My benevolent friend, leaving his horse standing at the door, led the way into the hovel, the interior of which was still more ruinous than the outside. It consisted of but a single room below, with a garret above. A meager fire, which furnished the only light, was burning on the hearth, to supply which the planks had been torn from the floor, leaving the earth below almost bare. There was not a single article of furniture visible, save an old deal table without leaves, a broken chair, and a tattered scrap of carpet lying near the fire, which seemed to have served as both bed and blanket to the wretched tenant.
"How is this?" said the Friend, in surprise. "Verily I did direct my man Abel to carry divers small comforts hither, which have vanished, as well as the poor man, John Smith."
John Smith, it seems, was the name of the beneficiary, and that convinced me he was a rogue. I ventured to hint to our common friend, that John Smith, having disposed of those "small comforts" he spoke of to the best advantage, was now engaged seeking others in some of our neighbours' houses; and that the wisest thing we could do in such a case would be to take our departure.
"Verily," said my deliverer, with suavity, "it is not possible John can do the wicked things thou thinkest of; for, first, it is but three days since he left the penitentiary, and secondly, I sent him by my helper and friend, Abel Snipe, sufficient eatables to supply him a week; so that he could have no inducement to do a wicked thing. Still it doth surprise me that he is absent; nevertheless, we will tarry a little while, lest peradventure he should return, and be in trouble, with none to relieve him. It wants yet ten minutes to midnight," continued the benevolent man, drawing out a handsome gold watch, "and five of these at least we can devote to the poor creature."
I was about to remonstrate a second time, when a step was heard approaching at a distance in the street.
"Peradventure it is John himself," said my friend; "and peradventure it will be better thou shouldst step aside into yonder dark corner for an instant, that thou mayst witness, without restraining by thy presence, the feelings of virtue that remain in the spirit, even when tainted and hardened by depravity."
I crept away, as I was directed, to a corner, where I might easily remain unobserved, the room being illumined only by the fire, and that consisting of little besides embers and ashes. From this place I saw Mr. John Smith as he entered, which he declined doing until after he had peeped suspiciously into the apartment, and been summoned by the voice of his benefactor.
He was as ill-looking a dog as I had ever laid eyes on, and his appearance was in strange contrast with that of his benevolent patron. The latter was a tall and rawboned man of fifty, with an uncommonly prepossessing visage; rather lantern-jawed, perhaps, but handsome and good-natured. The other was a slouch of a fellow, short of stature, but full of fat and brawn, with bow legs, gibbon arms, and a hang-dog visage. He sidled up to the fire hesitatingly, and, indeed, with an air of shame and humility; while the philanthropist, laying his watch upon the table, extended his hand towards him.
"Be of good heart, friend John," he said; "I come, not to reproach thee for thy misdeeds, but to counsel thee how thou shalt amend them, and restore thyself again to the society of the virtuous."
"'Es, sir," grumbled John Smith, dodging his head in humble acknowledgment, rubbing his hands for warmth over the fire, and casting a sidelong look at his benefactor. "Werry good of you, sir; shall ever be beholden. Werry hard times for one what's been in the penitentiary—takes away all one's repurtation; and, Lord bless us, sir, a man's but a ruined man when a man hasn't no repurtation."
And with that worthy John drew his sleeve over his nose, which convinced me he was not so much of a rascal as I thought him.
"John, thou hast been but as a sinner and a foolish man."
"'Es, sir," said John, with another rub of his sleeve at his nose; "but hard times makes hard work of a poor man. Always hoped to mend and be wirtuous; but, Lord bless us, Mr. Longstraw (beg pardon—can't think of making so free to say friend to such a great gentleman), one can't be wirtuous with nothing to live on."
"Verily, thou speakest, in a measure, the truth," said my friend; "and I intend thou shalt now be put in some way of earning an honest livelihood."
"'Es, sir," said John; "and sure I shall be werry much beholden."
But it is not my intention to record the conversation of the worthy pair. I am writing a history of myself, and not of other people; and I therefore think it proper to pursue no discourses in which I did not myself bear a part. It is sufficient to say, that my deliverer said a thousand excellent things in the way of counsel, which the other received very well, and many indicative of a disposition to be charitable, which Mr. John Smith received still better; and in the end, to relieve the pressing wants of the sufferer, which Mr. John Smith feelingly represented, drew forth a pocketbook, and took therefrom a silver dollar; at the sight of which, I thought, Mr. John Smith looked a little disappointed. Nay, it struck me that the appearance of the pocketbook, ancient and ill-looking as it was, had captivated his imagination in a greater degree than the coin. I had before observed him steal several affectionate looks towards the gold watch lying on the table, which now, however, the sight of the well-thumbed wallet seemed to have driven from his thoughts entirely. Nevertheless, he received the silver dollar with many thanks, and with still more the assurance that the philanthropist would procure him employment on the morrow; and Mr. Longstraw's eyes, as he turned to beckon me from the corner, began to twinkle with the delight of self-approbation.
I was myself beginning to feel a sentiment of pleasure, and to picture to my mind the unfortunate felon, converted, by a few words of counsel, and still fewer dollars of charity, into an honest and worthy member of society, when—oh horror of horrors!—the repenting convict suddenly snatched up a brand from the fire, and discharged it, with a violence that would have felled an ox, full upon the head of his patron.
The sparks flew from the brand over the whole room, and my friend dropped upon the floor on his face, followed by the striker, who, seizing upon his cravat, twisted it tightly round the unfortunate man's throat, thus completing by strangulation the murder more than half accomplished by the below.
The whole affair was the work of an instant; and had I possessed the will or courage to interfere, I could not have done so in time to arrest the mischief. But, in truth, I had not the power to stir; horror and astonishment chained me to the corner, where I stood as if transformed to stone, unable even to vent my feelings in a cry. I was seized with a terrible apprehension on my own account; for I could not doubt that the wretch who would thus murder a benefactor for a few dollars, would have as little hesitation to despatch me, who had witnessed the deed. I feared every moment lest the villain should direct his eye to the corner in which I stood, separated from him only a few yards; but he was too busy with his horrid work to regard me; and, terrified as I was, I looked on in safety while my deliverer was murdered before my eyes.
How long Mr. John Smith was at his dreadful work I cannot say; but I saw him, after a while, relax his grasp from his victim's throat, and fall to rummaging his pockets. Then, leaping up, he seized upon the watch, and clapped it into his bosom, saying, with a most devilish chuckle and grin,
"Damn them 'ere old fellers what gives a man a dollar, and preaches about wirtue! I reckon, old Slabsides, there's none on your people will hang me for the smash. Much beholden to you for leaving the horse and chair; it makes all safer."
With these words the wretch slipped out of the hovel, and a moment after I heard the smothered roll of the vehicle as it swept from the door.
I supposed that Mr. John Smith had taken himself away with as much speed as was consistent with the strength of his horse and the safety of his bones, and I recovered from the fears I had entertained on my own account. I crept up to the philanthropist to give him assistance, if such could be now rendered. But it was too late; he was already dead: Mr. John Smith had not taken his degrees without proper study in his profession; and I must say that his practice on the present occasion did not go far to confirm me in the love of benevolence.
Nevertheless, the appearance of the defunct threw my mind into a ferment. I had been hunting a body, and now I had one before me; I had come to believe that, if I wished for happiness, I must get possession of one whose occupant had previously been happy; and I had seen enough of the deceased to know that he had been an uncommonly comfortable and contented personage.
