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THE SCRIBBLER.

WHAT a name is this! And to be conferred by a man on
himself! Yet this is frequently the best policy. The surest
way to preclude, is to anticipate, censure, for no one will think
it worth while, to call a poor culprit by names which the culprit
has liberally and unceremoniously given himself. If Tom says,
“I am a fool and an oddity,” his worst enemies can only add,
“so you are.”

The worst charge that can be brought against a mere holder
of the pen, is that he is a scribbler. Now I choose to anticipate
this heavy charge, and I do hereby seasonably warn all your
readers, that the writer of these presents is neither worse nor
better than a scribbler. If therefore they have not time nor
patience to peruse a mere scribble, let them overlook my lucu-
brations, and pass on to the next column, where, no doubt, their
curiosity and taste will be amply gratified by precious morsels
of history and splendid effusions of eloquence.

I never, for my part, presumed to aspire after a more ho-
nourable name. I never took up pen but to please myself, and
the idlers that were willing to attend to me. Others may wish
to edify a congregation of sages by their wisdom, or call the
human swine from his sensual banquet, to feast upon the pearls
of their rhetoric, of which, though all are liberally distributed,
none is thrown away; or to charm an audience of enthusiasts
by a tale of pathos, elaborately simple, or a ditty ruefully sweet
or wildly melancholy, but as to me, I do not gaze wishfully at
such heights. The common level must content me. The harp
of Orpheus I dare not touch. As unambitious as a chimney-
sweep, I shall be sufficiently happy if I can give a tolerable
twang to a Jews-harp.

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I have no fortress from which I may boldly look out, and
securely defy the critical assailant. A poor beggarly wight whose
whole wealth is his pen; a minstrel, friendless as Edwin of
immortal memory, but, alas! with none of his divine endow-
ments; with none of that music that melted the fiercest hearts
to charity, and turned the most obdurate or mischievous foes
into adorers or disciples.

My quill is my all, and unluckily, it is the poorest feather in
the goose. No witty strokes or elegant flourishes can it ever
pretend to. A diminutive, cross grained, crooked slave it is,
that I have in vain endeavoured to scrape into smoothness, to
bend into rectitude, and to fashion into symmetry. After all
my pains, its happiest exertion continues to be, and will never
be other, than, an arrant scrawl.

I have often resolved to cast it away, tired and ashamed of
its incorrigible depravity, but checked myself in time; for bad
as it is, it will never be my lot to find a better. Some ill-minded
witch stands always ready to distort its grain and blunt its
point, and whatever plausible hopes I may form before the trial,
I always find that my choicest specimens of genius are nothing
still but scrawls.

Let no one imagine therefore, that on this occasion, I pretend
to write. No, I shall only scribble, and those who look for
entertainment from my performances will be egregiously de-
ceived. In every form that I shall take, in every theme that I
shall choose, I shall not be able to belie my parentage. The
star that ruled at my birth, in all my pilgrimage and all my me-
tamorphoses, will shine upon me still, and my fate has decreed
that I shall be nothing but a scribbler.

Ah! Jenny! these are hard times, but ours is no extraordi-
nary lot. Heavy as the burden is on us, there are thousands
on whom the load is heavier still, while the shoulders, on
which it is laid, are far less able to sustain it, than ours.

A feeble consolation, thou sayest, is that, and feeble it is.
To find comfort in distress, from thinking on the greater dis-
tresses of others whose merits are much less than ours, is but a
selfish way of judging, for, why should we be comforted by such
reflections?

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When I was a boy, a froward wretch, whom I met on the
highway, thought proper to be angry at some jest that escaped
me, and snatching up a pebble about half the size of my fist,
knocked me down with it. My skull was fractured by the blow,
and I was a long time in getting well. While sick, an ideot
that strolled about the village, chanced to stroll into my cham-
ber. Somebody, in answer to his questions, gave him an ac-
count of my mishap. The historian outdid Tacitus in brevity,
for the whole tragedy was summoned up in, why, Dick, the
waggoner broke his head with a brick-bat.

Bless me, said the fool, what a mercy that it was not a
mill stone.

Jenny smiled and said, a remark truly worthy of an ideot.

