The last memorable night on which he thus slept on board, was remarkably clear and beautiful. All was silent and sublime among the lofty mountains in which the peaceful lake lay deeply embosomed. A grateful coolness pervaded the atmosphere, and no sounds disturbed the general repose, after the night-hawk and whip-poor-will had ceased their vesper-melodies, save the distant hootings of the owl on the mountain-side, or the occasional crash of a dried limb of a tree, over which the prowling wolf, or perchance some heavier tenant of the forest, was bounding. The stars hung pendent and sparkling like diamonds from a canopy of "living sapphires," and were reflected back with vivid brilliance from the dark surface of the waters.

A poet could not have gone to bed on such a night, and amid such a scene of gloomy grandeur as this. But the agent of the Lady-of-the-Lake was not distinguished for enthusiasm of that sort, and he turned into his berth—having no oyster-supper to eat—at a very early hour, and betook himself to dreaming—not "of antres vast and desarts idle,"—or of what is sublime and glorious in creation,—but of piston-rods and safety-valves—pence and passengers. But his repose was disturbed in a manner alike unexpected and unwelcome; by a catastrophe, too, which had well-nigh deprived the world of the farther services of Mr. Wheelwright, and his biographer of the pleasing duty of extending these memoirs beyond the present chapter. In plain terms, at about half-past twelve o'clock he was awakened by a choking sensation, and sprang upon his feet, already half suffocated by smoke. The awful truth of the cause was literally flashing around him upon all sides. The Lady-of-the-Lake—the first of the fair upon whom he had ever in fact bestowed his affections—was not only on fire, but the flames had already made such progress in the work of destruction as at once to preclude the hope of extinguishing them. From the cabin windows, the appearance rendered it certain that the whole structure was wrapped in a sheet of flame. In the next instant, the fire burst through the dividing partition of the cabins, obliging our hero to fly in his night-gown, with his inexpressibles under his arm. Thus, coatless and bootless, he leaped on shore, when delay a second longer would have effectually prevented his ever recounting the tale.

What a moment, and what a spectacle for a lover of the "sublime and beautiful!" Could Burke have visited such a scene of mingled magnificence, and grandeur, and terror, what a vivid illustration would he not have added to his inimitable treatise upon that subject! Let the reader picture the scene to himself. There, at the dark hour of midnight, among the ruins of Fort William Henry and Fort George, stood Daniel Wheelwright, alone, like Marius amid the ruins of Carthage,—in puris naturalibus; as the insurgent Shays fled on horseback, and in a snow-storm, from the face of General Lincoln—and looking for all the world like a forked radish, as Shakspeare says of Justice Shallow. But albeit ludicrous in his own plight and position, there was nothing of that character in the scene around him, or in his own contemplations. The fire raged with amazing fury and power,—stimulated to madness as it were, by the pitch, and tar, and dried timbers, and other combustible materials used in the constriction of the boat. The lurid flames ascended to a great height,—the smoke rolled upward in majestic volumes, while the light, red as the flames of AEtna, streamed across the lake, gilding the crumbling battlements of the old fort, flushing the face of the waters, and tinging the mountain sides to their very crests. The night-bird screamed with terror, and the beasts of prey fled in wild affright into the deep and visible darkness beyond.

This is truly a gloomy place for a lone person to stand in of a dark night—particularly if he has a touch of superstition. There have been fierce conflicts on this spot—sieges, and battles, and fearful massacres. Here have the Briton, and the Gaul, and the painted savage, mingled in the dread fight,—steed rushing upon steed, hands clenched in hands with grappling vigor, while the climbing fire, and the clashing steel, and eyes flashing with maddened fury, and the appalling war-whoop of the Indian, have all combined in adding terror to "the rough frowns of war." Here "hath mailed Mars sat on his altar up to his ears in blood," smiling grimly at the music of echoing cannons, the shrill trump, and all the rude din of arms, until, like the waters of Egypt, the lake became red as the crimson flowers that blossom upon its margin.[1] And if at "the witching hour of night," the unquiet ghosts of murdered sinners do stalk forth to re-visit earth by the pale glimpses of the moon, the slaughter of Fort William Henry might have furnished a goodly number of shadowy companions for the hero of a tale which is no fiction. But I am not aware that any of them came forth to add to the troubles of that memorable night, or divert his mind from what must then have been the absorbing subject of his contemplations. Still, if they had had any desire of mustering for a midnight review, or for a goblin-dance, they lost the best opportunity, probably, that will again occur for ages;—since another such illumination of the beautiful esplanade in front of the old fortress where the massacre took place, and where the skeleton platoons would of course have mustered, will never again be presented—at least not until another Doctor Wheelwright shall build and watch over the fortunes of another Lady-of-the-Lake.

In the course of an hour, the beautiful vessel was burned to the water's edge; when the weight of the massive iron machinery, rendered white and malleable by the intenseness of the heat, carried down the hull to the bottom, and the waters closed over it, sissing and boiling for a moment, as when a stream of lava runs burning into the embrace of the ocean. The illumination being thus extinguished, darkness once more brooded over the mountains, the face of the deep, and the fortunes of Mr. Daniel Wheelwright—of whom, for the present, we must take leave, even while thus he stands, as Sir John Moore lies under the walls of Corunna—"alone in his glory"—surveying

"——The circling canopy Of night's extended shade."

[1] The Lobelia Cardinalis, commonly called the Indian Eye-Bright. It is a beautiful blossom, and is frequently met with in this region. The writer has seen large clusters of it blooming upon the margin of the "Bloody Pond," in this neighborhood—so called from the circumstance, of the slain being thrown into this pond, after the defeat of Baron Dieskau, by Sir William Johnson. The ancients would have constructed a beautiful legend from this incident, and sanctified the sanguinary flower.



