[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

“Win me and wear me—let him answer me.”

“Give-a-dis letter to Sir Hugh: by gar it is a
Shallenge.—I will cut his troat in de Park.”

Spiffard had determined to make his adversary hear reason;
and doubted not the power of reason if enforced with due eloquence
and a spirit of benevolence. He was not a man to
shed the blood of his fellow creature; neither would he consent
that another should shed his blood. He felt no enmity to the
person he expected to meet; and did not doubt, upon a mild
statement of the circumstances attending the offence, they
should part friends, if he was a reasonable creature; if not—
he saw no necessity for further proceedings. He had often
deliberated on and examined all the arguments for and against
duelling—he had made up his mind that not the most extreme
case, which the casuist can conceive, would justify the practice.
In short, he detested duelling; but he would not submit
to insult. He would repel aggression by force even to the
death, in the last resort, but thought that with a reasonable
creature, reason must triumph. In this case it had not escaped
him, that his antagonist, if disguised, must attribute the
offensive words to that disguise; as the expressions which
offended Spiffard, might be supposed likewise, to have been an
assumed language suited to the disguise.

These reasonings were communicated by Spiffard to his
friend, who was of course to use them in his behalf, and who
received them with great apparent gravity.

Cooperand Spiffard met at the hour appointed, giving sufficient
time to walk to the Albany Coffee-house, by eleven of the clock.
The tragedian did not fail to enjoy the serious and determined
countenance of his pale-faced companion; who was thinking

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how he might avoid the hateful consequences which might
spring from a meeting with the letter writer, and preserve the
good opinion of his associates and himself.

“Cooper, if the fellow should say that he is sorry he made
use of improper language in respect to Mrs. Spiffard, I may
say that I am sorry that I was called upon to speak harshly to
him?”

This was said by way of query, as they passed toward
Greenwich-street.

“Your if, is a notable peace-maker, you know Spiff; but I
do not see how you can be sorry for doing right, because Mr.
John Smith is sorry for having done wrong. Besides, he has
not invited you to the Albany Coffee-house to receive, but to
make an apology. Would you know the fellow again?”
Spiffard hesitated. The manager asked, “If you were to see
him, he not speaking to you, or noticing you, would you know
him?”

“I think I should know one of them—there were two, you
know—both in rough great-coats. I think I might know the
one I spoke to.”

“If they were disguised for a frolic, they probably wore
wigs.”

“My man had a shaggy bush of shock hair, as far as I could
see below his hat.”

“A wig no doubt. You would not know him again, I see.”
The manager was determined that it should be so.

“The Albany Coffee-house.' This is our place,” said
Cooper, as he read the sign. Zeb stretched himself to the
height of full five feet five, and took a desperate stride towards
the door.

“Stop,” said his patron, and he took his arm. “Don't
look as if you would eat the man. An easy, careless air. Take
my arm. Let me be spokesman.”

“Zeb obeyed. They entered with an air of nonchalance;
but careless as our hero might be, he rolled his lobster eyes
around the public room, in search of the redoubted John Smith.
The bar-keeper was at his post, and but one other human
being was to be seen. A little consumptive-looking, elderly
man, was reading the news at a table, and did not notice their
entrance, or lift his eyes from the paper.

“Is that the man?” whispered the waggish manager.

“I—I think not. He was much stouter and younger, and his
face full of colour.”

“There is no knowing. A large overcoat, and a bushy

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wig of shock hair; and then, probably, his face flushed with
exercise and liquor.”

“It may be—it is possible—and yet—”

“I'll soon know;” and stepping up to the little old gentleman,
he said, “Pray, sir, is your name Smith?” Here the wag
thought that a simple negative would have settled the point;
but to his great gratification, the little old gentleman, squeaked
out, “Yes, sir, my name is Smith.”

The manager turned round to watch the emotion depicted
on his protegee's face, and could scarce refrain from laughter,
as he saw the eager look Spiffard fixed on Mr. Smith; who,
seeing this unaccountable “bye play,” exclaimed in a sharper
tone, “And pray, sir, what have you to do with my name?”