And yet (resumed I) foolish as it was, it struck me, as I
listened, very forcibly. Dick, the waggoner, to be sure, was no
Ajax. Rocks were no missiles to him, but my thoughts did not
run upon the possibility of the evil. I was really consoled by
thinking that a larger stone or a better aim might have doubled
or trebled the injury, or perhaps made it utterly irreparable.
And why, since I was comforted, be very curious in weighing
its justice or wisdom. That wisdom that lessens joy, or en-
hances sorrow, is not worth our praise. Cheer up, my dear
girl, and if thou can'st find no comforter but folly, think it only
folly to be wise.

Such was the dialogue that just now passed between Jenny
and me. Jenny, you must know, reader, is my sister, and a
good girl she is; the best in the world. Abundant cause have
I to say so, for without her, long ago should I have soundly
slept in my grave: or have undergone a much worse destiny.
Without her healing tenderness or salutary council, I should
long ago have yielded to the ill-suggestions of poverty, and
have done that which is forbidden, or have shared the debtors'
portion in a prison, or have sunk to my last sleep in a pestilen-
tial hospital.

My Jenny is a sort of good angel to me, never wanting at the
point of utmost need. What a sweet face is her's, and what
music was ever so heart cheering as her “good morrow,
brother!”

―267―

Tired, drooping, almost lifeless after the day's toil, to hear
her sing, or ramble with her, are my sweetest consolations.

But how am I run away with by this bewitching theme! My
own fortunes and my sister's praise I do love to dwell upon.
Yet strange it is, that I should talk thus publicly on such themes.
I, that have my pride and my scruples, like others, but my con-
trivance here has saved my pride, and gratified my darling pas-
sion; I can write about myself, and even publish what I write,
without risking any exposure, for nobody that reads this will
ever know the writer.

Perhaps, reader, you want to know my name and dwelling.
Now these are the only things that I am anxious to hide. My
character and history I have no objection to disclose; nay, it
would give me pleasure to tell them, but I do not wish to be
known by name and abode.

Not likely, indeed, that my name would be of service to you.
You never heard it before. An obscure and forlorn lad like
me, was never noticed in your pleasurable walks or social cir-
cles. The meanness of my garb, indeed, and my boyish face,
conceal me even from suspicion, and far, far distant and differ-
ent are the spheres in which you and I move.

But what new suggestion of vanity is this? To imagine that
any curiosity will be felt for him from whose pen these crudities
flow, or that any interest can be awakened in enlightened bo-
soms for the fortunes of the scribbler!

Yet why not? I have a little vanity, that is certain. Not the
most contemptible of heaven's creatures, am I; good parts in
me, I verily believe; a towardly, prompt spirit, to give myself
my due, that will expand and ripen as I grow older. As yet, I
am a mere boy, for whose deficiencies, as well as for whose
vanity, some allowances will not be withheld by the charitably
wise.

I have, at this moment, a great desire to be known to thee my
friend; to thee, with thy benignant smiles, who art, just now,
perusing this page. I hope thou art a woman, for if so, softness
and compassion are interwoven with thy feelings as intimately
as bright threads in a parti-coloured woof. Methinks I hear
thee sigh, and see thy eye glisten. Would to heaven I was

―268―

near enough to testify my gratitude, and bid the compassionate
drop flow; to assure thee that the writer of this is not unwor-
thy thy regard; but that must never be. I shall never be to
thee aught but a phantom. A something ideally existent, and
without a name or local habitation.

Not that I should be averse to know thee for my friend, but
how to discover thy good will; how to bring myself within thy
ken, is the insuperable difficulty.

Perhaps, I might be somehow useful to thee. I might run of
thy errands, might carry thy provision-basket on market days,
or harness thy pair of bays to thy phæton: but no. For that I
was not born, I will never be a slave to fetch and carry, to fat-
ten upon fragments even from thy plate; to sit upon the kitchen
hearth, with trencher on my lap, and eat, full in the envious
eyes of Towser, who, the while, is squatted opposite, and
grudges me every vile morsel.

Perhaps, thou needest a more honourable service; art smitten
with a passion for some fashionable knowledge; to prate a lit-
tle French, or shew a pretty finger on the harpsichord, or
flourish off a billet with a little more correctness of spelling,
more evenness of lines; and with characters a little less like
Arabic, may have awakened thy ambition. In such a case, I
do not know but I might eat thy bread and not be choked by it.
Otherwise, this pine board and this black loaf are sweeter by
far.

I gleaned a little Latin from a well taught uncle, but he went
to sea, before I had made much way, and I never saw him
more. Then Telemaque fell in my way, and by aid of a Dic-
tionary, I and Jane hammered out its meaning. Now what
little I know of these languages I would gladly teach another.

