CHAPTER XXVI.

In which Sheppard Lee reaches the darkest

period of his existence.

BOOK VI.

CONTAINING A HISTORY AND A MORAL.

CHAPTER I.

In which Sheppard Lee finds every thing black

about him.

CHAPTER II.

In which Sheppard Lee is introduced to his

master.

CHAPTER III.

An old woman's cure for a disease extremely

prevalent both in the coloured and uncoloured

creation.

CHAPTER IV.

Some account of Ridgewood Hill, and the

Author's occupations

CHAPTER V.

In which the Author further describes his

situation, and philosophizes on the state of

slavery.

CHAPTER VI.

Recollections of slavery.

CHAPTER VII.

A scene on the banks of the Potomac, with the

humours of an African improvisatore.

CHAPTER VIII.

The Author descends among the slaves, and

suddenly becomes a man of figure, and an

interpreter of new doctrines.

CHAPTER IX.

What it was the negroes had discovered among

the scantling.

CHAPTER X.

The effect of the pamphlet on its reader and

hearers.

CHAPTER XI.

The hatching of a conspiracy.

CHAPTER XII.

How the spoils of victory were intended to be

divided.

CHAPTER XIII.

The attack of the insurgents upon the mansion

at Ridgewood Hill.

CHAPTER XIV.

The tragical occurrences that followed.

CHAPTER XV.

The results of the insurrection, with a truly

strange and fatal catastrophe that befell the

Author.

CHAPTER XVI.

In which it is related what became of the Author

after being hanged.

BOOK VII.

WHICH IS INTENDED AS A PENDANT TO BOOK I., AND

CONTAINS THE HISTORY OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF

FORTUNE.

CHAPTER I.

Containing an inkling of the life and habits of

Mr. Arthur Megrim.

CHAPTER II.

The happy condition in which Sheppard Lee is at

last placed.

CHAPTER III.

The employments of a young gentleman of fortune.

CHAPTER IV.

Some account of the inconveniences of having a

digestive apparatus.

CHAPTER V.

The same subject continued, with an account of

several surprising transformations.

CHAPTER VI.

An account of the woes of an Emperor of France,

which have never before appeared in history.

CHAPTER VII.

In which Sheppard Lee is convinced that all is

not gold which glistens.

CHAPTER VIII.

In which the Author stumbles upon an old

acquaintance.

BOOK VIII.

CONTAINING THE CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY.

CHAPTER I.

Sheppard Lee flies from the German doctor, and

finds himself again in New-Jersey.

CHAPTER II.

What had happened at Watermelon Hill during the

Author's absence.

CHAPTER III.

Containing the substance of a singular debate

betwixt the Author and his brother, with a

philosophic defence of the Author's credibility.

CHAPTER IV.

Being the last chapter of all.

4. CHAPTER IV.

THE MISER'S CHILDREN.

It will scarcely be supposed that, with the passion of covetousness

gnawing at my heart, I had space or convenience for any other feeling.

But Abram Skinner had loved his children; and to this passion I was

introduced, as well as to the other. At first I was surprised that I

should bestow the least regard upon them, seeing that they were no

children of mine. I endeavoured to shake off the feeling of attachment,

as an absurdity, but could not; in spite of myself, I found my spirit

yearning towards them; and by-and-by, having lost my identity entirely,

I could scarcely, even when I made the effort, recall the consciousness

that I was _not_ their parent in reality.

Indeed, the transformation that had now occurred to my spirit was more

thorough than it had been in either previous instance; I could scarce

convince myself I had not been born the being I represented; my past

existence began to appear to my reflections only as some idle dream,

that the fever of sickness had brought upon my mind; and I forgot that

I was, or had been, Sheppard Lee.

Yes, reader, I was now Abram Skinner in all respects, and I loved his

children, as he had done before me. In entering his body, I became, as

I have mentioned repeatedly before, the subject of every peculiarity of

being that marked the original possessor: without which, indeed, the

great experiment my destiny permitted me to make of the comparative

good and evil of different spheres of existence, must have been made

in vain. What my prototype hated I was enforced to hate; what he loved

I found myself compelled in like manner to love. While moving in the

bodies of John H. Higginson and I. D. Dawkins, I do not remember that

I experienced any affection for anybody; which happened, doubtless,

because these individuals confined their affections to their own

persons. Abram Skinner, on the contrary, loved his children; which I

suppose was owing to their being the worst children that ever tormented

a parent. He loved them, and so did I; he pondered with bitterness over

the ingratitude of their tempers, and the profligacy of their lives,

and I--despite all my attempts to the contrary--did the same. I forgot,

at last, that I was not their parent, and my feelings showed me that I

was; and I found in the anguish that attacked my spirit, when I thought

of them, one of the modes in which Heaven visits with retribution the

worshipper of the false god of the country. When the votary of Mammon

has propitiated his deity, let him count the children he has sacrificed

upon his altar. Avarice, as well as wrath, sows the storm only to reap

the whirlwind.

I am growing serious upon this subject, but I cannot help it. This

portion of my history dwells on my remembrance with gloom; it keeps me

moralizing over the career of my neighbours. When I see or hear of a

man who is bending all his energies to the acquisition of a fortune,

and is already the master of his thousands, I ask, "What has become of

his sons?" or, "What _will_ become of them?"

With the affection for the children of Abram Skinner that took

possession of my mind, came also a persuasion, exceedingly painful,

that they were a triad of graceless, ungrateful reprobates; and, what

was worse, there was something whispered within me that much, if not

all, the evil of their lives and natures, was owing to the neglect in

which their parent, while engrossed with the high thought of heaping up

money, had allowed them to grow up. The consequences of this neglect I

felt as if it had been my own act.

The first pang was inflicted by the girl Alicia, and I felt it

keenly--not, indeed, that I had any particular parental affection

for her, as doubtless I should have had, had she not run away so

opportunely. On the contrary, a vague recollection of my amour, and

the inconstancy of her temper, caused my feelings in relation to her

to assume a very peculiar hue; so that I regarded her with sentiments

due as much to the jilted lover as the injured father. But what

chiefly afflicted me was the hint she had given in the postscript of

her letter, warning me of the fatal call to be made upon me, within

two months' space, to render up an account of my guardianship, and

surrender into the hands of that detestable Sammy Wilkins, my late

cousin, the rich legacy of her aunt Sally, which, being chiefly in real

estate, I--or rather my prototype before me--had, without anticipating

such a catastrophe, managed so prudently that it was now worth more

than double its original value. The thought filled me with such rage

and phrensy, that, had she been twice my daughter, I should have

rewarded her with execrations.

My quondam uncle, Mr. Samuel Wilkins of Wilkinsbury Hall, who, it

seems, received the girl as well as he afterward did his daughter's

husband, thought fit to pay me a visit, a week after my transformation,

to confer with me on the subject; and receiving no satisfaction, for I

was in a rage and refused to see him, sent me divers notes, proposing a

reconciliation betwixt myself and his daughter-in-law; and these being

cast into the fire, I received, in course of time, a letter from his

lawyer, or his son Sammy's, in which I was politely asked what were my

intentions in relation to settlement, and so forth, and so forth.

I received letters from the damsel also, but they went into the fire

like the others; and my rage waxing higher and higher as the time of

settlement drew nigh, I set myself to work to frame such a guardian's

account as would materially lessen the amount of my losses.

But all was in vain; the married Alicia was at last of age, and all I

could do was to fling the matter into the lawyers' hands, so as to keep

the money, the dear money, in my own as long as possible.

My reader may think this was not a very handsome or reputable way of

treating a daughter; but he must recollect I was in Abram Skinner's

body. The matter was still in suit when I departed from my borrowed

flesh; but I have no doubt the execrable Samuel Wilkins, Jr. got

possession of the legacy, as well as ten times as much to the back of

it.

But this, great as was the anguish the evil inflicted, was nothing

to the pangs I suffered on account of the two boys, Ralph and Abbot.

On these I showered--not openly, indeed, for I was crabbed enough of

temper, but in my secret heart--all the affection such a parent could

feel. But I showered it in vain; the seeds of evil example and neglect

had taken root; the prospect of wealth had long since turned brains

untempered by education and moral culture, and the parsimony of their

parent only drove them into profligacy of a more demoralizing species;

they were ruined in morals, in prospects, and in reputation; and while

yet upon the threshold of manhood, they presented upon their brows the

stamp of degradation and the warrant of untimely graves.

The younger, Abbot, had evidently been a favourite from his childhood

up, his temper being fierce and imperious, yet with an occasional dash

of amiableness, that showed what his disposition might have been, if

regulated by a careful and conscientious parent. He possessed a fine

figure, of which he was vain; and being of a gay and convivial turn,

there was the stronger propensity to dissipation, and greater fear of

the consequences. These were now lamentable enough; he was already

beyond redemption--a sot, and almost a madman.

The elder brother was a young man, to all appearance, of a saturnine

mood and staid habits; but this was in appearance only. He was the

associate of the junior in all his scenes of frolic, and an actor in

others of which, perhaps, Abbot never dreamed. A strong head and a

spirit of craft enabled him to conceal the effect of excesses which

sent his brother home reeling and raging with drunkenness. I knew his

habits well; and I knew that, besides being in a fairer way to the

grave--if not to the gallows--he was a hypocrite of the worst order;

his gravity being put on to cover a temper both fiery and malicious,

and his apparent correctness of habits being the mere cover to the most

scandalous irregularities. He was a creature all of duplicity, and wo

to the father who made him such!

The scene in the dying chamber of their father they never forgot,

though, perhaps, I might have done so. It drove the younger from all

attempts at pretended regard or concealment of his profligacy, and

was, I believe, the cause of his final ruin. He absconded, out of mere

shame, for a week, and then returned to put a bold or indifferent

face upon the matter, and to show himself as regardless of respect as

restraint.

