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“Have I laid my brain in the sun, and dried it, that it wants matter to
prevent so gross o'erreaching.”

“If I be serv'd such another trick, I'll have my brains taken out and buttered,
and give them to a dog for a new year's gift.”

“He is a good fellow after all, and injures no one but himself.”
Such is the “bald disjointed chat,” that thoughtless,
mischievous, vice-encouraging, talk, which we frequently hear
even from those who ought to know better. No one can injure
himself without injuring others. Very frequently, (perhaps
always) the pain is felt more by others than by the victim
of intemperance.

It is the very nature of a good deed to reward the doer;
while it not only adds to the happiness of those who receive
the immediate benefit, but it adds to their disposition to do
good to others. It makes the recipient better, and promotes
his future, with his present happiness. It is like the poet's
mercy, “twice blest. It blesseth him that gives, and him that
takes.” The light flowing from a good example has no limit.
“So shines a good deed in a naughty world.” Its influence
is through all time to eternity.

On the other hand, every evil thought, if not rejected instantly
with horror, contaminates the thinker; and probably leads to
the act which was thought of. The desire to do evil has already
corrupted the heart. The indulgence of a criminal wish,
gives it strength; and the disposition to good is proportionably
weakened. Criminal indulgence spreads its baneful influence
like a pestilence. Who shall calculate the misery inflicted by
one bad example; or set bounds to its influence?

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It had been the lot of Spiffard to see one vice in all its native
deformity; and to contemplate, for years, the misery inflicted
by the weakness of one individual, on all connected with
her. Here example did not produce imitation, because the evil
effects were seen and understood as soon as the cause. The
scenes presented to him in his father's family, when a child,
though not then understood and appreciated, unfolded themselves
in their deformity, as his mind expanded. “And is my
father's fate to be mine?” he asked himself. “No, no! Though
a fascination, beyond my comprehension, has drawn me thus
far within the net, I can and will burst it! I have been rash—
precipitate—have deceived myself; but I will not be the father
of children whose mother is no mother; who are born to disease;
and whose only refuge is death.”

Such were his thoughts as he walked the floor, or occasionally
threw his exhausted limbs on an uncushioned sofa, for
change, not rest.

As soon as it was light, he sought the open air. It was cold,
but he felt it not. He walked the pavement, trying to devise
some means of extricating himself without injury to his unhappy
wife. He had yet determined on no mode of procedure, when
his watch gave him notice that the time he had appointed with
Allen was close at hand. This appeared to him, now, a secondary
business; but it must be attended to; and accordingly,
he met his false friend at the time appointed, as guided by the
time-indicator, purposely set wrong on the preceding evening,
by the plotters against his rest. The town clock, he perceived,
did not agree with his watch; but then Allen and Beaglehole
had set their watches together, and their time was to regulate
the affair, and not town-clocks, or even suns.

The principal and his friend were on the ground at ten
minutes before the time, but no opponents appeared. Spiffard
was not only disappointed but chagrined, that there was no
Captain Smith to be found. He wanted this affair off his
hands; he had something of more importance on his heart.
After waiting the time deemed necessary by the code of honour,
as Allen chose to read it, they departed.

Spiffard had been silent, serious, firm. Allen gave him great
credit for courage: of course he knew nothing of the cause
which produced so great an alteration in his deportment. The
unhappy young man was no longer anxious and restless; but
calm, solemn, deliberate. The quizzers had expected a report
from the pretended second, that would convulse them with
laughter at the anticipated trepidation of their victim.

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Allen denounced Captain John Smith as a poltroon, and
asserted his intention to call upon the second, Mr. Beaglehole,
for explanation and satisfaction. He went so far as to advise
Spiffard to post the captain. This would have been a capital
joke. To expose his friend to redicule for posting a nonentity,—
an imaginary antagonist—as a coward. Spiffard only answered
by, “No more of it.”

