How much may depend on a single syllable! What direful consequences may be produced by the suppression of even the smallest component part of a word!—Gentle reader, be as patient as you are gentle, and the perusal of the following true story will convince you of the correctness of these exclamatory positions.
Late in the autumn of 1826, I left the city of New York in a steamboat for Philadelphia, on my way to Washington, where I was to perform the arduous, if not very dignified duty, of reporter of debates in the Senate of the United States, for the leading journal of that metropolis. My wife accompanied me, and on stepping on board the Swan, (so was our steamboat justly called,) we found ourselves elbowed and jostled by a throng of travellers from various parts of the Union, wending their way, in most instances, to the capitol.
When the steamer had left the wharf, and the haste and bustle of the moment had ceased, I had time to inspect the countenances of the crowd, and recognized with much pleasure, the single familiar face of an officer of the treasury department, with whom I had formed a partial intimacy during a former visit at Washington. We met with much cordiality, and soon became engaged in recalling our recollections of past events.
My friend, it appeared, was personally and officially known to several individuals of our company; and without the formality of introduction, I soon found myself on easy travelling terms with four or five genteel looking men. Among these, the only persons necessary to mention, were a member of the House of Representatives from Massachusetts, whom I choose to designate as Mr. C.; another from a neighboring state, who will be sufficiently known to the reader as Mr. D.; and a young naval officer, whose name, if he had one, I have forgotten.
A free and easy, gossiping conversation was kept up with considerable vivacity by this group of strangers, the topics of which were various. Politics and theatricals predominated—New York was then, as she is now, the focus of both. The election of De Witt Clinton for the last time, as governor of the state, over a young and popular candidate, supported by the fragments of several exploded parties—the rising importance of the anti-masonic party—the Italian Opera, and Signorina Garcia, then in great vogue—the last appearance of Edmund Kean, after his fatal frolic in Canada, and the first appearance of Macready, who had just then made his debut on the American stage, to surprise and puzzle the people by a style as new as it was polished and severe. Such subjects beguiled the hours—and as I had long been almost as conversant with the green room as the editor's closet, I was enabled to contribute my full share to the gossip of our little coterie.
My Massachusetts acquaintance was a stout, well built, middle-aged man, with a bold and open countenance, which expressed good humor, and not a little self complacency. It seemed as if one could read on that face the conviction of its owner, that he was born to be a member of congress, a great man, and a clever fellow. A travelling cap, worn carelessly, or rather with a careful affectation of negligence, on one side of his head, and a slight rattan, which he twirled with a practised hand, evinced a determination on his part to appear to the very best advantage. Without these, and other affectations, which I observed in Mr. C., no one could have mistaken him for other than a well bred gentleman. His attempts to enforce the acknowledgment of the character by aping the airs of fashionable folly, might cause a momentary doubt, whether the whole was not affected. We often perceive similar mistakes in ambitious men brought up in seclusion—but in the present instance, a stranger was soon undeceived by the conversation of Mr. C., which gave assurance of a cultivated mind, and the habit of associating with the learned and the intellectual.
The characteristics of the other lawgiver to whom I have alluded, were less complicated. His was a face as black as night. His beard, whiskers, hair and eyes were coal black—the latter small and piercing. No other feature was worth noticing, and the whole taken together, formed, if not an ugly countenance, one which came very nearly up to that epithet. His dress was a pepper-and-salt frock, vest and trowsers, and his hat had evidently passed its prime. In manners he was the opposite of Mr. C. There was a bluntness in his remarks, and a sharpness and brevity in his replies, entirely unaffected, but not altogether pleasing. On a partial acquaintance, you had such doubts of him as you would entertain of a partly tamed bruin.
The young naval officer was like all young naval officers, with a dash of spirit which he seemed solicitous to display—a stiffness of deportment which evinced that the thoughts of discipline could not easily be shaken off, and an apparent consciousness of the admiration to which his profession and his dress entitled him from people of every degree. Nevertheless, he was agreeable, and condescended, most benevolently, to mingle in the conversation with those around him.
Passing the time between these companions, and an occasional peep into the ladies' cabin to see that nothing was wanting to the comfort of my wife, (who was deterred by the chilliness of the atmosphere, from joining me on deck) the journey was uncommonly agreeable, until we reached Philadelphia. At that city my treasury friend left us, not so much regretted as he deserved to be, because his place was supplied by the new companions to whom I have alluded.
We were shortly transferred to another steamboat, in which, after about two hours' delay, we proceeded to New Castle. A change of considerable extent had taken place in our company. We had lost many faces to which we had been familiar during the morning—and we had gained many others which wore the first gloss of newness. I have already said that I had not been formally introduced to the gentlemen whose acquaintance had been pressed upon me—yet we had learned each other's names, and used them with freedom. Probably I was the only incognito among them—the only man whose profession was unknown, and therefore the only one liable to doubt or misconception. But of such a chance I did not then dream.