The other, after concealing himself in like manner for a few days, came

to me, apparently in great contrition of spirit, and almost persuaded

me that his brutal conduct on that eventful evening arose rather from

grief than joy. He had been so much affected by my death, he assured

me, as scarce to know what he did when swallowing a glass of brandy

his brother gave him; that, he declared with half a dozen tears, had

set him crazy, and he knew not what he had done--only he recollected

something about going to the chamber, where, he believed, he had

behaved very badly; for which he begged my forgiveness, and hoped I

would not think his conduct was owing to any want of affection.

I had proof enough that the villain was telling me falsehoods, and I

knew that if either should, in a moment of soberness and compunction,

breathe a single sigh over my death-bed, he was not the one. In

truth, they were both bad; both, perhaps, irreclaimable; but while

the conduct of Abbot gave me most pain, that of Ralph filled me with

constant terror. Nothing but the daily excitement of speculation and

gain could have made tolerable an existence cursed by incessant griefs

and forebodings. It may be supposed that I frequently took the young

men to task for their excesses. I might as well have scolded the winds

for blowing, or the waters for running. It is true that Ralph heard me

commonly with great patience, and sometimes with apparent contrition;

but at times a scowl came over his dark features that frightened me

into silence; and once, giving way to his fierce temper, he told me

that if there was any thing amiss or disreputable in his conduct, it

was the consequence of mine; that I, instead of granting him the means

for reasonable indulgence, and elevating him to the station among

honourable and worthy men to which my wealth gave him a claim, and

which he had a right to expect of me, had kept him in a state of need

and vassalage intolerable to any one of his age and spirit.

As for Abbot, this kind of recrimination was a daily thing with him.

I scarce ever saw him except when inflamed with drink; and on such

occasions he was wont to demand money, which being denied, he would

give way to passion, and load me with reproaches still more bitter of

spirit and violent of expression than those uttered by Ralph. Nay, upon

my charging him with being an abandoned profligate and ruined man, he

admitted the fact, and swore that I was the author of his destruction;

that my niggardliness had deprived him of the opportunities that gave

other young men professions and independence; that I had brought him up

in idleness and ignorance, and, by still refusing him his rights, was

consigning him to infamy and an early grave.

Such controversies between us were common, and perhaps expedited the

fate that was in store for him, as well as his brother. I thought in my

folly to punish, and at the same time check his excesses, by denying

him all supplies of money, and by refusing to pay a single debt he

contracted. A deep gloom suddenly invested him; he ceased to return

home intoxicated, but stalked into and out of the house like a spectre,

without bestowing any notice upon me. The change frighted me; and, in

alarm lest the difficulties under which he might be placed were driving

him to desperation, I followed him to his chamber, with _almost_ the

resolution to relieve his wants, let them be what they might.

The absence of intoxication for several days in succession had induced

me to hope he had broken through the accursed bondage of drink, were it

only from rage and shame. But I was fatally mistaken. As I entered the

apartment I saw him place upon the table a large case-bottle of brandy,

which he had just taken from a buffet. He looked over his shoulder as

I stepped in, and, without regarding me, proceeded to pour a large

draught into a tumbler. His hand was tremulous, and, indeed, shook so

much, that the liquor was spilt in the operation.

I was shocked at the sight, and struck dumb; seeing which he laughed,

with what seemed to me as much triumph as derision, and said, "You see!

This is the way we go it. Your health, father. Come, help yourself;

don't stand on ceremony."

"_I_, Abbot!" said I, as he swallowed the vile potion; "have you

neither respect nor shame? I never drank such poison in my life!"

"The more is the pity," muttered the young man, but rather as if

speaking to himself than me; "I should have had the sooner and freer

swing of it."

"You mean if it had killed me, as it is killing you," said I, pierced

by the heartlessness of his expression. "Oh, Abbot! a judgment will

come upon you yet!"

He stared me in the face, but without making a reply. Then pushing a

chair towards me, he sat down himself, and deliberately filled his

glass a second time.

"Abbot! for Heaven's sake," said I, wringing my very hands in despair,

"_what_ will tempt you to quit this horrid practice?"

"_Nothing_," said he; "you have asked the question a month too late.

Look," he continued, pointing my attention again to his hand, shaking,

as it held the bottle, as if under the palsy of age; "do you know what

that means?"

"What does it mean?" said I, so confounded by the sight and his stolid

merriment (for he laughed again while exposing the fruit of his

degrading habit) that I scarce knew what I said.

"It means," said he, "that death is coming, to make equitable division

betwixt Ralph and Alicia--unless the devil, after all, should carry

them off before me; in which case you can build an hospital with your

money."

He swallowed the draught, and then, leaning on the table, buried his

face between his hands.

The sarcasm was not lost upon me, and the idea that he was about to

become the victim of a passion from which he might be wrested by a

sacrifice on my part, greatly excited my feelings.

"I will do any thing," said I; "_what_ shall I do to save you? Oh,

Abbot! can you not refrain from this dreadful indulgence? What shall I

do?"

He leaped upon his feet, and eyed me with a look full of wildness.

"Pay my debts," he cried; "pay my debts, and make me independent; and

I--_I'll try_."

"And what," said I, trembling with fear, "what sum will pay your debts?"

"Twenty thousand--_perhaps_," said he.

"Twenty thousand! what! twenty thousand dollars!" cried I, lost in

confusion.

"You won't, then?" said the reprobate.

"Not a cent!" cried I, in a fury. "How came you to owe such a sum? Do

you think I will believe you? How could you incur such a debt? What

have you been doing?"

"Gambling, drinking, and so forth, and so forth, twenty times over."

He snatched up the bottle, and, locking it in the buffet, deposited the

key in his pocket. Then seizing upon his hat, and stepping to where I

stood, transfixed with grief and indignation, he said,--"You won't

take the bargain, then?"

"Not a dollar, not a dime, not a cent!" said I.

"Not even to save my life, father?"

"Not a dollar, not a dime, not a cent!" I reiterated, incapable of

saying another word.

"Farewell then," said he, "and good luck to you! It is a declaration of

war, and now I'll keep no terms with you."

Then giving me a look that froze my blood, it was so furiously hostile

and vindictive, he struck his hands together, rushed from the house,

and I saw him no more for nearly a fortnight. I saw him no more, as I

said; but coming home the following evening from the club, I found my

strong-box broken open and rifled of the money that I left in it.

The sum was indeed but small, but the robbery had been perpetrated by

my own son; and the reader, if he be a father, will judge what effect

this discovery produced upon my mind. In good truth, I felt now that

I was the most wretched of human beings, and was reduced nearly to

distraction.

But this blow was but a buffet with the hand, compared with the

thunder-bolt that fate was preparing to launch against my bosom. I

cursed my miserable lot; yet it wanted one more stroke of misfortune to

sever the chain with which avarice still bound me to my condition.

5. CHAPTER V.

THE FATE OF THE FIRSTBORN.

On the eleventh day after the flight of Abbot, whom all my inquiries

failed to discover, as I was walking towards the exchange, torn by

my domestic woes, and by a threatened convulsion in stocks, which

concerned me very nearly, I met one of my companions of the club, who,

noting my disturbed countenance, drew me aside, and told me he was

sorry I had got my foot into the fire; but the club had last night

taken the matter into consideration, and agreed to stand by me, if it

were possible.

All this was heathen Greek to me; and I told my friend I was in no

trouble I knew of, and wanted no countenance from anybody.

"I am very glad to hear it," said he; "but what are you doing with so

much paper in the market? That's no good sign, you'll allow!"

I started aghast, and he proceeded to inform me that he had himself

seen two of my notes for considerable amounts, and had heard of others;

and, finally, that he had just, parted with the president (an intimate

friend of his) of a bank not a furlong off, who had asked divers

questions as to the state of my affairs, and admitted there was paper

of mine at that moment in the bank.

I was seized with consternation, assured him all such notes must be

forgeries; and running with him to the bank, demanded to see any paper

they had with my name to it. They produced two different notes for

large amounts, which I instantly declared to be counterfeit; and then

ran in search of others.

The hubbub created by this declaration was great, but the tumult in my

mind was greater. A horrid suspicion as to the author of the forgeries

entered my soul, and I became so deadly sick as to be unable to

prosecute the inquisition further. My friend deposited me in a coach,

and I was carried to my home, but in a condition more dead than alive.

My suspicions were in a few hours dreadfully confirmed by my friend,

who returned with the intelligence which he had acquired. The forger

was discovered and arrested--it was the elder brother, Ralph Skinner.

Words cannot paint the agony with which I flew to the magistrate's

office, and beheld the unfortunate youth in the hands of justice;

but what was my horror to discover the extent and multiplicity of

his frauds. The number of forgeries he had committed in his parent's

name was indeed enormous; and it seems he had committed them with the

intention of flying; for many of his guilty gains were found secreted

on his person. But even after so much had been recovered, the residue

to be refunded was appalling. The thought of making restitution drove

me almost to a phrensy, while the idea of seeing him carried to jail,

to meet the doom of a felon, was equally distracting. My misery was

read on my face; and some one present, perhaps with a motive of

humanity, cried out,

"Why persecute the young man? Here is his father, who acknowledges the

notes to be genuine."

"Ah," said the magistrate, "does he so? Why, then we have had much

foolish trouble for nothing."

I looked at the amount of the forgeries, a list of which some one put

into my hands.

"It is false," I cried; "I will not pay a cent!"

I cast my eyes upon Ralph. He reached over a table behind which he

stood, and waved his hand to and fro, as if, had he been nigh enough,

he would have buffeted me on the face. His look was that of a demon,

and he spat the foam from his lips, as if to testify the extremity of

hatred.

"Let him go," I cried; "I will pay it all!"

"You can undoubtedly do so, if you will," said the magistrate, who had

marked the malice that beamed from the visage of the young man; "but do

not dream that that will discharge the prisoner from arrest, or from

the necessity of answering the felony of which he now stands accused,

before a court and jury. The extent of the forgeries, and the temper

displayed by the accused, are such, that he must and shall abide the

fruits of his delinquency. He stands committed--officer, remove him."

