"————————I amrich,And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woeIntrude upon mine ear?"
"————————I amrich,And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woeIntrude upon mine ear?"
"————————I amrich,
And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woe
Intrude upon mine ear?"
But we can forgive them, as their own worst enemies. They know nothing of the luxury of doing good, and when they are called to make up their last account, they will mourn that they have no investments in those funds that never fluctuate—in that bank "where moth and rust doth not corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal." Let such remember, moreover, that as they brought nothing into world, so they can carry nothing out of it. And let it also be remembered, in the language of another, that were there as many worlds as there are particles of sand in our globe, and were those worlds composed of angel gold; or were there any thing in the wide extent of the Almighty's dominion, which is more precious than gold, and were those worlds composed of that material, all melted into one solid mass, to fill the coffers of a single individual, it would avail him nothing in procuring the salvation of his soul, or in affording him happiness beyond the brief period of his three-score years and ten!
CHAPTER XIV.
THINGS PROVE WORSE THAN WAS EXPECTED.
"And euery ioye hym is delaied,So that within his herte affraiedA thousande tyme with one breath,Wepende he wissheth after death,Whan he fortune fynt aduerse."—Gower.
"And euery ioye hym is delaied,So that within his herte affraiedA thousande tyme with one breath,Wepende he wissheth after death,Whan he fortune fynt aduerse."—Gower.
"And euery ioye hym is delaied,
So that within his herte affraied
A thousande tyme with one breath,
Wepende he wissheth after death,
Whan he fortune fynt aduerse."—Gower.
"Ah, little think the gay, licentious proud,How many pine in want, * ** * * how many drink the cupOf baleful grief, and eat the bitter breadOf misery!"
"Ah, little think the gay, licentious proud,How many pine in want, * ** * * how many drink the cupOf baleful grief, and eat the bitter breadOf misery!"
"Ah, little think the gay, licentious proud,
How many pine in want, * *
* * * how many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, and eat the bitter bread
Of misery!"
Never in my life, in any place, or under any circumstances, had I before entered a human abode of such perfect and entire destitution as that of poor Wheelwright! It was a wretched apology for a house, at best, containing two stories, of two rooms upon a floor each. The upper apartments were occupied by several poor Irish families. The front room below had been Wheelwright's workshop, and the family lived in the room back of it. Both looked as though they had been swept and garnished by the hand of Famine herself. Not a single article of furniture, of any description, was left! Crouched over two short brands,—the remains of a couple of sticks of wood which a poor neighbor had given them the day before,—were Wheelwright and his wife, shivering with cold. In one corner of the room lay two or three bushels of chopped straw, in which they slept. Not a bed, nor a blanket, nor a chair, nor any article or utensil of furniture whatsoever, had been left; all, all, was in the hands of the remorseless pawn-brokers, as the sufferers showed me by their certificates—pawned, too, for such pitiful sums as at once attested the oppressive and disgraceful system of avarice upon which those establishments are conducted. The storm yet howled fearfully without, and the hard particles of indurated snow were sifting through the interstices of the crazy building. The eye of man has seldom rested upon such a scene of stern and unmitigated poverty. Shylock or Sir Giles Overreach—aye!—any body but a pawn-broker—would have melted into tears at the spectacle. The children, almost naked, had just been taken to the fire-side of a poor Irish neighbor, to keep their benumbed bodies from freezing to the heart. I was appalled for the moment, as I gazed about upon this unexampled picture of destitution. Before me, seated on his haunches upon the hearth, was poor Wheelwright, resting his chin upon his hand,—and "the woman"—unfortunately his wife—by his side. He was moody—broken—crushed!
"Well!" he exclaimed, as I approached the forlorn couple—"you see what I have come to!"
I saw the state of the case—the cause, and the effect—at a glance—"that woman!"—as he had denominated her with such emphasis in the morning. In good sooth, I liked her not. She looked hale and hearty, notwithstanding their destitution—was ragged, and none of the neatest in her person.
I entered into conversation with her, and soon discovered that she had both a sharp, and, if necessary, an artful tongue of her own. I remarked that she appeared to be in good health, and might, I should have supposed, do something with her needle toward the supply of their pressing necessities. But her excuses were many, and were uttered with genuine Irish eloquence and volubility. The principal of these, however, were, that, what with taking care of her poor dear husband's wounded hand, and looking after thechilder, she had not time, and could get nothing to do besides.
"Indeed, your honor," said she, "and sure we had everything that was dacent about us, and were quite happy and comfortable, considering, until my poor dear husband—God bless him, your worship!—kilt his hand, and I don't know where is like to be the end of it."
"But," I remarked, "surely, Mrs. Wheelwright, you could have found time to do a little something—if no more than to buy a loaf of bread and a few coals now and then, to mitigate your sufferings."