The end of all this was a resolution, which I instantly made, to take advantage of the poor man's misfortune, and convert his body to my own purposes. I had seen him for the first time that night; I did not remember ever to have heard his name mentioned before; and I consequently knew nothing of him beyond what I had just learned. Where he lived, who were his connexions, what his property, &c. &c., were all questions to which I was to find answers thereafter. It appeared to me that a philanthropist of his spirit and age (the latter of which I judged to be about fifty) could not but be very well known, and that all I should have to do, after reanimating his body, would be to seek the assistance of the first person I should find, and so be conducted at once to the gentleman's house; after which all would go well enough. But, in truth, I took but little time for reflection; or perhaps I should not have been in such a hurry to attempt a transformation. A little prudence might have led me to inquire into the consequences of the change, inferred from the condition of the body. Suppose his scull should prove to be broken; who was to stand the woes of trepanning? I do say, it would have been wiser had I thought ofthat—but unluckily I did not: I was in too great a hurry to think of any thing save the transformation itself; and the result was, that I had a lesson on the demerits of leaping before looking, which I think will be of service to me for the remainder of my life, as it might be to the reader, could the reader be brought to believe that that experience is good for any thing, which costs nothing.
My resolution was quickened by a step which I heard approaching along the street. "It is a watchman," thought I to myself: "I will jump into the body and run out for assistance."
I turned to the defunct.
"Friend Longstraw," said I, "or whatever your name is, if you are really dead, I wish to occupy your body."
That moment I lost all consciousness. The reader may infer the transfer of spirit was accomplished.
And so it was. I came to my senses a few moments after, just in time to find myself tumbling into a hole in the earth beneath the floor of the hovel, with Mr. John Smith hard by, dragging to the same depository the mortal frame I had just deserted. I perceived at once the horrible dilemma in which I was placed; I was on the point of being buried, and, what was worse, of being buried alive!
"I conjure and beseech thee, friend John Smith," I cried—but cried no more. The villain had just reached the pit, dragging the body of the late Abram Skinner. He was startled at my voice; but it only quickened him in his labours. He snatched up the corse and cast it down upon me as one would a millstone; and the weight, though that was not very considerable, and the shock together, jarred the life more than half out of me.
"What! old Slabsides," said he, "ar'n't you past grumbling?"
With that, the bloody-minded miscreant seized upon a fragment of plank, and began to belabour me with all his strength.
I had entered the philanthropist's body only to be murdered. I uttered a direful scream; but that was only a waste of the breath which Mr. John Smith was determined to waste for me. He redoubled his blows with a vigour that showed he was in earnest; nor did he cease until his work was completed. In a word, he murdered me, and so effectually, that it is a wonder I am alive to tell it. He assassinated me, and even began to bury me, by tumbling earth down from the floor; when, as my good fate would have it, the scene was brought to a climax by the sudden entrance of a watchman, who, running up to the villain, served him the same turn he had served me, by laying a leaded mace over his head, and so knocking him out of his senses.
It seems (for I scorn to keep the reader in suspense, by indulging in mystery) that this faithful fellow, having made a shorter nap than was warranted by the state of the night, had taken a stroll into the air, to look about him; that he had passed the hovel, and, seeing the chair standing at the door, had looked through a crack, and perceived Mr. Longstraw, with whose person and benevolent character he was acquainted, and myself—that is, my late self—warming ourselves by the convict's fire; and that, after pursuing his beat for a while, he was about to return by another way, when, to his surprise, he lighted upon the vehicle at more than a square's distance from the house; and the horse being tied to a post, it was evident he had not strayed thither. This awaking a suspicion that all was not right, he determined to pay a second visit to the hovel; and was on the way thither when I set up the scream mentioned before. Then quickening his pace, he arrived in time to witness the awful spectacle of Mr. John Smith thrusting the two bodies into the pit; which operation the courageous watchman brought to a close by knocking the operator on the head, as I have related.
What had brought Mr. John Smith back again, and why he should have troubled himself to conceal the victim of his murderous cupidity, must be conjectured, as well as the amazement with which, doubtless, he found he hadtwobodies to bury instead of one. He perhaps reflected, that the visit of his patron was known to other persons; who, upon finding his body, would readily conjecture who was the murderer; and therefore judged it proper to conceal the evidence of assassination, and leave the fate of his benefactor in entire mystery.
As it happened, his return had wellnigh proved fatal to me, and it was any thing but happy for himself. It caused him to take up his lodgings for a fourth time in the penitentiary; and there he is sawing stone, I believe, to this day, unless pardoned out by the Governor of Pennsylvania, according to the practice among governors in general. The visitation was, however, thus far advantageous to me, that it caused me to be conducted to the dwelling of Mr. Longstraw with all due expedition and care; whereas, had it not happened, I might have remained lying on the floor of my miserable tenement until frozen to death; for the night was uncommonly bitter.
As for my late body, it found its way to Abram Skinner's mansion; whence, having been handsomely coffined, it was carried to the grave, which, but for me, it would have filled three months before.
If my first introduction to the life of the philanthropic Zachariah Longstraw (for that was his name) was attended with circumstances of fear and danger, I did not thereby escape those other evils, which, as I hinted before, might have been anticipated, had I reflected a moment on the situation of his body. It was covered with bruises from head to foot, and there was scarce a sound bone left in it; so that, as I may say, I had, in reanimating it, only exchanged anguish of spirit for anguish of body; and which of these is the more intolerable, I never could satisfactorily determine. Philosophers, indeed, contend for the superior poignancy of the former; but I must confess a leaning to the other side of the question. What is the pain of a broken heart to that of the toothache? The poets speak of vipers in the bosom; what are they compared to a bug in the ear? Be this, however, as it may, it is certain I had a most dreadful time of it in Mr. Longstraw's body; and it would have been much worse, had not the blows I had received on the head kept me for a long time in a delirium, and therefore in a measure unconscious of my sufferings. The truth is, the body which I so rashly entered was in such a dilapidated condition, so bruised and mangled, that it was next to an impossibility to restore its vital powers; and it was more than two weeks, after lying all that time in a state of insensibility, more dead than alive, before I came to my senses, and remembered what had befallen me; and it was not until four more had elapsed that I was finally able to leave my chamber, and snuff the early breezes of spring.
As soon as I began to take notice of what was passing about me, I perceived that I lay in a good, though plainly-furnished chamber, and that, besides the physicians and other persons who occasionally bustled around me, there were two individuals so constantly in attendance, and so careful and affectionate in all their deportment, that I did not doubt they were members of my new family. Indeed, I had no sooner looked upon their faces, and heard their voices, than I felt a glow of satisfaction within my spirit; which convinced me they were my very dear and faithful friends, and that I loved them exceedingly.
They were both young men, the one perhaps of twenty-five, the other six or seven years older. Both were decked in Quaker garments, the elder being uncommonly plain in his appearance, wearing smallclothes, shoe-buckles, and a hat with a brim full five inches wide, which he seldom laid aside. These gave him a patriarchal appearance, highly striking in one of his youth, which was much increased by an uncommon air of gravity and benevolence beaming from his somewhat swarthy and hollow visage.