I heard no more; my brain spun round and round, and I was again carried

insensible to my miserable dwelling.

6. CHAPTER VI.

THE CATASTROPHE OF A TRAGEDY OFTEN PERFORMED ON THE GREAT STAGE OF LIFE.

It may be supposed that the misery now weighing me to the earth was

as much as could be imposed upon me; but I was destined to find, and

that before the night was over, that misery is only comparative, and

that there is no affliction so positively great that greater may not

be experienced. In the dead of the night, when my woes had at last

been drowned in slumber, I was roused by feeling a hand pressing upon

my bosom; and, starting up, I saw, for there was a taper burning on a

table hard by, a man standing over me, holding a pillow in his hand,

which, the moment I caught sight of him, he thrust into my face, and

there endeavoured to hold it, as if to suffocate me.

The horror of death endowed me with a strength not my own, and the

ruffian held the pillow with a feeble and trembling arm. I dashed it

aside, leaped up in the bed, and beheld in the countenance of the

murderer the features of the long missing and abandoned son, Abbot

Skinner.

His face was white and chalky, with livid stains around the eyes and

mouth, the former of which were staring out of their orbits in a manner

ghastly to behold, while his lips were drawn asunder and away from his

teeth, as in the face of a mummy. He looked as if horror-struck at

the act he was attempting; and yet there was something devilish and

determined in his air, that increased my terror to ecstasy. I sprang

from the bed, threw myself on the floor, and, grasping his knees,

besought him to spare my life. There seemed indeed occasion for all my

supplications: his bloated and altered visage, the neglected appearance

of his garments and person, and a thousand other signs, showed that the

whole period of his absence had been passed in excessive toping, and

the murderous and unnatural act which he meditated manifested to what a

pitch of phrensy he had brought himself by the indulgence. As I grasped

his knees, he put his hand into his bosom, and drew out a poniard, a

weapon I had never before known him to carry; at the sight of which I

considered myself a dead man. But the love of life still prevailing, I

leaped up, and ran to a corner of the room, where I mingled adjurations

and entreaties with loud screams for assistance. He stood as if rooted

to the spot for a moment; then dropping his horrid weapon, he advanced

a few paces, clasped his hands together, fell upon his knees, and burst

into tears, and all the while without having uttered a single word. But

now, my cries still continuing, he exclaimed, but with a most wild and

disturbed look--"Father, I won't hurt you, and pray don't hurt _me_!"

By this time the housekeeper Barbara, having been alarmed by my

outcries, came into the chamber; and her presence relieving me of the

immediate fear of death, I gave vent to the horror that his unnatural

attempt on my life justly excited, and thus made the woman acquainted

with his baseness.

The poor old creature, who had always loved him, was greatly affected,

especially when, in reply to my reproaches, he began to talk

incoherently, admitting the fact, one instant attempting to justify

it by preferring some strange and incoherent complaint, and the next

assuring me, in the most piteous manner, that he would do me no harm.

To Barbara's upbraidings he replied with a like inconsistency; and when

she reproached him for meditating violence at such a moment, while I

was mourning the baseness of his brother, he paid little attention to

what she said, seeming not only ignorant of Ralph's delinquency, but

apparently indifferent to it.

For this reason I began to fear his brain was touched; of which,

indeed, I had soon the most fatal proof; for Barbara, having led him

to his chamber, came back, assuring me that he was going mad, that

his mind was already in a ferment, and, in a word, that that horrible

distraction which sooner or later overtakes the confirmed drinker,

was lighting the torch in his brain that could only go out with life

itself. A physician was sent for: our fears were but too just, and

before dawn the miserable youth was raving distracted.

The day that followed was one of distraction, not only to the wretched

Abbot, but to myself; and I remember it as a confused dream. The

only thing that dwells on my recollection, apart from the outcries

in Abbot's chamber and the tumult in my own heart, is, that some one

who owed me a sum of money, due that day, came and paid it into my

hands with great punctiliousness, and that I received and wrote the

acquittance for it with as much accuracy as if nothing were the matter,

though my thoughts were far from the subject before me.

At eleven o'clock at night a messenger came to me from the prison,

and his news was indeed frightful. The wretched Ralph had just been

discovered with his throat cut from ear to ear, having made way with

himself in despair.

A few moments after I was summoned to the death-bed of his brother.

I shall never forget the horror of that young man's dissolution. He

lay, at times, the picture of terror, gazing upon the walls, along

which, in his imagination, crept myriads of loathsome reptiles, with

now some frightful monster, and now a fire-lipped demon, stealing out

of the shadows and preparing to dart upon him as their prey. Now he

would whine and weep, as if asking forgiveness for some act of wrong

done to the being man is most constant to wrong--the loving, the

feeble, the confiding; and anon, seized by a tempest of passion, the

cause of which could only be imagined, he would start up, fight, foam

at the mouth, and fall back in convulsions. Once he sat up in bed, and,

looking like a corpse, began to sing a bacchanalian song; on another

occasion, after lying for many minutes in apparent stupefaction, he

leaped out of bed before he could be prevented, and, uttering a yell

that was heard in the street, endeavoured to throw himself from the

window.

But the last raving act of all was the most horrid. He rose upon his

knees with a strength that could not be resisted, caught up his pillow,

thrust it down upon the bed with both hands, and there held it, with

a grim countenance and a chuckling laugh. None understood the act but

myself: no other could read the devilish thoughts then at work in his

bosom. It was the scene enacted in the chamber of his parent--he was

repeating the deed of murder--he was exulting, in imagination, over a

successful parricide.

In this thought he expired; for while still pressing upon the pillow

with a giant's strength, he suddenly fell on his face, and when turned

over was a corpse. He gave but a single gasp, and was no more.

The horror of the spectacle drove me from the chamber, and I ran to

my own to fall down and die; when the blessed thought entered my

mind, that the wo on my spirit, the anguish, the distraction, were

but a dream--that my very existence, as the miser and broken-hearted

father, was a phantasm rather than a reality, since it was a borrowed

existence--and that it was in my power to exchange it, as I had done

other modes of being, for a better. I was Sheppard Lee, not Abram

Skinner; and this was but a voluntary episode in my existence, which I

was at liberty to terminate.

The thought was rapture. I resolved to sally out and fasten upon the

first body I could find, being certain I could be in none so miserable

as I had been in that I now inhabited. Nay, the idea was so agreeable,

the execution of it seemed to promise such certain release from a load

of wretchedness, that I resolved to attempt it without even waiting for

morning.

I seized upon my hat and cloak, and, for fear I might stumble into some

poor man's body, as I had done in the case of Dawkins's, I opened my

strong-box, and clapped into my pockets all the money it contained,

designing to take precautionary measures to transfer it along with my

spirit to the new tenement. I seized upon the loaned money that had

been repaid that day, together with a small sum that had been in the

box before; and, had there been a million in the coffer, I should have

nabbed it all, without much question of the right I actually possessed

in it. The whole sum was small, not exceeding four hundred dollars, all

being in bank-bills. I should have been glad of more, but was too eager

to exchange my vile casing, with its miseries, for a better, to think

of waiting till bank-hours next day.

Taking possession, therefore, of this sum, and a dozen silver spoons

that had been left in pledge a few days before, I hastened to put my

plan into execution. I slipped down stairs, let myself out of the door

as softly as if I had been an intruder, and set out, in a night of

February, to search for a new body.

7. CHAPTER VII.

IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT A MAN MAY BE MORE USEFUL AFTER DEATH THAN

WHILE LIVING.

The reflection that I possessed the power (already thrice successfully

exercised) to transfer my spirit, whenever I willed it, from one

man's body to another, and so get rid of any afflictions that might

beset me, was highly agreeable, and, under the present circumstances,

consolatory. But there was one drawback to my satisfaction; and that

was a discovery which I now made, that men's bodies were not to be

had every day, at a moment's warning. This was the more provoking,

as I knew there was no lack of them in the world, between eighty and

ninety thousand men, women, and children having given up the ghost in

the natural way that very day, whose corses would be on the morrow

consigned to miserable holes in the earth, where they could and would

be of no service to any person or persons whatever, the young doctors

only excepted.

And here I cannot help observing, that it is an extremely absurd

practice thus to dispose of--to squander and throw away, as I may call

it--the hosts of human bodies that are annually falling dead upon our

hands; whereas, with the least management in the world, they might be

converted into objects of great usefulness and value.

According to the computation of philosophers, the population of the

world may be reckoned in round numbers at just one thousand millions;

of which number the annual mortality, at the low rate of three in

a hundred, is thirty millions--and that without counting the extra

million or two knocked on the head in the wars. Let us see what benefit

might be derived from a judicious disposition of this mountain of

mortality--I say mountain, for it is plain such a number of bodies

heaped together would make a Chimborazo. The great mass of mankind

might be made to subserve the purpose for which nature designed them,

namely--to enrich the soil from which they draw their sustenance.

According to the economical Chinese method, each of these bodies could

be converted into five tons of excellent manure; and the whole number

would therefore produce just one hundred and fifty millions of tons;

of which one hundred and fifty thousand, being their due proportion,

would fall to the share of the United States of America, enabling

our farmers, in the course of ten or twelve years, to double the

value of their lands. This, therefore, would be a highly profitable

way of disposing of the mass of mankind. Such a disposition of their

bodies would prove especially advantageous among American cultivators

in divers districts, as a remedy against bad agriculture, and as

the only means of handing down their fields in good order to their

descendants. Such a disposition of bodies should be made upon every

field of victory, so that dead heroes might be made to repair some

of the mischiefs inflicted by live ones. The English farmers, it is

well known, made good use of the bones left on the field of Waterloo;

and though they would have done much better had they carried off the

flesh with them, they did enough to show that war may be reckoned a

good as well as an evil, and a great battle looked upon as a public

blessing. A similar disposition (to continue the subject) of their

mortal flesh might be, with great propriety, required, in this land,

of all politicians and office-holders, from the vice-president down to

the county collector; who, being all patriots, would doubtless consent

to a measure that would make them of some use to their country. As for

the president, we would have him reserved for a nobler purpose; we

would have him boiled down to soap, according to the plan recommended

by the French chymists, to be used by his successor in scouring the

constitution and the minds of the people.