CHAPTER X.

HOW HE AGAIN CHANGES HIS CIRCUMSTANCES.

"When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think that I should live till I were married."—Shakspeare.

"I knew a wench married in an afternoon, as she went to the garden for parsely to stuff a rabbit."—Idem.

The year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and twenty-two, is yet freshly remembered in New-York, as being the last, (thus far,) in which that metropolis was visited by the afflictive plague of yellow fever. It was also a memorable year in the life of Doctor Wheelwright. Most of the inhabitants were obliged to flee the city—those who could, to the country;—and those who could not, to the temporary lodges hastily constructed for their reception upon the then unoccupied grounds between Broadway and the North River, now covered by Greenwich and the splendid edifices of the fifteenth ward—containing much of the present opulence and taste of the city. The location of the writer hereof was near the hotel and nine-pin alley, kept by Signor Fieschi;—an Italian, celebrated for the excellence of his segars, and for whipping his wife with rods larger than is allowed by the English common law—the size of Lord Chief Justice Holt's little finger being the maximum in such cases.

The Autumn of that year was remarkable for the beauty and clemency of the weather. Knowing that there was little hope for the abatement of the pestilence, and none of its extinction, until after a severe frost, the exiled citizens were never before so anxious for the frosty foretaste of winter. But the heavens continued cloudless, and week after week of ethereal mildness succeeded, until past the middle of October.

It was during this protracted season of sunny weather, that for several days in succession, I observed my old friend Wheelwright passing the window of my temporary office, in company and close conversation with a lady clad in the deepest habiliments of mourning. The doctor was well dressed, and so was the lady; for the suit and trappings of her wo were new as though she was but recent from "the sad burial feast," probably, of her wedded lord. Whether her countenance was as indicative of a sorrowful and bleeding heart, as the deep sables in which she was veiled, I could not tell. But no matter: day after day were they seen strolling leisurely up the then unbuilt portion of Broadway, and among the wooded lanes leading therefrom in the outskirts of the city. Love lane—a retired and charming walk—exactly the place for meditation or making love,—crossing over from the Bloomingdale road to the North River, which has since been "improved" out of existence,—was a favorite place of resort with my old friend and his fair companion—fair, no doubt she was, albeit her beauty was hidden from the vulgar gaze in the manner already indicated.

But who was she? Perhaps a sister, or some other near relative of his, whose husband had been swept off by the pestilence, and into whose throbbing bosom he was kindly endeavoring to pour some of the balmy drops of consolation! But no—such could not be the fact, since no corresponding weed of sorrow appeared upon his own well-brushed beaver. Perhaps a stranger, just rendered an orphan, or bereft of a brother by the ruthless hand of the West India plague—an acquaintance of my friend, whose melancholy he was kindly endeavoring to assuage. But, on the other hand, such offices were quite out of his line, since he was not easily moved—unless from one purpose to another—and of all men he was the most unused "to the melting mood." It was truly a perplexing affair; and the mystery was increased by the pains taken by Wheelwright to avoid such an interview with me as might lead to an eclaircissement. Several times did I strive to throw myself in the way of the lady and her assiduous attendant—venturing even to cross their path, on one occasion, for the purpose of making some discovery. But the attempt was vain, for my old acquaintance had apparently become so near-sighted as not to discern a person, unless he came bolt-upright against him—or unless, perchance, on some occasions, when he was sufficiently far-sighted, to enable him to turn a corner in season to avoid an interview. Once, and once only, I received a nod of recognition; but although I had succeeded in gaining a closer proximity than usual, all that I could ascertain through the deep folds of the lady's crape, was an impression that she was pale, pensive, a little pock-marked, and five and thirty. Had the ladies not all been driven from the city by the pestilence, I should most assuredly have engaged some one or more of them to solve the question, whether the doctor was engaged in offices of sympathy, or an affair of the heart—or whether he was actually engaged in any way. But there was no pretty familiar at hand skilled in these delicate matters; and I was therefore compelled to forego, for a time at least, the gratification of my curiosity.

Obedient to the law of the disease, with the first sound frost, the fever disappeared; the citizens returned to their respective homes; resumed their wonted avocations; and as usual in New-York, the calamity which had interrupted its business, and driven its inhabitants out of town for half the season, was forgotten, with its consequences, in a fortnight. One of my earliest visiters, after business had resumed its accustomed channels, was none other than the subject of this memoir, whose recent avoidance of me had been marked with so much emphasis. He entered my little sanctum with a grin between a smile and a laugh, and was evidently on excellent good terms with all the world, himself not excepted. Without waiting to see what might be his reception, he began:

"Ah, Colonel, how are ye? Escaped the yellow fever, then, eh?"

"Yes: I have been thus fortunate—and am well."

"Is that all you've got to say? I hope you've hearn of my good luck, haint you? You know I've always said the world owed me a living."

"I hope you'll get it: Pray what new scheme are you driving at now, Mr. Wheelwright?"

"Do tell! don't you know that I am now a married man—good as the rest of you?"

"Married, my good doctor! To whom?"

"Why, to a young widow from England, with only one child, and worth thirty-thousand pounds sterling—think of that!"

"Indeed! Well: I wish you joy, doctor. It's a long road that never turns. But I hope there's no doubt"—

"There's no doubt or mistake in the matter. The lady was the widow of an Irish captain, and"—

"The lady in mourning, I presume, to whom you seemed so attentive up town, a few weeks ago? But whence the necessity of keeping so dark upon the subject?"