The younger had no such sanctimonious appearance. There was a janty look even in the cut of his straight coat; he had a handsome face, and seemed conscious of it; he swung about the room at times with a strut that excited his own admiration; and any three moments out of five he might be seen before the looking-glass, surveying his teeth, inspecting the sweep of his shoulders, and brushing up his hair with his fingers. His plain coat was set at naught by a vest and trousers of the most fashionable cut and pattern; he had a gold guard-chain, worn abroad, and his watch, which, in all likelihood, was gold also, was stuck in his vest-pocket, in the manner approved of by bucks and men of the world, instead of being deposited, according to the system of the wise, in a fob over the epigastrium; and, to crown his list of vanities, he had in his shirt a breastpin, which he took care to keep constantly visible, containing jewels of seven or eight different colours. It was manifest the young gentleman, if a Quaker, as his coat showed him to be, was quite a free one; and, indeed, the first words I heard him utter (which were also the first that I distinguished after rousing from my long sleep of insensibility) set the matter beyond question. I saw him peer into my face very curiously, and directly heard him call out to his companion—"I say, Snipe, by jingo, uncle Zack's beginning to look like a man in his senses!"
These words imparted a sensation of pleasure to my breast, but I felt impelled to censure the young man for the freedom of his expressions. My tongue, however, seemed to have lost its function; and while I was vainly attempting to articulate a reprimand, the other rushed up, and, giving me an earnest stare, seized upon one of my hands, which he fell to mumbling and munching in a highly enthusiastic manner, crying out, with inexpressible joy and fervour, "Blessed be the day! and does thee open thee eyes again? Verily, this shall be a day of rejoicing, and not to me only, the loving Abel Snipe, but to thousands. Does thee feel better, Zachariah, my friend and patron? Verily, the poor man that has mourned for thee shall be now as one that rejoices; for thee shall again speak to him the words of tenderness, and open the hand of alms-giving; yea, verily, and the afflicted shall mourn no more!"
These words were even more agreeable than those uttered by the junior; and I experienced a feeling of displeasure when the latter suddenly cut them short by exclaiming, "Come, Snipe, none of thee confounded nonsense. I reckon uncle Zack has had enough philanthropy for the season; and don't thee go to humbug him into it any more. Thee has made thee own fortune, and should be content."
"Verily, friend Jonathan," said the fervent Abel Snipe, addressing the junior, but still tugging at my hand, "thee does not seem to rejoice at thee uncle's recovery as thee should; but thee jokes and thee jests sha'n't make my spirit rejoice the less."
"Verily," said Jonathan, "so it seems; but if thee tugs at uncle Zack in that way, and talks so loud, thee will do his business."
"Verily," said Abel—
"And verily," said Jonathan, interrupting him, "thee will say it is thee business to do his business; which is very true—but not in the sense of murder. So let us hold our tongues; and do thou, uncle Zachariah," he added, addressing me, "keep thyself quiet, and take this dose of physic."
It was unspeakable how much my spirit was warmed within me by this friendly contest between the two young men, and by their looks of affection. I longed to embrace them both, but had not the strength; and, indeed, it was three or four days more before I felt myself able, or was allowed by the physicians, to indulge in conversation.
At the expiration of that period I found myself growing stronger; the twenty thousand different pangs that had besieged my body, from the crown of my head to the sole of my foot, whenever I attempted to move, were less racking and poignant; and, waking from a slumber that had been more agreeable than usual, and finding no one near me save the ever faithful Abel Snipe, I could no longer resist the impulse to speak to him.
"Abel Snipe," said I.
"Blessed be thee kind voice, that it speaks again!" said Abel Snipe, devouring my hand as before, and blubbering as he devoured.
"Thy name is Abel Snipe?" said I.
"Verily and surely, it is Abel Snipe, and no other," said he; "I hope thee don't forget me?"
"Why, really," said I, "I can't exactly say, friend Abel, seeing that there has a confusion come over my brain. But art thou certain I am no longer Abram Skinner?"
At this question Abel Snipe's eyes jumped half out of his head, and they regarded me with wo and horror. I saw he thought my wits were unsettled, and I hastened to remove the impression.
"Don't be alarmed, friend Abel; but, of a verity, I think I was killed and buried."
"Yea," said Abel; "yea, verily, the vile, ungrateful, malicious John Smith did smite thee over the head with a club, so that the bone was broken, and thee was as one that was dead; but oh! the villain! we have him fast in jail; and oh! the unnatural rascal! we'll hang him!"
"Verily," said I, feeling uncommon concern at the idea, "we will do no such wicked deed; but we will admonish the poor man of the wickedness of his ways, and, relieving his wants, discharge him from bondage."
"Yea," said Abel Snipe, with an air of contrition; "so will we do, as becometh the merciful man and Christian. But, verily, the flesh did quarrel with the spirit, and the old Adam cried out to me, 'Blood for blood,' and the thing that is flesh said, 'Vengeance on the wicked man that smote the friend of the afflicted!' But now thy goodness reproves me, and teaches me better things: wherefore I say, be not hard with the miserable man, for such is the wicked, and such is John Smith; who is now mourning over his foolish acts in the county prison. Yea, verily, we will be exceeding lenient,"—and so forth, and so forth.
I do not think it needful to repeat all the wise and humane things said by Abel Snipe: they convinced me he was the most benevolent of beings, and warmed a similar spirit that was now burning in my breast, and which burnt on until it became at last a general conflagration of philanthropy. Yea, the transformation was complete; I found within me, on the sudden, a raging desire to augment the happiness of my fellow-creatures; and wondered that I had ever experienced any other passion. The generous Abel discoursed to me of the thousands I—that is, my prototype, the true Zachariah—had rescued from want and affliction, and of the thousands whom I was yet to relieve. My brain took fire at the thought, and I exulted in a sense of my virtue; I perceived, in imagination, the tear of distress chased away by that of gratitude; I heard the sob of sorrow succeeded by the sigh of happiness, and the prayer of beseeching changed to the prayer of praise and thanksgiving. A gentle warmth flowed from my bosom through the uttermost bounds of my frame, and I felt that I was a happy man; yea, reader, yea, and verily, I was at last happy. My only affliction was, that the battered condition of my body prevented my sallying out at once, and practising the noble art of charity. The tears sprang into my eyes when Abel recounted the numbers of the miserable who had besieged my doors during my two weeks of insensibility, crying for assistance.
"Why didst thou not relieve them, Abel Snipe?" I exclaimed.
"Verily," said Abel, turning his eyes to heaven with a look of fervent rapture, "I did relieve the sorrowing and destitute even to the uttermost penny that was in my pocket. Blessed be the deed, for I have not now a cent that I can call my own. As for thine, Zachariah, it became me not to dispense it, without thy spoken authority; the more especially as thy nephew, Jonathan, did hint, and vehemently insist, that thou hadst bestowed too much already for thy good, and his."
These words filled me with concern and displeasure.
"Surely," said I, "the young man Jonathan is not averse to deeds of charity?"