In this manner, I repeat, the great bulk of human bodies could be

profitably appropriated; but other methods should be taken with

particular classes of men, who might claim a more distinguished and

canonical disposition of their bodies. The rich and tender would esteem

it a cruelty to be disposed of in the same way with the multitude. I

would advise, therefore, that their bodies should be converted into

_adipocire_, or spermaceti, to be made into candles, to be burnt at the

tops of the lamp-posts; whereby those who never shone in life might

scintillate as the lights of the public for a week or two after. Their

bones might be made into rings and whistles, for infant democrats to

cut their teeth on.

The French and Italian philosophers, as I have learned from the

newspapers, have made sundry strange, and, as I think, useful

discoveries, in relation to the practicability of converting the human

body into different mineral substances. One man changes his neighbour's

bones into fine glass; a second turns the blood into iron; while a

third, more successful still, transforms the whole body into stone. If

these things be true, and I have no reason to doubt them, seeing that

I found them, as I said before, in the newspapers, they offer us new

modes of appropriation, applicable to the bodies of other interesting

classes. Lovers might thus be converted into jewels, which, although

false, could be worn with less fear of losing them than happens with

living inamoratos; or, in case of extreme grief on the part of the

survivers, into looking-glasses, where the mourners would find a solace

in the contemplation of their own features. The second process, namely,

the conversion of blood into iron, would be peculiarly applicable in

the case of soldiers too distinguished to be cast into corn-fields;

and, indeed, nothing could be more natural than that those whose blood

we buy with gold, should pay us back our change in iron. The last

discovery could be turned to equal profit, and would do away with the

necessity of employing statuaries in all cases where their services are

now required. But I would confine the process of petrifaction to those

in whom Nature had indicated its propriety by beginning the process

herself. None could with greater justice claim to have their bodies

turned into stone, than those whose hearts were of the same material;

and I should propose, accordingly, that such a transformation of bodies

should be made only in the case of tyrants, heroes, duns, and critics.

But this subject, though often reflected on, I have had no leisure to

digest properly. For which reason, begging the reader's pardon for the

digression, I shall now leave it, and resume my story.

8. CHAPTER VIII.

SHEPPARD LEE'S SEARCH FOR A BODY.--AN UNCOMMON INCIDENT.

I was provoked, I say, to think there were so many millions of dead

bodies thrown away every year, for which I, in the greatest of my

difficulties, should be none the better. Such was the extremity

to which I was reduced, that I should have been content to change

conditions with a beggar.

It was a night in February. The day had been uncommonly fine, with a

soft southern air puffing through the streets; the frost was oozing

from the pavement, and the flags--I beg their pardon, the bricks--were

floating in the yellow mud, so that one walked as if upon a foundation

of puddings. Such had been the state of things in the day; such also as

late as at nine o'clock P. M.

But it was now eleven; the wind had chopped round to the northwest and

northeast, and perhaps some half a dozen other points beside, for it

seemed to blow in all directions, and the thermometer was galloping

downward towards zero. A savage snow-storm had just set in, and with

such sharp and piercing gusts of wind, and such fierce rattling of

hail, that, had not my mind been in a ferment, I should have hesitated

to expose myself to its fury. But I reflected that I was flying from wo

and terror; and the hope of diving into some body that might introduce

me to a life of sunshine, rendered me insensible to the rigours of the

tempest.

Having stumbled about in the snow for a while, I began to inquire of

myself whither I was going; and the answer, or rather the want of an

answer, somewhat confounded me. Where was I to look for a dead body,

at such a time of night? It occurred to me I had better refer to a

newspaper, and see what persons had lately died in town and were yet

unburied. I stepped accordingly into a barber's shop, that happened

to be open, and snatched up an evening paper. The first paragraph I

laid my eyes on contained an account of the forgeries of my son, Ralph

Skinner. It was headed _Unheard-of Depravity_, and it blazoned, in

italics and capitals, the crime, the unnatural crime of committing

frauds in the name of a father.

The shock with which I beheld the fatal publication renewed my horror,

and sharpened my desire to end it. I threw down the paper, without

consulting the column of obituaries, and ran towards the Hospital,

where, it appeared to me, I should certainly find one or more bodies

which the doctors had no longer occasion for. But my visit was at

a highly unseasonable hour, and the porter, being knocked out of a

comfortable nap, got up in an ill humour. "Whose cow's dead _now_?" I

heard him grumble from his lodge--"I wonder people can't break their

necks by daylight!"

But my neck was not broken; and he listened to my eager

inquiry--"whether there were no dead bodies in the house?"--with rage

and indignation.

"I tell you what, mister," said he, "we takes no mad people in here,

except they comes the regular way."

And with that he shut the door in my face, leaving me to wonder at his

want of civility.

But the air was growing more frigid every moment, and the hour was

waxing later and later. I ran to the Alms-house, not doubting, as that

was a more democratic establishment, that I should be there received

with greater respect. But good-breeding is not a whit more native to a

leather shirt than to a silk stocking. My Cerberus here was cut from

the same flint as the other; his civility had been learned in the same

school, and his English studied from the same grammar.

"I tell you what, uncle Barebones," said he, without waiting to be

questioned, "we takes no paupers here, except they comes with an order."

And so saying, he slapped to the door with an energy that dislodged

from the roof of his den a full hundred weight or more of snow, which

fell in my face, and had wellnigh smothered me.

The case began to look desperate; but the difficulty of finding what I

wanted only rendered my wits more active. I resolved to run to one of

the medical schools, make my way into its anatomical repositories, and

help myself to the best body I could find; for, indeed, I was in such a

rage of desire to be released from my present tenement, that I did not

design to stand upon trifles.

I set out accordingly, with this object in view; but fate willed I

should seek my fortune in another quarter.

The storm had by this time begun to rage with uncommon violence;

the winds were blowing like so many buglers and trumpeters on a

militia-day, and the snow that had already fallen was whisked up

every moment from the ground, and driven back again into the air, to

mingle in contention with that which was falling. The atmosphere was

thickened, or rather wholly displaced, by the whirling particles, so

that, in a short time, the wayfarer could neither see nor breathe in

the white chaos around him. It was, in truth, a savage, inclement

night. The watchman betook him to his box, to snooze away the hours in

comfort; the lamps went out, being of a spirit still more economical

than their founders, and thinking, with great justice, that the streets

which could do with them, could do equally well without them; the dogs

were no longer heard yelping at the corners; and the pigs--the only

spectres of Philadelphia--that run squeaking and gibbering up and down

the streets in the night, to vanish at early cock-crowing, provided the

hog-catchers are in commission, were one by one retreating to their

secret strongholds, leaving the street to solitude, the snow-storm, and

me.

I plodded on as well as I could, and with such effect, that, after a

quarter hour's trudging, I knew not well whither, I stopped at last,

I knew as little where. Instead of being in the heart of the city, as

I supposed, I found myself somewhere in the suburbs, wedged fast in a

snow-drift. One single lamp, and one single wick of that single lamp,

had escaped the puffs of the tempest; it shone from aloft, through the

rack of snow, like a fire-fly in a fog, dividing its faint beam betwixt

my frozen visage and a low open shed hard by, the only objects, beside

itself, that were visible.

I perceived that I was lost; and being more than half dead with cold, I

dragged myself into the shed, to shelter me from the fury of the storm,

and lament the ill fate that attended my efforts.

As I stepped into the wretched hole, I stumbled over a man lying coiled

up on the ground, and so exposed to the air that his legs were already

heaped over with snow. There was just light enough to discern a black

jug lying broken at his side, from which arose the odour of corn-juice,

but by no means of the true Monongahela savour.

I was struck by the fellow's appearance; he had evidently been lying

there all the evening; the stumble I had made over him did not disturb

him in the least, and my hand chancing to touch his face, I found it

could as marble. I perceived he was dead; a discovery that filled me

with uncommon joy; for my eagerness to change my condition was such,

that I only saw in him a body to be taken possession of, without

reading in the broken jug, and the miserable corner in which its victim

had breathed his last, the newer wretchedness and degradation upon

which I was rushing. Such is the short-sightedness of discontent; such

the folly of the man who deems himself the unluckiest of his species.

With a trembling hand I thrust into the pockets of the corse the money

and the silver spoons I had brought with me, being so far prudent that

I was resolved not to trust the transfer of such valuables to my new

body to accident. This being accomplished, I uttered the wish that had

thrice served my turn before.

I wished, however, in vain; I muttered the charm a dozen times over,

but with no more effect than if I had pronounced it to the lamp-post.

The body lay unmoved, and I remained unchanged.

I became horribly disconcerted; a fear seized me that my good angel, if

I had ever had one, had deserted me; or that the devil, if it was from

him I derived my power of passing from body to body, had suddenly left

me in the lurch;--in a word, that I had consumed all my privileges of

transformation, and was chained to the body of Abram Skinner for life.

I beat my breast in despair, and then, changing from that to wrath, I

began to belabour the ribs of the dead man with all the strength of my

foot, as if he were answerable for my disappointment. Perhaps, indeed,

the reader will think that he _was_; for at the third kick the corpse

became animated, and to my astonishment rose upon its feet, saying, in

accents tolerably articulate, though somewhat thick and tumultuous,

"I say, Charlie, odd rabbit it, none on your jokes now, and none on

your takin of folks up; 'cause how, folks is not half so drunk as you

suppose. And so good night, and let's have no more words about it, and

I'll consider you werry much of a gentleman."