"Fait, your honor"—for if the woman had ever lost any portion of the peculiarpatoisof her own country, while living in Paris as afemme de chambre, or with Capt. Scarlett as a mistress, it had all returned with her more recent associations, and she was now a pure Emerald—"fait, your honor," said she, "and how could I be afther laving the poor body in his distress to go out afther work, when I love him above the world and all that's in it? And then, your worship, I'd no clothes that was dacent to go out in, and to go to jontlemen's houses with such tatters as these, Mr. Wheelwright, says I, it would not do by any manner of means, says I. And that's the rights of it from end to end, if your worship will ounly hear to me."
Wheelwright himself was evidently bowed down by the severity of his wants and the depth of his degradation.
If moral energy had ever been one of his characteristics, it was quite clear that its fire had long since been extinguished; and more than all, it was equally evident that he was the object of domestic tyranny. But he uttered no complaint, and indeed scarcely opened his lips, unless in reply to the interrogations put to him.
My first business was to rescue the unhappy sufferers from immediate want. Had the woman alone been concerned, my solicitude would have been hardly discernible. But whatever had been the defects in the character of Wheelwright, or the errors which, for the most part, were the consequence, the wide contrast between his present and past condition was truly affecting. For his indiscretions, never involving moral obliquity, he had most grievously answered. And, besides, was he not "a man and a brother!" There is no more charitable people in the world than those of New-York. Let any case of distress be presented—any call of real suffering—which has actually been ascertained, and is vouched for by a respectable citizen, the hearts of the New-Yorkers will instantly respond to the appeal. Two or three hours of active exertion, therefore, enabled me to obtain the means, and procure all the supplies actually necessary; and in three days' time Wheelwright and his family were comfortably furnished with bedding, clothing, fuel, and provisions for the residue of the season of snows.
The next measure resolved upon, was the redemption of Wheelwright's tools and other articles of furniture, clothing, &c., from the hands of the pawn-brokers, for which purpose he accompanied me. The object was accomplished after no little trouble, in visiting the principal establishments doing business under the beautiful sign of the three golden balls, in Chatham-street, and redeeming one or two articles here, another there, and a third or fourth somewhere else. But although this part of the labor was an irksome job, attended by scenes and objects of a description exceedingly painful, yet I was enabled to read some dark pages in the book of human nature, which will never be forgotten.
I had previously imbibed a strong prejudice against those receptacles of the goods, new and old, of the poor, the miserable, and the vicious. I had been told of the system of universal cheatery upon which they practised, and the enormous exactions made in grinding the faces of the poor. I had heard described their dexterity in the substitution of colored glass and crystals, for gems, while pretending to examine articles of the latter description brought for pledges, and was prepared to encounter all that was sinister and heartless. But the one-half had not been told me, and I soon found that my previous conceptions fell far short of the reality. As I have already remarked, I had occasion to visit several of them, and was detained at each, by the delays in finding the articles of which I was in search, and for which the holders had doubtless flattered themselves no inquiries would ever be made. The press of business at all, was another cause of delay. It really seemed in my eyes the most fraudulent and oppressive business in which man could engage. As I recovered Wheelwright's articles, one by one, it appeared at once that the most outrageous system of extortion had been practised in every instance. The sums advanced had been pitiful in amount, and the rates of interest charged exorbitant beyond belief. O how does avarice harden the heart, and dry up the current of human sympathy! How lamentable this accursed thirst for gold!
"Wide, wasting pest! that rages unconfined,And crowds with crimes the records of mankind.For gold, his sword the hireling ruffian draws;For gold, the hireling judge distorts the laws;Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth, nor safety buys;And dangers gather as the treasures rise."
"Wide, wasting pest! that rages unconfined,And crowds with crimes the records of mankind.For gold, his sword the hireling ruffian draws;For gold, the hireling judge distorts the laws;Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth, nor safety buys;And dangers gather as the treasures rise."
"Wide, wasting pest! that rages unconfined,
And crowds with crimes the records of mankind.
For gold, his sword the hireling ruffian draws;
For gold, the hireling judge distorts the laws;
Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth, nor safety buys;
And dangers gather as the treasures rise."
And at every one of these dens, what a crowd of victims were collected! "A motley company indeed—black-legs, and would-be-gentlemen—the cheater and the cheated." The widow parting with her last trinkets, or, perchance, her last disposable article of dress, to procure one more meal for her famishing children! A poor consumptive girl, with the hectic flush upon her wasting cheek, applying for the same purpose; and the griping miser—very likely a woman too!—without a spark of generosity, or an emotion of pity—reading the condition of the sufferers from their countenances, with the coolest imaginable calculation—thus ascertaining from their looks the urgency of their respective cases, that the utmost possible advantage might be taken, and the intended cheat be made the greater. The pick-pocket, moreover, the thief, and the purloining servant, received with equal readiness, and the spoils divided between them, with the fullest understanding that no questions were to be asked! O 'tis monstrous! "The offence is rank, and smells to heaven!"