"I thought it like enough you'd think I was behaving kinder-curious-like. But her husband was lately dead, and she didn't care to see any body just then;—and besides, I was determined nobody should know what was going on betwixt us, till the job was done."

"A rich widow, then, and thirty-thousand pounds—sterling, did you say?"

"Why, to be sure I did."

"And is she young and handsome?"

"She's comfortably good looking—though I don't know that you would say raly handsome. But the thirty-thousand pounds, you know——"

"Very true: But who would have ever dreamed of your turning fortune-hunter?"

"No body had more need on't than I."

"Not handsome, but rich: and so, I suppose you will soon learn to sing the old ballad—

"Her golden charms so sweetly shine, While rising to my raptured view; That I would rather call them mine, Than any girl I ever knew!"

"Why, you don't mean to poke fun at me, I hope?"

"Not at all: But have you got the ready? Did she give you the guineas, or good bills of exchange, with her person?"

"Why, no, not exactly that. The fact is, that her property belonged to her husband, the late Captain Scarlett, of the King's Own, and it's all vested in real estate."

"And you are quite sure?"

"As sure as a gun: just as sure as if I had the money in my hands. She has a long row of housen in Dublin, and owns several housen, besides, in one of the best streets in Liverpool."

Having communicated this agreeable intelligence, Mr. Wheelwright was apparently about taking his departure, and moved to the door; but suddenly turning round, as though some part of his errand had been forgotten, he resumed:—

"So, you see, the small matter I am owing you will soon be paid;—but I shall be obleeged to raise a little money—only a thousand dollars or so—to pay a lawyer to investigate the titles, and I think it like-enough I shall be obleeged to go to England before I get it all settled."

"Oho! Then you are not quite so certain of the fortune, after all. The titles are yet to be examined, eh?"

"But that won't amount to nothing serious though. I know all about it."

"Still, my good doctor, it would have been better had you looked well to those titles before she obtained a title to you."

"But it's of no consequence. You see the case is just here: The captain, d'ye see, had something to do with another woman, who now claims the property for her children; but she wasn't his wife, and it will all come right, as my lawyer tells me, if I can only get him a few hundred dollars to carry it on."

By this time I began to see much more of the poor fellow's case than he did himself. But as it was not particularly convenient for me to accommodate him with another advance, we parted for that time—he to live out his honey-moon in dreams of treasures shortly to be added to the bliss of "wedded love"—and I to indulge in a variety of reflections naturally arising upon the subject, which were doubtless very good, though long since forgotten. The sagacious reader will, perhaps, have no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that my reflections and Doctor Wheelwright's treasures proved, in the end, of about equal value; and that neither would have been taken as good security by any bank or broker to whom application might have been made for a loan of the required funds. Whether such a conclusion, when arrived at, would be correct or not, will be discovered in a succeeding chapter.



CHAPTER XI.

PREPARES TO LIVE BY HIS LEARNING.

"For now sits Expectation in the air."—Shakspeare.

"A man, to be the governor of an island, should know something of grammar. 'Grammar?' replied Sancho, 'who the d——l is he?'"—Don Quixotte.

The mellifluous bard of Twickenham was egregiously mistaken when he pronounced "a little learning" to be "a dangerous thing." Had it not been for the modicum of letters, small as it was, acquired by Mr. Wheelwright, at the school of which I had occasion to speak early in the present history, to say nothing, as seems most meet, of the university, his family would now have been rather short of bread and butter. They had great possessions, of the which they were not yet possessed. But these were a great way off; and, most unfortunately, somebody else had obtained the occupancy, and held the titles. Nor, from the existing state of Mr. Wheelwright's finances, according to the report of his counsel, was there any immediate prospect of his soon becoming master of what was now in the right of his wife unquestionably his own. The consolation, however, was, that in the end, when those in the unjust possession of the property should be ejected, they would be compelled to disgorge the accumulating revenues from the rental, and other sources of income. Meanwhile it was necessary that Mr. Wheelwright should set about doing something "to make the pot boil." Accordingly, after casting round for an occupation which promised to produce the greatest income for the least bodily or mental exertion and the smallest capital, it was determined by himself and lady to establish a classical school for the instruction of young ladies and gentlemen, in one of the most flourishing villages adjacent to the city of New-York.

Mr. Wheelwright was too well acquainted with the way in which most public objects for private advantage are managed now-a-days, not to secure the countenance, and, if possible, the editorial assistance of the conductor of a "happy folio of four pages," which once a week poured forth its treasures of knowledge for the enlightenment of the good people in the village, and the region round about, even to New-Utrecht and Flatlands. He therefore, and that wisely, sought the acquaintance of the gentleman of paste and scissors, with an advertisement ready prepared—of somewhat formidable dimensions—and for the composition of which he was indebted to a retired schoolmaster, who had cheerfully rendered this little service for the occasion. Like most of the conductors of the latter-day luminaries which dispense that sound political wisdom and universal knowledge which render the people of this nation "the most intelligent on earth," the editor was very accessible and gracious. Indeed, he was truly desirous of testifying the satisfaction he felt, on the accession to his village of an institution which promised so many advantages, particularly to the gentler sex of the rising generation; and which would offer another inducement for people to do their eating, and sleeping, and tax-paying on Long Island, and their business in New-York. His next publication, therefore, contained the following article:—

"From the Longa Insula Astra, Dec. 10, 1822.