With these words the corpse picked up that fragment of the jug that had

the handle to it, leaving the others, as well as his hat, behind him;

and staggering out of the shed, he began to walk away. I was petrified;

he was stalking off with my money, and a dozen of Mrs. Smith's silver

spoons!

"You villain!" said I, running after him, "give me back my property."

"I'm a free man," said the sot; "I'm no man's property. And so,

Charlie, don't go for to disturb me, for I knows my way home as well as

anybody."

"But the four hundred dollars and the silver spoons," said I, seizing

him by the shoulders, and endeavouring to empty the pockets I had but a

moment before filled. "If you resist, you rogue, I'll put you in jail."

"I won't go to jail for no Charlie in the liberty," said the man of

the jug, who to the last moment seemed to have no other idea than

that he had fallen into the hands of a guardian of the night, and was

in danger of being introduced to warmer quarters than those he was

leaving. He spoke with the indignation of a freeborn republican, who

felt his rights invaded, and was resolute to defend them; and, lifting

up the fragment of his jug, he suddenly bestowed it upon my head with

such good-will that I was felled to the earth. He took advantage of my

downfall to decamp, carrying with him the treasure with which I had so

bountifully freighted him. I pursued him as well as I could, calling

upon the watch for assistance, and shouting murder and robbery at the

top of my voice. But all was in vain; the watch were asleep, or I had

wandered beyond their jurisdiction; and after a ten minutes' chase I

found myself more bewildered than before, and the robber vanished with

his plunder.

9. CHAPTER IX.

IN WHICH THE AUTHOR MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A PHILANTHROPIST.

I should have cursed my simplicity in mistaking a drunkard for a dead

man; but I had other evils to distress me besides chagrin. I was lost

in a snow-storm, fainting with fatigue, shivering with cold, and afar

from assistance, there not being a single house in sight. It was in

vain that I sought to recover my way; I plunged from one snow-bank into

another; and I believe I should have actually perished, had not succour

arrived at a moment when I had given over all hopes of receiving it.

I had just sunk down into a huge drift on the roadside, where I lay

groaning, unable to extricate myself, when a man driving by in a chair,

hearing my lamentations, drew up, and demanded, in a most benevolent

voice, what was the matter.

"Who art thou, friend?" said he, "and what are thy distresses? If thou

art in affliction, peradventure there is one nigh at hand who will

succour thee."

"I am," said I, "the most miserable wretch on the earth."

"Heaven be praised!" said the stranger, with great devoutness of

accent; "for in that case I will give thee help, and the night shall

not pass away in vain. Yea, verily, I will do my best to assist thee;

for it is both good and pleasant, a comeliness to the eye and a

refreshment to the spirit, to do good deeds among those who are truly

wretched."

"And besides," said I, "I am sticking fast in the snow, and am

perishing with cold."

"Be of good heart, and hold still for a moment, and I will come to thy

assistance."

And with that honest Broadbrim (for such I knew by his speech he must

be) descended from the chair, and helped me out of the drift; all which

he accomplished with zeal and alacrity, showing not more humanity, as

I thought, than satisfaction at finding such a legitimate object for

its display. He brushed the snow from my clothes, and perceiving I was

shivering with cold, for I had lost my cloak some minutes before, he

transferred one of his own outer garments, of which, I believe, he had

two or three, to my shoulders, plying me all the time with questions

as to how I came into such a difficulty, and what other griefs I might

have to afflict me, and assuring me I should have his assistance.

"Hast thou no house to cover thy nakedness?" he cried; "verily, I will

find thee a place wherein thou shalt shelter thyself from snow and

from cold. Art thou suffering from lack of food? Verily, there is a

crust of bread and the leg of a chicken yet left in my basket of cold

bits, and thou shalt have them, with something further hereafter. Hast

thou no family or friends? Verily, there are many humane persons of my

acquaintance who will, like myself, consider themselves as thy brothers

and sisters. Art thou oppressed with years as well as poverty? Verily,

then thou hast a stronger claim to pity, and it shall be accorded thee."

He heaped question upon question, and assurance upon assurance, with

such haste and fervour, that it was some minutes before I could speak.

I took advantage of his first pause to detail the latest, and, at that

moment, the most oppressive of my griefs.

"I have been robbed," I cried, "of four hundred dollars, and a dozen

silver spoons, by a rascal I found lying drunk under a shed. But I'll

have the villain, if it costs me the half of his plunder, and--"

"Be not awroth with the poor man," said my deliverer. "It was a

wickedness in him to rob thee; but thou shouldst reflect how wickedness

comes of misery, and how misery of the inclemency of the season. Be

merciful to the wicked man, as well as to the miserable; for thereby

thou showest mercy to him who is doubly miserable. But how didst thou

come by four hundred dollars and a dozen silver spoons? Thou canst not

be so poor as to prove an object of charity?"

"No," said I, "I am no beggar. But I won't be robbed for nothing."

"Verily, I say unto thee again, be not awroth with the poor man. Thou

shouldst reflect, if thou wert robbed, how far thou wast thyself the

cause of the evil; for, having four hundred dollars about thee, thou

mightst have relieved the poor creature's wants; in which case thou

wouldst have prevented both a loss and a crime--the one on thy part,

the other on his. Talk not, therefore, of persecuting the poor man;

hunt him up, if thou canst, administer secretly to his wants, and give

him virtuous counsel; and then, peradventure, he will sin no more."

I was struck by the tone and maxims of my deliverer; they expressed an

ardour of benevolence, an enthusiasm of philanthropy, such as I had

never dreamed of before. I could not see his face, the night being

so thick and tempestuous; but there was a complacency, a bustling

self-satisfaction in his voice, that convinced me he was not only a

good, but a happy man. I regarded him with as much envy as respect;

and a comparison, which I could not avoid mentally making, betwixt his

condition and my own, drew from me a loud groan.

"Art thou hurt?" said the good Samaritan. "I will help thee into my

wheeled convenience here, and take thee to thy home."

"No," said I, "I will never go near that wretched house again."

"What is it that makes it wretched?" said the Quaker.

"You will know, if you are of Philadelphia," I replied, "when I tell

you my name. I am the miserable Abram Skinner."

"What! Abram Skinner, the money-lender?" said my friend, with a severe

voice. "Friend Abram, I have heard of thy domestic calamities, and

verily I have heard of those of many others, who laid them all at

thy doors, as the author and cause thereof. Thou art indeed the most

wretched of men; but if thou thinkest so thyself, then is there a hope

thou mayst be yet restored to happiness. Thou hast made money, but

what good hast thou done with it? thou hast accumulated thy hundreds,

and thy thousands, and thy tens of thousands--but how many of thy

fellow-creatures hast thou given cause to rejoice in thy prosperity?

Truly, I have heard much said of thy wealth, and thy avarice, friend

Abram; but, verily, not a word of thy kind-heartedness and charity: and

know, that goodness and charity are the only securities against the

ills, both sore and manifold, that spring from groaning coffers. I say

to thee, friend Abram, hast thou ever given a dollar in alms to the

poor, or acquitted a single penny of obligation to the hard-run of thy

customers?"

My conscience smote me--not, however, that I felt any great remorse

for not having thrown away my money in the way the Quaker meant: but

his words brought a new idea into my mind. It was misery on the one

hand, and the hope of arriving at happiness on the other, which had

spurred me from transformation to transformation. Each change had,

however, been productive of greater discontent than the other; and the

woes with which I was oppressed in my three borrowed bodies, had been

even greater than those that afflicted me in my own proper original

casing. It was plain that I had not exercised a just discretion in the

selection of bodies, since I had taken those of men whose modes of

existence did not dispose to happiness. What mode of existence then was

most likely to secure the content I sought? Such, I inferred from the

Quaker's discourse, as would call into operation the love of goodness

and of man--such as would cause to be cultivated the kindly virtues

unknown to the selfish--such as would lead to the practice of charity

and general philanthropy. I was grieved, therefore, that I had entered

so many bodies for nothing; my conscience accused me of a blunder; and

I longed to enter upon an existence of virtue; not that I had any great

regard for virtue itself, but because I valued my own happiness. Had my

deliverer chanced to break his neck while discoursing to me, I should

have reanimated his corse, to try my hand at benevolence. As for being

good and charitable in the body I then occupied, I felt that it was

impossible: the impulse pointed to another existence.

The Quaker's indignation soon abated; he looked upon my silence as the

effect of remorse, and the idea of converting me into an alms-giver and

a friend of the poor, like himself, took possession of his imagination,

and warmed his spirit. By such a conversion his philanthropic desires

would be doubly gratified; it would make _me_ happy, and, as I was

a rich man, some hundreds of others also. He helped me into the

chair, and driving slowly towards the city, attempted the good work

by describing the misery so prevalent in the suburbs, and dilating

with uncommon enthusiasm upon the delight with which every act of

benevolence would be recorded in my own bosom.

It seems that he was returning from a mission of charity in one of

the remotest districts, where he had relieved the necessities of

divers unhappy wretches; and, he gave me to understand, it was his

purpose to make one more charitable visitation before returning home,

notwithstanding the lateness of the hour and the fury of the tempest.

And this visit he felt the more urged to make, since it would afford a

practical illustration of his remarks, and show how doubly charity was

blessed, both to the giver and receiver.

"Thou shalt see," said he, "even with thine own eyes, what power he

that hath money hath over the afflictions of his race--what power to

dry the tear of the mourning, and to check the wicked deeds of the

vicious. He that I will now relieve is what thou didst foolishly call

thyself--to wit, the most miserable of men; for he is both a beggar and

a convicted felon, having but a few days since been discharged from the

penitentiary, where he had served out his three years, for, I believe,

the third time in his life."

"Surely," said I, "he is then a reprobate entirely unworthy pity."