But my visits to these establishments were fruitful of incidents, the recollection of which is too vivid to be passed lightly over. And as the present chapter is already of sufficient length, it is proposed to appropriate a separate one as a record of some of those reminiscences—one of which may better suffice as a temperance lecture, than a sermon, while another may perhaps interest the reader from its aspect of romance. If the reader chooses, he can pass it over altogether.
CHAPTER XV.
SCENES IN THE LOMBARDS.
"A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch,Uncapable of pity, void and emptyFrom any dram of mercy."—Shakspeare.
"A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch,Uncapable of pity, void and emptyFrom any dram of mercy."—Shakspeare.
"A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch,
Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From any dram of mercy."—Shakspeare.
"——there, there, there! a diamond gone, cost me three thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell on our nation till now."—Idem.
"O sailor boy, sailor boy, peace to thy soul!"—Dibdin.
To one who would study human nature, especially in its darker features, there is no better field of observation than among these pawn-brokers' shops.
In a frequented establishment, each day unfolds an ample catalogue of sorrow, misery, and guilt, developed in forms and combinations almost innumerable; and if the history of each customer could be known, the result would be such a catalogue as would scarcely be surpassed even by the records of a police-office or a prison. Even my brief stay while arranging for the redemption of Dr. Wheelwright's personals, afforded materials, as indicated in the last chapter, for much and painful meditation.
I had scarcely made my business known, at the first of "my uncle's" establishments to which I had been directed, when a middle-aged man entered with a bundle, on which he asked a small advance, and which, on being opened, was found to contain a shawl and two or three other articles of female apparel. The man was stout and sturdy, and, as I judged from his appearance, a mechanic; but the mark of the destroyer was on his bloated countenance and in his heavy, stupid eyes. Intemperance had marked him for his own. The pawn-broker was yet examining the offered pledge, when a woman, whose pale face and attenuated form bespoke long and intimate acquaintance with sorrow, came hastily into the shop, and with the single exclamation, "O Robert!" darted, rather than ran, to that part of the counter where the man was standing. Words were not wanted to explain her story. Her miserable husband, not satisfied with wasting his own earnings, and leaving her to starve with her children, had descended to the meanness of plundering even her scanty wardrobe, and the pittance for the obtaining of which this robbery would furnish means, was destined to be squandered at the tippling-house. A blush of shame arose even upon his degraded face, but it quickly passed away; the brutal appetite prevailed, and the better feeling that had apparently stirred within him for the moment, soon gave way before its diseased and insatiate cravings.
"Go home," was his harsh and angry exclamation; "what brings you here, running after me with your everlasting scolding? go home, and mind your own business."
"O Robert, dear Robert," answered the unhappy wife, "don't pawn my shawl. Our children are crying for bread, and I have none to give them. Or let me have the money; it is hard to part with that shawl, for it was my mother's gift; but I will let it go, rather than see my children starve. Give me the money, Robert, and don't leave us to perish."
I watched the face of the pawn-broker to see what effect this appeal would have upon him, but I watched in vain. He was hardened to distress, and had no sympathy to throw away. "Twelve shillings on these things," he said, tossing them back to the drunkard, with a look of perfect indifference.
"Only twelve shillings!" murmured the heart-broken wife, in a tone of despair. "O Robert, don't let them go for twelve shillings. Let me try somewhere else."
"Nonsense," answered the brute. "It's as much as they're worth, I suppose. Here, Mr. Crimp, give us the change."
The money was placed before him, and the bundle consigned to a drawer. The poor woman reached forth her hand toward the silver, but the movement was anticipated by her husband. "There Mary," he said, giving her half a dollar, "there, go home now, and don't make a fuss. I'm going a little way up the street, and perhaps I'll bring you something from market, when I come home."
The hopeless look of the poor woman, as she meekly turned to the door, told plainly enough how little she trusted to this ambiguous promise. They went on their way, she to her famishing children, and he to squander the dollar he had retained, at the next den of intemperance.
While this little scene was in progress, another had been added to the number of spectators. This was a young man, dressed in the height of the fashion, that is to say, in a be-frogged and be-laced frock coat with a standing collar, a pair of cossack pantaloons tapering down to the foot with a notch cut in the front for the instep, and a hat about twice as large at the crown as at the rim, much resembling in shape an inverted sugar-loaf, with the smaller end cut away. He had a reckless, dare-devil, good humored look, and very much the air of what is called "a young man about town;" that is, one who rides out to Cato's every afternoon, eats oyster suppers at Windust's every night after the play, and spends the rest of his time and his money at billiards. I had cast my eye upon him occasionally during the affair of the shawl, and saw that he took a deep interest in its termination. The moment the poor woman was gone, he twitched from his neck a gold chain, at the end of which was a small gold watch, and placing it in the hands of the pawn-broker, with whom he seemed to be on terms of acquaintance, he exclaimed, "Quick now, Crimp; thirty dollars on that; you've had it before, and needn't stop to examine it."