"We take great pleasure in calling the attention of those of our citizens who are parents to the article which will be found immediately below. It was indeed handed in as an advertisement; but we feel so deeply interested in the object proposed, to say nothing of the classical and poetical beauty of the article itself, that we could not forbear awarding to it a greater conspicuity. Indeed we scarcely know when we have published an article with more heart-felt pleasure. The gentleman and lady, we understand, have been reduced by a succession of misfortunes, from a state of affluence to that of much humbler circumstances. But with that noble spirit of independence which, we are proud to say, is so peculiarly the indweller of American bosoms, they have determined to rise superior to their misfortunes, and win for themselves that patronage which they have heretofore had it in their power to dispense. We have had the pleasure of a personal interview with the gentleman who is to have the charge of the proposed institution. He appears to be well educated, modest, and unassuming—a master of the ancient languages, as his lady is of the modern; and from what we have heard, we doubt not their ample qualifications for the undertaking. Mrs. W. has enjoyed the advantages of foreign travel, which will enable her to form the manners of her pupils after the best models of the salons of Paris, Vienna, and London; and we believe that by her judicious counsel she has been of great service to the most celebrated female seminaries in New-York, as also to the distinguished seminary in Troy—all of which, we trust, will soon be rivalled by that of our own village. It is the design of Mr. and Mrs. Wheelwright to extend their institute as rapidly as will be consistent with their means, and in the course of a year or two to obtain a charter for a college, with power to confer degrees upon their female as well as their male pupils. And why not? The intellectual equality of females with males has been fully established by the Edgeworths, and Hannah Mores, and Lady Morgans of Europe, and by females equally illustrious among our own fair countrywomen, only they do not occur to us just at this moment. Why, then, should not female proficients be entitled to degrees of merit, as well as nine-tenths of the blunder-heads who go through college, and come out no wiser than they went in? For our parts we shall stand up for female rights,—for, as the poet says:—

"The world was sad, the garden was a wild, And man, the hermit, sighed, till woman smiled.

"We therefore hope the college will go on, and when we obtain the South Ferry, we will look about to see what is to be done next. But we have not room to extend our remarks—of which, however, there is no occasion, since the eloquent article below will speak for itself.

"EDUCATION.

"'Tis education shows the way, Each latent beauty to display; Each happy genius brings to light, Conceal'd before in shades of night;— So diamonds from the gloomy mine, Taught by the workman's hand to shine, On Chloe's ivory bosom blaze, Or grace the crown with brilliant rays.

"PHILOMATHIAN INSTITUTE.

"Mr. and Mrs. Wheelwright beg leave to announce to parents and guardians in this village and its vicinity, that on the 1st of January now ensuing, they will open a literary and classical institution for the instruction of the rising generation—both of young gentlemen and ladies. The rising glories of this western hemisphere have scarcely yet begun to be developed; and as Mr. and Mrs. Wheelwright have been deeply impressed with the importance, in a young and rising republic, of having the youth of the land, of both sexes, reared in the paths of virtue and the intellectual flower-garden of knowledge, they have determined to devote their best faculties to the sacred cause of education,—fully believing, from the inexpressible interest they feel upon the subject, that they shall be enabled to exclaim with the immortal poet—

"'Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, And teach the young idea how to shoot!'

"From long and profound reflection upon the never-sufficiently- enough-to-be-estimated subject of education, Mr. and Mrs. Wheelwright have become entirely and unchangeably persuaded that all existing systems of instruction are essentially, and radically, as they may say, if not from the root, erroneous, and consequently defective as it were; and they trust that they shall be enabled to introduce such improvements and innovations in the science of teaching, as essentially to assist the spirit of a generous emulation in its efforts for noble rivalry; to aid the aspirations of a well-regulated ambition; and to encourage, in all possible and practicable ways, the desire of young genius to wing his eagle flight, as it were, on the pinions of intellectual corruscations. Every branch of human learning, either useful or ornamental, or of the least utility, will be taught at the Philomathian Institute, for which Mr. and Mrs. Wheelwright feel the utmost confidence in their own capacities and qualifications; since, in addition to being a graduate of one of the first universities of the age in which we live, Mr. W. has studied a learned profession, and Mrs. W. is possessed of the superior advantage of having been reared and educated in several of the leading European capitals. The utmost regard will be had to the morals and manners of such young aspirants as may be entrusted to their charge. To invigorate the constitutions of the pupils, a gymnasium will be provided for the boys of the male sex, and one hour per day will be devoted to callisthenics in the female department, to be occupied by the girls. In this department, the higher branches of instruction, both useful and ornamental, will be prosecuted under the immediate superintendence of Mrs. Wheelwright, who will spare no pains in the inoculation of the soundest lessons of virtue, while yet their young and youthful minds can be bent like the twig, and inclined like the tree, as the poet says. Those who desire it will receive instruction in the elements of moral philosophy, for which purpose they must be provided with Newtown's Principles, and other works of the kind. Mrs. Wheelwright has paid much attention to this sublime and beautiful study, which so enraptured the immortal Milton:—

"'How charming is divine Philosophy! Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, But musical as Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, Where no rude surfeit reigns.'

"It is to such a feast that the young ladies of this village will soon be invited. Great pains will moreover be taken to cultivate the domestic habits and affections, as the poet says:—

"'Man may for wealth and glory roam, But woman must be bless'd at home; To this should all her studies tend, This her great object, and her end.'

"At the same time no efforts will be spared to keep their young budding minds from vicious associations, and to render them as sweet as innocent, as innocent as gay, as gay as happy:—

"'Vice is a monster of such frightful mien, As to be hated, needs but to be seen; But seen too oft, familiar with his face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.'

