lockjaw, the weather being
uncommonly hot, and the time midsummer.
There were a thousand other mischances of a like nature which befell
me, but which I have not leisure to describe, nor even to enumerate.
Some few of them, however, I think proper to record; but, to save
space, I will clap them into a short list, along with those already
mentioned, where they may be examined at a glance, and where, in that
glance, the reader may perceive what are sometimes the rewards of
philanthropy.
I. Beaten by a drunkard whom I had taken out of
prison, and bailed to keep the peace.
II. Mulcted out of $100 surety-money, because
my gentleman broke the peace by beating me.
III. Driven, and almost kicked, out of a man's
workshop, because I asked payment of a loan
made without bond or voucher.
IV. My nose pulled by a merchant to whom I
had (out of charity to the latter, who was
unfortunate) recommended a customer, who
swindled him.
V. Rolled in the mud by the boys of my own
charity-school, whom I had exhorted not to daub
the passers-by.
VI. Abused by their parents for not paying them
25 cents per week for the time I had the boys
at school.
VII. Hustled by tailors, slop-shopkeepers, and
others, for taking part with the needle-women
in a strike.
VIII. Scolded, scratched, and tumbled down
stairs by the needle-women, for advising them
to go into domestic service, and take care of
their morals.
IX. Robbed by a fugitive slave whom I had
concealed three days and nights in my house
from his master.
X. House burnt down by the free blacks (or so
it was suspected) for putting the thief as
aforesaid into jail, so that his master got him.
XI. Whitewashed and libelled on my own back by
the stonecutters, for buying wrought marble out
of the prison.
XII. Tarred and feathered by a gang of the
fancy, whom I exhorted at the ring to peace and
amity.
XIII. Scalded at my own house (which I had
converted, at a season of suffering, into a
gratis soup-house), and with my own soup, by a
beggar, because there was too little meat and
too much salt in it.
XIV. Soused in the canal by a boat-driver, for
rebuking his cruelty to an old barge-horse.
XV. Kicked by the horse for taking his part.
XVI. Scratched by a cat, for taking her out of
a dog's mouth: _item_, bitten by the dog.
XVII. Bitten by a rat, which I rescued from a
cat: item, scratched by the cat.
XVIII. Gored by a cow for helping her calf out
of the mire: _item_, the calf splashed me all
over with mud.
XIX. Beaten about the ears with a half-skinned
eel, by a fishwoman, whom I reproved for
skinning it alive.
Such were some of the unhappy circumstances that rewarded a seven
months' life of philanthropy. But there were others to follow still
more discouraging and afflicting.
CHAPTER IX.
CONTAINING A DIFFICULTY.
It is a common belief among those who are more religious than wise,
that a man never catches a cold going to church of a wet Sunday, or
being baptized in midwinter. I am myself of opinion, the belief of
such good people to the contrary notwithstanding, that many devout
persons, by wading to church in the slush, or washing out their sins
in snow-water, have gone to heaven much sooner than they expected. In
the same way, and on the same principle of distrusting all miraculous
interposition of Heaven in cases where human reason is sufficient
for our protection, I have my doubts in the truth of another maxim
of great acceptation in the world,--namely, "that a man never grows
poor by giving." I believe, indeed, that the charity of a discreet and
truly conscientious man never injures his fortune, but may, in many
instances, actually tend to its increase; since the love of benevolence
may stimulate him to new labours of acquisition, that he may have the
greater means of doing good. But I am also of opinion, and I think it
may be demonstrated by a good accountant, that a man who has a revenue
of a thousand a year, and bestows fifteen hundred in charity, will, in
due course of time, find himself as poor as his pensioners. When a man
hath a goose with golden eggs, whatever he may do with the eggs, he
should take great care of the goose.
The reader may infer from these remarks, that my philanthropy was as
little profitable to my pocket as it proved to my person; and such
indeed was the truth. I am of opinion I should myself, in a very few
years, have consumed the whole estate of Zachariah Longstraw, ample as
it was, in works of charity. How much faster it went with my nephew and
my friend Abel to assist me, may be imagined. My nephew became a very
dragon of charity, and dispensed my money upon such objects of pity as
he could find (for he soon began to practise the profession upon what
Abel called his own _hook_), with a zeal little short of fury; so that,
to supply his demands, I was sometimes obliged even to stint myself.
Had Abel Snipe been equally profuse, there is no saying how soon I
might have found myself at the end of my estate. But Abel Snipe was a
jewel; his charity was great, but his conscientiousness was greater; he
had ever a watchful eye to my good; and his solicitude to husband and
improve my means kept his benevolence within the bounds of discretion.
But, notwithstanding all his care, Abel perceived that our philanthropy
was beginning to eat holes into my possessions; and coming to me one
day with a long face, he assured me, that, unless some means were
devised to increase my income, we should soon find ourselves driven to
resort to the capital.
"Verily, and of a truth," said I, not a whit frighted at this
communication, "and why should that chill us in the good work, Abel
Snipe? Of a surety, all that I possess, is it not the property of the
poor?"
"Verily," said Abel, "verily and yea; but if we betake us to the
capital, verily, it will happen that sooner or later it shall be
consumed, and nothing left to us wherewithal to befriend the afflicted.
I say to thee, Zachariah, thy wealth is, as thou sayest, the property
of the poor; and it becomes thee, as a true and faithful servant
thereof, to see that it be not wasted, but, on the contrary, husbanded
with care and foresight, and put out to profit, so that the single
talent may become two, and peradventure three; whereby the poor, as
aforesaid, shall be twice, and, it may be, thrice benefited."
"Thou speakest the words of sense and seriousness," said I, struck by
the new view of the case. "But how shall this happy object be effected?
What shall we do, Abel Snipe, to make the one talent three, and thereby
increase our means of doing good?"
"Thee nephew Jonathan," said Abel Snipe, with a look of devout joy, "is
now a changed man, a man of seriousness and virtue, a scorner of vain
things, and a giver of alms--a man whom we can trust. I say to thee,
Zachariah, thee shall establish thee nephew in a gainful business, and
he shall make money; thee shall give him what is thee property for
his capital, remaining theeself but as a sleeping partner: and thus
it shall happen that thee capital shall be turned over three times a
year, producing, on each occasion, dividends three times as great as
now accrue from thy investments: and thus, Zachariah (and verily it
is pleasant to think upon), where thee now has a thousand dollars of
revenue, thee shall then have nine; and where thee now relieves nine
afflicted persons, thee shall there-upon relieve nine times nine, which
is eighty-one."
