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Although Henry and Emma had escaped unscathed from
the adventures of a winter's night and a snow-storm, not so
the unfortunate, misdoing, George Frederick Cooke. He had
taken that night a long step towards the grave. His friendly
physicians, and his invaluable valet, or help, trustworthy Davenport,
watched over him; and though his case had become desperate,
and the water had found its way without the aid of the
warm-bath, still the termination of his eventful and mispent
life was delayed, as far as human means could turn off the dart
of death, by medical skill, and by the unwearied attention of
the faithful Yankee traveller, who, like his countryman,

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Spiffard, seemed to be attached to the old man from motives inexplicable
to mere worldlings.

Spiffard, as we have seen, had had his breakfast spoiled by
receiving Captain John Smith's letter; and, as was expected
by the writer, the letter was brought back to him by the unsophisticated
Yankee. Allen received the document and read
it with as much gravity as though he had not written it; then
folded it, and said,—

“We shall of course hear from Mr. Beaglehole.”

“I suppose so.”

“We shall then know how to proceed.”

“Do you know this Mr. Rabbithole?”

“Beaglehole.”

“Ay—do you know him?”

“Yes, we all know him. He is a man of honour,” said
Allen; “a fellow of spirit. Hops like a flea. Can beat any
man in the country running on all fours.”

“Like a pig or an ass.”

“Hands and feet against feet—arms and legs against legs.”

“As a proof of his honour?”

“O, he has proved that by shooting his man,” said Allen.

“Hits a button ten times in succession—he is up to a button
any day. If he has received Captain Smith's instructions,
which he has no doubt, as the captain is a man of honour and
says so—”

“`All honourable men,”' thought Spiffard.

“He will wait upon you, and, of course, you will refer him
to me.”

“Of course?”

“Certainly if I am to settle the business.”

“I shall settle the business.”

“You will not apologize?”

“Certainly not.”

“Well—nothing more can be done till we hear from Mr.
Beaglehole.”

Mr. Beaglehole was an agent for a Birmingham button-maker.
These agents are a class that in England are called
riders; but, when in this country, pass for gentlemen, and
were, “thirty years ago,” received as such by the simple
folks of the day I am speaking of, and admired accordingly.
They felt a great contempt for the natives, had money at
command, (no matter whether their own or not) dressed well,
fed well, drank hard, and gave a false impression upon Americans
of the character of Englishmen. We now know better.

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Spiffard left his friend Allen, who chuckled at the thought
that the sport went “bravely on,” and little thought of the
misery he was preparing for others. Indeed it was not possible
for him and his young companions to anticipate the consequences;
although, when men of dissimilar habits become as
sociates, evil may be predicted; and, when truth is violated
in jest, no good can arise from it. Truth, as well as temperance,
“is a delicate wench.” They are both strong, and
the cause of strength in others; yet are they both very obnoxious
to injuries, and shrink from contact with their opposites,
as if possessed of instinctive sensitiveness. The water-drinker
was not a fit companion for the disciples of Anacreon.

The business with Allen so far arranged, our hero turned
his thoughts to the deplorable old man, who was a slave to the
vices which truth and temperance abhor.

To explain the immediate cause of Cooke's terrible situation
on the night of the storm, it is necessary to say, that he had on
the previous day dined with one of his admirers in a large
company, and indulged himself without restraint. He remained
at table until all the revellers were gone, and his host, without
difficulty, prevailed upon him to retire to a bed-chamber.
He retired, but would not go to bed, demanding brandy, and
abused his friend for not giving it. In attempting to leave the
room, his host, by main force, prevented; and, placing him on
the side of the bed, thought he had prevailed upon him to remain
quiet; but, after he had left him, the wretched madman,
when all the house was quiet, found his way out, and, without
hat or over-coat, rushed into the street, where he wandered
until oppressed by liquor, fatigue, and cold, he had sunk to
sleep—the sleep of death.

Spiffard found him a sick and wretched penitent. He found
that, although courted and feasted, when he could be exhibited
as a curiosity, as a lion at the soiree or the dinner-table, he
was, in his sick chamber, a poor abandoned solitary individual,
left to reflect with remorse upon those vices which flatterers
and admirers had encouraged for their own amusement; abandoned
by all except his kind physicians and his trusty trustworthy
Davenport. Under these circumstances, Spiffard's
feelings prompted unwearied attention to the comfort of the
unfortunate old man.

He had before, as the reader will remember, devoted himself
to the same efforts. He had recounted the incidents of his
former life for the sick man's amusement; but he had avoided

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that circumstance which, perhaps, unknown to himself, impelled
him to take such deep interest in the fate of one, whose
conduct constantly reminded him of the miseries which similar
self-inflicted madness had brought upon all his own family.
Every good feeling of the young man kept him mute on the
subject of his mother's failings. It was a source of mortification
and grief which he cherished in secret. He looked
upon his own fate as connected with it. He contemplated,
in retrospect, the scenes of his youth, and their consequences,
with fearful misgivings, as it respected the future.