"Verily," said Abel, clasping his hands, and looking as if he would have wept, "the excellent and beloved youth doth value money more than the good which money may produce; and of that good he esteemeth chiefly the portion that falleth to his own lot. Of a surety, I do fear he hath an eagerness and hankering, a fleshly appetite and an exceeding strong desire, after the things of the world. He delighteth in the vanity of fine clothes, and his discourse is of women and the charms thereof. He hath bought the picture of a French dancing-woman, and hung it in his chamber, swearing (for he hath a contempt for affirmation) that it is a good likeness of the maiden Ellen Wild; and yesterday I did perceive him squeaking at a heathenish wind-instrument, called a flute, and thereupon he did avow an intention to try his hand at that more paganish thing of strings, called a fiddle; and, oh! what grieved me above all, and caused the spirit within me to cry 'avaunt! and get thee away, Jonathan,' he did offer me a ticket, of the cost of one dollar, to procure me admission into the place of sin and vanity, called the theatre, swearing 'by jingo' and 'by gemini' there was 'great fun there,' and offering to lend me a coat, hat, and trousers, so that the wicked should not know me. Yea, verily, the young man is as a young lion that roameth up and down—as a sheep that wandereth from the pinfold into the forbidden meadows—and as for charity, peradventure thee will not believe me, but he averred, 'the only charity he believed in was that which began at home.'"
These confessions of the faithful Abel in relation to the young man Jonathan, caused my spirit to wax sorrowful within me. But it is fitting, before pursuing such conversations further, that I should inform the readerwhothe faithful Abel and the young man Jonathan were.
The latter, as Abel himself informed me, was my—or, if the reader will, my prototype's—nephew, the only, and now orphan, son of a sister, who had married, as the phrase is, "out of meeting," and, dying destitute, left her boy to the charge of the benevolent Zachariah, who, being himself childless, adopted him as his son and heir, and had treated him as such, from his childhood up. The great wish of Zachariah was to make the adopted son a philanthropist, like himself; in which, however, he was destined to disappointment; for Jonathan was of a wild and worldly turn, fond of frolic and amusement, and extremely averse to squander in works of charity the possessions he designed applying in future years to his own benefit. Nevertheless, he was greatly beloved by his uncle; and I, who was imbued with that uncle's spirit, and destined to love and abhor what he had loved and abhorred, whether I would or not, soon began to regard him as one of the two apples of my eyes.
The faithful Abel Snipe, it seems (his history was told me by Jonathan), was a man whom Zachariah, some years before, while playing the Howard in a neighbouring sovereignty, had found plunged in deep distress, and making shoes in the penitentiary. To this condition he had been reduced by sheer goodness; for, being an amateur in that virtuous art of which Zachariah was a professor, and having no means of his own to relieve the woes of the wretched, he had borrowed from the hoards of his employers (the president and directors of a certain stock-company, in whose office he had a petty appointment), and thus, perforce, made charitable an institution that was chartered to be uncharitable. He committed the fault, however, of borrowing without the previous ceremony of asking—either because he was of so innocent a temper as to think such a proceeding unnecessary, or because he knew beforehand that the request would not be granted; and the consequence was, that the president and directors, as aforesaid, did very mercilessly hand him over to the prosecuting attorney, the prosecuting attorney to a grand jury, the grand jury to a petit jury, the petit jury to a penitentiary, and the penitentiary to the devil—or such, at least, would have been the ending of the unfortunate amateur, had not the philanthropist, who always ordered his shoes, for charity's sake, at the prison, been struck with the uncommon excellence of a pair constructed by Abel's hands.
He sought out the faithful maker (for sure a man must be faithful to make a good pair of shoes in a penitentiary), was melted by his tale of wo, even as the wax through which Abel was then drawing a bunch of ends was melted by the breath thereof; and shedding tears to find the poor creature's virtue so shabbily rewarded, ran to the prosecutors with a petition, which he induced them to sign, transmitted it to the governor, with a most eloquent essay on the divine character of mercy, and, in less than a week, walked Abel Snipe out of prison, a pardoned man.
The charity of the professor did not end with Abel's liberation. Enraptured with the fervour of his gratitude, touched by the artlessness of his character, and moved by the destitution to which a pardon in the winter-time exposed him, he carried him to his own land and house, fed, clothed, and employed him upon a new pair of shoes; and, discovering that he had talents for a nobler business, advanced him in time to the rank of accountant, or secretary, collector of rents, dispenser of secret charities, and, in general, factotum and fiduciary at large. Such a servant was needed by the humane Zachariah; his philanthropy left him no time to attend to his own affairs, and his nephew Jonathan had fallen in love, and become incompetent to their management.
Never was experiment more happy for subject and object: Abel Snipe was made an honest and useful man; and Zachariah Longstraw obtained a friend and servant without price. The gratitude of Abel was equal to his ability; humility, fidelity, and religion, were the least of his virtues—he became a philanthropist, like his master. He managed his affairs with such skill, that Zachariah had always pennies at hand for the unfortunate; which, it seems, had not always happened before; and, what was equally charming, the zealous Abel dived into every lane, alley, and gutter, to discover new objects of charity for his patron. To crown all, he felt moved in the spirit to profess the faith so greatly adorned by his protector; and, after due preparation and probation, appeared in the garb of peace and humility, and even went so far as to hold forth once at meeting.
In a word, Abel Snipe was a jewel of the first water, who supplied the place of the idle Jonathan in all matters of business, and almost in the affections of his kinsman. If not equally beloved, he was more highly esteemed; and his shining worth consoled the philanthropist for many of the derelictions of his nephew. He became the confidant, the coadjutor, and the adviser of Zachariah; and Zachariah never found occasion to lament the benevolence that had redounded so much to his own advantage.
My nephew Jonathan had no great love for poor Abel; and he did not tell me his story without passing sundry sarcasms on him, as well as myself, for bestowing so much confidence on the poor unfortunate man. I rebuked the youth for his freedom and uncharitableness, and remembering what Abel had told me of his own idle and trifling course of life, I felt impelled by the new spirit of virtue that possessed me to take him to task; which I did in the following manner; and it is wondrous how completely and how soon (for I was yet lying on my back, groaning with my unhealed wounds and bruises) my spirit assumed and acted upon all that was peculiar in the nature of Zachariah Longstraw.
"Nevvy Jonathan," said I, "the uncharitableness of thy spirit afflicts me. Trouble not thyself to censure the worthy Abel Snipe; but think how thou shalt amend thine own crying faults. It has been said to me, Jonathan, my son, and verily I fear it is true, that thou squeakest upon flutes, and that thou makest profane noises with fiddles; and, furthermore, that thou runnest after, and dost buy, the vanity of pictures, and triest thy hand at painting the same."
"I do," said Jonathan; "and I find nothing against them in the Scripture."
"Verily," said I, "but dost thou find nothing against them in thine own spirit?"
"Not a whit," said Jonathan; "my heart sayslove them, and my head approves the counsel. Where's the harm in these things? I know thee don't say they are in themselves sinful."
"Verily, no," said I; "but they are indirectly so; for, being wholly useless, the time bestowed upon them is time lost and wasted; and that, nevvy Jonathan, I think thee will allow to be sinful."
"Not I," said Jonathan, stoutly; "I don't believe the wasting of time to be any such heinous matter as thee supposes; had it been so, man would not have been made to waste a third of his existence in slumber. But granting this, for the sake of argument, I deny thy premises, uncle Zachariah. The time bestowed upon these things is not wasted. Heaven has given to nine men out of ten a capacity to enjoy both music and painting; it has done more—it has set an example of both before our eyes, and thus laid the foundation of the divine arts in Nature. What is the world around us but a great concert-hall, echoing with the music of bird and beast, of wind, water, and foliage? what but a great gallery of pictures, painted by the hand of Providence? Nature is a painter—Nature is a musician; and her sons can do nothing better than follow her example. But were Nature neither, it is not the less evident that these arts are lawful and sinless. They can be proved so, uncle Zachariah, upon thine own system of philanthropy; for they add to the happiness of our existence, and they do so without corrupting our morals or injuring our neighbours. I say, uncle," quoth Jonathan, who had pronounced this defence with much enthusiasm, and now concluded with a grin of triumph, "I have thee there dead as a herring!"