“That we shall see, sir, in due time.” He took off his hat,
and bowed to Mr. Smith; then turning again to his companion,
who was gazing with earnestness, at the little old gentlenman,
(whose exertion had produced a fit of coughing, that brought
the tears in his eyes, and a flush of red over his face,) Cooper
said, “Here he is. See how red he looks. Would you have
recognized him?”

“No.”

“Nor his voice?”

“His voice was as gruff as the low notes of a bassoon.”

“He was hoarse; you see he has a cold. See what a colour
he has now.”

The little man having, in some measure, subdued his cough,
was wiping the tears from his face, when he again squeaked
out angrily, “What do you mean by asking me my name?”

“No offence, sir. You are not ashamed of your name. You
are a man of honour, sir; and we have come to meet you, and
give assurance that you shall have any satisfaction a man of
honour may, by the laws of honour, justly demand.”

“Tom, don't be so precipitate.”

“If you think you can manage the affair better?”

“No, no, no—but—”

“Meet me! Satisfaction! Waiter! Bar-keeper!”

“Coming, sir,” and the bar-keeper went out of sight, and
listened.

“Do you mean to insult me?”

“Far from it, sir.” While the little man underwent another
fit of coughing, the tragedian took out the letter of “John
Smith,” and with great gravity demanded, as he displayed the
epistle, “Is that your signature, sir?” The astonished old

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gentleman sought for his spectacles, and the wag proceeded,
“Is your name John Smith?”

“No! Robert! My name is Robert Cunningham Smith!
Robert!”

“Then we have nothing further to say, Mr. Cunningham,
but that an appointment made by a Mr. Smith, brought us here;
and your name being Smith, has led to this intrusion. We beg
your pardon, sir. Bar-keeper! Captain Smith is waiting for
us in a private room.” He whispered to Spiffard.

“Never was so treated in my life!” And Mr. Smith took
the newspaper again.

“Waiter! bar-keeper!” shouted the tragedian.

“Coming, sir.” and he came forward from his hiding-place.
“Is there any gentleman in the house who has engaged a private
apartment?”

“The boarders are all gone out, sir.”

“Is there any one of the name of Smith?”

“John Smith?” said Spiffard, by way of making the matter
sure this time.

“No, sir; there is no Mr. Smith boards here.”

“Is there no stranger in the house?”

“No, sir; only that old gentleman.”

“Do you know any one of the name of Smith—”

“John Smith?” added the principal.

“No, sir—yes—there is a Captain Smith who sometimes
comes here.”

“Is his name John?” said Zeb.

“I really—I don't—I believe so.”

“That's the man, depend upon it,” said Cooper. “Captain
John Smith!”

“But, Tom, he is not here.”

“Something has prevented. We shall see. If he does not
apologize, you must post. Have you any mint-julep, waiter?
You must post.”

“I will post home. I will have nothing more to do with
Captain Smith.”

The friends departed, and Mr. Robert Smith took off his
spectacles to inquire who they were. “I believe, sir, they are
play-actors.”

“The scoundrels! Ask me my name! The strolling vagabonds!”

The remainder of this day passed without interruption to the
peace of our hero. He returned home light of heart. A weight

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had been removed, and he was pleased with every body and
every thing.

The manager, satisfied with the success of the joke, looked
no further than to tell the story at the next meeting of his merry
comrades, and then to let all be explained to Spiffard, and have
a hearty and friendly laugh. But fate was adverse, and fate
will have her way, let us say what we will to the contrary. The
playful, and not unfriendly intentions of the young manager,
were —; but we will not anticipate. It was the ebb tide
with our hero's affairs, and he had to flounder among sands
and shallows, and thump upon banks and rocks, as the great
moralist says all men must who miss the flood. Fortunately,
the tide of flood was making for some of our friends, and the
gales of heaven were in readiness to swell their sails, and bear
them quietly over a sea of happiness.

So it is. What moment is there that is not marked by joy
and sorrow, hope and despair, life and death? But life is triumphant,
and will be triumphant. The light will grow more
and more unto the perfect day. The will of the Author of all
good must prevail.

p089-284

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