The money was instantly produced and paid over; and the young man of fashion, crumpling the notes up in his hand, ran off at full speed, first looking up and then down the street in a manner that gave me a suspicion as to the cause of his haste. I took the liberty of following him to the door, and was in abundant time to find my conjecture verified by seeing him accost the poor woman who had just left the shop, thrust into her hand either the whole or part of the sum he had just received on the pledge of his watch and chain, and then hurry away to the other side of the street, without stopping either for thanks or for explanation.
The reverie of mingled surprise and admiration into which I was thrown by this unexpected manifestation of benevolence, was interrupted by a loud outcry from Mr. Crimp, the pawn-broker, and by seeing him, with a look of wrath and horror, hurry round his counter and out through the door, upon the sidewalk, where he stood for a moment straining his eyes down the street, as if in search of the kind-hearted youth, who had by this time disappeared up one of the cross streets.
"The villain," he exclaimed; "the swindling scoundrel! Which way did he go, the ungrateful thief? Tell me," he continued, turning to me, "tell me which way he went, and I'll give you any thing you've a mind to ask. Yes, I'll give you—half a dollar, if you'll show me where he is."
I was not a little astonished at all this, but deferring the gratification of my curiosity for the present, pointed out to Mr. Crimp the course taken by his late customer, and mentioned also what I had seen take place between him and the poor woman. The information, or perhaps even the brief space employed in giving it, seemed to produce a change of intention in the mind of the estimable gentleman.
"Ah it's no use," he said; "he's got off clear by this time, and my thirty dollars is a case. But I'll find him yet, some day." And thus soliloquizing, Mr. Crimp returned into his shop.
The explanation for which I was so curious, was now afforded me. The young man had several times before deposited the watch in the hands of Mr. Crimp, as the quid pro quo of certain needful advances, and as often redeemed it, when accident or luck at the billiard table placed the requisite funds at his disposal. Taking advantage of the familiarity that had thus grown up between the broker and the trinket, as a means of dispensing with the usual and requisite examination, a gilt chain had been substituted for the gold one, which had been so often deposited with the watch; and the deception had passed unnoticed until it was too late. The watch itself was probably worth about the sum advanced.
There was another case of a very touching description, which occurred at the place of my next visit. It was that of an interesting female, of about five and thirty, and in the garb of mourning. She entered the place evidently with reluctance and timidity, and could hardly make the object of her visit known, from very emotion. She was of a delicate frame; of easy and rather graceful manners, and but for the ravages of care upon her countenance, might yet have been beautiful. At length she brought forth a ring from a pretty little morocco case, upon the pledge of which she wished to realize such an amount of money as would sustain herself and children through the winter. I saw that it was costing her a pang to part with the gem; but necessity knows no law. The eyes of the extortioner kindled, for the instant, and with evident exultation, at the first glance of the jewel—but they fell in a twinkling as he assumed the cold, hard aspect of his calling, took the ring in his fingers, and holding it up to the window, pretended to examine it—assuming, at the same time, an air of affected disappointment. He thereupon began at once to depreciate the article—declaring that it was nothing but a Brazilian crystal, and that he would hardly take it at any price. I saw by the countenance, and the heaving bosom of the lady—for such I was convinced she was, though in reduced circumstances—that she was bitterly disappointed—having calculated upon realizing a considerable sum from an article which she had supposed of much higher value. But the miser was inexorable, and peremptorily refused to advance more than four or five dollars. Her appearance and manner at this moment were affecting to a degree. "Well," said she: "'tis hard, but patience must endure. I have left my babes a-crying, and I must do it; and when this is gone, I must depend upon Him who feedeth the young ravens when they cry. But," she added, with a heavy sigh, "hesaid it was worth a great deal more than that." There was a peculiar tenderness and affection in the manner in which she, involuntarily perhaps, made this reference to some one who was not present; and the rising tear trembled and glistened in her eye, like the jewel in the miser's fingers.
I had seen, as the sordid wretch eyed the ring with secret satisfaction by the window, from its brilliance, that it was a gem of value. It glittered and sparkled in the light, with an intensity that nothing equals but the diamond; and I was determined that the fair and unfortunate owner should not be thus imposed upon. Just before the bargain was completed, however, as I was about to interpose myself, another gentleman, who had also been watching the procedure, stepped forward and declared that that beautiful ring should not be thus sacrificed to the rapacious Hebrew. The latter at once endeavored to hasten matters, and declaring the bargain to have been completed, would have succeeded in thrusting the jewel into the drawer, but for the resolution of the gentleman, who seized and saved it. The wretch muttered something about people's interfering in business that was exclusively his own concern, but to no purpose. The poor widow was rescued from his fangs; and although it was a struggle to part with the ring, which indeed contained a choice brilliant, her heart was gladdened by the receipt of seventy-five dollars, from one who was willing to pay its value.