"On the contrary," said the philanthropist, "he is for that reason the

more to be pitied, since all regard him with distrust and abhorrence,

and refuse him the relief without which he must again become a

criminal: the very boys say to him, 'Get up, thou old jail-bird;' and

men and women hoot at him in the streets. Poverty made him a criminal,

and scorn has hardened his heart; yet is he a man with a soul; and

verily thou shalt see how that soul can be melted by the breath of

compassion. In this little hovel we shall find him," said the Quaker,

drawing up before a miserable frame building, which was of a most

lonely aspect, and in a terrible state of dilapidation, the windows

being without shutters and glasses, and even the door itself half torn

from its hinges.

"It is a little tenement that belongeth to me," said my friend; "and

here I told him he might shelter him, until I could come in person and

relieve him. A negro-man whom I permitted to live here for a while

did very ungratefully, that is to say, very thoughtlessly--destroy

the window-shutters, and other loose work, for fire-wood, I having

forgotten to supply him with that needful article, and he, poor man,

being too bashful to acquaint me with his wants. Verily I do design to

render it more comfortable; but in these hard times one cannot find

more money than sufficeth to fill the mouths of the hungry. Descend,

friend Abram, and let us enter. I see the poor man hath a fire shining

through the door; this will warm thy frozen limbs, while the sound

of his grateful acknowledgments will do the same good office for thy

spirit."

10. CHAPTER X.

CONTAINING AN AFFECTING ADVENTURE WITH A VICTIM OF THE LAW.

My benevolent friend, leaving his horse standing at the door, led the

way into the hovel, the interior of which was still more ruinous than

the outside. It consisted of but a single room below, with a garret

above. A meager fire, which furnished the only light, was burning on

the hearth, to supply which the planks had been torn from the floor,

leaving the earth below almost bare. There was not a single article

of furniture visible, save an old deal table without leaves, a broken

chair, and a tattered scrap of carpet lying near the fire, which seemed

to have served as both bed and blanket to the wretched tenant.

"How is this?" said the Friend, in surprise. "Verily I did direct my

man Abel to carry divers small comforts hither, which have vanished, as

well as the poor man, John Smith."

John Smith, it seems, was the name of the beneficiary, and that

convinced me he was a rogue. I ventured to hint to our common friend,

that John Smith, having disposed of those "small comforts" he spoke of

to the best advantage, was now engaged seeking others in some of our

neighbours' houses; and that the wisest thing we could do in such a

case would be to take our departure.

"Verily," said my deliverer, with suavity, "it is not possible John can

do the wicked things thou thinkest of; for, first, it is but three days

since he left the penitentiary, and secondly, I sent him by my helper

and friend, Abel Snipe, sufficient eatables to supply him a week; so

that he could have no inducement to do a wicked thing. Still it doth

surprise me that he is absent; nevertheless, we will tarry a little

while, lest peradventure he should return, and be in trouble, with none

to relieve him. It wants yet ten minutes to midnight," continued the

benevolent man, drawing out a handsome gold watch, "and five of these

at least we can devote to the poor creature."

I was about to remonstrate a second time, when a step was heard

approaching at a distance in the street.

"Peradventure it is John himself," said my friend; "and peradventure it

will be better thou shouldst step aside into yonder dark corner for an

instant, that thou mayst witness, without restraining by thy presence,

the feelings of virtue that remain in the spirit, even when tainted and

hardened by depravity."

I crept away, as I was directed, to a corner, where I might easily

remain unobserved, the room being illumined only by the fire, and that

consisting of little besides embers and ashes. From this place I saw

Mr. John Smith as he entered, which he declined doing until after he

had peeped suspiciously into the apartment, and been summoned by the

voice of his benefactor.

He was as ill-looking a dog as I had ever laid eyes on, and his

appearance was in strange contrast with that of his benevolent patron.

The latter was a tall and rawboned man of fifty, with an uncommonly

prepossessing visage; rather lantern-jawed, perhaps, but handsome and

good-natured. The other was a slouch of a fellow, short of stature,

but full of fat and brawn, with bow legs, gibbon arms, and a hang-dog

visage. He sidled up to the fire hesitatingly, and, indeed, with an air

of shame and humility; while the philanthropist, laying his watch upon

the table, extended his hand towards him.

"Be of good heart, friend John," he said; "I come, not to reproach thee

for thy misdeeds, but to counsel thee how thou shalt amend them, and

restore thyself again to the society of the virtuous."

"'Es, sir," grumbled John Smith, dodging his head in humble

acknowledgment, rubbing his hands for warmth over the fire, and

casting a sidelong look at his benefactor. "Werry good of you, sir;

shall ever be beholden. Werry hard times for one what's been in the

penitentiary--takes away all one's repurtation; and, Lord bless us,

sir, a man's but a ruined man when a man hasn't no repurtation."

And with that worthy John drew his sleeve over his nose, which

convinced me he was not so much of a rascal as I thought him.

"John, thou hast been but as a sinner and a foolish man."

"'Es, sir," said John, with another rub of his sleeve at his nose; "but

hard times makes hard work of a poor man. Always hoped to mend and be

wirtuous; but, Lord bless us, Mr. Longstraw (beg pardon--can't think of

making so free to say friend to such a great gentleman), one can't be

wirtuous with nothing to live on."

"Verily, thou speakest, in a measure, the truth," said my friend;

"and I intend thou shalt now be put in some way of earning an honest

livelihood."

"'Es, sir," said John; "and sure I shall be werry much beholden."

But it is not my intention to record the conversation of the worthy

pair. I am writing a history of myself, and not of other people; and

I therefore think it proper to pursue no discourses in which I did

not myself bear a part. It is sufficient to say, that my deliverer

said a thousand excellent things in the way of counsel, which the

other received very well, and many indicative of a disposition to be

charitable, which Mr. John Smith received still better; and in the end,

to relieve the pressing wants of the sufferer, which Mr. John Smith

feelingly represented, drew forth a pocketbook, and took therefrom a

silver dollar; at the sight of which, I thought, Mr. John Smith looked

a little disappointed. Nay, it struck me that the appearance of the

pocketbook, ancient and ill-looking as it was, had captivated his

imagination in a greater degree than the coin. I had before observed

him steal several affectionate looks towards the gold watch lying on

the table, which now, however, the sight of the well-thumbed wallet

seemed to have driven from his thoughts entirely. Nevertheless, he

received the silver dollar with many thanks, and with still more the

assurance that the philanthropist would procure him employment on the

morrow; and Mr. Longstraw's eyes, as he turned to beckon me from the

corner, began to twinkle with the delight of self-approbation.

I was myself beginning to feel a sentiment of pleasure, and to picture

to my mind the unfortunate felon, converted, by a few words of counsel,

and still fewer dollars of charity, into an honest and worthy member of

society, when--oh horror of horrors!--the repenting convict suddenly

snatched up a brand from the fire, and discharged it, with a violence

that would have felled an ox, full upon the head of his patron.

The sparks flew from the brand over the whole room, and my friend

dropped upon the floor on his face, followed by the striker, who,

seizing upon his cravat, twisted it tightly round the unfortunate man's

throat, thus completing by strangulation the murder more than half

accomplished by the below.

The whole affair was the work of an instant; and had I possessed

the will or courage to interfere, I could not have done so in time

to arrest the mischief. But, in truth, I had not the power to stir;

horror and astonishment chained me to the corner, where I stood as if

transformed to stone, unable even to vent my feelings in a cry. I was

seized with a terrible apprehension on my own account; for I could

not doubt that the wretch who would thus murder a benefactor for a

few dollars, would have as little hesitation to despatch me, who had

witnessed the deed. I feared every moment lest the villain should

direct his eye to the corner in which I stood, separated from him only

a few yards; but he was too busy with his horrid work to regard me;

and, terrified as I was, I looked on in safety while my deliverer was

murdered before my eyes.

How long Mr. John Smith was at his dreadful work I cannot say; but I

saw him, after a while, relax his grasp from his victim's throat, and

fall to rummaging his pockets. Then, leaping up, he seized upon the

watch, and clapped it into his bosom, saying, with a most devilish

chuckle and grin,

"Damn them 'ere old fellers what gives a man a dollar, and preaches

about wirtue! I reckon, old Slabsides, there's none on your people will

hang me for the smash. Much beholden to you for leaving the horse and

chair; it makes all safer."

With these words the wretch slipped out of the hovel, and a moment

after I heard the smothered roll of the vehicle as it swept from the

door.

11. CHAPTER XI.

IN WHICH THE PLOT THICKENS, AND THE TRAGEDY GROWS DEEPER.

I supposed that Mr. John Smith had taken himself away with as much

speed as was consistent with the strength of his horse and the safety

of his bones, and I recovered from the fears I had entertained on my

own account. I crept up to the philanthropist to give him assistance,

if such could be now rendered. But it was too late; he was already

dead: Mr. John Smith had not taken his degrees without proper study

in his profession; and I must say that his practice on the present

occasion did not go far to confirm me in the love of benevolence.

Nevertheless, the appearance of the defunct threw my mind into a

ferment. I had been hunting a body, and now I had one before me; I had

come to believe that, if I wished for happiness, I must get possession

of one whose occupant had previously been happy; and I had seen enough

of the deceased to know that he had been an uncommonly comfortable and

contented personage.

The end of all this was a resolution, which I instantly made, to

take advantage of the poor man's misfortune, and convert his body

to my own purposes. I had seen him for the first time that night; I

did not remember ever to have heard his name mentioned before; and I

consequently knew nothing of him beyond what I had just learned. Where

he lived, who were his connexions, what his property, &c. &c., were

all questions to which I was to find answers thereafter. It appeared

to me that a philanthropist of his spirit and age (the latter of which

I judged to be about fifty) could not but be very well known, and that

all I should have to do, after reanimating his body, would be to seek

the assistance of the first person I should find, and so be conducted

at once to the gentleman's house; after which all would go well enough.