I need not assure the reader that this proposition of Abel's fastened
mightily upon my imagination, and that I was eager to embrace it; and
Jonathan coming in at the moment, I repeated the conversation to him,
assuring him that, if he thought himself able, with Abel's assistance,
to undertake such a business, he should have my money to begin upon
instanter, and marry the maiden Ellen into the bargain.
"Nay, verily," said Jonathan, "I will not marry, and I will not do
this thing whereof thee speaks. Uncle Zachariah, thee may think me
light of mind thus to speak of Ellen Wild, who is much lighter; but,
of a surety, I find the spirit moves me to regard her as one not to be
regarded any longer. In the matter of the money-making, I say, let Abel
Snipe be thy merchant, or whatsoever it may be thee has determined on;
for Abel Snipe is a good business man, and he knows how to make money.
He shall have my advice and assistance, as far as may be in my power.
But, truly, my thoughts now run in the paths of the unfortunate; and
thither let my footsteps follow also."
To this proposal the faithful Abel, with tears in his eyes (for he
was moved that Jonathan should express such confidence in him at
last), demurred, averring that it would be better, and more seemly,
for Jonathan himself to undertake the affair, he, Abel Snipe, giving
help and counsel, according to his humble ability. Jonathan objected
as before, and again declared that Abel, and Abel alone, was, as he
expressed it, "the man for my money." In short, the two young men,
now the best friends in the world, contested the matter, each arguing
so warmly in favour of the other, that it was plain the thing could
never be determined without my casting vote, which I, seeing that
Jonathan was positive, and bent upon a life of virtue, gave in Abel's
favour, and it was resolved accordingly that Abel should be made the
money-maker.
10. CHAPTER X.
IN WHAT MANNER MR. ZACHARIAH LONGSTRAW DETERMINED TO IMPROVE HIS
FORTUNE.
And now, the question occurring to me, I demanded into what kind of
business we should enter.
"That," said Jonathan, "is a question more easily made than answered,
seeing that there are so many ways of making money in this wicked
world, that an honest man can scarce tell which to choose among them;"
and then proceeded with great gravity to indicate divers callings,
which he pronounced the most gainful in the world, and all or any of
which, he thought, Abel could easily turn his hand to.
The first he advised was quackery--the making and vending of nostrums
to cure all manner of diseases, including corns and the toothache;
which was a business that had the merit of requiring no previous study
or education, a tinker or cobbler being just as fit to follow it as
a man that had read Paracelsus; and which, besides, as was evident
from the speed with which its professors in general stepped from the
kitchen-pot to the carriage, was the quickest way of making a fortune
that could be imagined. I should have thought the young man was joking
(for he had that vice in him to the last), had it not been for the
fervour with which he pointed out the advantages of the vocation. A
great recommendation, he averred, was, that it required no capital
beyond a few hundred dollars, to be laid out in bottles and logwood,
or some other colouring material. Pump-water, he said, was cheap; and
as for the other sovereign ingredient, it was furnished by the buyer
himself. "Yes!" said Jonathan, "faith is furnished by the buyer, who
pays us for the privilege of swallowing it; we sell men their own
conceits, bottled up with green, red, and brown water; and thereby we
make them their own doctors. Who then can say the calling of the quack
is not honest--nay, even philanthropic? He is a public benefactor--a
friend even of physicians; for he frees them from the painful necessity
of killing, by making men their own executioners."
And thus he went on until I cut him short by averring, that the whole
business was little better than wholesale cheating and murder. He then
recommended we should make Abel a tailor, solemnly declaring that,
next to quackery, tailoring, which was a quackery of another sort, was
the most profitable trade that could be followed; the mere gain from
cabbaging, considering that an ingenious tailor got at least one inch
of cloth out of every armhole, without counting the nails cribbed from
other parts of a coat, being immense, and his profits, seeing that he
lost nothing by a bad customer that he did not charge to a good one, as
certain and immutable as the laws of the Medes and Persians.
In short, my nephew Jonathan was in the mood for expatiating on the
merits of all money-making vocations; in which I should follow him,
were I not urged by the exigencies arising from limited time and space
to adhere to my story. He made divers recommendations, none of which I
thought of weight; and upon Abel, who had heard him with gravity and
attention, I was at last forced to call for advice and assistance. It
was his opinion, and he advised accordingly, that all the money I could
raise should be thrown into the stock-market, where, being applied to
purchase and sale in the usual way, he had no doubt it could be made
to yield a revenue of at least twenty per cent., and perhaps twice as
much; and this proposal, strange as it may seem to the reader, after
the experience Abram Skinner had given me in such matters, I did, after
sundry doubts and hesitations, finally agree to.
"Verily," said I, "this is a gainful business, friend Abel; but, of a
surety, neither honest nor humane, seeing that it is practised at the
expense of the ignorant, and often the needy."
"Verily, no," said Abel Snipe, with fervour; "it shall be at the
expense of the rich and niggardly--the man that is a miser and
uncharitable--the broker and the gambler--the bull and the bear. Our
dealings shall not be with the poor and ignorant man that dabbleth
in stocks; but him will we charitably pluck from the grasp of the
covetous, and thus protect, while drawing from the covetous man those
alms of benevolence which he would never himself apply to the use of
the afflicted."
"Verily," said I, pleased with the idea, "if we can make the covetous
man charitable, it will be a good thing; and if we can protect the
foolish ignorant person from his grasp, it will be still better. But,
of a surety, Abel Snipe, this business will be as gambling?"
"Yea, and verily," said Abel Snipe, "it is as gambling when a gambler
follows it; but in the hands of an honest man it is an honest
profession. Is not money, bagged up in stocks and other investments, as
merchandise? and, as merchandise, shall it not be lawfully bought and
sold?"
