But it is impossible to follow these precious parties through the particulars of their examination disclosing the miseries of their neighborhood, and in their own words, when they all talked together. I must therefore content myself by informing the reader, that the magistrate interposed as soon as he could, by stating that he did not sit there to hear about their squabbles with each other and Tim Martin, but to hear what they had to say against the accused.
Poor Wheelwright! During the whole of the scene just described, he sat upon one of the benches, his eyes cast upon the floor, without uttering a word. When called upon, however, to answer to the charge, he could only deny, and try to explain—but Mistress Pettit and her associates were too much for him. And besides, deny having molested her nose, as he might, the aspect of the member itself bore abundant testimony of rough usage and a narrow escape—to say nothing of the crimson drops, that seemed to have oozed therefrom, and fallen upon good Mistress Pettit's neck-handkerchief. The consequence was, that the magistrate could do no less than commit him, although from Wheelwright's subdued demeanor, he had strong doubts as to his intentional delinquencies. Under these circumstances, I found but little difficulty, from my own knowledge of the man, in persuading the magistrate to release him on his own recognizance.
In a few weeks afterward, Wheelwright ascertained that the always equivocal virtue of his wife had become of so little consequence in her own eyes, as to release him from any farther obligation, in honor or in law, to stand any longer as its nominal guardian and protector. He divided the children, giving her the one to which she had a fair title before he courted her fortune,—but which, poor thing!—proved to be all she had,—and took the only one now living, which bore his own name, to himself. He also at length assumed sufficient energy to divide the house between them—giving her the out-side and retaining the in-side for himself. Thus ends the history of Doctor Daniel Wheelwright in New-York.
"It is the end," says the Bard of Avon, "that crowns all;" and bringing these "passages" in the life of my friend to a close, from the position in which I shall leave him, the reader may perhaps agree with the same illustrious poet:—
"More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before."
At all events, we will "let the end try the man." The latest intelligence which I can furnish the reader respecting him, however, is this. Having recently made a flying excursion through the valley of the Mohawk—visited the old baronial castle of Sir William Johnson, and from thence struck across to the south through the Schoharie-kill valley, to explore the wonders of the great cavern of the Helderbergs, an accident to the light vehicle drawn by my coal-black steed, on my return, obliged me to call upon a coachmaker in the first city west of Albany. On arriving at the shop, and inquiring for the principal of the establishment, I was directed to an athletic man engaged with his whole attention, in giving the finishing strokes to a substantial coach-wheel. Judge of my astonishment, as he looked up, on beholding none other than the hero of the present memoir, in his own proper person! His sleeves were rolled up to his shoulders; his complexion was ruddy; and a cheerful smile lighted up his countenance, such as I had not seen playing there for many a year—never, in fact, since he became acquainted with "that woman there." Every thing about him bore the marks of industry and consequent thrift. "Ah, Mr. Doolittle! is that you?" he exclaimed, as he wiped away the large drops of perspiration that stood upon his face. Indeed, he was quite glad to see me; and after interchanging a few remarks of mutual surprise at such an unexpected though agreeable meeting, and after briefly relating what had been his personal history since I had last seen him under the cloud, he observed,—"You see I have gone clean round 'the circle,' and am at the old spot again—my father's shop. I have always told you that 'the world owed me a living.' But the mischief on't was, I always went the wrong way to work to obtain it. I believe, however, that I have got about right at last."
The reader of the preceding narrative, may perhaps suppose that the materials of which it is framed, are such unsubstantial stuff as dreams are made of. I beg leave, however, at the close, to assure him of his error. With the single abatement that names are changed, and places are not precisely designated, every essential incident that I have recorded, actually occurred, much as I have related it, to a person who, if not now living, certainly was once, and most of them under my own observation. As Scott remarks, at the close of the Bride of Lammermoor, "it is an ower true tale."