"Verily," said I, more pleased than offended at the young man's ingenuity, for my spirit yearned over him the more at every word, "thee has a talent for argument, which I would thee would cultivate; for then thee could get into the Assembly, and finally, perhaps, into Congress, and do much good to thy fellow-men, by reforming divers crying abuses."
"Verily," said he, "the first thing I should reform would be thy philanthropy."
"Don't be funny, nevvy," said I, "for I have not done with thee. Thee was dancing last night, in the house of the vain man Ebenezer Wild."
"I was," said Jonathan; "I was shaking my legs; and I can't see the harm of it, for the flies do the same thing all day long."
"Verily, thee should remember that a reasonable being, that hath a brain, should rather exercise that than his heels."
"I grant thee," said Jonathan; "but thee knows brains are not so abundant as heels; and thee should expect the mass of people to conduct according to their endowments."
"Jonathan," said I, "if thee thinks to make me laugh, thee is mistaken. Of a verity I will not be rigid with thee; but, verily, I must speak to thee of what I hold thy faults. Thou hast a vain and eager hankering after the society of giddy women."
"I have!" said Jonathan, with great fervour. "Heaven made women to be loved, and I love them—especially Ellen Wild!"
"Sure," said I, "I have heard that name?"
"Sure," said Jonathan, "it would be odd if thee had not; for thee knows her well—thine old friend Ebenezer's daughter."
"A giddy girl, Jonathan, I fear me; a giddy girl!"
"As giddy as the dev—that is, as giddy as a goose," said Jonathan.
"What!" said I; "thee meant something worse! Verily, I have heard thee uses bad language, Jonathan."
"By jingo!" said the youth, indignantly, "there is no end to the slanders people will say of one.Iuse bad language? By jingo!"
"Why, thee is at it now," said I; "let thy yea be yea, and thy nay nay; for all beyond is profanity or folly. But thee will allow, Jonathan, that when thee is among the people of the world, thee uses the language thereof, forgetting the language of simplicity and sobriety, which would best become thy lips?"
"Ay; there I plead guilty, and with good reason too," said Jonathan. "When I was a boy, thee had thoughts of making me a merchant, and thee compelled me to study French and German. Now, when I meet a Frenchman or a German unacquainted with the English tongue, in what language does thee suppose I address him?"
"Why, French or German, to be sure."
"Verily, I do," said the youth; "and when I get among the people of the world, I speak to them in the language of the world; for, poor ignorant creatures, they don't understand Quaker. Moreover, uncle, does thee know Ellen Wild is of opinion we Friends don't speak good grammar? Now she and I spent a whole hour the other evening, trying to parse 'thee is,' 'thee does,' 'thee loves,' and so on, and we could not work them according to Murray. I say, uncle, does thee know of any command in Scripture to speak bad grammar?"
"No," said I; "but it is not forbidden; and the phrases mentioned, thou knowest, have crept into our speech as corruptions, and are only used for conversational purposes."
"Truly," said Jonathan, "and the language of the world is used for conversational purposes also. I say, uncle Zachariah,thatnow's a clincher!"
"I won't quarrel with thee on this account, Jonathan. But how comes it thou wert seen in that wicked place, the theatre?"
"By jingo!" said he, "Snipe has been blabbing there too!"
"What!" said I, "does thou strive to conceal it?"
"Yea," said Jonathan; "for when we do our good deeds, we should do them in secret. Uncle Zachariah, I went to the theatre in charity."
"Thee did," said I, charmed more than I can express at the thought of the young man's virtue.
"Yes, uncle," said the youth; "and great need have the actors of charity; for a poorer set of fellows I think I never saw got together." And here the rogue fell a laughing in my face: "And so thee need not distress thyself; for I sha'n't go there again until they get a better company. But, uncle Zachariah, thee has exhorted me enough for one time, and it is my turn now. So do thou be conformable, and answer my questions; for, I can tell thee, I have a fault to find with thee. According to thine own system of philanthropy, it is thy duty to make thy fellow-creatures happy. Now I ask thee whether thou dost not think it thy duty to make me, thy loving nephew, happy, as well as a stranger?"
"Verily," said I, "I do."
"Why then," said Jonathan, "there is a short way of doing it. Uncle Zachariah, I want to be married. Ellen and I have talked the matter over, and she says she'll have me. Now, uncle, thee did once talk of giving me a counting-house, and ten or twenty thousand dollars, as the case might be, to begin a commission business; and Mr. Wild talked of doing as much in the way of dowry to Ellen. And now I say, uncle Zachariah, as the shipwrecked sailor did when he prayed among the breakers, if thee means to help me, now's the time."
"What!" said I, "have I so much property?"
"Thee is joking," said the youth; "thee is a rich man, and thee knows thee can afford it. But thee must do it soon, or it may be too late; for, I can tell thee, folks begin to talk of thy philanthropy, and say thou art flinging away so much money that presently thou wilt have nothing left to give me. Mr. Wild is of this mind, and he has hinted some things to me very plainly. In a word, uncle, if thee does not permit me to marry Ellen soon, he will break the match. And so, if thee will make me a happy man—"
"I will," said I, with uncommon fervour; "thee shall marry the maiden, and I will straightway see what I can do for thee. Verily, what is wealth but the dross of the earth, unless used to purchase happiness for those that are worthy."
At these words Jonathan leaped for joy, seized my hand and kissed it, vowed I was "his dear old dad, for all I was only his uncle," and ran from the room—doubtless to impart the happy tidings to his mistress.
How happy was I, to think I had conferred happiness upon another! how agreeable my sensations! how delightful the approbation of my own heart! How much I rejoiced that my soul had at last found a habitation equal to its wishes! an abode of peace! a dwelling of content! "If I am Zachariah Longstraw," said I to myself, "I will show myself worthy of the name; I will spend his money in the great cause of philanthropy; I will make the afflicted smile; I will win the blessings of the poor; I will do more good than even Zachariah Longstraw himself: yea, of a surety, I will devote myself to a life of virtue!"
While I was making these virtuous resolutions, the faithful Abel Snipe came to my bedside, and told me there were divers suffering creatures, widows with nine small children, widowers with fourteen, sick old women, and starving old men, in great need of relief; and so affecting was the picture he drew of their griefs, that the tears rolled from my eyes, and I bade him, if there was any money he could honestly lay his hands on, carry comfort to them all.
"Verily," said he, "I have just collected the quarter's rent of the house in Market-street; and it will be enough, and more."
"Relieve the poor afflicted creatures, then.. And hark thee, Abel Snipe, does thee consider me a rich man? If so, let me know where I can find twenty thousand dollars to set up the young man Jonathan in business, and marry him to the maiden Ellen Wild."
"Alas!" said Abel Snipe; "of a verity, the young man is in a hurry; and alas! for, of a verity, if thee takes away at this time such a great sum from thee possessions, thee will cut off the right hand of thee charity."