The friends separated. The second to recount to the combined
hoaxers the result of the appointment between his principal,
and the shadowy Captain Smith; in which they were
disappointed; not that no meeting took place, but that their
butt had behaved in such a manner as to give no cause for
merriment at his expense.

Spiffard was undecided what course to pursue in his unhappy
situation. Should he consult with Mr. Littlejohn? Should he
make known his misfortune and perplexity to Miss Atherton?
Objections started up in his wavering mind to both; and before
he had determined on any mode of procedure, he found himself
in Wall-street, and on his way to Cooke's lodgings.

It may be fairly inferred from the incidents I have detailed,
that if the water-drinker had only associated with water-drinkers—
if he had not, by his choice of a profession, been thrown
into the intimate society of men whose habits were at variance
with his own, he would not have been involved in the perplexities,
uneasiness, pain—not to say misery—arising from a supposed
quarrel with a supposed personage; which, although in
fact, unreal, was real to him, and productive of real torture. It
is further probable that if he had not been made unhappy in his
mind by the mischievous sport of these young men, that he
would not have been peevish and irritable at home; that he
would not have had a secret which he thought necessary to hide
from his wife; that instead of making her unhappy by his apparent
distrust, he might have gained her confidence by confidence
and kindness; and thus, as well as by the force of reason,
have reconciled her to herself, and weaned her from a habit
which could not but destroy their domestic tranquillity.

Still, let it be constantly kept in mind, that the young gentlemen
who had been led, step by step, to contrive and continue
this practical joke, which inflicted most acute pain, most real
and substantial misery, on a companion, did not intend his suffering,
and had no knowledge or thought of its extent. They
found Spiffard so unexpectedly credulous and confiding, that to
their imaginations, he appeared almost as a creature of another
species—one made for their amusement. Every successful

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experiment led to another and another. Sometimes they feared
that by dropping the plot too suddenly, their victim would discover
the trick that had been played him, and they were conscious
that they were obnoxious to his serious displeasure.
Again, when over the festive board, which, in those days, was
the daily-board, they, in mere gaiety, contrived further modes
of continuing the existence of Captain Smith; who, as a creature
of their own, was a favourite. Of the domestic woe experienced
by Spiffard, they had no knowledge. They could have
no conception of the addition their mirth made to his pain. The
man who was the leader in the plot, would have risked fortune
or life to serve the person he tormented. Allen was a well-meaning
young man, overflowing with wealth, health, and
animal spirits. Cooper was a man who had proved, again and
again, that he would share his fortune, however hardly earned,
with those who wanted a friendly and open hand to assist them;
and confront any danger in defence of a worthy or oppressed
object.

Cooke was still in bed. His fatal symptoms daily increased;
and it was only by means of stimulants that he could feel any
enjoyment in life, or fulfil any of its duties. His physicians
knew his case to be desperate, and only watched over him to
prolong existence, and make it as comfortable as disease and
decay would permit.

Before Spiffard entered the old tragedian's bed-chamber, he
encountered the faithful Trustworthy Davenport, in an outer
apartment, and after receiving answers to his inquiries respecting
Mr. Cooke, he was puzzled by his brother Yankee's requesting
permission to ask him a question. This appeared
very unnecessary, as it was Trusty's constant practice to ask
as many as he pleased.

“It's none of my business, Mr. Spiffard, to be sure, but it
seems to me that you have been troubled of late: and though
it's none of my business, yet I think it is every man's business
to be concerned for any body he thinks well of.”

“But what's your question, Trusty?”

“Why I've no right to ask—but isn't Mr. Allen a good
deal of what may be called a quizzer?”

“After your country fashion, Davenport, I will answer your
question by asking one. Has Mr. Allen been quizzing
you?”

“No, no! He knows I've seen salt water without shore, as
well as himself; and for that matter, so have you, sir. But
I'm not the game for such sportsmen.”

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“What is it you aim at?”