"And moreover," said Jonathan, with equal earnestness, "if it be no
better than cheating and swindling, this same buying and selling, are
we not embarking in it out of charity? Verily, uncle Zachariah, in
such a case as this, the end sanctifies the means. Behold what is the
crying evil arising from money that is chartered in stocks, whether it
be in banks, rail-roads, loans, or otherwise. This is money that is
not taxed for charitable purposes; it is money appropriated solely to
the purposes of gain. Why is it that a private man should be taxed to
support the poor, and a bank, that has greater facilities for making
money, be not taxed for the purpose at all? Verily, uncle Zachariah,
we will do what the commonwealth should be doing; we will impose a tax
upon the gains of chartered money, and distribute the proceeds among
the needy."
To make short work of the matter, I will not pursue our debate further,
but merely state that I was soon brought to consider Abel Snipe's
scheme the best, honestest, and most philanthropic in the world, and
to agree that he should open an office as a stock-broker, turning a
penny or two in that way, while making much more by buying and selling
on his own account. To this I was brought, in a great measure, by
the representations and arguments of Jonathan, among which I esteem
as still worthy of consideration that which stands above expressed
in his own words. I am still of opinion that a tax, and a round one,
should be imposed upon the profits of all banks and other money-making
corporations, the same to be specifically appropriated to hospitals,
and other charitable foundations, and perhaps also to public schools.
In this way evil might be made productive of good, and our avarice
rendered the parent of benevolence and knowledge. Of a verity, my
philanthropy is not yet got out of me!
The aforementioned arrangement was made at an early period of my new
existence, that is to say, at the close of spring; and the faithful
Abel soon began to render a good account of his stewardship, by handing
me over divers handsome sums of money, the profits of his speculations,
which Jonathan and myself disbursed with rival enthusiasm. The
experiment was continued in a prosperous manner until the month of
September, when there happened a catastrophe not less unexpected than
calamitous.
11. CHAPTER XI.
IN WHICH A CATASTROPHE BEGINS.
The various mischances and afflictions, as narrated in the preceding
chapter, which rewarded my virtue, had begun to affect my mind with
sundry pangs of melancholy and misgiving. I perceived that the world
_was_ ungrateful, and I had my doubts whether it was a whit the better
for my goodness. These doubts and this persuasion were confirmed by
the experience of each succeeding day; and by the month of September
as aforesaid, I found myself becoming just as miserable a man as I
had ever been before, and perhaps more so, being pierced not merely
with the ingratitude of those I had befriended, but convinced that the
unworthiness of man was a thing man was determined to persevere in.
It was at the moment of my greatest distress, that the catastrophe
alluded to before happened; and this was nothing less than the
sudden bankruptcy of Abel Snipe, whereby I was reduced in a moment
from affluence to destitution; and what made the calamity still more
painful, was a conviction forced upon me by my own reflections, as
well as the representations of others, that the failure could not have
happened without a fraudulent design on the part of the fiduciary.
It is true, this worthy gentleman was the first to inform me of his
mishap, which he did with tears in his eyes, and with divers outbreaks
of self-accusation and despair; he declared that his imprudence had
ruined me, his benefactor, and implored me, his benefactor, to knock
him on the head with a poker I had begun to embrace in my agitation;
but how he had effected such a catastrophe I could not bring him
clearly to explain. The only answers I could get from him were,
"Speculation, speculation--bad speculation!--ruined my benefactor!
might as well have murdered thee!" and so on; and having given vent to
some dozen or more of such frantic interjections, he ran out of the
house.
Enter Jonathan the very next moment. The sight of him renewed my grief;
he, poor youth, was ruined as well as myself, yet not wholly; for,
as good luck would have it, I had, a week or two before, after long
cogitation on the subject, resolved to marry him to the maid Ellen
Wild, and so secure his happiness more certainly than, it appeared
to me, it could be secured by a life of philanthropy. To effect this
desirable purpose I bestowed upon him the only property which I had
not thought fit to put into Abel Snipe's hands, being the new house I
was then building, promising also to add a sum of money, as soon as it
could be conveniently withdrawn from the concern. He received the gift
and the promise with much joy and gratitude, but betrayed surprising
indifference on the score of matrimony, saying that he was in no great
hurry, and in fact giving me to understand that there was a difference
between him and the maiden.
"Jonathan," said I, as soon as I saw him, "thee is a ruined young man.
Abel has broken."
"All to smash!" said Jonathan; "I know all about it. Horrible pickle
we're in. But I say, uncle, if thee can borrow twenty thousand dollars,
we can save friend Abel yet."
"Does thee say so?" said I; "is it true?"
"Verily," said Jonathan, "I have looked over the demands, and twenty
thousand dollars by nine o'clock to-morrow will make all straight. But
where will thee get twenty thousand dollars?"
"Where?" said I, fairly dancing for joy. "It was but two days since
that thy friend Ebenezer Wild did offer me exactly the sum of twenty
thousand dollars for the new house as it stood, not knowing I had
conveyed it to thee, until I told him the same, as a reason why I could
not take such a handsome offer."
"Well," said Jonathan, opening his eyes, "what then?"
"Surely," said I, "if he would give twenty thousand then, he will give
twenty thousand now. And so, Jonathan--"
"And so," said Jonathan, "thee wants me to sell the house, does thee?
and give thee back the money? Uncle Zachariah, thee should be a little
more reasonable. Thee must remember that the house is _mine_; and as
it seems to be all I am ever to get, why, uncle, thee must excuse me,
but--I have no notion of parting with it."
If Jonathan had picked up the poker and served me the turn Abel Snipe
had so piteously entreated me to serve him--that is, knocked me on the
head, I could not have been more shocked and horror-struck than I was
by these words.
"What, Jonathan," said I, "does thee refuse to save me from ruin--_me_,
who have been a father to thee, and given thee all that thou hast?"
"No," said Jonathan, coolly, "I am not so bad as that; but as this
house is all I have, I can't think of running too much risk with it.
Suppose thee borrows that twenty thousand dollars that Ebenezer Wild
has so handy: he is thy friend as well as mine. Or suppose thee tries
some of thy other friends. Thee has often loaned to them, and not often
borrowed. Sure thee has many friends who can spare money better than I
can."
"Oh, thou ungrateful young man!" said I.
