"Of the gentleman, Sir." "Where is he?" "At our house." "Where is that?" "In Reed-street, behind the Hospital." "When did this gentleman come to your house?” "Last night, Sir, almost morning-mother is sick, Sir, and I was sitting up with her, and a negro and a watchman brought the gentleman to our house and knocked, and we knew the watchman; and so mother let the gentleman come in and set by the fire he didn't want to come in at first, but said when he was at the door, let me lay down here and die." Mr. Price came to the theatre, and I learned from him that Cooke having sat up late and become turbulent, to the annoyance of the family, he had insisted upon his going to bed, and he had apparently complied; but that when the household were all at rest, he had come down from his chamber, unlocked the street door, and sallied out in the face of a west wind of more than Russian coldness. After consulting with Mr. Price, and showing the paper brought by the girl, I put one hundred dollars in small bank notes in my pocket, and taking, the messenger as my pilot, went in quest of George Frederick. As we walked I asked my conductress what the gentleman had been doing since he came to her mother's house. "Sitting by the fire, Sir, and talking.” "Has he had any thing to drink?” "Yes Sir-he sent the negro man out for brandy, and he brought two quarts." Poor old gentleman," she continued, "the people at the house where he lived must have used him very ill, and it was very cruel to turn him out o' doors such a night." "Does he say he was turned out o' doors?" "Yes Sir-he talks a great deal—to be sure I believe he is crazy." We entered a small wooden building in Reed-street. The room was dark, and appeared the more so, owing to the transition from the glare of snow in the streets. I saw nothing distinctly for the first moment, and only perceived that the place was full of people. I soon found that they were the neighbours, brought in to gaze at the strange crazy gentleman; and sheriff's officers distraining for the rent on the furniture of the sick widow who occupied the house. The bed of the sick woman filled one corner of the room, surrounded by curtains-sheriff's officers, a table, with pen, ink, and inventory, occupied another portion-a motley group, of whom Cooke was one, hid the fire-place from view, and the re mainder of the apartment was filled by cartmen, watchmen, women, and children. When I recognised Cooke, he had turned from the fire, and his eye was on me with an expression of shame and chagrin at being found in such a situation. His skin and eyes were red, his linen dirty, his hair wildly pointing in every direction from his "distracted globe," and over his knee was spread an infant's bib, or something else; with which, having lost his pocket handkerchief, he wiped his incessantly moistened visage. After a wild stare at me, he changed from the first expression of his countenance, and welcomed me. He asked me why I had come? I replied, that I had received his note, and brought him the mo ney he had required. I sat down by him, and after a few incoherent sentences of complaint, and entreaty that I would not leave him, he burst into tears. I soothed him, and replied to his repeated entreaties of "don't leave me," by promises of remaining with him, but told him we must leave that place. He agreed, but added, with vehemence, "Not back to his house-No, never! never!!"—which apparent resolution he confirmed with vehement and reiterated oaths. The officer let me know that the gen tleman had stopped the levying on the goods, and agreed to pay the quarter's rent. I was proceeding to make some inquiries, but Cooke, in the most peremptory tone, required that the mo ney should be paid; as if fearing that his ability to fulfil his promise should be doubted by the bystanders. I paid the money, and demanded a receipt. The officer, who was nearly drunk, asked for the gentleman's christian name; when, with all the dignity of the buskin, the drooping hero raised his head, and roared out most discordantly, George Frederick! George Frederick Cooke!" The peculiar sharpness of the higher tones of his voice joined to the unmelodious, broken, and croaking notes of debauchery, with his assumed dignity and squalid appearance, were truly comic, though pitiable. 66 The receipt given by the officer, I will copy as a curiosity. Received New-York Febuary 19th 1811 of Gf Cook thirty four dollars and 75-100 In Full of a Landlords Warrant Due to Isaak Halsey For House Rent Due From the First Day of February Last In Full For House Rent Due & costsMOSES SINGUER Marshall. $34 75-100 { The combination of circumstances, flowing from causes as inevitable as they are unforeseen, makes of the sober record of real life such a relation of effects as a romance writer would not think of; or if his imagination suggested them, he would not present them to the public, for fear of the charge of impro bable fiction. We here see a poor woman, a widow, with several children, supported by her industry, who is incapacitated by sickness from making those exertions on which the usual subsistence of the family depends; while want and its chilling train are the attendants upon the bed of sickness. Still some support remains while the necessary and commodious furniture of the house gives present comfort, and may, by future sale, aid in animating to exertion, and perhaps in restoring health. But quarter-day comes; and in the depth of an uncommonly hard winter, a harder, and a colder heart, sends its brutal and drunken ministers, armed by resistless authority, to tear away the curtain from the bed of the sick sufferer, and the blanket from the shivering victim of penury and neglect. This last blow is suspended but till the morrow; and the anxious mother lies, wakeful and heart-broken, watched by one of her children, who is preserved by health and inexperienced youth from the cares which waste her parent. In the mean time, revelling in sensuality, and overwhelmed by the good gifts of nature and of fortune, a man, who all his life seems to have been struggling to mar the good lavishly cast upon him, sallies out from every comfort of warmth and enjoyment, and is saved from death by the hospitable poverty of the widow's comfortless dwelling. In return a portion of his superfluity is applied for her relief; the impending blow which would have probably destroyed the prostrate sufferer is warded off; and returning hope and health make the catastrophe of this "romance of real life" as cheerful as it threatened to be gloomy and heartrending. After giving a five dollar note to the child who guided me to him, and making some other presents to the members of the family, Mr. Cooke agreed to go to Brydens' in a sleigh, which I had previously sent for. He rose from his chair; his step was not steady, and some of the crowd offered to assist him; but he put them by with his hand, in a style of courtly contempt. He accepted my arm, but before we reached the door, stopped to wipe his face, and having lost the piece of dirty linen he had before used, he made inquiry for his handkerchief-it was not to be found; and I, fearing a change in his determination, and somewhat impatient of my own situation, offered him a white handkerchief, which I had put in my pocket but a few minutes before receiving his note, and which, after seeing the filthy rag he had been using, and displaying on his knee before the fire, I did not hesitate to present to him; but he put it aside with a most princely motion, saying, "A gentleman cannot accept a handkerchief that has been used." POETRY. SOLILOQUY OF AN OLD BACHELOR, On the anniversary of his Birth-Day. [From the Gentleman's Magazine.] LET youthful Lovers fondly greet And laugh the lightsome hours away; Must sadly pass, With no kind gratulations blest; And whither, whither are they flown? And stand aghast; How much, alas! of life's short span! Some, blest of heaven, and timely wise, Each grief they chase, Whatever ill their steps betide; And hand in hand they sweetly stray Some seek their Country's banner'd plain, And some, indeed, POETRY. Engraved on many a mossy stone, Were early number'd with the dead: Thus all their different ways have sped, And left me here, alone! They say, that my unfeeling breast Ne'er felt love's pleasing, anxious smart; I heed not censure now, nor praise: Yes, I have felt that hallow'd flame And witching wiles, Beguiled my heart of every pain; Ah! now her fairy reign is past, For youth's warm raptures now are o'er; Some puny joys, To wear life's listless calm away; Come, then, whatever ills await, Fair, lovely woman's charms decay!- Not one. -Why, then, without a tear, I yield the worm its prey. 412 |