The tale of this poor lady in whose case my sympathies had been thus enlisted, was not without interest. She was an orphan, daughter of a Virginia planter who had been eaten into poverty by his own slaves, so that his children were left portionless, and had been married when young to one of those high-minded, gallant spirits, who bear their country's flag so proudly on the wave—brave, and generous to a fault, and in fact one of those who almost literally "spend half a crown out of six-pence a day." She was adored by her husband, to whom she early presented several cherub-looking sailor-boys, and while he lived to supply her wants, though free-hearted and reckless of expenditure, she had always enough for the present, and "a shot in the locker," to serve while he was tossing upon the main. But alas! she had occasion too soon to deplore the capricious uncertainty of all sublunary enjoyments.
Never was a more beautiful day, nor a more gallant spectacle, than when the ship to which Lieutenant —— was attached, got underway, and departed for her last cruise in the West India seas. Every sail was set, and so clear was the atmosphere, that the light tracery of her rigging was seen against the sky, as she bore down through the Narrows. Maria watched the ship intently until the last dark point of the top-mast disappeared in the distance. How her bright eye sparkled, when she heard the praises of her husband's carriage on deck as he assumed his duties, spoken from the lips of friends who had with her witnessed the departure of the ship!—But before she retired to rest, tears had more than once usurped the features which were a few hours before dimpled by joy. A strange sensation—some unusual and undefinable apprehension of—she knew not what—had taken possession of her bosom, and she closed her long, silken eye-lashes to sleep even while yet she had scarce done weeping.
But the ship assumed her station in the squadron in due season, and every return vessel brought letters from her Frederick, full of affection for herself, and kisses and remembrances for Jack, Tom, and the baby. Often, moreover, did they abound with glowing descriptions of the scenery of those sunny West India climes, through which he had strolled when occasionally on shore. It was summer, and the tropical sun was reigning in his full glory. But his mind was enthusiastic and poetical, and the nights, so transcendantly beautiful in those regions, were his delight. After the sun, which had been blazing with irresistible fierceness in an unclouded sky, through the day, had sunk to rest, there was such a luxury in the enjoyment of a tropical evening! The clearness and brilliancy of the heavens, the serenity and soft tranquillity of the atmosphere, diffusing the most calm and delightful sensations. The moon shines out with a greater radiance in those heavens than in ours, and when she coquettishly turns her back upon this side of our mundane sphere, her place is well supplied by the superior brilliance of the stars. Such, in those clear skies, is their glittering effulgence, that the visiter from other latitudes would scarce suppose them to be the same luminaries that sparkle in their own heavens. Venus—the bright and beautiful divinity of love—appears of far greater magnitude than here,—shining with a much greater intensity of brightness—so strong indeed as to cast a shadow from the trees. These things were all described by Frederick to his Maria, with a richness and a glow of language, such as sailors seldom use. And all that was wanting to complete his happiness, was his Eve to stroll by his side among the groves of citron and lemon—redolent with every fruit that is inviting, and every flower that is beautiful. And how she longed to be with him I need not tell!
While, however, the ship was yet in those seas, cruising in the gulf of Mexico, autumn came on, and with it the season of storms. The lofty peaks of the stupendous mountains, in some of the nearest islands, were frequently in sight, perceptible often at a great distance, from the peculiar transparency of the atmosphere. At length the experienced navigators discerned celestial phenomena, which caused them to watch the heavens with greater solicitude. Piles of massive clouds, fleecy, and of a reddish hue, were observed in the morning, in the south-eastern quarter of the heavens, and the crests of the mountains, cloudless and yet of an azure cast, seemed nearer the ship than they were wont. Soon the pillowy masses of vapor began to move lazily toward the mountains—flashes which were but dimly discerned breaking from them, followed by the hollow and distant roll of thunder—sometimes so distinctly as to sound as if reverberating from peak to peak among the mountains, though yet at a very great distance. The ocean, too, began to heave as though in labor, and its roaring was borne along upon the freshening breeze. These indications spoke but too clearly the approach of one of those dreadful visitations in which the Almighty so frequently displays his power in the West India seas, and proclaims his judgments in such melancholy dispensations. The wind increased, the roaring of the ocean deepened upon the ear, and all hands in every craft upon the gulf were engaged in reefing their sails, and making every thing snug for the onset.
Nothing can be more fierce, sudden, or uncontrollable, than the West India hurricanes. Electrical in their origin, the moment the spark produces a combination of oxygen and hydrogen, the sudden and terrible fall of hail and rain pouring impetuously down, creates a vacuum into which the air rushes from every direction with tremendous velocity. Sometimes the air, by the meeting of opposite currents, assumes the form of a whirlwind: a dark cloud preceding it, unrolling itself suddenly, and mantling the whole heavens in gloom, lightened occasionally by the flashings of lurid fire,—while if upon land, houses, corn-stacks, cane-fields, and even whole forests, are whirled aloft and scattered to fragments in an instant; or, if upon the deep, the whole ocean is wrought into maddened and foaming fury; and woe to the vessel, no matter for its strength or magnitude, that is brought within the vortex of the tempest.