"Don't go to call me hard names," said the perfidious and unfeeling
youth; "for, if thee comes to that, uncle Zachariah, I can tell thee,
_thee_ is the ungrateful man--though not a young one. Haven't I been
as a son to thee for eighteen long years? haven't I humoured all thy
foolish old notions, even to the point of giving alms, talking about
virtue and philanthropy, and so on? haven't I given up Ellen Wild to
please thee? And hasn't thee, after all my pains, choused me out of
the portion I had a right to expect of thee, except a poor beggarly
unfinished house, only worth twenty thousand dollars? Yes, thee
has, uncle Zachariah, thee can't deny it. Don't thee talk to me of
ingratitude."
"Thou art a viper," said I.
"If I am," said Jonathan in a huff, "I won't stay to be trodden on."
And with that, the heartless creature, tossing up his head like an
emperor, stalked out of the house, leaving me petrified by the enormity
of his baseness.
12. CHAPTER XII.
IN WHICH THE CATASTROPHE IS CONTINUED.
I was, indeed, so shocked, so overwhelmed, by ingratitude coming
from such a quarter, that it was some time before I could recover
myself sufficiently to think of the steps necessary to be taken for
my preservation. I remembered, however, that he, even _he_, my thrice
unfeeling nephew, had recommended me to borrow of my friends what would
be enough to retrieve my affairs from ruin. I ran from the house, not
doubting that I could easily raise the sum. Fifty paces distant was my
new house--that is, Jonathan's. My old friend Ebenezer, the father of
the maid Ellen, was standing before it, looking up to the carpenters,
who were nailing the shingles on the roof.
"Ebenezer," said I, "thee is my friend--does thee know I am on the
brink of ruin?"
"Very sorry," said Ebenezer--"all the town-talk; looked for nothing
better. Perhaps thee will sell the house--pho! I forgot; thee gave it
to Jonathan."
"Ebenezer Wild," said I, "if thee is my friend, lend me that twenty
thousand dollars. It will save me from ruin."
"Really, Mr. Longstraw," said Ebenezer Wild, (who was no Quaker, though
his father had been before him), "I am surprised a reasonable man
should make such a request. I have told you twenty times you would ruin
yourself by your cursed philanthropy--can't consent to be ruined with
you. Pity you, Mr. Longstraw--awfully swindled; wonder you could trust
such a knave as Abel Snipe--sorry to hear matters look so black for
Jonathan--thought better of him--quite unnatural to be defrauded by
one's own flesh and blood."
What Ebenezer meant by his concluding remarks I did not, at that
moment, understand. But I comprehended them well enough when I had run
to five or six other friends, rich men like him, all of whom treated
my request to borrow with as little respect, while all wound up their
commonplace condolings by assuring me, first, that Abel Snipe had
swindled me; and, secondly, that there was much reason to believe my
nephew Jonathan had done the same thing.
Reader, this is a very wicked world we live in. My philanthropy did not
make me, as philanthropy often does, selfish with my friends. I felt as
much pleasure in obliging one who happened to be in a difficulty, with
a loan of any sum within my reach, as in relieving actual distress. Of
twelve different persons whom I now sought in my dilemma, I had in this
manner, at different times, obliged no less than eleven; of not one
of whom could I now borrow a dollar. Every man pitied my misfortune,
every one inveighed with becoming severity against the villany of those
by whom I was ruined, but every one was astonished that a reasonable
man like me should expect another reasonable man to part with his
money. In short, it was evident that my friends loved borrowing better
than lending; and I left the door of the twelfth with the agreeable
conviction on my spirit, that human nature was of the nature of a
stone, I being the only man of the thousand million in the world that
had actually a heart in my bosom.
This consideration was racking enough; but it made a small part of my
distress. Every man had charged my friend, honest Abel Snipe, with
having swindled me, as Ebenezer Wild had charged before; and every one,
in like manner, swore that my nephew Jonathan had borne a part in the
nefarious transaction. This seemed to me incredible enough; but when
I remembered Jonathan's late behaviour, his unexpected defection, his
hard, unfeeling, nay, his treacherous selfishness, I felt prepared to
believe almost any wickedness that might be said of him.
I ran to Abel's office, resolved to sift the affair to the bottom. The
work was already done to my hands; I found the office full of people,
some of whom were officers of the police, who had seized upon books and
papers, and (awful to be said!) the body of Abel Snipe; and all raging
with vociferation and confusion, except the latter worthy, who looked
as if astounded out of his senses. "It's a clear case of swindling,"
cried a dozen voices as I entered, "a design to defraud--fraud from
beginning to end; flagrant, scandalous, scoundrelly swindling--, nay,
_worse_ than swindling--it is a conspiracy! Jonathan has confessed
it--been going on this three months;--Jonathan has confessed it!"
Jonathan had confessed it! confessed what? Why, confessed, as every one
gave me to understand, and confessed in the hands of justice (for it
seems he had been arrested), that he and Abel Snipe had entered into a
conspiracy to defraud me of my property, which had been carried on from
the moment that the latter was established in business, and was now
completed by a long-designed bankruptcy.
Let the reader imagine my feelings at this disclosure of ingratitude
and villany so monstrous.
My best friend--a man whom I had wrested from the extremity of poverty
and disgrace, and my only relative--a youth whom I had adopted and
reared as my son, who was my heir at law, and the living partner, as
I may say, in all my possessions--had leagued together feloniously to
deprive me of what I never denied them the privilege to share,--to rob,
to fleece, to reduce me to beggary.
Words cannot paint my grief. I crept away from the scene of confusion,
ashamed of my manhood, ashamed even of my philanthropy. I reached the
door of my house; it was just dusk; a poor man standing at the door
implored my charity for a miserable creature, as he called himself. "Go
to the devil!" said I.
"You are Zachariah Longstraw?" said another man, tapping me on the
shoulder. "I am," said I, supposing he was a beggar like the other;
"and you may go to the devil too."
"Very much obliged to you," said the man; "but you're my prisoner; and
so come along, if you please." And with that he took me by the arm, and
began to march me down the street.
13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE DÉNOUEMENT OF THE DRAMA.