But alas! I know too little of that or any thing else, to pre-
tend to teach them to others. I myself am a learner, and the
lesson I have most need to study is, that of being content with
my lot.

Methinks I blush to mention what is just now the subject of
my thoughts. Even to trust it to paper, when the name of the
writer is invisible, as mine shall always he, is somewhat difficult.
Whence does this reluctance to acknowledge our poverty arise?

―269―

But this is a phantastic impulse, and therefore I will fight
with it. I am poor, indeed, but through no fault of mine. I
am not wanting in industry, and this enables me, in conjunction
with my sister's labour, to live.

Yes, we are able to live. I have never gone without a meal,
merely for want of money to procure it. We have eaten and
drank at the usual times, and our meal has never been so scanty
that we were obliged to desist before the appetite was fully
satisfied.

True it is, that our hunger obtains no edge from the delicacy
of our viands or luxuriance of our cookery. Our feast is coarse
enough, God knows, but then it is wholesome, and habit has
somewhat reconciled us to it. Once our palates were fastidious.
No breakfast would serve our turn but the choicest products of
the east and west. Coffee, transparent as air, with fragments
from the snow-white loaf and the richest of the cow's yielding,
were necessary to our comfort.

Now the case is altered, but what lesson so hard that neces-
sity will not make easy? Indian meal sprinkled in boiling water,
in a wooden dish, and a couple of pewter spoons, make but a
sorry show; but sorry or not, what says our hard fate? Take
this or go without.

How strange it is! This is a bitter morsel to me, but I never
loathe it on my own account; only on Jane's. When I see the
spoon lifted to her lips, something rises in my throat. I cannot
swallow. For a minute I am obliged to restore the morsel to
the plate.

Jane was not born to this. No more was I, and it goes hard
enough with me; harder by much than with Jane; and yet it
is only when I think upon my sister thus reduced, that my heart
is wrung with true anguish. Methinks these ills would be
light, if she did not share them with me, yet that is a foolish
thought, for without her I should long ago have done some
cowardly and desperate act.

Now I want a hat. I have worn this, eighteen months or
more, and with all my care and dressing it has grown disrepu-
tably shabby; but I cannot afford to buy a new one. If I could,
if I had six dollars to spare, I would not bestow them on my-

―270―

self. Jane should have them, and, in truth, she needs them
most. She will not allow that she does, but I am sure of it,
and have them she should.

I once loved to see her dressed. When fortune smiled, she
did not scruple to adorn that lovely form with the best skill of
the miliner. Now she is unadorned. What then was lavished
upon ornament, must now be husbanded for necessary purposes.
And is not that right? With what conscience can we spend in
mere luxury what would clothe another's nakedness, and feed
another's hunger?

How frivolous too are these regrets! The graces that nature
and that virtue gave her she cannot lose. Does this sorry garb
lessen her in my eyes? No. Of what then do I complain? I
am anxious for her gay and opulent appearance in the eyes of
others. And is there any thing but folly in that? Those who
value her the less for the plainness of her garb, are of no value
themselves. The reverence of such is ignominy. So says
reason, but, alas! my heart at this moment denies the truth of
the saying.

But how shall I supply my want in this respect? Shall I beg?
Can't do that: no, no. That will never do. Yet there are
many ways of begging; some less ignominious and disagree-
able than others.

How many good men in this city, should they become, by
any means, acquainted with my condition, would hasten to sup-
ply my need? And this they would do in a manner the most
delicate: the least offensive to my pride. A new hat, perhaps,
would be left at my lodgings, by the servant of such a manufac-
turer. I go to him, and ask him wherefore he sent his hat to
me? He answers that a gentleman, unknown to him, called an
hour before, paid for the hat and directed it to be sent to such
a number, in C—— Street, naming the number of my lodgings.

I could not accept the boon, yet how should I elude it in the
case that I have mentioned? Obliged perhaps to acquiesce, for
the purchaser is no where to be found, and the hatter therefore
knows no one to whom he may send the hat or repay the money.
I should, by no means, confide the true state of the case to the
hatter. I should try to detect the generous buyer, and have the

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hat left, without a message, at his house. Yet should I not act
like this imaginary benefactor in a like case? Certainly I should.
What then but a weak and culpable pride would hinder me from
accepting the gift? Yet my scruples are confined to myself.
For myself I cannot condescend to ask an alm, but for my
Jane, methinks I could importunately beg from door to door,
and all day long.

