and the father of a family, had been the cause of the divorce. With the recklessness which the progress in guilt naturally induces, he had come on to effect a re-union with the unhappy woman, by inducing her to return to the place of his residence. She had, however, formed another attachment in New-York, and, hearing of Treadwell's arrrival, secreted herself from his pursuit.

Little doubting but that Spiffard could give him the desired information, he concluded his communication with-" you will tell me where she is to be found."

"I do not know, sir."

My dear fellow, that is impossible. She is of too much importance in the theatrical world to allow me to believe that. You may as well tell me, for I will know. Thomson, to whom I gave her letters when she left Boston, shuns me-and I suspect-but I have come here to see her, and I will see her."

"I know nothing of her, except as I have seen her on the stage; and her character is such that I wish no nearer acquaintance."

"That's too good! Your wife does not associate with her?" "Certainly not, sir.”

"That's very well! very well, indeed! When all the world knows how her character stood before-"

66

"Stop, sir!" and Spiffard's eyes flashed fire, his face was flushed, and his limbs were braced to the tension of the tiger's, before he springs on his prey. 'Stop, sir, one word spoken disrespectfully of my wife, will be resented on the instant. Contrary to my wishes, you have told me your own infamy, and that of the person you seek; yet you have dared to ask me if she is the companion of my wife. I despise your insinuations, but I will not suffer them to be repeated."

"Why, why, why, my dear fellow, why do you fly out in this manner? We all know-that is-come, come, take some brandy and water."

"Mr. Treadwell, you have already taken too much. If you had not deprived yourself of the sense of shame, as well as the power of reasoning, you would not have exposed yourself and the unhappy woman, who, perhaps, but for you, would have been a respectable wife and mother. I must leave you, sir." "What? Why, Zeb? Don't you ask your old friend to come and see you? What! cut me!"

"I am obliged to believe your own account of yourself. When I heard your story from others, I tried to disbelieve it. Our acquaintance ends here."

Spiffard did not listen to his reply, but left the house abruptly. He left the house, but another arrow had entered his inmost soul, his heart's heart, and was borne away with him, The words he had heard in the Park, when we first met him; the mystery which hung over some passages of the life of one whose fame and welfare he had rashly united to his own; the consciousness of precipitancy in contracting an engagement for life, so vitally important to his peace; all rushed upon his tortured mind as he left the tavern; and the unhappy Treadwell's looks, as well as the inuendos he had given, continued to haunt him with horrid recollections. He passed through the bar-room to gain the street. When on the pavement, he heard from within a shout of laughter from those who surrounded the bar; and his imagination pictured a crowd of bloated fiends, sitting in the clouds, and rejoicing at his misery.

Treadwell sought to drown the voice of conscience, and the sense of humiliation, on the spot. A few words will terminate his story. While unsuccessfully seeking the woman for whom he had deserted his home, and whose infamy he was proclaiming by the search, her husband arrived in New-York, on his way from south to east, and hearing of Treadwell's presence, and avowed object, he sought him, and in a public place inflicted the chastisement of the most contumacious words, accompanied by blows. The wretch returned to his native place; he had no home; he died neglected by all but the wife he had deserted.

The unfortunate husband whose domestic peace had been invaded, his wife, and the friend of the seducer, who appropriated the guilty consignment to his own use, all perished early and miserably. Such things have been; and, perhaps, if mankind knew that their deeds of evil would not be covered by the veil of charity, but proclaimed for the truth's sake, many might be checked in the downward course, and brought to real repentance; which is amendment.

CHAPTER XIX.

A dinner party in 1811.

"Your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, audacious without impudence, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy."

"Some sports are painful; but their labour,

Delight in them sets off."

"The rich wine first must rise in these fair cheeks, my lord, then we shall have them talk us to silence."-Shakspeare

"When a rich man hath fallen, he hath many helpers; he speaketh things not to be spoken, and yet men justify him. The poor man slipped, and yet they rebuked him too; he spake wisely, and could have no place." Ecclesiasticus.

"Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders; and let Time try."-Shakspeare.

"Experience, though none authorite

Were in this worlde, is ryght ynowe for me."-Chaucer.

TIME rolled on, or flew, or crept, or limped, according to the circumstances or the feelings of his children; those children who murder him, and whom he, though murdered, never dying, devours.

Winter had arrived, and the many-coloured leaves of autumn had been scattered to the winds, or fallen to the earth, as a covering for the roots from which they had derived their summer nourishment; the long protracted rain-storms of November had given place to the freezing blasts of the north-west, before George Frederick Cooke had so far recovered, as to be permitted by his physicians to resume his place at the festive boards of his numerous admirers.