Why I was arrested, and at whose instance, I knew not; I was too
downcast and spirit-broken to inquire. I had, doubtless, divers small
debts due to persons with whom I was accustomed to deal; and it seemed
to me natural enough, as all men were ungrateful rascals, that all
such persons, now that I was known to be penniless, should fall upon
me without shame or mercy, demanding their dues. I say I thought such
a consummation was natural enough, and I asked no questions of my
captor. I let my head drop upon my bosom, and, without resisting or
remonstrating, and looking neither to the right nor the left, suffered
him to conduct me whither he would.
Our progress was rapid, our journey short; in a few moments I found
myself led into a house, and ushered into a lighted apartment.
I looked up, to see into what alderman's hands I had fallen. The reader
may judge of my surprise, amounting almost to consternation, when I
beheld myself in an elegant saloon, brilliantly lighted, and surrounded
by a dozen or more gayly-dressed people of both sexes, among whom was
my friend Ebenezer Wild, and two or three others whose countenances
seemed familiar, but whom, in my surprise and confusion, I did not
immediately recognise.
A maiden, beautiful as the morning, and smiling as if her little heart
was dancing out of her eyes, ran from the throng, and seized me by the
hands, crying,--
"Now, uncle Zachariah, thee shall pay me what thee owes me, or be
turned over to some other creditor!"
I looked upon her in astonishment, and began to fancy I was in a dream.
"What!" said my friend Ebenezer, "don't you know my little Ellen?" And
thereupon he added other expressions, but what they were I retain no
remembrance of, my wits being utterly amazed and confounded.
To make my confusion still greater, the door suddenly opened, and in
rushed my nephew Jonathan, dressed, like a dandy of the first water,
in a blue cloth coat with shining buttons, white trousers, and satin
waistcoat, and exclaiming "Bravo!" and "Victoria!" as if a very demon
of joy and exultation possessed him. As soon as he beheld me he ran
forward, snatched one of my hands from the maiden, and, dropping on his
knees, cried, with a comical look of contrition,--
"Forgive me all my sins, uncle Zachariah, and I'll behave better for
the future."
"Oh thou ungrateful wretch!" said I, "how canst thou look me in the
face, having ruined me?"
"Don't say so!" cried Ellen Wild; "you don't know how Jonathan has
saved you."
"The deuse he don't!" said Jonathan, jumping up; "why then we've got
the play all wrong. I say, uncle, don't look so solemn and wrathful.
You are no more ruined than I am, and you are out of the clutches of
the harpy!"
"Haven't I been swindled?" said I.
"Unutterably!" said Jonathan; "but, as the swindler has been swindled
also, there's no great harm done. Uncle Zachariah, a'n't you satisfied
Abel Snipe is a rascal?"
"I am," said I; "but what shall I say of thee?"
"That I have broken the spell the villain cast over your senses," said
Jonathan, "and so saved you from the ruin your confidence invited him
to attempt. Uncle Zachariah, you think I am as bad as Abel. Now listen
to my story. I knew that Abel Snipe was a rogue and hypocrite, but
could not make you believe it; I saw that he was daily fleecing you
of sums of money under pretence of giving to the poor; that he was
artfully goading and inflaming your benevolence into a passion, nay,
into a _monomania_ (for, uncle, everybody said you were mad), for his
own base purposes; and that, sooner or later, he would strip you of
every thing. This I could not make you believe; I resolved you should
see it. I turned hypocrite myself, and began to fleece you ten times
harder than Abel. The rogue was alarmed; he perceived I was ousting him
from his employment--that I had greater facilities for cheating (having
more of your affection) than himself. His alarm, added to another
feeling which you shall hear all about, brought him into the trap from
which cautiousness at first secured him. I convinced him I was as great
a rogue as himself, and he then agreed with me--yes, uncle, formally
agreed--to join in a plan to strip you of fortune. We arranged the
whole scheme from beginning to end--the business, the speculations, the
bankruptcy. Abel was to play Sir Smash--his reputation could stand it.
The sums received from you were to be handed over to me, and accounted
for as lost in bad speculations; to make which appear straight, his
books were filled with fictitious sales and purchases, very ingeniously
got up. After the grand crash we were to make a division of the
plunder, he being content, honest man, to receive one fourth, of which
he considered himself secure enough as long as I had any value for
good name or fear of the penitentiary. Now you may wonder how such a
cautious rogue could be so easily gulled. Here stands the fairy," said
Jonathan, pointing to the maid Ellen, "who dazzled the eyes of his
wisdom. Yes, uncle, would you believe it? the impudent, the audacious
fellow had the vanity to think he had found favour in her eyes, at a
time when I had lost favour in those of her father. You must know we
had a coolness--that is, father Wild and I; it was about you--that
confounded philanthropy--but we'll say nothing of that. I used to
communicate with Ellen by letter, and Abel was often my Ganymede. Now,
you must know, Ellen is a coquette--'
"Fy, Jonathan!" said the damsel; "it was all that vicious Abel's
presumption and folly. Because I was glad to see him, and treated him
well, just because he brought me letters--oh, the monster! I soon saw
what was running in his head!"
"Yes," said Jonathan, "Ellen's a much smarter girl than people suppose
her."
"Oh! you great Quaker bear!" said the maiden.
"Well," continued Jonathan, "she boasted her conquest, and then I saw
I had the ogre by the nose. It was this put me upon turning swindler;
I had a talk with father Wild, who approved my plan, and Ellen agreed
to cultivate Abel's good opinion as far as a smile or two. We affected
to quarrel; I began to coquet with another, abusing poor Ellen to Abel
as hard as I could, until he was persuaded the breach between us was
incurable. Ellen gave him a smile--her papa became condescending. In a
word, the rascal thought nothing was wanting to make him the happiest
man in the world, save the one full fourth of his patron's estate, and
as much more as he could cheat me of. Here was the rock upon which Abel
split, and split he has; he is now safe. The moment matters came to
a crisis, which was this afternoon, I ran to a magistrate--my friend
Jones there" (pointing to an elderly gentleman who had entered with
him), "and made confession of our roguery; deposed the whole matter;
accused myself and Abel of conspiracy to defraud, and so forth, and so
forth; and was admitted to the honourable privileges of evidence for
the commonwealth, and allowed to walk about on bail, while my rascally
colleague takes up his lodgings in prison. There's the whole story; I
have exposed Snipe's rogueries, and secured his conviction; and, what
is equally agreeable, I have saved your property. Here, uncle--you
called me a viper--I only wanted to make you believe I could be
ungrateful, as well as others. By-the-way, that was a plan of father
Wild's, to have your friends refuse to assist you; they were let into
the secret, and I recommended you to apply to them. Here, uncle, you'll
see what a viper I am," he continued, a little impetuously; "here are
the deeds for the house; here is a roll of bank-notes I cheated you
of, to play the philanthropist; you will be surprised at the amount,
but I _did_ spend some, I confess, for there are wretches who deserve
our charity. And here, and here, and here you have the property out of
which Abel and I conspired to cheat you--at least, the chief part of
it; the rest we will soon get possession of, having laid the villain in
limbo. Here, uncle Zachariah, take them, and be as philanthropic as you
please; we have no fear of you, now your familiar is tied up; take your
property, and much good may it do you. As for me, I am content to take
Ellen--that is, if you have no objection."
