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* I will see her to-day.”
* But, Emma, does not the knowledge that I am the son of such a father, change your feelings towards me, whom you have heretofore considered as the offspring of misfortune, allied to intelligence, virtue, honour, and religion; and now find that I am the son of one noted for vices and stained by cruelty to your friend and my mother!”
* If you had been educated by and lived with your father, such as you now describe him, I might fear to trust my fate to your guardianship; but I know that the virtues of your mother have been your inheritance; I trust myself to the son of Mrs. Johnson."
“ Of her, driven by him from her native land, home, friends; turned adrift, like Prospero, with a helpless infant, upon an unknown ocean !"
“ But, Henry, you were like the poet's Miranda, the protecting angel of your parent. You are still her support. You have saved your mother from want; and now you have saved your father's life. Indeed, I have not before known you."
“ That he is my father, must be a secret from all, but us three, Emma. He must not know it-the world must not know it. But I have more to communicate."
Henry recounted the circumstances attending his interview with Mr. Littlejohn ; and the young folks could not but rejoice in a futurity which was opening to them as bright as it was unexpected—lucrative employment bestowing independence on the son, consequent comfort, and perhaps health on the mother, and a matrimonial union promising every blessing that virtue can bestow on the deserving, or that sanguine youth can anticipate.
Hoat continucd. A sick-bed repentance.
* * * " The spirit's ladder,
That from the gross and visible world of dust,
Move up and down on heavenly ministries.”—Coleridge. " The love of wine, like the love of money, associates itself, and the means of its indulgence, with all things else in heaven and on earth.”-American Monthly Magazine.
• O'er the dread feast malignant chemia scowls,
" Their virtues else * * *
Shall in the general censure take corruption
ALTHOUGH Henry and Emma had escaped unscathed from the adventures of a winter's night and a snow-storm, not so the unfortunate, misdoing, George Frederick Cooke. He had taken that night a long step towards the grave. His friendly physicians, and his invaluable valetą or help, trustworthy Davenport, watched over him; and though his case had become desperate, and the water had found its way without the aid of the warm-bath, still the termination of his eventful and mispent life was delayed, as far as human means could turn off the dart of death, by medical skill, and by the unwearied attention of the faithful Yankee traveller, who, like his countryman, Spiffard, seemed to be attached to the old man from motives inex. plicable to mere worldlings.
Spiffard, as we have seen, had had his breakfast spoiled by receiving Captain John Smith's letter; and, as was expected by the writer, the letter was brought back to him by the unsophisticated Yankee. Allen received the document and read it with as much gravity as though he had not written it; then folded it, and said,
“ We shall of course hear from Mr. Beaglehole.”
Ay-do you know him ?” “ Yes, we all know him. He is a man of honour,” said = Allen; “ a fellow of spirit. Hops like a flea. Can beat any man in the country running on all fours."
“ Like a pig or an ass." “ Hands and feet against feet-arms and legs against legs." “ As a proof of his honour ?"
“O, he has proved that by shooting bis man,” said Allen. “ Hits a button ten times in succession-he is up to a button any day. If he has received Captain Smith's instructions, which he has no doubt, as the captain is a man of honour and it
" • All honourable men,'” thought Spiffard.
“ He will wait upon you, and, of course, you will refer him to me.” « Of course ?"
Certainly if I am to settle the business.” " I shall settle the business.” “ You will not apologize?" “ Certainly not."
Well—nothing more can be done till we hear from Mr. Beaglehole.”
Mr. Beaglehole was an agent for a Birmingham button- le maker. These agents are a class that in England are called i riders; but, when in this country, pass for gentlemen, and were, “thirty years ago," received as such by the simple folks of the day I am speaking of, and admired accordingly. They felt a great contempt for the natives, had money at command, (no matter whether their own or not) dressed well, fed well, drank hard, and gave a false impression upon Americans of the character of Englishmen. We now know better.