Such was the fact in regard to the hurricane of which I am speaking. Some of the light craft then upon the gulf, escaped and came into the harbor of New-York. They reported that never within the memory of man, had that sea been the scene of so fearful a tempest. It commenced with a tremendous crash from the heavens, and the gulf was almost instantly lashed into a foam of contending currents. At the instant of its commencement, apparently in the very focus of its fury, one of them saw a dark object, resembling a ship of war, rise upon the ridge of a towering wave, and then sink with a heavy roll into the trough of the sea, whence she rose no more. It was a fearful night, that which followed; the seas rushing and doubling onward, curling and foaming and breaking with awful majesty. But the United States shipHornetwas never heard of more. Her gallant officers and daring crew—full of high health and hope but an hour before—were all—all, in that dread moment—without one instant to bid adieu or breathe a prayer—hurried to their doom!
But to return from this digression. Mr. and Mrs. Wheelwright's articles were all redeemed, and their house comfortably warmed and supplied for the winter, as I have already intimated. And in addition to such present relief as was rendered imperatively necessary by his wounded hand, the funds contributed for his benefit enabled me to lay in, for his use and behoof, ample materials for sixty bedsteads—a stock in trade rendering him a rich man, compared with what had been his temporal condition for a long while before. His spirits in a good measure revived at evensucha change in his circumstances—and his wife poured forth an overwhelming torrent of Irish blessings, with thanks to "his honor," and "his worship," without number.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE END OF THIS EVENTFUL HISTORY.
O matrimony! thou art likeTo Jeremiah's figs;—The good were very good;—the bad—Too sour to give the pigs.—Old Saw.
O matrimony! thou art likeTo Jeremiah's figs;—The good were very good;—the bad—Too sour to give the pigs.—Old Saw.
O matrimony! thou art like
To Jeremiah's figs;—
The good were very good;—the bad—
Too sour to give the pigs.—Old Saw.
"Slender, I broke your head—what matter have you against me?"—Shakspeare.
One of the most amusing, and, indeed, one of the best pictures of Sir Joshua Reynolds, is that of Garrick, between comedy and tragedy. On the one side, with her mask in hand, stood the presiding divinity of comic poetry, coaxing the immortal hero of the sock and buskin with her archest smiles; while on the other stood Melpomene, rapt in solemn thought, and with eyes upraised in gloomy grandeur, pointing the actor to a loftier walk than that of her witching sister Thalia. The situation of poor Garrick is most embarrassing—and appears the more so from the powers of face at his command, as delineated by the artist, whereby he is represented as doubting to which invitation he should yield, while with one half of his face he looks the deepest tragedy, and with the other, the merriest comedy.
Very much in the situation of Garrick, as thus described, does the biographer find himself at the threshhold of this concluding chapter. It is not his fault, however, that comic or rather farcical incidents must follow so closely upon the pathetic. But "the course of true love never did run smooth"—a fact of which, as the reader has already seen, my unfortunate friend Wheelwright had had some knowledge, early in his wedded life—and of which he was convinced over again, soon after the events recorded in the last two chapters.
It was on a clear frosty morning in March, that one of the watchful guardians of the peace and quiet of the city, connected with the police establishment, did me the unexpected honor of a visit. He stated that a poor but very decent sort of a man had fallen into the hands of the watch during the preceding night, and had been committed to Bridewell by the sitting magistrate, on a charge of assault and battery. According to the report of Dogberry, the man was "quite down-in-the-mouth about it, and," (he added,) "he contests that he is entirely hinnocent. He also says he is acquainted with you, and he thinks if you would be good enough to come up to the hall and see him, no doubt that you would bail him out."
"How is that, my friend? A man taken up in a night-row, and now in Bridewell, and says he is an acquaintance of mine—eh?"
"So he says, and he looks as though he might have seen better days. We have to deal with many such—but then he don't act as though he was often in such scrapes, no how."
"His name?"
"Doctor—Wheel—Wheelwright, I think they call him."
"O—ah—yes:" another incident, thinks-I-to-myself, in the chequered life of my unhappy friend.
"And astrikingincident, too, according to the account of the Irish woman who lodged the complaint."
"AnIrishwoman! Mischief in her proper shape again. But, my word for it, if it is my quondam friend Wheelwright, who is in the scrape, he has not struck any body or thing—man, woman, or child."
"'Zactly so: that's just what he says; and as he has no friends, he thinks you might stand by him in a pinch, if you knew as how he has been in the lock-up half the night, and has now been walked off to Bridewell."