This was a turn of circumstances that confounded me more than ever;
and, verily, I knew not whether I was standing on my head or feet. I
stood staring Jonathan in the face, without saying a word, until the
youth was seized with the idea that the surprise of the thing had
turned my wits; at which, being alarmed, he took me again by the hand,
and said, with the tears in his eyes,--
"Oh, my dear uncle! do consider it is nothing more than a joke, and
that I never meant to offend thee."
"No," said I, "thee did not. Therefore thee shall have it all, and thee
shall marry the maiden."
And with that, being seized with uncommon generosity, or perhaps not
well knowing what I did, I put into his hands the conveyance of the
house, the bank-bills, and other papers which he had given me but a
moment before, and turned to leave the house.
"Stay, uncle--I am just going to be married," said he; and "Stay,
Zachariah!" said a dozen others; when some one suddenly calling
out, "Let him go; he is afraid of being turned out of meeting if he
witnesses the ceremony," I was suffered to obey the impulses of the
spirit within me, and walk out of the house; which I did without
exactly knowing what I was doing.
To tell the honest truth--as, indeed, I have been trying to do all
along--I was in a kind of maze and bewilderment of mind, which the
first shock of ruin had produced, and which Jonathan's story rather
increased than diminished. The effect of this was divided in my brain
with the impression of the various proofs of ingratitude and baseness
to which the day had given birth, the latter, however, being greatly
preponderant. Of one feeling only I had entire consciousness, and that
was a hearty disgust of philanthropy, coupled with a sense of shame at
having been so basely cheated as I seemed to have been on all sides. I
had been cheated out of my senses, as the saying is; and the only cure
for me was to be cheated into them again; which was not an agreeable
reflection, the whole affair being a reproach on my good sense.
On the whole, I felt very melancholy and lugubrious, and began to
have my thoughts of leaving Zachariah Longstraw's body at the first
convenient opportunity. The great difficulty was, however, to find a
tenement in which I might promise myself content, the disappointment I
had experienced in my present adventure having filled me with doubts
as to the reality of any human happiness. "At least," said I to myself
"I will henceforth look before I leap. I will cast mine eyes about me,
I will gird up my loins and look abroad into the human family, and
peradventure I shall find some man whose body is worth reanimating.
Yea, verily, I will next time be certain I am not putting my soul, as
the pickpocket did his hand, into a sack of fish-hooks."
With this resolution on my mind I walked towards my house, and was just
about to pass the door, when an adventure befell me which knocked the
aforesaid resolution entirely on the head. But before I relate it my
conscience impels me to make one remark, which I beg the reader, if he
be a man of fortune and blood, to peruse, without excusing himself on
the score of its dulness.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
A REMARK, IN WHICH THE AUTHOR APPEARS AS A POLITICIAN, AND ABUSES BOTH
PARTIES.
There are other persons besides Zachariah the philanthropist, who
have experienced the ingratitude of the poor; and, truth to say, if
we can believe the accounts of those who profess to have the best
means of judging, there is more of it among that class of beings in
the United States than in any other Christian land. If it be so, let
not the reader wonder at its existence. It springs, like a thousand
other evils of a worse, because of a political complexion, from that
constitution of society which, notwithstanding its being in opposition
to all the interests of the land and the character of our institutions,
is founded in, and perpetuated by, the folly of the richer classes. It
lies, not in the _natural_ enmity supposed to exist between the rich
and the poor, but in the unnatural hatred provoked in the bosoms of
the one by the offensive pride and arrogance of the other. The poor
man in America feels himself, in a political view, as he really is,
the equal of the millionaire; but this very consciousness of equality
adds double bitterness to the sense of actual inferiority, which the
richer and more fortunate usually do their best, as far as manners
and deportment are concerned, to keep alive. Why should the folly of
a feudal aristocracy prevail under the shadow of a purely democratic
government? It is to the stupid pride, the insensate effort at pomp and
ostentation, the unconcealed contempt of labour, the determination,
manifested in a thousand ways, and always as unfeelingly as absurdly,
to keep the "base mechanical" aware of the gulf between him and his
betters--in a word, to the puerile vanity and stolid pride of the
genteel and refined, that we owe the exasperation of those classes in
whose hands lie the reins of power, and who will use them for good or
bad purposes, according as they are kept in a good or bad humour. It
is to these things we trace, besides the general demoralization ever
resulting from passions long encouraged, besides the unwilling and
unthankful reception of benefits coming from the hands of the detested,
all those political evils which demagoguism, agrarianism, mobocracism,
and all other _isms_ of a vulgar stamp, have brought upon the land.
There is pride in the poor, as well as the rich: the wise man and the
patriot will take care not to offend it.
Reader, if thou art a rich man, and despisest thy neighbour, remember
that he has a thousand friends of his class where thou hast one of
thine, and that he can beat thee at the elections. If thou art a
gentleman, remember that thy cobbler is another, or thinks himself
so--which is all the same thing in America. At all events, remember
_this_--namely, that the poor man will find no fault with thy wealth,
if thou findest none with his poverty.
15. CHAPTER XV.
AN UNCOMMON ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL THE AUTHOR.