Why truly, sister, I have no objection, but first, I must dis-
patch my daily scribble. Content thyself the while with a look
out from thy window. This is a more amusing employment
than I thought it would prove. What importance does it give,
to have one's idle reveries clothed with the typographical ves-
ture, multiplied some thousand fold, and dispersed far and wide
among the race of readers! I wonder the scheme never occur-
red to me before.

Jane, much to my chagrin, condemns my scheme. Nobody,
says she, will read your scribble, or nobody whose atten-
tion or whose praise is of any value. And to what end do you
write? It profits you nothing. It enlarges not, by the bulk of
a cent, the day's scanty earnings. Are you not fatigued enough
by ten hours' writing, that you must add thus voluntarily, to the
task? Throw your pen into the fire, and come with me. You
know I must have exercise to keep me alive, and I cannot walk
out alone.

Presently, my dear girl. Eight or ten minutes more, and I
shall have done. What matters the addition of a few minutes
to the labours of the day? I derive pleasure from scribbling
thus. It is a mental recreation, more salutary to the jaded
spirits than a ramble in the fields or a contemplation of the
starry heavens. I like it better than walking and conversing
with my only friend, but there is time enough for both to be
done.

And are you sure, that what I write, nobody reads? Every
sort of curiosity exists in the world, and some, methinks, there
are, who cast an eye, not without some little interest, even upon
my scribble.

Is it the brilliancy of wit, the solidity of argument, or the
dignity of narrative only, which can hope for an intelligent

―272―

audience? Are there not moments of vacuity best filled up by
the milder effusions of an artless, unsophisticated pen? No
mind is at all times, overflowing. There is a tide in its sensa-
tions; and its richest streams, swelling and impetuous for a
while, will occasionally check their course, and will ebb as
rapidly away.

It is not for me, indeed, to speculate on history or politics or
morals; these are of greatest moment, and wise men will
bestow most of their time and thoughts upon them, but inter-
vals must now and then occur in the life of the most devoted to
the toils of gain or of science, when nothing can more suitably
be offered than a light repast, prepared by such a superficial,
though unspoiled, wit as mine! at any rate, I please myself, and
while that is the case, Jenny, you must give me leave to
write on.

Jane is not vanquished by logic such as this. She still in-
sists upon my strolling with her on the Battery. How can I,
she asks, resist the invitations of so soft a breeze? If I prefer to
ply a useless quill, by this farthing taper, she will pity me and
go out alone.

Why Jane, be not displeased. I can write and walk with
thee too. Stop, my girl, thou shalt not go out alone. I love
thy company too much to suffer thy solitary rambles. I love
this balmy air around, and these glimmering lustres above us
too much, to stay within doors, in so sweet a twilight as this.

Yet thy panics, sister, are idle ones. Thou can'st not walk
alone, it seems, and why not? Are not these Americans a civi-
lised nation? Is it requisite, in order to screen a female from
injury that a champion should always walk beside her? Is every
man at these hours, a wild beast prowling for his prey, and
ready to fall upon every innocent unguarded by a wild beast like
himself?

You bring these fears from the other side of the Atlantic, and
from that overgrown and flagitious city where thou and I passed
our youth. There, there was a real inconvenience to be dreaded
by a female who should venture to explore the streets alone af-
ter night fall, but here, surely the case is widely different; here
is all security and peace, and the most timorous of thy sex might

―273―

rove in safety and alone from the Bowery-house to Albany
pier, at any time of the night.

You doubt the truth of my assertion, do you? Well; no
matter; while I have life, thou shalt never put its truth to the
test of experiment. In every part of life's rough road, I will
always be posted at thy side, and to the utmost of my little pow-
er, be thy guardian and thy friend.

Foolish boaster that I am? Instead of giving, I have only
received counsel and advice at thy hand. The poor preroga-
tives of sex have sunk beneath thy superiority in intelligence
and virtue; not for my happiness, not for my fortitude alone,
but for my virtue, for my very life am I my sister's debtor.

The time will come when I shall be able to repay her bene-
fits; I am sure it will, and the prospect of such a time gives
me courage to endure the present evil: yet for that very
courage, for that very hope, am I indebted to my sister's keener
foresight and more stedfast resolution.

True, as thou sayest, I have written enough, and now having
done my scribble, I will stroll with thee.