"Knowing this to be true from experience, the principal and vice-principal of the Philomathian Institute will do all in their power to keep their pupils in the paths of wisdom, and pleasantness, and peace, as Shakspeare, the sweet swan of Avon, says. In one word, it will be the object and aim of Mr. and Mrs. Wheelwright to qualify the young gentlemen to act nobly their part in this republican monarchy, and the young ladies whose education has been so long neglected—whose minds have so long been evolved in Siberian darkness—and as it were wasting their sweetness on the desert air—for the wives and mothers of freedom."

Added to this eloquent and promising proclamation, introduced as we have already seen, by the editor, were the names of sundry presidents of colleges, reverend doctors, editors, especially of the religious papers, various public officers, among whom were the governor of the state, the mayor and recorder, several classical teachers, and other gentlemen, as references—most of whom when applied to, declared that they had never heard of the concern before; others admitted that they had allowed reference to be made to their names, because they knew nothing against it; while a few assented to the high qualifications of the teachers without scruple.

As to the morality of such an unauthorized use of great names, on the one part, and the authorized use of them on the other, merely to avoid the utterance of a monosyllable of two letters, when the effect is a deception upon the public, it is not a subject for present discussion. Both practices are abuses of the times, which have been carried to such an extent that nothing can be more unmeaning than references of this kind—in regard as well to schools, and "institutes," and "seminaries," as to the publication of books by subscription, and the superior merits of patent blacking and razor-straps; as to which, by the way, it has always been a subject of speculation to the writer, why a reverend divine or an eminent physician should be supposed better qualified to give an opinion than a boot-black or a barber. Here, therefore, "let us breathe," as Shakspeare says, "and happily introduce a course of learning and ingenious studies," in the next chapter.



CHAPTER XII.

OF THE MARCH OF MIND.

"Smith. The clerk of Chatham: he can write, and read, and cast accompt.

Cade. O monstrous!

Smith. We took him setting of boys' copies.

Cade. Here's a villain!

Smith. H'as a book in his pocket with red letters in't.

Cade. Nay, then, he's a conjuror.

* * * * *

Cade. Dost thou use to write thy name? or hast thou a mark to thyself, like an honest man?

Clerk. Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought up that I can write my name."—Shakspeare.

"Hail, wedded love"—"and all that sort of thing."

Milton and Matthews.

It may well be imagined that the appearance of such a flourishing literary manifesto as that set forth in the preceding chapter, created an uncommon sensation in the village. The ladies admired the distiches of poetry with which the pompous proclamation was so plentifully sprinkled, and the gentlemen, not being conversant with those convenient helps, the "Elegant Extracts," supposed of course that the advertisers must be persons of considerable erudition. Indeed, the thing took wonderfully, and nothing was thought of, or talked of, by ambitious mothers, and those opening rose-buds, their daughters, for the full period of nine days, but the new "Institute," or "Seminary"—the old-fashioned word "school" never being once mentioned. Nor were the lords of creation unmindful of the good fortune in which they were so soon to rejoice. Various situations were proposed and discussed, for the site of a new edifice which would doubtless be required within a twelve-month, and real estate rose exorbitantly in every vicinity thus designated. A charter from the Legislature was of course to be applied for, and several meetings of those who were to form the Board of Trustees, were held to adjust the details. The privileges of a college were to be obtained, with the power of conferring the same degrees upon female students, as upon males—forgetting, in their ardor, that the constitution of female Bachelors and Masters of Arts would be a misnomer in any other country than Ireland. In one word, there was to be no other classical institution, in this country or any other, comparable with it—and to it the nuns of Canada, the Moravians of Bethlehem, and the azure-hosed professors of modern Ilium, would forever thereafter be compelled to send for instructers.

It need not be added, that under all this excitement, and in view of all these measures, on the opening of the institute, there was a rush of pupils, promising golden returns to the accomplished and enterprising teachers. As to its progress, and the moral and intellectual results, the biographer has not been supplied with the materials for a minute history. It is known, however, that the principals provided themselves with the most modern, and consequently the best elementary "helps" to be found in the bookstores. Justice also requires of the biographer to say, that his friend Wheelwright did not enter upon his preceptorial duties without many severe misgivings; and for some weeks previous to the opening of the seminary, he applied himself to the work of preparation with unwonted assiduity. But he was nevertheless sadly deficient, as may well be supposed. Still, in his classes of geography and rhetoric, he managed to get along for several weeks, by the aid of those convenient instruments of instruction, which contain all necessary questions and answers at the bottom of the pages—Kames and Malte-Brun done over again by sciolists, so that the real authors would be astonished to find how greatly they had been simplified. Alexander's Virgil, also, reflecting the Latin of one page back in English from the other, was of great assistance to him. But in arithmetic and grammar he was completely at fault. He had never been able to repeat the whole multiplication table; and he now found it utterly beyond his capacity to work a common problem in the rule of three. In grammar, moreover, he could never quite distinguish between a noun and a verb; and although he almost committed the rules, and could enumerate the several parts of speech, yet he could never apply the principles in parsing.

It was not long, therefore, before the most forward of his pupils began to discover that they knew more than their instructer—and the natural consequences—contempt and insubordination—speedily followed.