I said that, just as I arrived at the door of my dwelling, an adventure
befell me; and truly, it was such an extraordinary one as has happened
to no other individual in the land since the days of the unfortunate
William Morgan. As I passed towards the door, a man whose countenance I
could not see, for it was more than two hours after nightfall, and who
seemed to have been lying in wait on the stoop, suddenly started up,
exclaiming, in accents highly nasal, and somewhat dolorous,
"Well! I guess, if there's no offence, there's no mistake. I rather
estimate that you're Mr. Zachariah Longstraw?"
"Well, friend! and what is that _thy_ business?" said I, in no amiable
tone.
"Well, not above more than's partickilar," said the stranger; "but
I've heern tell much on your goodness, and I'm in rather a bit of the
darnedest pickle jist now, with a sick wife and nine small children,
the oldest only six years old, that ever you heerd tell on. And so, I
rather estimated--"
"Thee may estimate theeself to the devil," said I. "How can the oldest
child of nine be only six years old?"
"Oh, darn it," said the fellow, "there was three on 'em twins. But if
you'll jest step round to my wife, she'll tell you all about it. Always
heern you was a great andyfist, or what-d'-ye-call-it."
"Then thee has heard a great lie," said I, "and so thee may go about
thee business, for I'll give thee nothing."
"Well now, do tell!" said the man, with a tone of surprise that
conveyed a part of the emotion to myself, particularly when, by way
of pointing his discourse with the broadest note of admiration, he
suddenly clapped a foot to my heels, and laid me sprawling on the broad
of my back.
My astonishment and wrath may well be imagined; but they were nothing
to the terror that beset me, when, recovering a little from the
stunning effects of the fall, I opened my mouth to cry aloud, and found
it instantly stuffed full of handkerchiefs, or some such soft material,
which the pretended beggar took that opportunity to gag me with. The
next moment I felt myself whipped up from the ground and borne aloft,
like a corpse, on the shoulders of two men, who trudged along at a
rapid pace, and apparently with the greatest unconcern possible; for
some of the people in the street hearing my groans, which were the only
sounds I could make, and demanding what was the matter, were answered
by my cool captors, "Oh, nothing more than's partickilar--only a poor
mad gentleman that broke hospital; guess he won't do it again. Raving
mad, and hollers a gag out. I say, Sam, hold fast to his legs, and
don't let him jump; for I rather estimate, if he gets loose, he'll kill
some on these here people."
The villain! I had begun to hope my moans and struggles, which I made
for the purpose as loud and furious as I could, having no other way of
calling for help, would cause some of the persons collected to arrest
the rogues, and inquire into the matter a little more closely; but no
sooner had the villain expressed his fears of the mischief I might do,
than all inquiries ceased, and a horrible scraping and rattling of feet
told me that assistance and curiosity had scampered off together.
In three minutes more I found myself clapped into a little covered,
or rather _boxed_ wagon, such as is used by travelling tinmen, and
held fast by one of the rogues, while the other seized upon the reins,
and whipping up a little nag that was geared to it, we began to roll
through the streets at a round gait, and with such a rattle of wheels
and patty-pans, that there was little hope of making myself heard, had
I possessed the voice even of an oyster-man. My companion took this
opportunity to secure my wrists in a pair of wooden handcuffs, and
to lock my feet in a sort of stocks, secured against the side of the
wagon. Then, overhauling the handkerchiefs, and arranging them more to
his liking, though not a whit more to mine, he opened his mouth and
spoke, saying,
"Now, uncle Longlegs, I estimate we'll be comfortable. So keep easy;
or, if you _will_ grunt, just grunt in tune, and see what sort of a
bass you'll make to Old Hundred."
With that the rascal, after pitching his voice so as to accommodate
mine as much as possible, began to sing a song; of which all that I
recollect is, that it related the joys of a travelling tinman--tricks,
rogueries, and all;--that it began somewhat in the following fashion;--
"When I was a driving along Down East,
I met old Deacon Dobbs on his beast;
The beast was fat, and the man was thin--
'I'll cheat Deacon Dobbs,' says I, 'to the skin,--'"
that it was as long and soporific as a state constitution, or a
governor's message--that it was actually sung to a psalm-tune, or
something like it--and that, during the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth,
and half of the fourteenth stanza, the little wagon rolled leisurely
over a long and hollow-sounding bridge, which I had no doubt was one of
the wooden Rialtos of the Schuylkill--having passed which, the driver
whipped up, and away we went at a speed of at least six miles an hour.
16. CHAPTER XVI.
IN WHICH SHEPPARD LEE TAKES A JOURNEY, AND DISCOVERS THE SECRET OBJECT
OF HIS CAPTORS.
Verily, reader, the thing was to me as an amazement and a marvel, and
the wonder thereof filled my spirit with anguish and perturbation.
But if I was dismayed at my seizure and abduction, at my involuntary
journey, prolonged through the space of a whole night, how much greater
was my alarm to find it continued for five days and nights longer,
during which I was never allowed to speak or breathe the fresh air,
except when my captors halted to rest and eat, which they did at
irregular intervals, and always in solitary places among woods and
thickets. It was in vain that I demanded by what authority they treated
me with such violence, what purpose they had in view, and whither
they were conducting me. The rogues assured me they were very honest
fellows, who made their living according to law, and had no design to
harm me; and as to what they designed doing with me, _that_, they said,
I should know all in good time; recommending me, in the meanwhile,
to take things patiently. I studied their appearance well. They were
common-looking personages, with a vulgar shrewdness of visage, and
would have been readily taken for Yankee pedlers of the nutmeg and
side-saddle order--that is, of the inferior branch of that adventurous
class--as indeed they were. There was nothing of the cut-throat about
them whatever, and I soon ceased to feel any apprehension of their
doing me a personal injury. But what did the villains mean? what was
their object in carrying me off? what did they design doing with me?
To these questions, which I asked myself and them in vain, I had, on
the sixth day of my captivity, an answer; and verily it was one that
filled me with horror and astonishment. Oh! the wickedness of man!
the covetousness, the depravity, the audacity! the enterprise and
originality thereof!