But, in truth, I took but little time for reflection; or perhaps I

should not have been in such a hurry to attempt a transformation. A

little prudence might have led me to inquire into the consequences of

the change, inferred from the condition of the body. Suppose his scull

should prove to be broken; who was to stand the woes of trepanning? I

do say, it would have been wiser had I thought of _that_--but unluckily

I did not: I was in too great a hurry to think of any thing save the

transformation itself; and the result was, that I had a lesson on the

demerits of leaping before looking, which I think will be of service to

me for the remainder of my life, as it might be to the reader, could

the reader be brought to believe that that experience is good for any

thing, which costs nothing.

My resolution was quickened by a step which I heard approaching along

the street. "It is a watchman," thought I to myself: "I will jump into

the body and run out for assistance."

I turned to the defunct.

"Friend Longstraw," said I, "or whatever your name is, if you are

really dead, I wish to occupy your body."

That moment I lost all consciousness. The reader may infer the transfer

of spirit was accomplished.

And so it was. I came to my senses a few moments after, just in time

to find myself tumbling into a hole in the earth beneath the floor of

the hovel, with Mr. John Smith hard by, dragging to the same depository

the mortal frame I had just deserted. I perceived at once the horrible

dilemma in which I was placed; I was on the point of being buried, and,

what was worse, of being buried alive!

"I conjure and beseech thee, friend John Smith," I cried--but cried no

more. The villain had just reached the pit, dragging the body of the

late Abram Skinner. He was startled at my voice; but it only quickened

him in his labours. He snatched up the corse and cast it down upon me

as one would a millstone; and the weight, though that was not very

considerable, and the shock together, jarred the life more than half

out of me.

"What! old Slabsides," said he, "ar'n't you past grumbling?"

With that, the bloody-minded miscreant seized upon a fragment of plank,

and began to belabour me with all his strength.

I had entered the philanthropist's body only to be murdered. I uttered

a direful scream; but that was only a waste of the breath which Mr.

John Smith was determined to waste for me. He redoubled his blows with

a vigour that showed he was in earnest; nor did he cease until his work

was completed. In a word, he murdered me, and so effectually, that it

is a wonder I am alive to tell it. He assassinated me, and even began

to bury me, by tumbling earth down from the floor; when, as my good

fate would have it, the scene was brought to a climax by the sudden

entrance of a watchman, who, running up to the villain, served him the

same turn he had served me, by laying a leaded mace over his head, and

so knocking him out of his senses.

It seems (for I scorn to keep the reader in suspense, by indulging in

mystery) that this faithful fellow, having made a shorter nap than

was warranted by the state of the night, had taken a stroll into the

air, to look about him; that he had passed the hovel, and, seeing the

chair standing at the door, had looked through a crack, and perceived

Mr. Longstraw, with whose person and benevolent character he was

acquainted, and myself--that is, my late self--warming ourselves by the

convict's fire; and that, after pursuing his beat for a while, he was

about to return by another way, when, to his surprise, he lighted upon

the vehicle at more than a square's distance from the house; and the

horse being tied to a post, it was evident he had not strayed thither.

This awaking a suspicion that all was not right, he determined to pay

a second visit to the hovel; and was on the way thither when I set up

the scream mentioned before. Then quickening his pace, he arrived in

time to witness the awful spectacle of Mr. John Smith thrusting the two

bodies into the pit; which operation the courageous watchman brought to

a close by knocking the operator on the head, as I have related.

What had brought Mr. John Smith back again, and why he should have

troubled himself to conceal the victim of his murderous cupidity, must

be conjectured, as well as the amazement with which, doubtless, he

found he had _two_ bodies to bury instead of one. He perhaps reflected,

that the visit of his patron was known to other persons; who, upon

finding his body, would readily conjecture who was the murderer; and

therefore judged it proper to conceal the evidence of assassination,

and leave the fate of his benefactor in entire mystery.

As it happened, his return had wellnigh proved fatal to me, and it

was any thing but happy for himself. It caused him to take up his

lodgings for a fourth time in the penitentiary; and there he is sawing

stone, I believe, to this day, unless pardoned out by the Governor of

Pennsylvania, according to the practice among governors in general.

The visitation was, however, thus far advantageous to me, that it

caused me to be conducted to the dwelling of Mr. Longstraw with all

due expedition and care; whereas, had it not happened, I might have

remained lying on the floor of my miserable tenement until frozen to

death; for the night was uncommonly bitter.

As for my late body, it found its way to Abram Skinner's mansion;

whence, having been handsomely coffined, it was carried to the grave,

which, but for me, it would have filled three months before.

BOOK V.

CONTAINING THE ADVENTURES OF A GOOD SAMARITAN.

1. CHAPTER I.

THE PHILANTHROPIST'S FAMILY.

If my first introduction to the life of the philanthropic Zachariah

Longstraw (for that was his name) was attended with circumstances of

fear and danger, I did not thereby escape those other evils, which, as

I hinted before, might have been anticipated, had I reflected a moment

on the situation of his body. It was covered with bruises from head to

foot, and there was scarce a sound bone left in it; so that, as I may

say, I had, in reanimating it, only exchanged anguish of spirit for

anguish of body; and which of these is the more intolerable, I never

could satisfactorily determine. Philosophers, indeed, contend for the

superior poignancy of the former; but I must confess a leaning to the

other side of the question. What is the pain of a broken heart to that

of the toothache? The poets speak of vipers in the bosom; what are

they compared to a bug in the ear? Be this, however, as it may, it is

certain I had a most dreadful time of it in Mr. Longstraw's body; and

it would have been much worse, had not the blows I had received on the

head kept me for a long time in a delirium, and therefore in a measure

unconscious of my sufferings. The truth is, the body which I so rashly

entered was in such a dilapidated condition, so bruised and mangled,

that it was next to an impossibility to restore its vital powers; and

it was more than two weeks, after lying all that time in a state of

insensibility, more dead than alive, before I came to my senses, and

remembered what had befallen me; and it was not until four more had

elapsed that I was finally able to leave my chamber, and snuff the

early breezes of spring.

As soon as I began to take notice of what was passing about me, I

perceived that I lay in a good, though plainly-furnished chamber, and

that, besides the physicians and other persons who occasionally bustled

around me, there were two individuals so constantly in attendance,

and so careful and affectionate in all their deportment, that I did

not doubt they were members of my new family. Indeed, I had no sooner

looked upon their faces, and heard their voices, than I felt a glow of

satisfaction within my spirit; which convinced me they were my very

dear and faithful friends, and that I loved them exceedingly.

They were both young men, the one perhaps of twenty-five, the other

six or seven years older. Both were decked in Quaker garments, the

elder being uncommonly plain in his appearance, wearing smallclothes,

shoe-buckles, and a hat with a brim full five inches wide, which he

seldom laid aside. These gave him a patriarchal appearance, highly

striking in one of his youth, which was much increased by an uncommon

air of gravity and benevolence beaming from his somewhat swarthy and

hollow visage.

The younger had no such sanctimonious appearance. There was a janty

look even in the cut of his straight coat; he had a handsome face, and

seemed conscious of it; he swung about the room at times with a strut

that excited his own admiration; and any three moments out of five he

might be seen before the looking-glass, surveying his teeth, inspecting

the sweep of his shoulders, and brushing up his hair with his fingers.

His plain coat was set at naught by a vest and trousers of the most

fashionable cut and pattern; he had a gold guard-chain, worn abroad,

and his watch, which, in all likelihood, was gold also, was stuck in

his vest-pocket, in the manner approved of by bucks and men of the

world, instead of being deposited, according to the system of the wise,

in a fob over the epigastrium; and, to crown his list of vanities, he

had in his shirt a breastpin, which he took care to keep constantly

visible, containing jewels of seven or eight different colours. It

was manifest the young gentleman, if a Quaker, as his coat showed him

to be, was quite a free one; and, indeed, the first words I heard him

utter (which were also the first that I distinguished after rousing

from my long sleep of insensibility) set the matter beyond question. I

saw him peer into my face very curiously, and directly heard him call

out to his companion--"I say, Snipe, by jingo, uncle Zack's beginning

to look like a man in his senses!"

These words imparted a sensation of pleasure to my breast, but I felt

impelled to censure the young man for the freedom of his expressions.

My tongue, however, seemed to have lost its function; and while I was

vainly attempting to articulate a reprimand, the other rushed up, and,

giving me an earnest stare, seized upon one of my hands, which he fell

to mumbling and munching in a highly enthusiastic manner, crying out,

with inexpressible joy and fervour, "Blessed be the day! and does thee

open thee eyes again? Verily, this shall be a day of rejoicing, and

not to me only, the loving Abel Snipe, but to thousands. Does thee

feel better, Zachariah, my friend and patron? Verily, the poor man

that has mourned for thee shall be now as one that rejoices; for thee

shall again speak to him the words of tenderness, and open the hand of

alms-giving; yea, verily, and the afflicted shall mourn no more!"

These words were even more agreeable than those uttered by the junior;

and I experienced a feeling of displeasure when the latter suddenly

cut them short by exclaiming, "Come, Snipe, none of thee confounded

nonsense. I reckon uncle Zack has had enough philanthropy for the

season; and don't thee go to humbug him into it any more. Thee has made

thee own fortune, and should be content."

"Verily, friend Jonathan," said the fervent Abel Snipe, addressing the

junior, but still tugging at my hand, "thee does not seem to rejoice

at thee uncle's recovery as thee should; but thee jokes and thee jests

sha'n't make my spirit rejoice the less."

"Verily," said Jonathan, "so it seems; but if thee tugs at uncle Zack

in that way, and talks so loud, thee will do his business."

"Verily," said Abel--

"And verily," said Jonathan, interrupting him, "thee will say it is

thee business to do his business; which is very true--but not in

the sense of murder. So let us hold our tongues; and do thou, uncle

Zachariah," he added, addressing me, "keep thyself quiet, and take this

dose of physic."

It was unspeakable how much my spirit was warmed within me by this

friendly contest between the two young men, and by their looks of

affection. I longed to embrace them both, but had not the strength;

and, indeed, it was three or four days more before I felt myself able,

or was allowed by the physicians, to indulge in conversation.