Meantime the qualifications and efforts of Mrs. Wheelwright, in the other branch of the institute, were presently discovered to be equally, even if not more, defective and profitless. She was an Irish lady by birth—had resided for a time in Scotland, and likewise in England—previous to her visit across the channel to complete her education in the capital of la grande nation. When she left the emerald isle, "her speech," to use a phrase of Lord Bacon, "was in the full dialect of her nation." She had afterward conversed enough with English and Scotch, to complete the union of the three kingdoms—to all which was added such a smattering of French as was to be acquired by a residence—as a femme de chambre, as it was afterward scandalously reported—in Paris of a year or perhaps more. She had readily picked up a good many French words, in the course of her sojourn; but her Gallic pronunciation was blended with all the other dialects, among which the brogue of her own mother tongue ludicrously enough predominated.

The reader has probably heard the story of the Yankee candidate for the mastership of one of our common schools, who, on being asked by the inspectors whether he knew any thing of mathematics, answered that he didn't know Matthew, although he had seen a good deal of one Tom Mattocks, in Rhode Island; but he'd never hearn of his having any brother. So with Mrs. Wheelwright—Mr. Syntax was equally a stranger to her. But she had seen some coarse pieces of embroidery from the rustic pupils of country boarding schools, and knew that they were needlework, of some sort. She therefore set herself to teaching that elegant branch of the fine arts. The first group attempted, was a family picture—a mother and her six children at the tomb of their deceased husband and father, under what was meant for a willow tree drooping over an obelisk. But such a group! such a widow! and such weeping children! Indeed they looked sorry enough. Surely no eye e'er saw such scare-crows; and no one could look upon them without emotion—but of what kind, the reader, who has doubtless seen many kindred specimens in this department of a modern education, may decide for himself. The next piece was the Prodigal Son, taking leave of his benevolent father, in a red dress-coat and white-top boots! The drawings were copies, and the needlework resembling the darnings in the hose to be seen on the heels of the ladies sitting in the country markets. Thus much for her fancy work; and the French she taught was on a par. Such French had never before been spoken—out of Ireland!

Such were the condition and prospects of this hopeful seminary, when another unexpected change came over the temporal circumstances of poor Wheelwright. The girls under the charge of his accomplished consort having been engaged in a frolic during her absence to prepare the pottage for dinner—and girls at school will always have their frolics—the gentle instructress returned in a rage, flushed with passion, the heat of the kitchen fire, and perhaps a drop of the CRATHUR—swore several big Irish oaths that she would have no more such carryings on by the childers in her house, and by the powers, she would be afther clearing them out—the spalpeens!—that's what she would, honies!

It was her first outbreak of the kind, and the little misses were appalled, and many of them, thinking, perhaps, that she was crazy, or had "a drop in her eye," ran home in affright. Nor did their parents, or at least the most of them, allow their children again to return.

"Rare are solitary woes," says the poet—on the contrary, they are ever apt to be treading each other's heels; and it was so with the hero of this biography in the present instance. The school had been undertaken as a temporary resource, during the pendency of the legal measures necessary to obtain his estates. It had now been suddenly broken up, and that, too, before any thing but delays and expense had been realized. An incident that occurred the day following, moreover, might have occasioned misgivings as to the future to a man of quicker perceptions than Mr. Wheelwright—but fortunately his wife was the earliest riser. It happened that as his spouse was exchanging some rather undignified jokes with the milkman, a jolly son of Erin came along, whose rubicund visage kindled with a thousand smiles as his eyes rested on the lady.

"Och! the top o' the morning to you, Misthress Judy O'Calloran!" says Pat. "Divil burn me, but it's a long while sin my eyes have seen the like o'ye, Misthress Judy," he continued.

"And that's you, Misther Thady O'Flannerty," replied the fair one—"but I'm not Misthress Judy O'Calloran,—and d'ye think it's myself that does'ent know."

"Troth, and if ye're not Misthress Judy, honey, then it's not your dare ould mother's darther that ye be."

"Whisht!" rejoined the lady:—"Don't ye percave that it's not I—it's not Judy—botheration, Thady—how can ye be afther coming where you ain't known?"

"Och, Judy, thin ye see if it's not ye'rsel, it's bekase I'm not Thady O'Flannerty that was, sin the wake last night. But it's mighty unnathural if it's not Judy I suspict. And where's the man that ye had, Pat Rooney that was!"

"Get ye gone, ye baste," replied the amiable Misthress Wheelwright, "you mallet-headed bog-throtter, to hinsult an honest woman all of a suddint so. No gintilman would thrifle with a dacent woman afther this gate, whin he'd niver seen her."

"Och, murther in Irish now, and it's the blissed thruth, Misthress Judy, that I was tellin ye. But thin, such is the way of the world—Saint Pathrick save us! If the crathur hadn't bin afther laving her own husband, and runnin' off with Pat Rooney, may be that her darlint ould mother's life would have bin extinded many years afther her death—shame on the crathur! But thin, it's not the ould lady's wake that would have bin the last that Thady O'Flannerty attinded in Limerick—bad luck to her!"

Long before her unwelcome acquaintance had finished his oration, however, the indignant lady had scampered into the house, slamming the door after her with great violence, and dashing her pitcher of milk to fragments by the same unguarded action. But Thady followed on, as though to make good his acquaintanceship, and was met at the threshhold by Wheelwright himself, who had been aroused by the clamor.

"And plase your honor," says Thady, "can you tell me where is Misther Whalewright's boardin'-school that was, that's called the siminary that is?"

"That was—sure enough,—said Wheelwright, bitterly. I 'spose this is the place you're looking for as-like-as-not."

"Arrah, thin it's the right place that I'm already in—thanks to Misthress Judy for that. And thin, there's a letter for your worship's honor, and that's yer'self!"