Cooke had often reflected upon the earnest devotedness
with which a youth and a water-drinker attached himself to an
old man of habits so opposite to his own. He took this occasion
to question him on the subject, and express his surprise.
With that suavity of manner which distinguished him when
he was not brutalized, he addressed Spiffard thus; at the same
time raising himself in bed and leaning on his elbow.

“More than once, before this, you have appeared to take a
particular interest in me, at times, when by my unfortunate disease—
or, as some would say, my wretched folly and propensity
to debauchery—I have been prostrated thus on the bed of
sickness and unavailing regret. I never met with any one
before—yes, one!” He paused, turned his head aside, and
wiped his eyes, by hastily, and as if to avoid being noticed,
passing the shirt-sleeve of his right arm before them. He continued,
“I never met with a man who appeared to take such
interest in me. Why is it?”

Spiffard, if he had been conscious of the true causes, (which
I doubt), was too delicate to avow them. But, although the
images of his mother and his wife flitted before his mind's
eye, he thought he answered sincerely when he said,

“Surely, sir, admiration of superior talents, and the hope of
rescuing them (you must pardon me) from a vice which you
have suffered by degrees to assume a sway—a most despotic
sway—over them, are sufficient motives to account for my
conduct towards you.”

“I do not know that. Your attention to me—your patience
when I am harsh in speech—your firmness—your candour—
all are very singular. No one else has treated me so. Yes,
one; but there firmness was wanting. I feel my obligation to
you.”

He grasped Spiffard's hand hurriedly—pressed it—and then
threw himself back upon his pillow. There was a minute's
silence, Suddenly raising himself again to his former attitude,

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he said, in a high tone, “Vice! Why vice, sirr? Sirr, it is a
disease—an incurable disease! a disease implanted by nature!
Sirr, a man is no more blameable because he is the victim of
it, than if he suffered rheumatism, calculus, fever of the blood
or brain, or any other of the `ills that flesh is heir to.' ”

“ `That flesh is heir to?” Flesh is not heir to the diseases
which proceed from intemperance: The indulgence of the
appetite that grows by what it feeds on. Natural appetite becomes
vicious and criminal, as it is hurtful, when it throws off
the restraint of reason; and it becomes ten times more criminal
in me to indulge appetite after once knowing that it is injurious
to my own mind and body, as well as to those most intimately
connected with me.”

Cooke groaned. Spiffard continued. “The diseases that
you have enumerated, and others to which we are subjected by
our natural constitution, or the constitution of society, have no
disgrace attached to them. Not so intemperance and its evils.
They bring shame as well as suffering.”

After a pause Spiffard continued, “Rheumatism may be
brought upon us by causes over which we have no control;
accidental exposures to heat, damps, cold. Epidemics with
pestilential influence sweep off their thousands. Diseases visit
us beyond the reach of medicine; we suffer; we die. These
are the `ills that flesh is heir to.' In the course of our allotted
duties, while performing our parts worthily in life's drama, we
are subject to accidents and various maladies, by which we
are deprived of health, and brought to the tomb. But although
we suffer, we do not feel the stings of conscience—we
have not acted in opposition to our better knowledge. We
may indeed say, resignedly, these are `ills that flesh is heir to.'
But the diseases which we bring upon ourselves by sensual indulgence,
it is blasphemy to lay the flattering unction to our
souls, that they are evils inflicted by heaven, and not entailed
by our own vices.”

Cooke was not willing to abandon the sophistry with which
he had endeavoured to lull his conscience.

“Surely,” said he, “we are to be pitied when we suffer from
the dictates of passions and appetites which are implanted in
us by nature without our will?”

“I would pity and endeavour to relieve,” said his young
mentor, “but I would not encourage the belief that he is not
himself the cause of his sufferings. Reason is given us to
control passion and appetite. The will of God is made known
to us, to preserve us from following the dictates of those

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passions and appetites, which, when not improperly indulged, are
necessary to our welfare. But we find a momentary gratification
in the indulgence of appetite, or in obeying the dictates of
our passions, and our wills, and forget the lessons of reason
or of revelation. We bring disease and misfortune upon ourselves,
and we are so prone to self-flattery as well as self-indulgence,
that we say, `I could not avoid it; I obeyed the
dictates of nature.' Thus we charge our own faults and their
consequences on our Creator. The intemperate man says, `I
only seek the grafification which nature points out or makes necessary;
' he fires his blood with wine and brandy, and then flies
to the haunts of impurity. Still he says, `I have these impulses
from nature.' If strife and murder, or disease and death, follow,
all must of course be charged on nature. There is no
evil which man brings upon himself by his own selfishness
that he does not endeavour to impute to necessity, fate, nature,
or the Creator of the universe. Even the fears and torments
of the slave-dealer, whether on the coast of Africa, or at the
seat of our government; or of the slave-holder, whether in
Havanna or Savannah, Cuba or Carolina, are all charged to
the same cause. He says, in excuse for all the misery which
slavery inflicts on slave and master, `Nature ordained it so.'
He will tell you, even in the solemn assembly of a nation's
sages, (a nation that boasts its freedom, and has declared all
men equal in rights), that God has marked a certain portion of
his creatures as slaves to a certain other portion. `Has he
not made them black? Has he not given them wool instead
of hair? He has given them the form of man, merely the better
to accommodate them to my purposes.' What crime can
man perpetrate, that he does not in self-delusion charge upon
nature? No, sir! Man has the choice of good and evil; and
his Creator has given him the power to restrain every impulse
that leads to his destruction.”