During the first three days of my captivity, my roguish captors had
taken great pains to conceal me from, and to prevent any noises I might
make from being heard by, any persons they met on the road. On the
fourth day they relaxed somewhat from their severity; on the fifth they
unbound my arms; and on the sixth they even removed the gag from my
mouth, assuring me, however, that it should be replaced if I attempted
any outcries, and giving me, moreover, to understand, that I was now
in a land where outcries would be of no service to me whatever; and,
indeed, I had soon the most mournful proof that, in this particular,
they spoke nothing but the truth.
The evening before, I heard, while passing by a farmhouse, a great
sawing of fiddles and strumming of banjoes, with a shuffling of feet,
as of people engaged in a dance, while a voice, which I knew, by its
undoubted Congo tang, could be none but a negro's, sang, in concert
with the fiddles,--
"Ole Vaginnee! nebber ti--ah!
Kick'm up, Juba, a leetle high--ah,--"
or something to that effect. And, while I was marvelling what could
make a negro in Pennsylvania chant the praises of Virginia, having
rolled a little further on, I heard, far in the distance, while our
little nag stopped to drink from a brook, the sound of many voices,
which I knew also were those of negroes. They were labourers husking
corn in the light of the moon, and singing as they laboured; and,
verily, there was something uncommonly agreeable in the tones, now
swelling, now dying in the distance, as many or fewer voices joined
in the song. There was a pleasing wildness in the music; but it was
to me still more enchanting, as showing the light-heartedness of the
singers. "Verily," said I, forgetting my woes in a sudden impulse of
philanthropy, "the negro that is free is a happy being"--not doubting
that I was still in Pennsylvania.
But oh, how grievously this conceit was dispersed on the following
morning! I was roused out of sleep by the sound of voices and clanking
of chains, and looking from the door of my prison, which my conductors
had left open to give me air, I spied, just at the tail of the cart, a
long train of negroes, men, women, and children, of whom some of the
males were chained together, the children riding for the most part in
covered wagons, while two white men on horseback, armed with great
whips and pistols, rode before and behind, keeping the whole procession
in order.
"What!" said I, filled with virtuous indignation, and thrusting my head
from the cart so as to address the foremost rider, "what does thee
mean, friend? Are these people slaves or freemen? and why dost thou
conduct them thus in chains through the free state of Pennsylvania?"
"Pennsylvanee!" cried the man, with a stare; "I reckon we're fifty
miles south of Mason's and Dixon's, and fast enough in old Virginnee."
"Virginia!" said I, seized with dismay. Before I could add any thing
farther, one of my captors, jumping from the front of the cart, where
he had been riding with the other, clapped to the door of the box,
swearing at me for an old fool, who could not keep myself out of
mischief.
"Hillo, stranger!" I heard the horseman cry to my jailer, "what white
man's that you've got locked up thaw?"
"Oh, darn it," was the answer, "it's an old fellow of the north, jist
as mad as the dickens."
"Friend!" cried I from my prison, seized with a sudden hope of escape,
"the man tells thee a fib. If thee is an honest man and a lover of the
law, I charge thee to give me help; for these men are villains, who
have dragged me from my home contrary to law, and now have me fastened
up by the legs."
"I say, strange-aw! by hooky!" cried the horseman, in very emphatic
tones, addressing himself to my captor, as I saw through a crack, while
his companion rode up to his assistance, "what's the meaning of all
this he-aw? What aw you doing, toting a white man off in this style,
like a wild baw?"
What a "wild _baw_" was I could not conveniently comprehend; but I saw
that I had lighted on a friend, who had the power to deliver me from
thraldom.
"My name," said I, "is Zachariah Longstraw, and I can reward thee for
thy trouble."
"You hear him!" said my jailer, with all imaginable coolness. "Well
now, darn it, if I must tell, it is Zachariah Longstraw, the famous
Zachariah Longstraw. You understand!" And here he nodded and winked at
the questioner with great significancy; but, as it appeared, all in
vain.
"Never heard of the man in my life," said my friend, "and I've followed
niggur-driving ever since I could hold a two-year-old bo' pig."
"What!" cried my jailer, "never heard of Zachariah Longstraw, the
famous abolitionist?"
"_Abolitionist_!" cried the two horsemen together, and they cried it
with a yell that made my hair stand on end. "Can't say ever heard the
name, but reckon he's one of them 'aw New-Yorkers and Yankees what
sends 'cendiary things down he-aw! I say, strange-aw! is it a true,
right up-and-down, no-mistake abolitionist?"
"Darn it, I think you'd say so, if you had ever read the papers."
"Jist open the box then, and if I don't take the scalp off him, call me
a black man!"
"You won't do no sitch thing, meaning no offence," said my jailer.
"Didn't go to the expense to fetch him so far for nothing; and don't
mean him for the Virginnee market. Bound down to Louisianee, stranger;
that's the best market for abolitionists; seen a public advertisement
offering fifty thousand dollars for fellers not half so bad. I rather
estimate we'll get full price for our venture."
With that my jailers whipped up, and succeeded in putting a proper
distance betwixt them and that ferocious person who had such a desire
to rob me of my scalp.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
CONTAINING OTHER SECRETS, BUT NOT SO IMPORTANT.
Reader, if thou art an abolitionist (and, verily, I hope thou art
not), thou wilt conceive the mingled wo and astonishment with which
I listened to these words of the chief kidnapper--whose Christian
name, by-the-way, was Joshua, though as for his surname, I must
confess I never heard it--and appreciate, even to the cold creeping
of the flesh, the terrible situation in which I was placed. I was an
abolitionist--or, at least, my captors chose so to consider me, and
they were now carrying me down south, to sell me on speculation. For
this they had kidnapped me! for this they had fastened me up by the
legs like a "wild baw!" for this--but it is vain to accumulate phrases
expressive of their villany and my distresses. What mattered it to my
captors if, after all, I was _no_ abolitionist? (for, of a verity,
though opposed in principle to the whole institution of slavery, my
mind had been so fully occupied with other philanthropic considerations
that I had had no time to play the liberator)--it was all one to my
captors. The genius which could convert a hemlock-knot into a shoulder
of bacon, a bundle of elder twigs into good Havana cigars, and bags of
carpet-rags into Bologna sausages, could be at no fault when the demand
was only to transform a peaceable follower of George Fox into a roaring
lion of abolition. I felt that they had go
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