Wheelwright took the despatch, and at once perceived from the superscription, that it was a missive from his counsel. He was turning upon his heel, but Thady, unwilling to retire without a fee, arrested his retreat by saying:—

"Faith, thin, but I'm thinking your honor's mimory is none of the longest, and that a thrifle of change would do me no harm for the throuble I've had."

Wheelwright, hoping that he was the bearer of agreeable tidings from his estates, threw him all but his last quarter, and Thady took his leave with,

"Blissings on your honor, and long life to ye; and as your worship is a civil-spoken gintilman, may be ye'll not think it bowld if I jist hint to your honor, that if Misthress Judy there is a servant, she needs looking to—and bad luck to her!"

Not having heard the street dialogue already related, this benevolent caution was lost upon the husband, who, on opening the note, found it as he had anticipated—a summons to call upon his lawyer in the city. High with hope, therefore,—upon the pleasures of which he had been living already too long,—not doubting that success had at length crowned the exertions of his legal advisers,—and supposing, therefore, that the school was just dissolving at the fortunate moment when it was no longer necessary to his support, he hastened across the ferry. But alas! Little indeed did he anticipate the cause of his summons to the city. The development fell upon his disappointed senses like the crash of a thunderbolt. In the progress of his investigations, the learned counsel had discovered that the accomplished lady of my friend, was none other than one of the unmarried wives of the lamented Captain Scarlett, and that the legal representatives were already in the secure possession of his estates!



CHAPTER XIII.

HE LIVES AS HE HAD NEVER EXPECTED.

"My stars shine darkly over me"—Shakspeare.

"A most poor man, made tame by fortune's blows."—Idem.

How little do one half of the world know how the other half live! And how just the remark of Goldsmith, that they who would know the miseries of the poor, must see life and endure it. More especially do these remarks hold good in respect to the inhabitants of crowded cities. In country towns, and small villages, every body knows every body, and, very commonly, almost too much of every body's business. But in large cities, the people are huddled together in close proximity, and are yet as much strangers to each other as though divided by a waste of wilderness or waters. The rich, who fare sumptuously; the middling class, who have enough, and a little to spare; and the squalid wretch who would be overjoyed with a basket of coals, and a joint of meat; may all be found in the same block, and yet neither one of them know any thing of the comforts, the distress, or the affluence of the other. The middling and lower classes of people in the country are prone to form an undue estimate of the advantages, and the comparative ease, of a city life. Because so much is said of the wealth of cities, they imagine that all who dwell in them must be rich, and consequently have no hard labor to perform. But it is a sad mistake. "Great cities," says the philosopher of Monticello, "are great sores;" and if the envious and discontented poor know little of the splendid misery of the fancied rich,—of the number of aching heads and hearts upon beds of down,—much less do the truly rich, living within great cities, and the world at large without them,—know of the wretchedness and the crime, the poverty and the woe, to be found in the great and crowded marts of trade and commerce in every country. Were mankind, in general, better informed upon these particulars, there would be less of envy in the world, and less of poverty. There would likewise be fewer people "well to do" in the country, crowding to the cities, to become beggars, and at last either to find dishonorable graves, or, when honestly dead, to merit the Italian inscription upon a well man who took physic—"I was well—I wished to be better—and here I am."

During the five years immediately succeeding the catastrophe recorded at the close of the last chapter, I neither saw, nor heard a syllable from, the subject of this narrative. The winter of 1827-28, was one of extraordinary severity in New-York. The month of January, in particular, was unusually tempestuous and severe. Those of the common poor, who had been the most improvident and reckless when they should have husbanded their earnings, were brought upon the public bounty considerably earlier than usual, and backs "hanging in ragged misery" were already more plenty than was wont.

It was on a bitterly cold Saturday morning of that month, that my old and unfortunate friend presented himself in my office—but alas how changed! He looked exceedingly dejected and poverty-stricken—as though what little of energy he ever might have possessed, had been utterly extinguished by the withering touch of penury. A single glance of course served to show that matters had gone hard with him—and that if "the world owed him a living," as he was formerly wont to boast, it was turning him off with a very scanty one. A storm, which had been fiercely raging for several days, gave no signs of exhaustion.—The snow, which had been falling for fifty or sixty hours—not in a fleecy shower, but mingled with cutting particles like hail—filled the atmosphere, and with each successive gust of a stiff northwester, was whirled aloft in vast curling sheets and wreaths—or driven through the narrow streets with a force that was blinding and almost irresistible. Nor man nor beast ventured forth, save from dire necessity, and it seemed as though the storm-king with his fiercest aspect, and armed with all his terrors, had made a conquest of the city.—Wheelwright's left arm was in a sling, and his tattered garments afforded but a sorry protection against the rude peltings of the pitiless storm, of which I have given a very inadequate description.

After the ordinary and reciprocal inquiries as to health, &c. had been interchanged, he sat several minutes with averted eyes, and without uttering a syllable. I saw that he was embarrassed, poor fellow!—and turned to the window—viewing the clouds of snow that were high upborne, like a canopy over the city, or playing in fantastic wreaths as the wind whistled around the cornices of the contiguous buildings—that he might collect himself. At length he broke silence nearly as follows:—

"I'm afeard you will think I have come on rather curious business-like—for me."

"How so? What is the case, Mr. Wheelwright?"

"Why, I've had a hard life on't, since I seen you, when my school was broke up; and I've called to see—I was too proud once to come of such an arrant—but I thought 'twas likely you would not see a poor family suffering in such a storm as this."

"Surely not—if it is in my power to render assistance."