Spiffard left his friend Allen, who chuckled at the thought that the sport went “ bravely on,” and little thought of the misery he was preparing for others. Indeed it was not possible for him and his young companions to anticipate the consequences; although, when men of dissimilar habits become as ! sociates, evil may be predicted ; and, when truth is violated in jest, no good can arise from it. Truth, as well as temperance, " is a delicate wench." They are both strong, and the cause of strength in others; yet are they both very
obnoxious to injuries, and shrink from contact with their opposites, as if possessed of instinctive sensitiveness. The waterdrinker was not a fit companion for the disciples of Anacreon.
The business with Allen so far arranged, our hero turned his thoughts to the deplorable old man, who was a slave to the vices which truth and temperance abhor.
To explain the immediate cause of Cooke's terrible situation on the night of the storm, it is necessary to say, that he had on the previous day dined with one of his admirers in a large company, and indulged himself without restraint. He remained at table until all the revellers were gone, and his host, without difficulty, prevailed upon him to retire to a bed-chamber. He retired, but would not go to bed, demanding brandy, and abused his friend for not giving it. In attempting to leave the room, his host, by main force, prevented ; and, placing him on the side of the bed, thought he had prevailed upon him to remain quiet ; but, after he had left him, the wretched madman, when all the house was quiet, found his way out, and, without hat or over-coat, rushed into the street, where he wandered until oppressed by liquor, fatigue, and cold, he had sunk to sleep-the sleep of death.
Spiffard found him a sick and wretched penitent. He found that, although courted and feasted, when he could be exhibited as a curiosity, as a lion at the soiree or the dinner-table, he was, in his sick chamber, a poor abandoned solitary individual, left to reflect with remorse upon those vices which flatterers and admirers had encouraged for their own amusement; abandoned by all except his kind physicians and his trusty trustworthy Davenport. Under these circumstances, Spiffard's feelings prompted unwearied attention to the comfort of the unfortunate old man.
He had before, as the reader will remember, devoted himself to the same efforts. He had recounted the incidents of his former life for the sick man's amusement; but he had avoided
that circumstance which, perhaps, unknown to himself, impelled him to take such deep interest in the fate of one, whose conduct constantly reminded him of the miseries wbich similar self-inflicted madness had brought upon all his own family. Every good feeling of the young man kept him mute on the subject of his mother's failings. It was a source of mortification and grief which he cherished in secret. He looked upon his own fate as connected with it. He contemplated, in retrospect, the scenes of his youth, and their consequences, with fearful misgivings, as it respected the future.
Cooke had often reflected upon the earnest devotedness with which a youth and a water-drinker attached himself to an old man of habits so opposite to his own. He took this occasion to question him on the subject, and express his surprise. With that suavity of manner which distinguished him when he was not brutalized, he addressed Spiffard thus; at the same time raising himself in bed and leaning on his elbow.
“ More than once, before this, you have appeared to take a particular interest in me, at times, when by my unfortunate disease—or, as some would say, my wretched folly and propensity to debauchery-I have been prostrated thus on the bed of sickness and unavailing regret. I never met with any one before--yes, one !” He paused, turned his head aside, and wiped his eyes, by hastily, and as if to avoid being noticed, passing the shirt-sleeve of his right arm before them. He continued, “ I never met-with a man who appeared to take such interest in me.
Why is it?" Spiffard, if he had been conscious of the true causes, (which I doubt), was too delicate to avow them. But, although the images of his mother and his wife flitted before his mind's eye, he thought he answered sincerely when he said,
“ Surely, sir, admiration of superior talents, and the hope of rescuing them (you must pardon me) from a vice which you have suffered by degrees to assume a sway-a most despotie sway--over them, are sufficient motives to account for my conduct towards you."
" I do not know that. Your attention to me—your patience when I am harsh in speech-your firmness—your candour. all are very singular. No one else has treated me so. Yes, one ; but there firmness was wanting. I feel my obligation to you."
He grasped Spiffard's hand hurriedly-pressed it and then threw himself back upon his pillow. There was a minute's silence, Suddenly raising himself again to his former attitude,