“Don't you think, sir, that the same set of quizzers that
made Mr. Cooke fight a duel, and no duel, might be playing
the same sort of frolick again?”

A beam of light flashed on the mental vision of the comedian,
but only to confuse him. A sea of troubled thoughts
tossed tumultuously on his brain. “Is it possible that any
trick has been played off on me? Impossible!” And all the
circumstances connected with Captain Smith were called up
and examined in haste. They were dismissed. They were
recalled. “Impossible! Could they? Would they, dare?”
All this, and more, occupied but a moment. Davenport
gazed inquiringly in his face; but could gain no intelligence
from the mingling and shifting expressions he saw there.

“Again?” At length, said Spiffard, choosing the last word.
“Again? Surely there has been no attempt at quizzing Mr.
Cooke while in his deplorable situation.”

“O, no! That would be too bad.”

Trusty paused. He was afraid he should do mischief. He
wished to communicate his knowledge and his suspicions;
but, thought he, “I may do more harm than good.” He was
silent and looked confused.

Spiffard inquired—“What do you mean? What do you
know?”

“Why, Mr. Spiffard,” said Trusty, “I do know what I
mean, and I know I mean right, and I know you mean the
same.”

“I know,” said Spiffard smiling, “that I don't know what
you mean.”

“I have admired at your endeavours, sir, to save Mr.
Cooke, who, for all his faults, I do admire, though I should
be sorry to imitate him; but, as I was saying, I feel interest
for you the more for your interest in him. But as to what I
know, I don't know but I had better keep it to myself, and
that can do no good. I doubt whether I ought to tell, because
I overheard it; not that I listened; that I scorn; but I
was obliged to hear; and yet I heard nothing that I could
make head or tail of; but I heard them talking in a way that
made me think, whether I would or no, that some scheme
was on foot, and going on, for their fun; and that it concerned
you; and yet, as to what I know, I know nothing; for all I
heard was altogether beyond understanding, because it was
incomprehensible.”

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“Truly, Trusty, you make out a plain case; but, if it was
plainer, I don't see how I am concerned in it.”

“Now, Mr. Spiffard, I can't tell, for it was all buzz like, a
little here and a little there; and if the thought had not struck
me that it concerned you, I should not have put it together.
One said, `let Simpson do it.' `No,' said another, `he will
know him.' Then somebody said, somebody, I did'nt
rightly hear the name, `he's the man.' `Ay,' says another,
`he don't know him.' And then they laughed, and all talked
together, so that I could only catch a word now and then; but
what made me certain that it must be either you or me that
they meant, was, that I heard one say, `If we could make him
drink a glass of brandy, it might do; but it's hard to blind a
water-drinker.' `Pooh,' said another, `he'll believe any
thing.' Then, thinks I, `they can't mean me.”'

Spiffard bit his lip and frowned; and the possibility of his
having been made a sport for these young men again occurred;
but how, was a perfect enigma. Besides, they were
his friends. Some of them had proved themselves so. The
thought was not to be reconciled to his previous knowledge of
them. Captain Smith again occurred, and some misgivings;
but these thoughts were so confused; so irreconcileable; so
many circumstances appeared to contradict the images which
Trusty had conjured up, that he dismissed them as mere creatures
of the good fellow's imagination, entertained by him
through good will.

“Do you know any thing more, Davenport?”

“I know nothing, as I said before: it might 'a been me
that they meant when they said, `it's hard to blind a water-drinker;
' but when they said, `he'll believe any thing,' I
knew they couldn't mean Trustworthy Davenport. Not that
I mean to say—but I have sometimes thought that you were a
very easy-believing gentleman for one who, like myself, have
been a traveller.”

Further colloquy was interrupted, and perhaps further discovery
prevented, by the arrival of another person, whose
communications and their consequence we shall communicate
in due time. We must return now to other persons of our
dramatic history.

p089-392

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