The hoax goes on.—Confidence, and the lack of it—their consequences
in domestic life.

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

“Heavy lightness, serious vanity.”

“Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast.”

“I, from the orient to the drooping west,
Still unfold
The acts comnienced on this ball of earth.”

“I would the surfeit of my too abundant riches
Cure by enlarged bounty.”

Where was Trustworthy Davenport at the time his employer
so needed his help? He had remained at the Tontine
Coffee-house, (Cooke's usual boarding-place), during a visit to
the house of an admirer, waiting only occasionally upon the tragedian
to receive orders. The morning after the storm, Trusty
called, and was informed that the old man had left the house
after it was thought he had retired to bed, and that there was no
trace of him. Returning to the Tontine to consult Bryden, he
arrived just in time to relieve Spiffard from his troublesome
charge, and convey the yet bewildered old man to his chamber
and bed.

Spiffard returned home, content as man should be, with
having done his duty. The active scenes he had been
engaged in made him forget for the present the domestic evil
he felt and dreaded. He was ready to enjoy his breakfast.
But even this enjoyment was denied him. He found the

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

following letter awaiting. The Philadelphia post-mark and handwriting
took away all appetite before he broke the seal, on
which an anchor was impressed: so careful and minute had
the idler Allen been in his industrious preparation for mischief.
Not that mischief was meant in the serious import of the word.
But who knows when he deviates from the track of truth where
the by-path may lead him?

I do not like to receive a letter when I am preparing to sit
down to breakfast or dinner. Good news is least wanted when
a good meal is before me, and bad news spoils the most savoury
dish. Spiffard read what he anticipated from the outward
signs.

Philadelphia, Jan. 30, 1812.

Sir:—I have to apologise for not meeting you at the Albany
Coffee-house at the time appointed. I was called to this
city on an affair that did not admit of delay. I will be in New-York
on any appointed day, previous to my departure for Europe,
if it shall be necessary. My friend Thomas Beaglehole,
Esq. is intrusted with the adjustment of our affair, and has received
my instructions. He will wait upon your friend and
receive your determination. If he satisfied, I am: otherwise,
on receiving a line from him, I shall wait upon you with
all speed.

It is difficult to conceive the feelings of a man who, for the
first time, is engaged in a duel. One who places himself in a
situation intended to tempt his fellow-man to aim at his life,
and intends to aim at the life of his fellow-man; one who has
decided, or pledged himself, at the will of a third person, (called
a friend or second), to place himself in a situation which
may make of him a corpse or a murderer.

Such a man, after having given or accepted a challenge,
and placed himself at the disposal of a second, is in a state of
torture, troubled fluctuations, misgivings, or passionate excitement.
His reason does not approve—cannot approve. He
knows that he is acting contrary to the dictates of conscience
and the will of his Maker, from fear of man's opinions. He
makes his preparations for murder with affected calmness,
while his mind is a chaos. He screws himself up to the deed,
or the suffering, and while he must appear cheerful, curses on

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his adversary burst from his tortured soul, and he eagerly
grasps at the hope that his second may yet prevent blood.

The situation of Spiffard was not similar to this. He
thought himself the injured party, but did not wish revenge for
the injury. He was convinced that in repressing insult, he had
done his duty as a man and a husband. He had agreed to
meet Captain Smith at the suggestion of his companions,
whose good opinion he did not wish to lose, and of whose good
faith he had no doubt; but he went to the meeting neither to
apologise nor fight, but to show his supposed adversary that
there was no call for either. Now, however his situation was
changed, and he was called upon to place himself at the disposal
of Mr. Allen, of whom he knew little, and of a Mr.
Beaglehole, of whom he knew nothing. He hesitated as to
the course he should ultimately pursue. Uncertainty, wavering,
and irresolution, had taken possession of his mind. He
was sick at heart. His moments of self-approbation were few
and far between. As the progress of this hoax went on, Spiffard
became discontented, peevish, and a feeling approaching
to loathing of himself and all around him weighed upon his
spirit and withered his strength. His natural paleness was increased
to a corpse-like livid hue. His eyes lost their fire,
his lips their colour, and his muscles their elasticity.

How little did the gay young men who produced this misery
appreciate the pain their sport inflicted! Did they wish to inflict
pain? Certainly not. The whole plot was the result of
overflowing animal spirits, kept in perpetual ferment by the incessant
recurrence of the feast and the stimulants accompanying
it. The hot blood of youth pouring fire---adding fuel to
the already overheated furnace. There is a mist which appetite
raises to cloud reason, and to this the fumes of the “sparkling
glass”—the all-destroying alcohol—were (in those days) habitually
added, so that the minds of some were always enveloped
in a many-coloured cloud, sometimes bright as if illumined by a
thousand suns; sometimes dark as night; but ever false—
ever leading to misapprehensions and endless error.