"Well, I thought as much—and I've called to see if you have not some second-hand clothes, and a little something to eat, that you can give us—or any thing else that you can spare—for we are in very great distress."

"Indeed—in actual want—of food and clothes, did you say? What has brought——

"O, don't ask—that woman there—I little thought I should ever come to this."

"Why have you not informed me of it before? Pray what is the matter with your hand, doctor?"

"I accidentally run a gouge through it, and hain't been able to do any work since. We had nothing to live upon. My hands were my only resources from day to day;—my working tools, and every article of furniture in the house, to the last blanket, the last shirt, and my wife's last shawl, have been pawned at the broker's, to enable us to keep the breath of life in us. We have now neither a stick of wood to burn, nor a morsel to eat!"

"Can it be possible, my dear sir, that you are reduced to a condition so deplorable? Why have you not been to see me sooner?"

"I was ashamed."

"But you need not have been. You should not have been left to suffer deprivations like these."

"I knew that, very well; but after all that has happened, I wished to bury myself, and never see the face of an old friend again. I hoped to live through, until my hand got well, and then I could have gone to work again."

"Work? What work?"

"You know I had partly larnt a trade once—pity I ever left it!—and as I retained knowledge enough of the use of tools to make common bedsteads, after my school run down, and my visions of property all vanished, I engaged in that business, and have contrived to get a poor living by it ever since, until I cut my hand so dreadfully."

"But your wife—cannot she do something with her needle?"

"What! that woman?"——

He paused, and heaved a deep sigh. It was a bitter exclamation, from the heart.

"No," he continued. "She has no faculty for getting along. She does nothing but harass my life out."

"A misfortune, in—

"True enough, I missed the fortune; and I should not have come to you now, but that we are freezing, and the children were shivering and crying for something to eat, when I left."

"Children! How many have you?"

"The woman, you know, had one when I married her, and we have had two since. One of these is dead. I am not sorry. Poor little fellow! he is much better off."

But it is needless to continue the colloquy. My heart bled for him. His tale of want and woe was told with the honest simplicity of truth. He did not shed any tears, but looked as though he was past weeping—like the personification of disappointment and despair.

From his relation it appeared, that during four years, my unfortunate friend's only income had been derived from the manufacture of the common article of furniture already mentioned. His place of residence and workshop were in the remote eastern part of the city. He had never the means of purchasing the materials for more than one bedstead at a time, and was obliged, from his extreme poverty, to carry the timber on his shoulders from the Albany Basin to his shop—a distance of two miles. This labor he performed at evenings. The article done, he had then to carry it to the furniture auction rooms in Chatham-square, for sale. The profit, over and above the cost of the materials, constituted the whole of his income—sometimes amounting to a dollar upon each, and sometimes to not more than two and six-pence—according to the run of the sales. And thus from day to day, for four long years, had the poor fellow been living, as we have seen, without allowing the friends of his better years to know where he was, or in what business or occupation he was engaged. Having once been the cause of his father's ruin, he was resolved not to call upon the old gentleman again while he could possibly avoid it, or preserve life without it. The motive for his conduct in this trying emergency, was honorable; and in the present hour of his bitter affliction I felt more sympathy for him, than I had ever supposed it possible to entertain for a man who, in times past, had made such indifferent use of his advantages. If there is any thing in this world that can subdue the passions, damp the ardor, or quench the spirit of a man, it is biting, remediless, hopeless poverty. Many are the minds, far more powerful than that of Mr. Wheelwright, which have sunk under its chilling influence. And my wonder was, how the doctor had borne up as well as he seemed to have done, under the complication of calamities which had befallen him.

Having heard his woeful relation through, I did what any one entitled to the name of man, would have done under the like circumstances. He was provided with an overcoat, and furnished with a little basket of provisions; and I promised to call in the afternoon, and examine into his condition for myself; albeit one of the ancient writers hath informed us that "he that spendeth his liuelode to helpe the poore at theyr nede, semeth mad vnto hym who hath reposed the ayd of this presente lyfe in worldlie riches."

The melancholy history just related by my unfortunate friend, threw me, after his departure, into a train of musing upon the vicissitudes of life, and the inequality with which Fortune distributes her favors. I could not help calling to mind Miss Edgeworth's admirable tale of Murad the Unlucky, and his friend the lucky Saladin. Like the former, Wheelwright seemed destined but to fall from one calamity into another, and effort to retrieve his affairs, did but plunge him deeper into the slough of misery. I could not but perceive, however, that as in the case of the persecuted Mussulman, the misfortunes of my poor friend had their origin in his own bad management, and to speak the honest truth, of common sense. The wound in his hand, indeed, might perhaps be accounted an unavoidable casualty; but had it not been for his previous errors, this misfortune would not have proved the cause of such hopeless penury and suffering.

We shall see, ere we close our tale whether a better if not a brighter destiny did not await him in coming years. Meantime, those who would avoid contemplating a scene of suffering like that which is to follow, should remember with Seneca,—"He that never was acquainted with adversity, has seen the world but on one side, and is ignorant of half the scenes of nature."

Too many there are, even in this boasted age of benevolence, who are thus ignorant of the scenes referred to by the ancient moralist—who believe it a virtue to be rich, and that there is no sin but beggary. "When fortune wraps them warm"—while their tables smoke with savory viands, and the choicest wines distil their grateful aroma—they turn a deaf ear to every sound of distress, exclaiming,

"————————I am rich, 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 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 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 the childer, 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 peculiar patois of her own country, while living in Paris as a femme 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."

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 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, "he said 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 ship HORNET was 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 even such a 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 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."