“He can't! He can't! He's as easily seen through as his
own beverage. I long to explain and have the laugh upon
him!”

“Why you don't mean to give up the joke now that you
have a real Captain Smith to carry it on with?”

“We've gone far enough. Let us have our laugh and have
done with it.”

“Why give up the game?” said Allen, “when we have it
all in our own hands. Spiff knows, from the waiter's or the
bar-keeper's testimony that there is a Captain Smith who frequents
the Albany Coffee-House. All we have to do is to
make appointments and keep them from meeting. Chance
has made a man for us, all we have to do is to play him.”

The manager still protested against carrying on the hoax
any further; and if Spiffard had fortunately dropped in, there
would have been an end of it, in a laugh. But as the wine
declined in the bottles and mounted elsewhere; as noise increased
and the tobacco smoke thickened, Allen and the Colonel
persuaded the company that the opportunity must not be
lost of trying how far the credulity of a man of good sense
might be imposed upon. They forgot the remark of one of
the company, “that truth has but one face.” They did not see
(through the mists about them) some other truisms, that might
have stood in their way: the second act of the drama was matured,
the plot founded on the “lucky circumstance,” as Allen
called it, “that a Captain Smith occasionally frequented the
Albany Coffee House; that they had a man ready made to
their hands, and had only to move him as the game required.”

Allen was himself to make the first move. Cooper declared
off: Allen was to act as friend and counseller. The manager
promised not to inform. But it was agreed to let the matter
rest a few days, and a journey which Spiffard made a short time
after, deferred their sport yet longer.

There was at this time a company of actors performing at
Albany, and offers for a few nights' exertion of his talents had
been made to Mr. Spiffard, which by a friendly arrangement
with the New-York manager, he was enabled to accept.

Although January had commenced, the great river was still
open, the severity of winter had not yet been experienced; and
my readers know that the clear, frosty, but moderate weather
of our early winter is health-and-joy-inspiring. Spiffard looked
forward to the excursion with pleasure. He had been in Albany
but once, and then merely to pass through it from

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

Canada. He did not feel the worse that Captain Smith had absconded.

Mrs. Spiffard did not seem at ease when the project of these
few days residence in Albany was communicated to her by
her husband. She even changed colour.

“You have told me that you were some time there—how
did you like the place?”

“Not at all.”

“Have you any friends there—any acquaintance?”

“No.”

“Where is the best boarding-house?”

“By all means go to Cruttenden's. It is on the hill and near
the State-house. By all means go there, Mr. Spiffard; he is
a friend to the drama—you will like him and his house.”

“I should wish to be near the theatre.”

“There is—a place nearer—but it is a vile house and very
disagreeable people. Do not go there.”

Now it so happened that Cruttenden's hotel was full. Thronged
with members of the Legislature; and chance, as it is
called, led Spiffard, to a public house, half tavern, half boarding
house, kept by an Englishman of the name of Thompson.
There he was received; and found that it had been the usual
resort of the Thespians who visited the seat of government;
but, for some cause not within his or my knowledge, was rather
shunned at this time.

The landlord was a garrulous beer-drinker, and not unlike
Farquhar's Boniface in person, manner or reverence for the
strength of his potations. He was a short, fat man; not stout
and portly; but heavy and burly. His wife looked like his
twin sister.

After the fatigues, the pleasure, and the exertion of an evening's
performance, Spiffard entered and found his landlord
sitting with his hand on the handle of a tankard; and his counterpart,
in petticoats, employed within the railing which separated
the bar from the space occupied by newspapers, and, at
this time, by Boniface.

“Great house, I understand, to-night, sir.”

“The house appeared full.”

“Not so, before you came, sir. What will you drink, sir?”

“A tumbler of water.”

Thompson recommended his beer and his brandy, his rum
and his gin, his whiskey, but above all his ale—then frothing
in the tankard. To his surprise all was without effect.

“What do you drink, sir?”

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

“Water.”

“Bless me. That makes you so thin.”

“I am well, and strong. I doubt not, landlord, that I could
carry you up the hill to the capitol much easier than you could
carry me.”

“That would be a funny sight sure enough. John finds it
hard work to carry himself.” said Mrs. Thompson.

“Well, sir, that may be, but I shouldn't be more surprised
to find myself riding up the hill on your shoulders, than I am
to find a hactor refusing good liquor. Why I've ad ladies in
my ouse who would toss off a pint of brown-stout after hacting,
or a glass of brandy and water before going to the theatre, and
another before going to bed—haye, by George! and sometimes
two or three of them. There was Mrs. Hepsom and er
daughter—fine women, both—I ear she as changed er name
lately—I mean the daughter—as to the mother—”

“With your leave, Mr. Thompson, I will take this candle
and retire.”

“The servant has been late in lighting your fire and has not
come down yet. Take a little summut, sir.”

“Nothing.”