And thereupon the benevolent creature, after showing me, which it was easy to do, that, with the mere revenue of the sum demanded, if kept in our own hands, we could carry smiles and rejoicing into at least a hundred families every year, exhorted me not to forget that I was the friend of the afflicted, nor to faint in the good work of philanthropy. Jonathan was a very young man, he said—only twenty-five—happy in his youth, happy in his affections, happy in the certain prospect he enjoyed of sooner or later arriving at the fullest felicity. Why should he not then consent, like us, to forego for a while his selfish desires, contribute his portion to the wants of the poor, and, by labouring a few years in their cause, approve himself worthy of fortune? How much better that he should endure a fancied ill, than that a hundred afflicted families should be given up to actual want? He contended that the young man's request was untimely and selfish, and that I would only harden his heart, while breaking a thousand others, if I granted it. In short, he said so many things, and painted so many affecting pictures of the miseries of my fellow-creatures, and the beauties of charity, that my mind was quite changed on the subject, and I perceived it was my duty to resist the young man's wishes.
This change, on the morrow (being the first day that I was able to sit up), I explained to Jonathan, exhorting him, with a feeling enthusiasm, to tear all narrow, selfish feelings from his heart, and embark with me, like a virtuous youth, in the great enterprise of philanthropy. He fell into a passion, told me my philanthropy was a fudge, and Abel Snipe a rogue and hypocrite; vowed I had a greater regard for knaves and paupers than for my own flesh and blood, and was flinging away my money only to encourage vice and beggary. It was in vain I sought to pacify the indignant youth. An evil spirit seized upon him. He did nothing for three days but scold, reproach, and complain. He abused the faithful Abel to his face, calling him a fox, viper, cormorant, harpy, and I know not what beside; all which Abel endured with patience and resignation, for he was of a meek and humble spirit. Nay, not content with this, he proceeded on the third day to greater lengths, and did very intemperately fall upon the said Abel Snipe, tweaking him by the nose and ears, until the poor man yelled with pain—and even endeavoured to kick him out of the house; after which, being censured for the same, and I siding with Abel, as justice demanded, in the controversy, his resentment grew to such a pitch that he left the house, declaring he would live with me no longer, but leave me to ruin myself at my leisure.
This was an occurrence that caused me much pain, for verily I had an exceeding great love for the young man, and I perceived that he was treating me with ingratitude. I was, however, greatly comforted by the increased zeal and affection of the ever-faithful Abel; who, coming to me with tears in his eyes, declared that he could not bear the thought of being a cause of dissension between me and my nephew, and therefore besought me that I would discard him from my presence, when I could again live happily with my Jonathan.
I resisted, while duly appreciating the good man's friendship; and, fortunately, there needed no such sacrifice on my part; for, on the eleventh day, Jonathan returned of his own accord, and, confessing his folly, and entreating Abel's forgiveness, as well as mine, was restored again to favour. His return itself was grateful to my feelings; but the reader may judge how great was my rapture, when Jonathan avowed a change in his sentiments on the subject of philanthropy, and declared that the spirit at last moved him to think of his suffering fellow-creatures. He entreated to be conducted to the abodes of affliction, and there the conversion was completed. He became a changed man, and in a few days was almost as zealous an alms-giver as myself. I took him to my arms, and said—
"Now, Jonathan, thee is a man in whom I no longer fear the seductions of the flesh. Thee shall marry the maid Ellen, and be set up in business."
"Nay," said Jonathan; "not so. I am yet but as a youth in years, and the time sufficeth for all things. Let not the whirl of business and the joy of the honey-moon disturb the virtue that is yet young and frail in my bosom. Of a verity, Ellen Wild will wait till the fall; and if she don't, and my heart should be broken, verily I shall then be better enabled to sympathize with the wretched."
Such was the lofty, though new-born virtue of my Jonathan!
But of that, as well as our works of benevolence, I shall speak in the following chapters.
I have already said that the mere presence of the philanthropic feeling, now infused into my spirit, filled me with happiness, even while I lay upon my back, aching with wounds and bruises. It may be inferred, therefore, that my soul was ecstasy itself, when, restored at last to health and strength, I stalked into the air, dispensing charity with both hands.
Of a verity, it was—at least, for a time; and I will say, that, during the first month of my new existence, I experienced a thousand agreeable sensations, such as had never occurred to me in my whole life before. And here let me observe, that, if what I have to add shall show that there are offsets of inconvenience and tribulation even to the satisfaction of the benevolent, I do not design to throw any discredit on the virtue of benevolence itself; which I truly regard as one of the divinest of endowments, angelic in its nature, and blessed in its effects, when practised with discretion; and amiable, if not lovely, even in its folly. I believe, indeed, that if Heaven looks with peculiar indulgence on the errors of any man, it is in the case of him who has the softest judgment for the errors, and the readiest reparation for the miseries, of his fellows. What I wish to be understood is, that man is an unthankful animal, and of such rare inconsistency of temper, that he seldom foregoes an opportunity to punish the virtue which he so loudly applauds.
I was now a philanthropist, and I will say (which I think I may do without shame, the merit being less attributable to me than to that worthy deceased personage whose body I inhabited), that a truer, purer, or more zealous one never walked the earth. I should fill a book as big as a family Bible, were I to record all the good things I did or attempted, while a tenant in Zachariah Longstraw's body. All my feelings and desires were swallowed up in one great passion of philanthropy; universal benevolence was the maxim I engraved upon my heart; I had no thought but to relieve the distresses, meliorate the condition, and advance the happiness of my species. My generosity extended equally to individuals and communities; I toiled alike in the service of the beggar and the million, putting bread into the mouth of the one, and infusing moral principles into the breasts of the others. In a word, I was, as I have called myself already, a philanthropist; and if my virtue was somewhat excessive in degree, it proceeded from the sincerest promptings of spirit.
It may be supposed that the treatment I (for, of a verity, I myself came in for some share of the hard usage that killed the true Zachariah) had received from the base and brutal John Smith, must have cooled my regard for him, if it did not affect my feelings of philanthropy in general. I confess that I did regard that personage with sentiments of disgust and indignation; but, nevertheless, I was very loath to appear against him when summoned (as I was, soon after leaving my sick-bed) to give evidence on the charges preferred against him. These were two in number, and afforded matter for as many separate endictments. In the first—and, verily, I was startled when I heard it—John Smith was charged with the murder of Abram Skinner; in the second, with an assault, with intent to kill, upon myself—that is, my second self, Zachariah Longstraw—and also with robbery.
Now, if the reader will reflect a moment upon the relation in which I stood to these charges, he will allow that the necessity of testifying on them reduced me to a quandary. In the first place, I knew very well that Mr. John Smith, rogue and assassin as he was, hadnotkilled Abram Skinner, but that I had finished that unhappy gentleman myself; and I knew also, in the second, that my admitting this fact would, without doing Mr. John Smith any good, produce a decided inconvenience to myself:—not that there was any fear I should be arraigned for murder, but because nobody would believe me. I remembered how my telling the truth to my friend John Darling, the deputy attorney, in regard to my first transformation, had caused him to believe me mad; and I foresaw that telling the truth on the present occasion would reduce me to the same predicament, and perhaps the Friends' mad-house into the bargain.
There was the same difficulty in relation to the second charge, accompanied by another still greater; for, whereas John Smith was there only accused of assault with intent to kill, he had in reality committed a murder; which if I had affirmed, as I must have done had I affirmed any thing at all, I should have been a living contradiction of my own testimony, and thus considered madder than ever.
The truth is, I was in a dilemma, out of which the truth could not extract me; and the more I thought the matter over, the greater was my embarrassment. A feeling of integrity within me (for Zachariah Longstraw was a man of conscience) urged me to speak the truth; while common sense showed me how much worse than useless truth would be in such an extraordinary conjuncture.