Doctor Cadwallader, (who had attended the old tragedian, in conjunction with Doctors Hosack, McLean, and Francis,) had long promised his friends the pleasure of dining with the eccentric thespian; accordingly, having stipulated that the bottle should be under the control of two medical attendants, a day was fixed when Cooke was to be the lion of the party; and exhibited in the evening, to the female acquaintance of Mrs.

Cadwallader, and as many of the elite of the city as the drawing-rooms might accommodate.

Spiffard was invited to the dinner and tea party in due form; for he had become acquainted with all Cooke's physicians, from the circumstance of being found so frequently at the bed-side of their histrionic patient. As we have said, Cooke was attended by no less than four of the faculty, of the highest grade; but Cadwallader took the lead as the senior, although Hosack, McLean, and Francis were all consulted: all separately visited the invalid at times, and sometimes altogether.

The young comedian declined the invitation. He had determined not to make one in parties from which his wife was excluded. Mrs. Spiffard was one of the acknowledged heroines of the stage at this time, but as utterly shut out from female society as if she had been infected with the most deadly contagion. Spiffard had thought little of this before marriage; it was one of the after-thoughts that tormented him.

Actresses have never been received into society, in this country, on a footing of equality. Some are visited, sought after, and invited into the circles of the rich and fashionable, when they have recently arrived from Europe, under particular circumstances; but even then, they are rather considered as objects to gaze at, and show off, than as persons belonging to the class who pay them these attentions. This class consider themselves as patrons. The patronized are generally superior, both in talents and accomplishments, to their patronizing entertainers; yet are they never considered as other than inferior to those who show them off, and pride themselves upon their liberality in so doing.

It is in vain to deny, or endeavour to conceal from the actress, that the very circumstance of publicly exhibiting for hire, that person, and those talents, so admired and applauded, has degraded her in the eyes of the world. Be it just or unjust, so it is; and, perhaps, so it ought to be.

That this is unjust, in some instances, is certain. We have known ladies of superior talents and education, who have made the stage their profession, under the immediate guardianship of their parents, that they might retrieve the fortunes of their fathers, and support the younger branches of their family in a necessary course of education. The tribute to these ladies from justice, ought to be reverential respect and praise.

The knowledge we all have of the character of an audience at a theatre-the mingled character, in which so much of the baser material preponderates-the conviction that the plaudits of a play

house are sought with avidity-almost valued as the supreme good by many, and boasted of by the individuals, as "I got three rounds"- "the pit rose to me." The certainty that the actress must come in contact with (and the world knows not how intimately) those of the same profession of both sexes known to be impure, although of equal or superior talent to herself on the same stage-behind those mysterious curtains and scenes—in those dark recesses, of which the secluded matron, or even the dashing woman of fashion, knows no more than she does of the world beyond the grave-the knowledge of these circumstances, and the considerations and impressions flowing from this knowledge--all these items ever did, and still do, make the world pause and hesitate and feel shy and queer, when required to associate with an actress, however much it may admire the skill or talents of the individual.

Spiffard had not thought of all this before his marriage. As a boy, in Boston, he only saw the stage to admire; in England, he had only seen the bright side of the picture which the drama exhibits. He was pure himself, and void of suspicion in a degree that exposed him to ridicule. He knew nothing of the higher class of English society, except as represented in books, and he knew that actresses were admitted amongst the nobles of the land, and even united in marriage with them. Now that he was married to an actress of talents, he was at first surprised to find, that his wife was considered of an inferior caste by those who applauded her; and that, although they invited him to their parties, his domestic partner was not thought of as his and their companion. He had made other discoveries not less inimical to his peace; and although he had no wish to lead Mrs. Spiffard into the drawing-room of Doctor Cadwallader, or any other magnate of the city, he felt that where his wife was doomed to linger, he ought to remain ; and that, content or not, he must rest with her. They were united for better for worse. It was worse than he expected—it will happen so sometimes-he hoped to make it better. He had chosen, and chose to abide by his choice.

Such was the ground Spiffard took in respect to receiving the invitations of those who admired his talents and those of his wife-invited him and neglected her. He therefore accepted no invitations. But in the present instance, Cooke prevailed upon him to go with him, as his protector from himself.

The

physicians urged him to comply. The tragedian at length refused to go without him, calling him his mentor, his guardian, and promising to be guided by him. The water-drinker was