The landlady went up stairs shouting for the servant to
come down. Thompson finished his tankard of ale and proceeded
to finish his beer-imbued speech—“A fine looking
stately dame that Mrs. Trowbridge—or Miss Hepsom--for I
don't believe—yet if that Trowbridge adn't broke his neck
hout of the gig—”

“Room's ready now, sir,” said the puffing dame, “but do
take a little summut”

“Goodnight, Mr. Thompson!” said Spiffard, with any thing
but a comfortable addition of ideas for chamber companions,
hurried up stairs.

“Good night, Muster Spiffard, and good rest to your honour!”
said the burly landlady.

“Spiffard! Spiffard!” echoed Boniface, with mouth and
eyes wide stretched; looking like one who tried to think but
was unused to the occupation. “Spiffard! Odsbodikins, dame
Thompson, by George, I do believe that's the name of that
hactor that married—hand it never struck me before. I am a
little frightful that I might a said a summut that ee would'nt
hover-like to ear. Fore George I'm glad I didn't tell im what
I might ave—what did I say? Do you remember? The
thought never struck me till you called is name.”

“Thoughts don't often strike you John. If you'd drink less
and think more, the ouse might do better.”

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

“Don't talk to me woman!—but I didn't tell him of that—”

“Hush, John! Walls ave hears. Least said is soonest
mended. That was a terrible night—it's well it's only known
to ourselves.”

“When I mentioned er name ee was off like a stage
coach.”

Everyhint, that had, since Spiffard's marriage, reached his ears
and caused him pain in respect to his wife's former history—
every suspicion that had been forced upon his unsuspecting
nature—now was recalled to mind. Every light word, spoken
by his light companions, was, against his will, remembered.
He could not sleep during a long winter's night. The mind
must be sorely distressed when youth, health and temperance,
cannot find rest after fatigue of body. He could almost envy
the snoring of his beer-bloated landlord, whose sonorous breathings
were plainly heard through two partitions, “making
night hideous.”

“O, why did I marry so bastily?”

His short engagement finished, Spiffard took the stage for
New-York, the winter had set in hard—not harder than “the
winter of his discontent.” He returned richer in purse--poorer
in spirit. He was almost as miserable as a good man could
be made—yet more suffering awaited him—and more cause to
cry, “O, why did I marry so hastily?”

He had reason to lament that he had married a woman born
and educated in another land, without knowing her domestic
habits or her previous story. Our hero was the most honest,
the most frank, most trusting, most credulous of any creature
that had ever been thrown among civilized men, yet he was an
actor by profession.

Spiffard felt that he had been deceived; and knew that he
had deceived himself. He felt that the dearest ties of life
were not for him. He still admired the talents of his wife, and
would willingly have loved her: but love cannot exist where
confidence is wanting. It is the seal to the bond of matrimony:
the bond is worse than worthless without it.

Mrs. Spiffard, on her husband's return from Albany, perceived
a change in his looks and behaviour. She soon understood
from him that he had boarded at Thompson's. “The
thief does fear each bush an officer.” She thought of an
avowal. She had been misled by her own passions and the
arts of a scoundrel. The tale is too common to be told. This
might be forgiven by one who looked for forgiveness. But
the habit induced by previous misery, (with encouragement

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

from a weak parent and temptation from professional fatigue,
could not be tolerated. Notwithstanding remonstrances, entreaties
and arguments, on one side, and tears and repentance
and promises on the other, he saw that which he most abhorred,
most dreaded. He felt that he was miserable in the time present,
and anticipated greater misery in the future.

The situation of Mrs. Williams was a sufficient excuse for
Eliza Atherton's not associating with Mrs. Spiffard; but the
unhappy husband saw the difference in his aunt's behaviour
when she conversed with his wife, and when she opened her
heart to Emma Portland. Sometimes he thought of pouring
out his griefs and asking Miss Atherton's counsel. But the
subject was too sacred, and his delicacy too great. The attention
of that lady to her suffering sister made their meetings
unfrequent.

He was the favourite comedian of the public. Even Twaits
and Hilson were forgotten when Spiffard appeared. He was
received with plaudits, for which the sound of his voice before
he entered was the signal. Merriment was induced by the
sight of his face, and laughter burst forth in anticipation. His
musical talents always produced admiration and delight: but
he knew not pleasure nor peace. Applause had staled on
his ear. He only laughed as a duty. He was merry by sad
necessity.

Happily for man, he cannot uniformly be miserable. Nature
has her moments when sorrow is forgotten. One continued
torturing train of ideas can only be known in madness. It is
madness. But Spiffard became irritable. His health and
elastic strength declined. He refused the invitations of men
to whom his talents recommended and would have endeared
him. Even Mr. Littlejohn was neglected. He continued
his attachment to the erring George Frederick Cooke; and
still sought the company of the gay young men who associated
with the favourites of the theatre, and enjoyed the hospitality
of the manager, whose flood of prosperity flowed full and strong,
and whose liberality let it pass as freely. Sometimes Spiffard
was urged into this joyous circle by his wishes to save Cooke:
sometimes merely to avoid his own domestic hearth. That
which alone can make the fireside blessed, was not there.

p089-303

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