This was a far less agreeable call upon my attention and services than I had ever had the honor of receiving from him before; but still, knowing the honesty of the man, and his pacific character, and fully believing in his representations of innocence, I at once determined to inquire into the circumstances of the case, and, if necessary, make another effort in his behalf.
The investigation resulted as I had anticipated. The unfortunate husband now opened his heart, and poured out all his domestic sorrows and tribulations before me. He needed not to tell me that he had not married a fortune, as he had supposed, when I first saw him in the hey-day of his honey-moon; but from the simple tale now unfolded, it seemed that, on the contrary, he had been wedded to Mis-fortune, and all her progeny. The rather turbulent lady of Socrates—(unless Mrs. Xantippe was scandalized by her neighbors)—was a sweet-tempered dame, and "gentle as a sucking dove," in comparison with the vixen who had been harassing his life and soul away for years. The only peaceable hours of his existence were those in which she was too much fatigued with liquor to annoy him. When awake and sober, her temper was little better, and her tormenting tongue seemed to have been hung in the middle, so that it might run at both ends. It is related of Foote, the comedian, that when once suffering from the tongue of a shrew, he replied—"I have heard ofTartars, andBrimstones, madam; and by Jove you are thecreamof the one, and theflourof the other." And next to the Grecian lady above mentioned, the Tartar who bearded Foote, seemed, in my view, to be the only parallel of Mistress Wheelwright, of which the books give any account.
How few can bear prosperity! Indeed, although we all covet it so much, the examples of those ruined by sudden reverses of fortune, would probably present a greater number of those who have been raised from poverty to wealth, than of those who have been cast down from a state of affluence to that of penury. An illustration of this proposition was afforded in the family of Mr. Wheelwright. It appeared that after the change recorded in the last chapter, from a condition of the most abject misery, to that of comparative comfort, the Doctor's lady, elated by her prosperity, began to take airs upon herself, and her carriage was such as to excite the jealousy of her neighbors up stairs. The consequences were a speedy and open rupture, so that occasional hostilities were waged between them; and the civil dudgeon ran so high that all attempts of poor Wheelwright to keep the peace were abortive. At last, on the night of my friend's arrest, one of the ladies from above, remarkable for the dimensions of her facial organ, descended to his apartment in a tempest, and insulted his wife. Like a true Amazon as she was, the latter repelled the invader, pursued her in her flight, and like Scipio carried the war into Africa. The tenants above made common cause with Mistress Judy Pettit, and the gentle lady of Mr. Wheelwright was in turn discomfitted, and compelled to descend headlong down stairs, in rather too quick time for her comfort, with a cataract of Irish women tumbling after her. Wheelwright ran to the rescue of his help-meet, and pulling her through the door, endeavored to shut it on the instant, to keep out the foe; in doing which the proboscis of Mistress Pettit, which was truly of the Strasburgh order, was unhappily and literally caught in the door crack, and beyond all question somewhat injured thereby. In the language of the trumpeter's wife in Tristram Shandy, it was truly "a noble nose," and the pinch it endured, though transient, it must be confessed, was rather severe and biting. Its fair possessor therefore ran into the street, smarting from the pain, and vociferating alternately for the "watch," and "Och murther! I'm kilt, I'm kilt," so pertinaciously and so obstreperously withal, as to wake up several of the guardians of the night, who made a rally, and carried the whole party to the watch-house, including an Irishman who happened to be on a visit up stairs, by the name of Timothy Martin.
From all account, the morning examination before the sitting magistrate must have afforded one of the most amusing scenes for the fancy that have recently occurred this side of Bow-street. It was difficult to say which of the ladies was the most clamorous, Mistress Pettit, the complainant, or Mistress Wheelwright, or whether other females of the party did not talk as loud and as fast as either. Mistress Pettit gave an account of their neighborhood concerns for some time previous.
"Fait, your worship," says she, "we was always afther being kind to them, when they had not a faggot to warm them, or a paratoe to ate; and then she'd come to me sometime, and bring the childer, says she, for she'd two of them at that same time—bad luck to her—and this, your honor, is one of them," (for the eldest of Wheelwright's children had been brought up in the medley;) "and says I to Mistress Wheelwright, says I, plase your worship, you may come with your childer and warm ye, and here's a drop of the crathur that Tim Martin brought to me. And then whin she wint off a-begging as no dacent woman would, bekase I pitied the childer, I tould Mrs. Wheelwright, says I, that they might stay with me till ye come back yourself—and may-be ye'll come the sooner, Mrs. Wheelwright, says I. And come she wouldn't by no manes, but was out all night sometimes."
"Och deevil burn ye," interrupted Mistress Wheelwright, "if ye go on at that rate, I'll tell his honor of the pig ye stole,—you and Tim Martin, ye did."
"Och Murther," cried Mistress Pettit, "that a dacent woman like I should be charged with staling along with such a spalpeen as Tim Martin, your honor."