The injury unintentionally inflicted on Spiffard, was shared
by his wife. Her own errors rendered her peculiarly obnoxious
to suspicion. The husband was silent, or peevish. The
question, “What's the matter, Mr. Spiffard?” was answered
laconically by “Nothing.” But this word was accompanied
by looks that spoke volumes to the unfortunate woman, yet
left her in suspense. Sometimes the question was put, “What
is the matter, Mr. Spiffard?” and the answer was even more

[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]

unsatisfactory, though the word was still “Nothing.” But I
am anticipating.

Spiffard could neither eat his breakfast nor remain at home,
in the state of mind which the renewal of the affair of Captain
John Smith produced. After the ceremony of the morning
meal was over, he went in search of Allen.

He met Henry Johnson, (no longer the watchman), and
passed him with a friendly salutation, and “The ladies will be
glad to see you.”

Henry, (after certain arrangements with his mother, and
the necessary attentions to his appearance), hastened to impart
to Emma Portland the tidings which imported change so great
to her. Emma had left him poor; he was now blessed by
competence. She had made a discovery, which, although redounding
to his honour, pained her, as it seemed like a want
of confidence in her; something approaching to falsehood in
him.

The two couples which the thread of our story brings us to
consider under the same point of view, were strangely contrasted.
They were alike as being young; for still Mr. and
Mrs. Spiffard were in the prime of life. They were alike in
being blest by nature with physical and mental powers. In
what then consisted the contrast? The one pair was miserable,
the other happy. What the cause? Early education and
early associates. Johnson and Spiffard were both moral men;
but the first had been strictly trained; and the path of life
pointed out by a pure and religious parent. The second was
left to the guidance of his blind fancy, and misled by one who
had been selected for his guide. Henry had chosen a partner
in the house of God, from among those who were teaching the
orphan, and the abandoned of earth, to seek heaven. Spiffard
had selected from among those who delight the mingled throng
who seek pleasure more than improvement.

The interview which took place on the present occasion, was
of great interest to Henry Johnson and Emma Portland: but
as I am aware that such scenes are not of the most fascinating
kind to the general reader, I shall leave the imagination of my
admirers to supply the terms in which the young man made
many explanations, and informed the lovely girl of those discoveries
which led to the unravelment of the intricacies which
were gathering around Mr. Littlejohn and himself. But we
must take a peep at the scene of happiness, notwithstanding.

He found Emma alone. That was just as it should be. For
a short time he was embarrassed, and she was thoughtful. He

[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]

considered her as an incarnation of truth. She was so; and
like Milton's Truth, “an immortal feature of loveliness and
perfection.” And Henry, in the spirit of truth, sought to explain
any appearance that might offend her purity.

“I am delighted to find that the exposure to the storm of
last night, has not made you sick, Emma. And yet you do
not appear as cheerful as usual.”

“I do not think that my health has suffered. The cold was
great, but I was well guarded, and the snow was dry.”

“But your eyes do not sparkle as they were wont.”

“Perhaps they want sleep; but no, I slept very soundly,
and later than I commonly do. Henry, it was a night of
wonders.”

“Wonders, indeed!”

“And you do not know that I came from a death-bed before
I saw you; and a sudden and unexpected death, although one
serene and prepared for. When I awoke this morning, I could
not but think I had been dreaming. The situation in which I
found Mr. Cooke—and, Henry, the situation in which I found
you. The dying woman—the storm—the old man lying helpless,
and perishing with cold—the watch-house—and the
watchman, Henry! I would as little expect to find Henry
Johnson in such a dress, and with such companions, and in
such a place, as to find Mr. Cooke perishing in the street in a
snow-storm.”

“I can explain to your satisfaction, Emma.”

“Had I not a right to expect confidence from one, to one
who has confided in him most implicitly?”

“You had.”

“I will not hide a thought from you, Henry. Meeting you,
as I did, when I little expected to meet any one whom I
had even seen, and when I trusted for the success of my mission
upon the common dictates of duty alone, was little short
of a miracle. At the time, it was a source of unmingled joy;
but since, I have thought upon it with sorrow. With all my
confidence in your purity and honour, I have not yet been reconciled
to finding you so disguised, and so associated.”

“For my mother, Emma! for my angelic mother! For
her who has toiled and suffered, that I might be instructed, and
made useful in society. You know what my expectations were;
and that I toiled at the desk all day, to be prepared, at an approaching
period, for a lucrative employment. In the mean time,
my mother was rendered incapable of exertion. I did not tell
you how very poor we were. I thought, for the short time of

[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

my probation, I would watch during the night, as well as work
through the day, and when my promised salary commenced,
then resign the pittance, which has been, for some time, my
mother's support. Thus my days were occupied in labour for
future comfort, and my nights for the present means of subsistance.”

Emma gave him her hand, and her eyes filled with tears.