I received a visit from the prosecuting attorney, who very naturally expected a clear and satisfactory account of Mr. John Smith's doings on the night of the murder; and the difficulty I had with him (that is, the attorney) gave me a foretaste of what I was to expect when summoned into the witness's box in court. I remember that the gentleman, after plying me with many questions, to which he got that sort of replies invidiously termed "Quaker answers," flew into a huff, and threatened me with what would be the consequence if I should prove backward in court. And, sure enough, his prediction was verified; for, not giving a straight answer to any one question when the trial came on, I received divers reprimands from the court, and was finally committed for a contempt to prison; where I lay two or three days, until called into court again to give evidence on the second endictment, Mr. John Smith having been found not guilty on the first. This was owing in part, I presume, to the testimony of several surgeons, who deposed that there were no marks of violence upon Abram Skinner's body; although the evidence of the watchman, who had seen him alive through the window, and afterward found John Smith burying his dead body in the same hole with myself, went rather hard with him. I say the acquittal was perhaps owing in part to the testimony of the surgeons; though much of it might be attributed to the marvellous humanity that reigns in the criminal courts of the city of Brotherly Love, to the great benefit and encouragement of that proscribed and injured class of men, namely—murderers.
I made little better work of the second attempt at witnessing; but, as I have matters of much greater importance to demand my attention, and the reader can easily infer what I did and what I did not affirm, I must beg to despatch the second trial by relating that I was packed off a second time to prison for contempt, but that the evidence of the watchman, and my late wounds and bruises, were esteemed sufficient to secure the prisoner's conviction; and accordingly John Smith was convicted, and accommodated with lodgings in the penitentiary for the fourth time.
My own incarceration was of no long duration. My contumacy, as it was called, was considered extraordinary; but it was generally thought to be owing to a mistaken humanity, and a perverted, Quixotic conscientiousness, such as are common enough among persons of the persuasion I then belonged to. This, and perhaps the circumstance that I was yet in feeble health (for the trial, as I said, took place soon after I left my bed), caused me to be treated with lenity; and in a few days I was liberated.
All this, I beg the reader to understand, happened before the reconciliation with my nephew Jonathan, and, of course, before I had well begun my career of philanthropy. Of that career, of some of my deeds of goodness, and of the consequences they produced, I shall now speak.
My benevolence was of a two-fold character, being both theoretic and practical. In the latter sense, is to be regarded the relief which I granted with my own hands to such suffering persons as I could lay them on; and there was no way in which I did not personally relieve some one wretch or other. By the former, I understand a thousand schemes which I devised and framed, to enlist the sympathies of communities, and so relieve the afflicted in a mass; besides a thousand others which were designed to bestow upon the poor and vicious that virtuous knowledge and those virtuous principles, which are better than alms of gold and silver. I instituted some half a dozen charitable societies, to supply fuel, clothing, food, and employment to the suffering poor; as well as others to exhort them to economy, industry, prudence, fortitude, and so forth. I formed societies even among themselves, classing divers isolated creatures into bands, who wrought in common, and disposed of their wares, either in a shop kept for the purpose, or at fairs. I established schools to keep the children of the poor out of mischief, and one in particular I supported solely from my own, that is to say, Zachariah Longstraw's pocket.
I bestowed much of my regards upon the poor wretches in prison, doing all that I was permitted to effect a reformation in their habits and feelings; and I took uncommon pains to scatter light and sentiments of a civilized character among the worthy representatives of the Green Island, who make up so large a portion of our suffering population.
And let it not be supposed that I neglected that other class of poor creatures, called negroes, whom, although allowed the name, and most of the privileges of freemen, their white brethren refuse to take to their bosoms, merely because they have black faces, woolly heads, and an ill savour of body. For myself, verily, if they were not comely in my sight, nor agreeable to my nostrils, I said, "Heaven hath made them so;" and although my nephew Jonathan insisted that Heaven had done the same thing with other animals, and that, upon my principles, men should be as affectionate with pigs and badgers as they were with cats and lap-dogs, I perceived that they were my brethern, and that it became me to conquer the prejudices lying only in my eyes and nostrils. I girded my loins to the work, and verily, I prevailed over the weakness of the old Adam. Of a verity, I was the African's friend.
But, oh! the wickedness of the world, and the ingratitude thereof! The heart of man is even as the soil of the earth, which, the more it is stirred up by cultivation, the more barren and worthless it becomes. It is as the fields of the Ancient Dominion, where, if a man soweth barley and corn, he shall reap a harvest of Jamestown weed, poke-berries, and scrub pines. It is as the bulldog that one feedeth with beef and other wholesome viands, who, the moment he has done his dinner, snaps, for his dessert, at the feeder's heel. It is as the tender flowers, which, in the winter-time, a man taketh from the cold, to warm, by night, in his chamber, and which smother him with foul air before morning. Verily, it was my lot to find, even as my nephew Jonathan had once foolishly contended, that even philanthropy is not secure from the sting of unthankfulness—that benevolence is, in one sense, the great parent of ingratitude—since it begets it. For a period of full seven months (for so long did I remain in Zachariah's body, after recoving my health), I laboured to do good to my fellows, and, verily, I laboured with might and main. Yet, had I toiled with the same energy to injure and oppress, I almost doubt whether I should have been rewarded with more manifold outpourings of wrath and fury. Verily, as I said before, the world is a wicked world, and I begin to doubt whether man can make it better.
One of the first mishaps that befell me was of the following nature. Stepping one morning into the mayor's office, which was a favourite haunt with me, seeing that misery doth there greatly abound, I fell upon a man whom the magistrate was about to commit to jail, for being drunk and beating his wife and children, he being unable to pay the fine imposed upon him, and to find surety for his future good behaviour.
The spirit stirred within me as I beheld the contrite looks of the culprit, and I said to myself—"While he lies in jail, his poor wife and his infants may perish with hunger." I paid the fine, and, though the mayor did very broadly hint to me that a little punishment would do the man good, and his wife too, seeing that he was a barbarous fellow, I offered myself for his security, and thus sent him back to his rejoicing family. I said to myself—"This very night will I witness the happiness I have created." I went accordingly to the man's house, where I found the wicked fellow raving with drink, and beating his wife as before, his children screaming with terror, and the neighbours crying out for a constable. I did but say a word of reprehension to him, when the brutish ingrate, leaving his rib, fell foul of myself, mauling me cruelly; and I believe he would have beaten me to death, had I not been rescued by the timely appearance of a constable. "Thee sees the end of thy humanity!" said the mayor, when I entered his office the next morning, that my black eye and bruised visage might testify against the ungrateful man; "thee will not object to my committing the fellow now?"
"Nay," said I; "it is drunkenness that has made the poor man mad. Therefore lock him up in prison until his madness hath departed."
"I will," said the mayor; "and thee will have the goodness to pay over to the clerk the hundred dollars in which thee bound thyself that the rascal should keep the peace."
"Verily," said I, "it is not just I should pay the money; for the beating was upon my own body."
"Truly," said the mayor, "and so it was; and therefore it is the harder that thee should have to pay it. But pay it thee must, the man having broken the peace as much in beating thee, as if it had been any other citizen of the commonwealth."