At the expiration of that period I found myself growing stronger; the

twenty thousand different pangs that had besieged my body, from the

crown of my head to the sole of my foot, whenever I attempted to move,

were less racking and poignant; and, waking from a slumber that had

been more agreeable than usual, and finding no one near me save the

ever faithful Abel Snipe, I could no longer resist the impulse to speak

to him.

"Abel Snipe," said I.

"Blessed be thee kind voice, that it speaks again!" said Abel Snipe,

devouring my hand as before, and blubbering as he devoured.

"Thy name is Abel Snipe?" said I.

"Verily and surely, it is Abel Snipe, and no other," said he; "I hope

thee don't forget me?"

"Why, really," said I, "I can't exactly say, friend Abel, seeing that

there has a confusion come over my brain. But art thou certain I am no

longer Abram Skinner?"

At this question Abel Snipe's eyes jumped half out of his head, and

they regarded me with wo and horror. I saw he thought my wits were

unsettled, and I hastened to remove the impression.

"Don't be alarmed, friend Abel; but, of a verity, I think I was killed

and buried."

"Yea," said Abel; "yea, verily, the vile, ungrateful, malicious John

Smith did smite thee over the head with a club, so that the bone was

broken, and thee was as one that was dead; but oh! the villain! we have

him fast in jail; and oh! the unnatural rascal! we'll hang him!"

"Verily," said I, feeling uncommon concern at the idea, "we will do no

such wicked deed; but we will admonish the poor man of the wickedness

of his ways, and, relieving his wants, discharge him from bondage."

"Yea," said Abel Snipe, with an air of contrition; "so will we do, as

becometh the merciful man and Christian. But, verily, the flesh did

quarrel with the spirit, and the old Adam cried out to me, 'Blood for

blood,' and the thing that is flesh said, 'Vengeance on the wicked man

that smote the friend of the afflicted!' But now thy goodness reproves

me, and teaches me better things: wherefore I say, be not hard with the

miserable man, for such is the wicked, and such is John Smith; who is

now mourning over his foolish acts in the county prison. Yea, verily,

we will be exceeding lenient,"--and so forth, and so forth.

I do not think it needful to repeat all the wise and humane things

said by Abel Snipe: they convinced me he was the most benevolent of

beings, and warmed a similar spirit that was now burning in my breast,

and which burnt on until it became at last a general conflagration of

philanthropy. Yea, the transformation was complete; I found within

me, on the sudden, a raging desire to augment the happiness of my

fellow-creatures; and wondered that I had ever experienced any other

passion. The generous Abel discoursed to me of the thousands I--that

is, my prototype, the true Zachariah--had rescued from want and

affliction, and of the thousands whom I was yet to relieve. My brain

took fire at the thought, and I exulted in a sense of my virtue; I

perceived, in imagination, the tear of distress chased away by that

of gratitude; I heard the sob of sorrow succeeded by the sigh of

happiness, and the prayer of beseeching changed to the prayer of praise

and thanksgiving. A gentle warmth flowed from my bosom through the

uttermost bounds of my frame, and I felt that I was a happy man; yea,

reader, yea, and verily, I was at last happy. My only affliction was,

that the battered condition of my body prevented my sallying out at

once, and practising the noble art of charity. The tears sprang into my

eyes when Abel recounted the numbers of the miserable who had besieged

my doors during my two weeks of insensibility, crying for assistance.

"Why didst thou not relieve them, Abel Snipe?" I exclaimed.

"Verily," said Abel, turning his eyes to heaven with a look of fervent

rapture, "I did relieve the sorrowing and destitute even to the

uttermost penny that was in my pocket. Blessed be the deed, for I have

not now a cent that I can call my own. As for thine, Zachariah, it

became me not to dispense it, without thy spoken authority; the more

especially as thy nephew, Jonathan, did hint, and vehemently insist,

that thou hadst bestowed too much already for thy good, and his."

These words filled me with concern and displeasure.

"Surely," said I, "the young man Jonathan is not averse to deeds of

charity?"

"Verily," said Abel, clasping his hands, and looking as if he would

have wept, "the excellent and beloved youth doth value money more than

the good which money may produce; and of that good he esteemeth chiefly

the portion that falleth to his own lot. Of a surety, I do fear he hath

an eagerness and hankering, a fleshly appetite and an exceeding strong

desire, after the things of the world. He delighteth in the vanity of

fine clothes, and his discourse is of women and the charms thereof.

He hath bought the picture of a French dancing-woman, and hung it in

his chamber, swearing (for he hath a contempt for affirmation) that

it is a good likeness of the maiden Ellen Wild; and yesterday I did

perceive him squeaking at a heathenish wind-instrument, called a flute,

and thereupon he did avow an intention to try his hand at that more

paganish thing of strings, called a fiddle; and, oh! what grieved me

above all, and caused the spirit within me to cry 'avaunt! and get thee

away, Jonathan,' he did offer me a ticket, of the cost of one dollar,

to procure me admission into the place of sin and vanity, called the

theatre, swearing 'by jingo' and 'by gemini' there was 'great fun

there,' and offering to lend me a coat, hat, and trousers, so that the

wicked should not know me. Yea, verily, the young man is as a young

lion that roameth up and down--as a sheep that wandereth from the

pinfold into the forbidden meadows--and as for charity, peradventure

thee will not believe me, but he averred, 'the only charity he believed

in was that which began at home.'"

These confessions of the faithful Abel in relation to the young man

Jonathan, caused my spirit to wax sorrowful within me. But it is

fitting, before pursuing such conversations further, that I should

inform the reader _who_ the faithful Abel and the young man Jonathan

were.

The latter, as Abel himself informed me, was my--or, if the reader

will, my prototype's--nephew, the only, and now orphan, son of a

sister, who had married, as the phrase is, "out of meeting," and, dying

destitute, left her boy to the charge of the benevolent Zachariah,

who, being himself childless, adopted him as his son and heir, and had

treated him as such, from his childhood up. The great wish of Zachariah

was to make the adopted son a philanthropist, like himself; in which,

however, he was destined to disappointment; for Jonathan was of a wild

and worldly turn, fond of frolic and amusement, and extremely averse to

squander in works of charity the possessions he designed applying in

future years to his own benefit. Nevertheless, he was greatly beloved

by his uncle; and I, who was imbued with that uncle's spirit, and

destined to love and abhor what he had loved and abhorred, whether I

would or not, soon began to regard him as one of the two apples of my

eyes.

2. CHAPTER II.

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE WORTHY ABEL SNIPE.

The faithful Abel Snipe, it seems (his history was told me by

Jonathan), was a man whom Zachariah, some years before, while playing

the Howard in a neighbouring sovereignty, had found plunged in deep

distress, and making shoes in the penitentiary. To this condition he

had been reduced by sheer goodness; for, being an amateur in that

virtuous art of which Zachariah was a professor, and having no means

of his own to relieve the woes of the wretched, he had borrowed from

the hoards of his employers (the president and directors of a certain

stock-company, in whose office he had a petty appointment), and thus,

perforce, made charitable an institution that was chartered to be

uncharitable. He committed the fault, however, of borrowing without

the previous ceremony of asking--either because he was of so innocent

a temper as to think such a proceeding unnecessary, or because he knew

beforehand that the request would not be granted; and the consequence

was, that the president and directors, as aforesaid, did very

mercilessly hand him over to the prosecuting attorney, the prosecuting

attorney to a grand jury, the grand jury to a petit jury, the petit

jury to a penitentiary, and the penitentiary to the devil--or such,

at least, would have been the ending of the unfortunate amateur, had

not the philanthropist, who always ordered his shoes, for charity's

sake, at the prison, been struck with the uncommon excellence of a pair

constructed by Abel's hands.

He sought out the faithful maker (for sure a man must be faithful to

make a good pair of shoes in a penitentiary), was melted by his tale

of wo, even as the wax through which Abel was then drawing a bunch of

ends was melted by the breath thereof; and shedding tears to find the

poor creature's virtue so shabbily rewarded, ran to the prosecutors

with a petition, which he induced them to sign, transmitted it to the

governor, with a most eloquent essay on the divine character of mercy,

and, in less than a week, walked Abel Snipe out of prison, a pardoned

man.

The charity of the professor did not end with Abel's liberation.

Enraptured with the fervour of his gratitude, touched by the

artlessness of his character, and moved by the destitution to which a

pardon in the winter-time exposed him, he carried him to his own land

and house, fed, clothed, and employed him upon a new pair of shoes;

and, discovering that he had talents for a nobler business, advanced

him in time to the rank of accountant, or secretary, collector of

rents, dispenser of secret charities, and, in general, factotum and

fiduciary at large. Such a servant was needed by the humane Zachariah;

his philanthropy left him no time to attend to his own affairs, and his

nephew Jonathan had fallen in love, and become incompetent to their

management.

Never was experiment more happy for subject and object: Abel Snipe

was made an honest and useful man; and Zachariah Longstraw obtained a

friend and servant without price. The gratitude of Abel was equal to

his ability; humility, fidelity, and religion, were the least of his

virtues--he became a philanthropist, like his master. He managed his

affairs with such skill, that Zachariah had always pennies at hand

for the unfortunate; which, it seems, had not always happened before;

and, what was equally charming, the zealous Abel dived into every

lane, alley, and gutter, to discover new objects of charity for his

patron. To crown all, he felt moved in the spirit to profess the faith

so greatly adorned by his protector; and, after due preparation and

probation, appeared in the garb of peace and humility, and even went so

far as to hold forth once at meeting.

In a word, Abel Snipe was a jewel of the first water, who supplied

the place of the idle Jonathan in all matters of business, and almost

in the affections of his kinsman. If not equally beloved, he was more

highly esteemed; and his shining worth consoled the philanthropist for

many of the derelictions of his nephew. He became the confidant, the

coadjutor, and the adviser of Zachariah; and Zachariah never found

occasion to lament the be nevolence that had redounded so much to his

own advantage.