“But, Henry, did you think I could not appreciate such
motives? Why not confide your necessities and your plans
to me?”

“My reasons may not appear sufficient to you, although
they were so to me. I thought that you might suppose the
hardships and exposures I should encounter, greater than they
really are; and therefore that the knowledge of this mode of relieving
my mother's wants, by depriving myself of rest, would
cause unnecessary anxiety to you. You must forgive me. It was
with difficulty that I persuaded my mother to be reconciled to
the temporary resource, (for it was only to last a few weeks;)
and I was, perhaps, vain enough to think it might be as difficult
to obtain your approbation, and might cause unnecessary
pain.”

There was a pressure of the hand, and a smile through tears,
that spoke perfect forgiveness. Never do the rays of the sun
appear more beautiful, than when they are seen through the
mild, refreshing showers of summer, giving promise of a goodly
time to come. Such a smile was an assurance of future happiness
to Henry Johnson.

“And now, Henry, I do believe that the watchman who
twice followed me, was the same that assisted me last night.”

“You may believe it.”

“Even yet I cannot be reconciled to a disguise.”

“The dress was not put on as a disguise. I put on the
habit with the employment. I obtained the employment by
the recommendation of a neighbour, who had himself served as
such, but was disqualified by infirmity. I told no untruths.
My name and my motives were known to my companions.”

“But such companions.!”

“Do not misconceive of them. Do not, because European
books describe the watchman as a rogue or a fool, therefore
suppose the useful guardians of our cities to be such. They
are honest, industrious mechanics, and as well informed, on all
subjects, as men who gain their bread by the labour of their
hands can be. They have appreciated my superior education,
as, by degrees, they discovered that I possessed that

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advantage. I have been of service to such of them as imagined
ardent spirits of use to them in times of exposure, by convincing
them of the contrary. Most of them have been apprised of
my motives for putting on the garb, and sharing the hardships
of the band; and they have given them their due weight. But
Emma, neither they, nor you, nor I, have known who I am.”

“We do not know ourselves to be sure. Who does? I do
not know myself; but I thought that, perhaps, I knew you
better than you knew yourself. I had my doubts, last night.”

“I do not mean that self-knowledge.”

“What then?”

“The discoveries of this morning are even more extraordinary
than those of last night.”

“Of this morning.”

“After you left my mother, and even after the storm had
past, and the sun had risen.”

“They must be strange discoveries, indeed, if more strange
than I made. For I last night discovered, in a poor, perishing
outcast, dying on a snow-heap, the idolized George Frederick
Cooke; and in the sober, industrious, moral Henry Johnson,
a tenant of the watch-house.”

“And I saw Emma Portland in charge of a watchman, and
ushered, at midnight, to the cognizance of the captain of the
watch. But the discovery that followed, and which I am to
impart to you, affects us both most seriously.”

The playfulness of Emma gave place to anxiety; her smiles
to an expression of fear.

“While we are conscious of our good intentions, Henry—”

“I have no disclosure to make that can injure me in your
opinion. But I at length know my father.”

“And living?”

“Living. His life saved by you.”

“Mr. Cooke?”

“Is my father, Emma. My unworthy father.”

“Owing his life to his son! Does he know you?”

“No. Nor shall he ever.”

“And your mother?”

“She shall remain unknown to her unworthy husband. He
supposes her dead. Let him suppose so.”

“That might disturb his last hours, Henry. We must forgive.
Your mother—?”

“I shall obey my mother. You must see her, and speak on
the subject; and on another, if possible, more near to us, but
of a very different character.”

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

“I will see her to-day.”

“But, Emma, does not the knowledge that I am the son of
such a father, change your feelings towards me, whom you
have heretofore considered as the offspring of misfortune, allied
to intelligence, virtue, honour, and religion; and now find
that I am the son of one noted for vices and stained by cruelty
to your friend and my mother!”

“If you had been educated by and lived with your father,
such as you now describe him, I might fear to trust my fate to
your guardianship; but I know that the virtues of your mother
have been your inheritance; I trust myself to the son of Mrs.
Johnson.”

“Of her, driven by him from her native land, home, friends;
turned adrift, like Prospero, with a helpless infant, upon an
unknown ocean!”

“But, Henry, you were like the poet's Miranda, the protecting
angel of your parent. You are still her support. You
have saved your mother from want; and now you have saved
your father's life. Indeed, I have not before known you.”

“That he is my father, must be a secret from all, but us
three, Emma. He must not know it—the world must not
know it. But I have more to communicate.”

Henry recounted the circumstances attending his interview
with Mr. Littlejohn; and the young folks could not but rejoice
in a futurity which was opening to them as bright as it
was unexpected—lucrative employment bestowing independence
on the son, consequent comfort, and perhaps health on
the mother, and a matrimonial union promising every blessing
that virtue can bestow on the deserving, or that sanguine youth
can anticipate.

p089-366

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