American Watchman And Delaware Advertiser

LIEUT. MEARS, alias LORD MORTIMER.

From the New York National Advocate.

Life in Albany.—We learn from a mischievous little paper called the Microscope, that the beau monde in Albany have been thrown into hysterics, at discovering that they have been patronizing an impostor: actually dining and dancing, toasting and singing, sighing and saying soft nonsense to an agreeable, accomplished little villain, who called himself Lord Mortimer, a name most musical, romantic, and novel-like. This abominable monster, called himself the son of Lord Yarborough, and was introduced at a splendid ball. The title of Lord, among our republican dames, was like the Greek-fire, powerful, and never to be subdued—introductions followed—"nods, winks, and wreathed smiles," were bestowed upon the young nobleman. The rosy-cheeked Dutch dames, from the borders of the Mohawk, made their best and swimming curtseys. A Lord—think of that—they crowded round him—catch'd the inspiration of each sound—Judges, Juries, Governors and Legislators—each pressed for the honour of his company to venison and champagne—the ladies secured him for balls, conversaziones and fashionable squeezes—his opinions on paintings and music were quoted as authority; and, just on the eve of attending a splendid rout, made specially in honour of his Lordship, when Boniface, his landlord, discovered that he was advertised as an impostor, and was a shirtless rascal, without a shilling; and, that the moment when his Lordship, in silk stockings and black unmentionables, was about calling his coach for the rout, Baron Nabem carried him off to jail. While the party was all anxiety, waiting for his Lordship, intelligence of the catastrophe arrived, and created some faintings, some sneerings, and a multitude of, "I told you how it would be," &c. &c.

Impositions of this nature are not surprising. They always will exist when titles, and not merit, take precedence. An accomplished, educated, agreeable, and well-behaved man cannot obtain countenance unless he assumes a title: he is poor, and, therefore, must be neglected—he plays the impostor and succeeds.

But in this instance, the ladies of Albany are entitled to exemption from all sneers; at least from the New-York ladies. Lord Mortimer was accomplished, sensible, and interesting: the deception was agreeable. But what shall we say of that odious impostor, Baron Von Hoffman?—a fool and a knave—deformed, insignificant, preposterous and absurd—he, nevertheless, secured the most flattering attentions, which untitled men of merit could not obtain. His musical snuff-boxes, Dutch cadenzas, Munchausen stories, together with the display of a few imitation diamonds, won the heart and smiles of the fair. He blew his brains out by firing a ball through his "fifth rib," to prove that he was no impostor; and with all his folly, foppery, and knavery, if he could have made good his title of Baron, which sinks before that of Citizen, he would have been taken into favour again, and again practised his impositions. I say, therefore, with the old song, "Then ladies pray take warning," and consider all men noble who act honourable: and let merit, and not rank find favour in your eyes. Esteem your countrymen, and esteem them justly, by affording no countenance to titles which you would withhold from them; and thus will ambition be directed to its proper channel, and happiness be found at home.