Whereupon up started Tim Martin, exclaiming—
"Botheration, and that's what I get for kindness," says he, "there's grathitude your worship!—And fait, I'll tell his honor of the money ye stole in the strong box that I left," says Tim Martin, says he.
"Yes," interposed Mistress Wheelwright, "when word com'd that she'd gone off with a man that she had, and left her own childer for me to care for, bad luck to her."
"Och!" Mistress Wheelwright, says Mistress Pettit, says she; "and you and Tim Martin's lies will be the death of me, and he's selling whiskey without a license, yer honor, that's Tim Martin, he is!"
But it is impossible to follow these precious parties through the particulars of their examination disclosing the miseries of their neighborhood, and in their own words, when they all talked together. I must therefore content myself by informing the reader, that the magistrate interposed as soon as he could, by stating that he did not sit there to hear about their squabbles with each other and Tim Martin, but to hear what they had to say against the accused.
Poor Wheelwright! During the whole of the scene just described, he sat upon one of the benches, his eyes cast upon the floor, without uttering a word. When called upon, however, to answer to the charge, he could only deny, and try to explain—but Mistress Pettit and her associates were too much for him. And besides, deny having molested her nose, as he might, the aspect of the member itself bore abundant testimony of rough usage and a narrow escape—to say nothing of the crimson drops, that seemed to have oozed therefrom, and fallen upon good Mistress Pettit's neck-handkerchief. The consequence was, that the magistrate could do no less than commit him, although from Wheelwright's subdued demeanor, he had strong doubts as to his intentional delinquencies. Under these circumstances, I found but little difficulty, from my own knowledge of the man, in persuading the magistrate to release him on his own recognizance.
In a few weeks afterward, Wheelwright ascertained that the always equivocal virtue of his wife had become of so little consequence in her own eyes, as to release him from any farther obligation, in honor or in law, to stand any longer as its nominal guardian and protector. He divided the children, giving her the one to which she had a fair title before he courted her fortune,—but which, poor thing!—proved to be all she had,—and took the only one now living, which bore his own name, to himself. He also at length assumed sufficient energy to divide the house between them—giving her theout-side and retaining thein-side for himself. Thus ends the history of Doctor Daniel Wheelwright in New-York.
"It is the end," says the Bard of Avon, "that crowns all;" and bringing these "passages" in the life of my friend to a close, from the position in which I shall leave him, the reader may perhaps agree with the same illustrious poet:—
"More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before."
"More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before."
At all events, we will "let the end try the man." The latest intelligence which I can furnish the reader respecting him, however, is this. Having recently made a flying excursion through the valley of the Mohawk—visited the old baronial castle of Sir William Johnson, and from thence struck across to the south through the Schoharie-kill valley, to explore the wonders of the great cavern of the Helderbergs, an accident to the light vehicle drawn by my coal-black steed, on my return, obliged me to call upon a coachmaker in the first city west of Albany. On arriving at the shop, and inquiring for the principal of the establishment, I was directed to an athletic man engaged with his whole attention, in giving the finishing strokes to a substantial coach-wheel. Judge of my astonishment, as he looked up, on beholding none other than the hero of the present memoir, in his own proper person! His sleeves were rolled up to his shoulders; his complexion was ruddy; and a cheerful smile lighted up his countenance, such as I had not seen playing there for many a year—never, in fact, since he became acquainted with "that woman there." Every thing about him bore the marks of industry and consequent thrift. "Ah, Mr. Doolittle! is that you?" he exclaimed, as he wiped away the large drops of perspiration that stood upon his face. Indeed, he was quite glad to see me; and after interchanging a few remarks of mutual surprise at such an unexpected though agreeable meeting, and after briefly relating what had been his personal history since I had last seen him under the cloud, he observed,—"You see I have gone clean round 'the circle,' and am at the old spot again—my father's shop. I have always told you that 'the world owed me a living.' But the mischief on't was, I always went the wrong way to work to obtain it. I believe, however, that I have got about right at last."
The reader of the preceding narrative, may perhaps suppose that the materials of which it is framed, are such unsubstantial stuff as dreams are made of. I beg leave, however, at the close, to assure him of his error. With the single abatement that names are changed, and places are not precisely designated, every essential incident that I have recorded, actually occurred, much as I have related it, to a person who, if not now living, certainly was once, and most of them under my own observation. As Scott remarks, at the close of the Bride of Lammermoor, "it isan ower true tale."
The moral is briefly told. Let the young man remember that it requires not actual vice to expose him to all that is humiliating and painful in poverty. He may be assured of misery enough, if he merely neglects the advantages which a kind Providence has placed within his power.
Let the parent learn, before he resolves to educate his son, the importance of ascertaining whether his son was ever designed for professional life. The weak vanity of a parent has frequently ruined his son, and brought down his own gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.