“But there is a point,” said Cooke, “which, if passed, we
can never return to. I have been irresistibly impelled to what
I knew was destruction: an incurable disease has been upon
me for years.” He threw himself back, and hid his face.
Spiffard continued as if under an uncontrollable influence, although
advocating the doctrine of a self-controlling power; but
reason approved the impulse.

“It is a lamentable self-delusion to say `My desires are irresistible,
or the habits of intemperance, of any description, incurable.
' While life, with reason, remains, the sanity of the
mind may be restored, and comparative bodily health regained.

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The only irredeemable step is that which has led to death. I
conjure you, sir, not to give way to the thought that your sufferings,
or the habits which have produced them, are beyond
remedy. I beg you to recollect that when you have had any
particular object in view—when you have wished to appear well
in the eyes of an individual, or the public—when you have desired
to outdo a rival, or make a favourable impression on
coming to a strange place—you can—I know it—I have observed
it—you can, and have, repeatedly, refrained from touching
`the accursed thing.' And if for a comparatively trifling
object you can do it, can you not do it for health, strength, life,
good name? Think, sir, think how infinitely more important
these are, than the paltry consideration of appearing to advantage
in any given character on the stage, or before any individual
in private life; or to attract more plaudits from a motley
crowd than are bestowed on a rival! What are these in
comparison with the will of God, and the blessings which follow
the doing his will?”

While Spiffard spoke, his countenance kindled—his eyes
sparkled—benevolence shone in every feature, action, and
word. The hearer of truth cannot be offended, even if it condemns
him, when he is convinced that the speaker has no selfish
motive; but that the counsel, or even the reproof, springs
from pure benevolence. Spiffard spoke with more energy than
any one could have done who had not seen and suffered so
much from the cause of Cooke's misery. The arguments he
used to save the friend before him, had been used, in different
language, to save one nearer to him. His feelings, though not
selfish, were so far connected with self.

Cooke made nor further defence. He raised himself in bed,
clasped Spiffard's hand with both his, and the big tears coursed
each other down his furrowed cheeks till they became a torrent.
He sunk again—hid his face on his pillow, and sobbed
audibly. His young friend was affected most powerfully. The
scene was touching: the humiliation of age before truth from
the lips of youth. Spiffard was silent for a time, and then resumed
in a soothing tone and manner.

“It may appear improper for a young man like me to counsel
one of your age; but my motive must plead my excuse.
The sufferings of those dearest to me, and the most poignant
sufferings of my life, have proceeded from the errors I so ardently
combat. I have seen a mother destroyed—a father's
peace and fortune blasted—all my kindred swept away—lost—
immolated at the altar of this demon. Let me persuade you

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that you have only to resolve to do what you have done for
temporary considerations, and you can retrieve all yet—health,
fame, and peace of mind.”

Cooke had been motionless; his face buried in the bed-clothes.
He started up.

“No, no, no!” he exclaimed; “I cannot recall the past.
For myself, I might amend health and life; but misery inflicted
on others is past remedy, and can never be obliterated from
my memory. It has been to deaden the sense of my own unworthy
conduct towards others—towards one, the best, the
most patient; to drown the thought of the past, I have continued
the same practice which caused the guilt I lament. I
cannot undo what is done: I cannot recall the dead! Would
you believe it? Even this resource now fails me. Even in my
hours of madness she appears to me! As I live, I saw her—
heard her—in a miserable hovel—sick—stretched on her death-bed--poor—
starving--dying! I have had such visions before
in my sleep, after my waking thoughts have been employed on
the past; but never like this. I heard her voice! It rings in
my ears still! I know it was a dream, caused by an imagination
distempered from the previous day's excess: I have had
such visions before, but never so wild or so vivid. Would
you believe it? I thought I saw myself, as I was in my youth;
and then I thought I had a son, and I saw him before me! I
shook off the image; it was a watchman. I know they are
dead. But these images haunt me! Where was I last night
when you found me? Where did you bring me from this
morning? Or was it last night? I think it was. No, no. I
lose time—time! I have lost time, indeed!”

Spiffard recounted the transactions of the night as far as he
had seen them; and being convinced, himself, that his friend's
imagination had conjured up unreal images, and transformed
Mrs. Johnson and her son into personages connected with his
former life, he easily persuaded him that it was so.

Whether this conversation, or the solicitude of Spiffard,
would have been of avail under happier circumstances, must be
left in doubt. The irretrievable step, as it respected health
and life, had been taken.

p089-374

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