And so much satisfaction I had for befriending the sot; the charity, which did more harm than good even to the man's poor family, since it exposed them a second time to his fury, costing me, without counting the fine paid on the first day, a sore beating and one hundred dollars.
My next misadventure was the being cheated in a very aggravated way by a poor man to whom I loaned money, without exacting bond or voucher, the same being loaned to re-establish him in a gainful business, which had been interrupted by an unfortunate accident. For, having prospered in his business, and I requiring that he should now repay the money, that I might devote it to the service of others, he very impudently averred that he had never had any thing of me, except advice and a good word of recommendation here and there; swore that he never paid away or received a cent without giving or taking a receipt; defied me to prove my claim; and concluded his baseness by threatening to kick me out of his workshop.
These instances of ingratitude were followed by others of a still deeper die, and so numerous, that I can mention only a few of them.
Walking one day to that infant school which I had established, to keep children out of mischief while their hard-working parents were at their daily labours, I perceived the urchins standing at the door, pelting the passers-by with mud. Reproving them for this misconduct, the graceless vagabonds did speedily turn their battery upon myself; and, not content to plaster and bespatter me with mud-balls from head to foot, they fell upon me, and, being very numerous, did actually roll me about in a gutter, where was a deep slough, so that I had nearly perished with suffocation, being sorely bruised into the bargain. To crown all, having expelled from my school the ringleaders in this marvellous outbreaking of precocious ingratitude, I was visited by their parents, all of them abusing me for my tyrannical usage of their children (although, of a truth, the tyranny was all on the side of the juveniles), and impudently demanding that I should pay them for their boys' time, at the rate of twenty-five cents a week each, for as many weeks as I had had them at school. Of a surety, some people are very unreasonable.
It was also my misfortune to offend divers tailors and shopkeepers, by benevolently taking part in the efforts of their poor unfortunate needle-women to obtain better wages; and one day, in the streets, these angry men did hustle me, and tear a tail from my coat. But I consoled myself for this violence, by thinking of the gratitude of the poor creatures I was defending; when, making my way, the following evening, to their place of assembly, I was set upon by the whole crew, for that I did hint, that, as their difficulties did chiefly proceed from their numbers, there being more hands at the business of sewing than were required, they would greatly benefit themselves, and the community too, by going, two thirds of them at least, into service, there being ever a great want of domestics in our respectable families. I say, I did but hint this reasonable and undeniable truth, together with a friendly remark upon the exposed state of their morals, when there arose such a storm among them as was never perhaps witnessed by any other human being. "Hear the old hunks!" said one: "he wants to make niggur servants of us!us, that is freeborn American girls!"—"Yes, ladies!" said another, "and he is insinivating we are no better nor we should be!"—"Turn the old rip out!" said a third; and "Turn him out!" cried the other three hundred and fifty there present. Of a verity, they did assail me with both tongue and nail, testifying such vigour of spirit and strength of arm, that, were I a philanthropist now, which I fortunately am not, and were I moved to consult their interests as before, I should endeavour to form them into a regiment of soldiers, not doubting that they would, at any moment, prevail over twice their numbers of male fighting men. Of a verity, I say, they did violently pull me about, thrusting me at last from the apartment: and their ingratitude was a sore wound to my spirit.
Another evil that befell me about the same time, was equally afflicting. A negro-man that had fled from bondage in a neighbouring state, being sharply hunted, and about to be captured by the person that called him his property, I carried him to my house, and there concealed him for three days and mights, until his master had departed; "For," said I, "of a surety, slavery is a bitter pill, and one that cures neither the rheumatism nor the ague; and, therefore, why should my brother Pompey be compelled to swallow it?" My brother Pompey, having eaten, drunk, and slept at my expense for the three days mentioned, disappeared on the morning of the fourth before daylight, carrying with him twenty-seven pounds of silver, in spoons, teapots, and other vessels, the three watches belonging to myself, my nephew, and Abel Snipe, as well as Jonathan's best coat and trousers. Verily, I was confounded at the fellow's ingratitude, and the loss of my valuables, all of which, however, though broken up, it was my good fortune to recover, together with the three watches. The thief himself, being taken, was clapped into jail for a while, and then surrendered to his master, and carried back to bondage; and this stirring up the choler of the free Africans in town, they did naught but cry out upon me as the author of his misfortune, surrounding my house with a mob, and proceeding to the length of even burning it down. At least, the house taking fire, and manifestly by the act of an incendiary, it was charged by my friends upon these raging foolish people, though I was never able to prove it upon any one in particular. As my good fortune would have it, Abel Snipe had taken out a policy of ensurance, so that I recovered the money from the company; but not without going to law, the company averring that my humanity rendered me careless.
I caused another dwelling to be built; and, in building it, received another strong and inconvenient proof, not merely of man's ingratitude, but of his natural hostility to the charity which benefits his neighbours. I bought my marble out of the prison, in order to encourage industry among the prisoners, and thus lighten the load of taxation on the community at large. This being known, the marble-cutters fell into wrath, denounced me as the friend of villany and the enemy of honest industry; and being joined by the shoemakers, who had put me down in their character-book as a patron to none but prison-workmen, and by divers other mechanics that had some grudge of the same kind, they seized upon me, as I stood surveying my rising mansion, and bedaubed me from head to foot with thick whitewash, painting in great black letters, on the broad of my back, the following words, namely—"THE ROGUE'S FRIEND;" which caused me, after I had escaped from their hands, to be hooted at by boys and men along the street, and to be bitten by a great cur-dog, that was amazed at my appearance.
Another misfortune, still more distressing, befell me one day, as I walked among the western suburbs, seeking whom I might relieve. I espied a company of men surrounding a ring, made with stakes and ropes, in which two wretched creatures were stripping off their garments, with the intention to do battle upon one another with their fists. These were gentlemen of the fancy, as it is called; though imagination can paint nothing of a more grossly animal and brutish character, afar from all that is fanciful, than that very class that calls itself of the fancy. I was shocked that the poor creatures should, in their ignorance, agree to maul and beat one another, for the amusement of a mob; and I was concerned that a mob, containing so many rational beings, should be willing to harry on two such silly fellows to harm each other for their pastime. I stepped among them, therefore, and addressed them, exhorting them to peace and harmony; and this producing but little effect on them, I upbraided them with breaking the laws, both human and divine, and assured them I would go hunt up the police, to prevent the mischief they meditated. Alas! how ungratefully they used me! There was a man at a distance who was heating a great pot of tar, to pay the bottom of a canal-boat; and just a moment before, a carter had stopped to look on the affray, leaving on the roadside his cart, on which, among other articles of domestic furniture, was an old feather-bed, lying on the top of all. The devil had surely brought these things upon the ground, that his sinful children, the gentlemen of the fancy, might be at no loss how to testify their hatred of humanity. The very combatants themselves were the first to seize me, and cry out, "Tar and feather the old Bother'em! Douse down the bed, and dab the pot off the fire." And "Daub him well!" they cried, all the while that their wretched companions, drowning the cries I made for assistance, with savage yells of rage and merriment, covered me from head to foot with the nasty pitch, and then, tearing the bed to pieces, emptied its contents over my reeking body. Then, having feathered me all over, and so transformed me that I looked more like an ostrich than a human being, they tied me to a post, where I was forced to remain, looking upon the fight that immediately ensued between the champions. A horrid sight it was; but I was so devoured with shame and indignation, that I should have cared little had they dashed each other's brains out. So much I endured for exhorting men to live together in peace and amity.